“Why does Lucy Hunt want me to talk to Meg then?” Hart mumbled.
Berkeley tapped his quill against his ledger. “Perhaps because it’s the right thing to do?”
Hart emitted a groan. “You agree with her?”
Berkeley sighed and shook his head. “How did your parents choose each other, by the by? I’ve often wondered. I assume it was arranged.”
Hart snorted and lifted the bottle to his lips for another swig. “Yes. Arranged by my mother.”
Berkeley leaned back in his chair. “How?”
“The year my mother made her debut, she set her sights on my father. My grandfather had died not eighteen months earlier, and my father was the earl by then.”
Berkeley crossed his arms over his chest. “Ah, couldn’t resist the title?”
Hart took another swig. “She tossed over a baron she’d been close to marrying when my father arrived at a ball she attended.”
Berkeley tapped his quill against his ledger. “She must have captured his interest.”
“She flirted with him outrageously. Told him she liked everything he liked. Pretended to be madly in love with him.”
Berkeley nodded. “And your father believed her?”
“Yes. He offered for her within a fortnight. I think he was still grieving for my grandfather. My grandmother apparently tried to talk him out of his choice.”
Berkeley smothered a laugh. “That must have made for awkward dinner parties in the future.”
Hart rested the back of his wrist atop his forehead. “Grandmother never accepted Mother, and my father soon came to regret his choice. Mother racked up huge amounts of debt and took off with her lovers soon after Sarah was born.”
“Really?” Berkeley raised a brow.
“That’s why he abhors scandal so much. He had to chase his wife out of bed after bed. Is it any wonder marriage makes me queasy?” Hart groaned again.
“I never knew. I don’t think Sarah knows.”
“She doesn’t and I hope you’ll keep it to yourself.”
“You have my word. My parents barely spoke to each other. That didn’t keep me from loving your sister more than my own life.”
Hart sat up and blinked at his brother-in-law. “Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s a fallacy that one must have a good example to set a good example. Some of us invent our own image of the way we want things to be, regardless of the messes around us.”
“That’s heartening, I suppose. My father’s been trying to get in touch with me for days. I haven’t replied to his notes.”
Berkeley laughed. “Wonder what he wants.”
“To control me, no doubt.”
“That sounds likely.”
Hart folded his hands over his chest and lay quietly for a moment. “Berkeley, may I ask you a question?”
“Haven’t you been doing that for the past quarter hour?”
“Another one?”
“Go ahead.”
