Harry folded his arms. “I suspect Lady Erina could start an argument in an empty room.”
Jack laughed. “Take care, Harry. Those eyes of hers can certainly flash.”
“I prefer a quiet woman, like Miss Florence Beckworth.”
The fair Miss Beckworth had the look of a frightened mouse. To give her the benefit of the doubt, her shyness might have masked intelligence, Jack thought. “A milk-and-water miss? Who won’t challenge you? How dull that would be.”
“Why has the conversation turned to women?” Tim gave a snort of disgust. “I’d rather talk about Tiresias, the Duke of Portland’s horse that won the derby in fine style.”
“Because women are more interesting than horses.” Jack smiled at the buxom tavern wench who carried four pots of ale, two in each hand. She placed them on the table without spilling a drop and winked at him.
“Not always,” Tim grumbled.
“As the son of a baron, you will be expected to marry, Tim.” Jack took hold of his tankard. “You will need to produce an heir at some stage.” He chuckled and slapped him on the back. “And, anyway, I like talking about women. I like women.” He had been without regular feminine company since his mistress had remarried. Not such a bad thing; it had contributed to his sense of freedom. Now there was nothing to hold him here.
“I like them in bed,” Tim said. “But out of it, they can join their sewing circles or whatever they do and leave me to my own devices.”
“Strong words, Tim.” Jack recalled that Tim had taken it badly when a lady had ended their affair a year ago, after finding a gentleman with deeper pockets. “What if you come to love one of them?”
Tim shook his head. “Not I. Fool me once, as the saying goes, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”
“Not all women are so calculating,” Jack said.
“All those I’ve met have left me cold, and often with empty pockets,” Tim said. “I’m giving them up.”
“You’ll miss ’em. Redheads like you are known to be passionate, romantic fellows, are they not?” Harry mocked.
“And always with a devil of a temper,” Miles added, joining in the roasting.
“Enough.” Tim grinned and scrubbed his hand through his auburn locks. “Romance is for women. How about a game of billiards?”
*
Rountree Park, Waltham Abbey, Essex
Erina Rountree finishedtending to her horse and then had a few words with the groom about the mare’s left fetlock joint. Reassured, she left the stables and the smells of hay, saddle oil, leather, and horse behind and walked back along the drive to the house. She had received a worrying letter from her Irish cousin and must speak to her father about it.
She entered the front door and crossed the checkerboard tiles of the entry hall, as Roberts, their butler, appeared from the servants’ door.
Tall and thin and always neat as a pin, Robert flinched as his somber gaze took in her soiled riding boots. “Your father requires your presence in the library, Lady Erina.”
She raised her skirts a little, examined her boots, and gasped in mock horror. “Thank you, Roberts.”
She left him but not before a small smile twitched his lips.
It would not be good news. Should she change out of her boots? No, her father awaited her presence. The sense of urgency bothered her. She preferred it when he sat by the fire and read the newspaper while smoking his pipe.
“Ah, there you are. I have just received a letter from Sir Ambrose Feather. The baronet has agreed to the terms of your union with his son.”
Erina stared at him as the meaning of his words took hold. It wasn’t merely bad news; it was positively ghastly. She placed her hands on her hips. “Marry Mr. Harold Feather? That’s ridiculous! I will not!”
Her stout, gray-haired father eyed her cautiously and shook his head. “You are like your mother. Irish forebears.” He made it sound damning, which riled her further. Her mother had been from a fine Irish family. She had never met them but had begun corresponding with her cousin Cathleen two years ago, discovering they shared an interest in animals, especially horses. Erina hated that she was unable to help her.
“My dear child, you will do as you are bidden.” Evidently exasperated, he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. But she sensed he’d expected her reaction and was prepared to persuade her. “It is an excellent match. Young Mr. Feather is a personable gentleman, heir to a large fortune. You will have a safe and comfortable life, which I’ve always wanted for you, kept in the manner any woman would covet. A vast improvement on this. Look around you.” With a sweep of his arm, he drew attention to the worn chair coverings and faded carpet. The magnificent gold leaf missing in spots on the cornices. “Good lineage is the only thing on offer here. As for your youthful beauty, Erina, it won’t last forever.” He shook his head. “It’s not an easy task for me to find you a husband. You are uncommonly tall like your mother and have no dowry to speak of.”
Erina bit her lip. She’d reacted with her usual lamentable burst of temper. If only she’d taken time to think of a tactful way to appease him. But she doubted it would have made any difference. She loved her father but suspected he was thinking more about the upkeep of the estate. Their present circumstances came from unsound investments his man of business had put him onto. This marriage was to be an injection of funds into their empty coffers, at her expense. It didn’t matter what she might want for herself. “Mr. Feather doesn’t even like me. We tend to always disagree. And he is too short for me.”
“You’ll be lucky to find a husband at all with your temper, my girl.” Father rested a hand on the fireplace mantel and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t above average. “He’s ‘too short’? Is height now a prerequisite for marriage? I’ve never heard the like. What has happened to the world? Young people today! Good marriages don’t necessarily begin as a love match. Sometimes, it’s more important just to like the person. And you do like him?”
