Mars fell into step beside him, dangling the empty tankards in one hand. “By the way, do you think Ned will ever marry Clarissa Taylor?”
“He said he would.”
“Wish to put a wager on it?”
“What side would you be taking?”
“That he will... eventually.”
Bran shook his head. “Then there is no sense in a wager since we both agree. Thurlowe gave his word.”
“I can’t imagine a duller choice for a wife than Clarissa. She is lovely enough...” Mars let his voice drift before saying slyly, “However, the woman I want to meet is the one who has you tied up in knots—”
Bran rounded on him. “I’m not in knots. I cut her out of my life and I don’t look back. I just don’t wish for my nephew to do something remarkably stupid.”
He didn’t like the disbelief in his rakish friend’s eye. Mars wisely, for once, stilled his tongue.
Riding back to Smythson, Bran found Winderton in the stables. The duke was preparing to ride out as Bran came in.
He greeted his uncle with, “Mother said you had come from Town. For the Cotillion, I take it.” He was so young. So confident, and, yes, so arrogant.
Bran remembered him as a ruddy-cheeked cherub when he was a child and, in his uncle’s mind at least, Christopher hadn’t changed much. He had an open, trusting attitude about life. That Smythson had been practically falling down around his ears through most of his childhood had never seemed to register on him. In fact, neither Christopher nor Lucy acted aware of the lengths Bran had needed to take to secure their futures. The servants knew. They hadn’t been receiving reliable wages until Bran’s tenure.
“Yes, I did come for the dance,” Bran answered because it was easier to lie. “Do you mind if I ride with you a moment?”
“Weren’t you just coming in?”
Bran looked around the stable and said, “I’d like a word in private.”
Christopher lifted a brow in question, then nodded. A few minutes later, they were making their way down the drive. Orion put up a bit of a protest over being hauled out of the barn. He was ready for his paddock.
“Just a few minutes more, old boy,” Bran promised. To Christopher, he said, “Your mother is worried.”
The duke didn’t prevaricate. “About Miss Addison.”
“Yes.”
“I knew you didn’t come for the dance. She sent for you, didn’t she? She threatened to do so.”
“She tells me you wish to marry this actress. I told Her Grace that you would never make such an alarming misalliance. Why, you’ve known her less than two days.”
There. He’d put the objection out in the air between them.
And Winderton dismissed it. “Love is something more than just alliances. Besides, my generation takes a more generous view of the classes. The old standards no longer apply.”
“Tell that to the gatekeepers. There are always standards whether we like them or not.”
His ward gave a small, self-indulgent chuckle. “Yes, there are standards, except I am a duke. All doors are open to me. Always.”
“But would those doors be open to your wife? Society can be closed-minded.”
“Then those people would not matter to me.”
How simple it all seemed to him. And such was the position of someone who had received too much, too soon, and had little knowledge about the balance of power.
Bran was tired and his patience thin. He decided to be direct. “Your Grace, you know your responsibilities. You understand the terms of guardianship because I spelled them out to you very clearly.”
He had Winderton’s attention now. The ducal lower lip turned mulish.
