“Why is that?”
She patted his knee. She chewed her lower lip. She was about to say something very important or, to her child mind, something hurtful.
“You’re very old.”
Yes, he supposed fifty-five years would be very old to her.
She went on, “And old people die.”
He could not fault her argument so far. “You want a grandmother in case I die.”
“Yes, because if you die, I will have no one.” A shudder ran through her little body, and she leaned against his leg.
Henry put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Notfor the first time, he wondered how much Mina remembered about the carriage accident or her week at the foundling hospital before her grandfather had come to take her away.
“You know you have an uncle,” he said carefully.
“Yes, but he never comes to see me, so he must not think much of me.”
Henry could not let her believe that. “Your uncle and I had a disagreement long before you were born, and it’s me he doesn’t like, not you. I’m sure he would think very highly of you if he met you.”
“Then he must meet me.” She gave his knee a parting pat. “But I still think we should find a grandmama. Just to be sure.”
She went to the door, and Henry heard the murmur of the waiting nursemaid and Mina’s chirping answer and then their footsteps, moving away.
A grandmama for Mina. A wife for Henry.
Could he bring himself to marry again? He had no hope for true companionship; he was not made for that. But he might choose more wisely this second time. After all, he no longer needed to marry for money, and he was no longer a young man who might be led around by his prick.
He could marry someone practical and steady. Someone who would not be seduced by whim-whams. Someone well-placed amongst thetonwho would help Mina find the highest possible standing given the circumstances of her birth.
Very quickly, Henry was coming around to the idea.
There would once more be a countess at Bledsoe Park. She could manage the staff and receive the calls paid by his well-intentioned neighbor. But ensuring Mina’s future happiness would be the new Lady Ashthorpe’s chief duty.
Chief duty, but not sole duty. There could be other duties. Other wifely duties. If Henry married, he might lie with a woman again.
He had thought he never would. What remained of his desire was a nuisance, something to be handled quickly and privately. But now he pictured undressing a woman. Touching the silken skin of her breast. Muffling her cries of pleasure with open-mouthed kisses. Plunging his cock into her warm depths.
He throbbed under the fall of his breeches.
No.He tightened his hands into fists. He clenched his jaw. He summoned Diana’s last words, and, as always, those wilted the beginnings of his erection.
The Earl of Ashthorpe would not marry for his own pleasure. He would find a distaff version of himself—unwavering, sober, and duty-bound—and he would marry for Mina’s sake, not his own.
But how to find such a wife?
He could— No. He couldn’t. But if he did . . .
He drew a fresh piece of foolscap towards him. His secretary would have three letters to post tomorrow.
One to the firm of the Manwaring Brothers.
One to Charles.
And one to the Dowager Marchioness of Chalfont, Henry’s aunt and the most redoubtable woman in England.
Two
