“No wonder, poor man,” Olivia said. “He’d just lost his horse. Wouldn’t you be bad-tempered if you had to part with something you loved?”
He snorted. “One horse is like any other.”
“Toyou, perhaps, my love,” Eleanor said. “When do you take possession?”
“He arrives at Rosecombe next week.”
“Then when we return to the country, perhaps I’ll ride him.”
“I’d advise against that, Eleanor. By all accounts, Destriero is not suitable for a woman.”
“Destriero?” Olivia said. “What a beautiful name.”
“Even if his former master’s temperament sounds decidedly less beautiful.” Eleanor laughed. “Perhaps it’s as well that you didn’t introduce him to us, Monty. Though if he has nothing else to recommend him, his favorable opinion of you is to be commended”—her eyes sparkled with mischief—“even if I find you infuriating at times. Have you met him before?”
“We were at Eton at the same time,” Montague said, “but I only knew him by sight. He was several years above me and went up to Oxford while I was still in the lower school. He was in the same year as Dunton.”
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Thatunsavory creature! Were they friends?”
“Not at all. Devereaux was always getting into fights—mostly with Dunton.”
“Then that’s one more thing to recommend him,” Eleanor said before sipping her tea.
“He was an excellent boxer,” Montague continued.
“What,Dunton?” Olivia asked, recalling the red-faced, portly duke she’d had the misfortune of being introduced to at the beginning of the Season.
“Heavens no!” He laughed. “Devereaux. He was awarded a boxingblue. Rumor at White’s has it that he flattened his opponent from Cambridge with a single blow.”
“Surely you exaggerate,” Olivia said, shuddering at the notion of such violence.
“Unlikely, given the size of him,” her brother said. “He looks more like a pugilist than an earl.”
“Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t introduce him to us at our house party,” Olivia said. “He sounds like a man to fear, though doubtless like every other man you’ve introduced me to, he’d not consider me worthy of his attention.”
Montague sighed. “Don’t lose heart just yet, Olivia. How about we hold a ball in your honor?”
“What,” Olivia said, unable to disguise the sharpness in her voice, “so I can be paraded around like a prize heifer? You’re aware of my pedigree, brother. The bull that sired me may have had a known bloodline, but not the cow.”
“Sister, I—”
“What was it?” Olivia said, no longer able to temper her despair. “A quick rutting in a paddock? What suitor wishes to be stained withthat?”
“That’s enough!” he roared. “I’ll not have you utter the language of the guttersnipe in my home, and certainly not before my wife.”
“Montague,” Eleanor said, “your sister was only—”
“No, Eleanor,” he interrupted. “Olivia has to learn that she, more than anyone, must act with decorum.” He turned to Olivia. “You’re upsetting your sister-in-law. Don’t you know she dislikes loud voices?”
“The only loud voice in the room is yours, Montague,” Eleanor said. “Olivia cannot help her birth, and I won’t have her forced to wed any man who thinks less of her because of it. I would advise against holding a ball.”
“But…”
Eleanor raised her hand. “I know you have good intentions, mylove, but we wouldn’t want Olivia’s marriage to come about through an act of coercion—not on her part, nor on the young man’s. Let the suitors come to her of their own free will.”
“And if they don’t?”
Olivia winced at her brother’s tone.
