“For my taste inmistresses, yes, but she’ll be my wife, Darby.” Surely, meekness in a wife was a good thing? “In any case, I didn’t choose her. We were promised to each other some time ago.”
“Promised, to Lady Harriett?” Darby blinked at him, then rubbed a hand over his eyes. “God above, Prestwick. You’re full of secrets, aren’t you?”
“It was decided years ago.” He and James Fairmont had been good friends once, back when James used to spend his summers in Hampstead Heath with his aunt, Lady Fosberry, who’s estate was next door to Prestwick House. “Fairmont and I agreed that if I ever inherited the title, his sister would become the next Countess of Prestwick.”
As for Lady Harriett, it had been years since he’d seen her, but he vaguely recalled she’d been a sweet-tempered, agreeable child. With any luck, she’d grown into an agreeable young lady.
“I see. How many years ago was that, Prestwick?”
“Six? Seven, perhaps. What does it matter, Darby?” He’d promised Fairmont he’d marry his sister and make her a countess, and the new Earl of Prestwick wasn’t going to be the sort of man who broke his promises. “I said I’d marry her, and I will.”
“That’s noble of you, but six years is a long time. You can’t be certain Fairmont is still in favor of the match.”
“What are you saying, Darby? That every fond brother may not wish for his sister to marry a scandalous rake?”
“Er, well—”
“Fairmont is expected to return from the Continent before the end of the season. I’ve sent a letter to his estate in Hereford, which he’ll find upon his return. If he doesn’t like the match, I’m certain he’ll tell me. God knows what I’ll do then. There won’t be many young ladies in London eager to settle for a scandalous earl with a curse hanging over his head.”
Darby stared at him. “Are you mad, Prestwick? You’re anearlnow, and a wealthy one, at that. You’re also under sixty years of age, and in possession of all of your own teeth. You’ll have your choice of bride, I assure you.”
“Bollocks. No proper young lady wants to marry a rake, Darby.”
“You’re not a rake any longer, Prestwick. You’re anearl. Thetonforgave your past transgressions the instant you inherited the title. I’ll be astonished if they don’t descend on you like a swarm of locusts the second you set foot in a ballroom.”
“I’ll be astonished if they do.” It was far more likely they’d all scatter like frightened rabbits the moment they laid eyes on him.
“Trust me, Prestwick. You’ll soon find yourself the target of every marriage-minded mama in London.” Darby rose to his feet and strode to the sideboard. “They’re a crazed lot, especially when it comes to earls. Best prepare yourself.”
Kit watched glumly as Darby rummaged through the decanters. “What are you doing?”
“Fetching the brandy, of course.” He plucked up a decanter, and then, after a moment’s thought, he tucked a bottle of port under his arm. “The port, as well. I’ve a notion we’re going to need them both.”
* * *
“Lucifer! Come back here at once!”Tilly tiptoed past Lady Fosberry’s rose arbors, her half boots skidding over the damp ground, cursing herself for a fool with every step.
There was no answer, just some suspicious shuffling coming from a nearby shrub.
“I suppose you think this is all terribly amusing, don’t you?” She swatted a branch out of her way with another muttered curse. “Well, it isn’t. Not in the least! Do you hear me, Lucifer? You are avery baddog.”
Clearly, this wasn’t the first time the little demon had tricked one of Lady Fosberry’s unsuspecting guests into a midnight romp in the garden. The way he’d whimpered so piteously, and gazed up at her with such sad dark eyes… It had been a performance, from start to finish.
Why, Lucifer put Edmund Kean himself to shame.
The instant she’d set him on the ground, she’d discovered her mistake. Instead of finding a private corner to attend to his business, he’d scampered off, ducking into some thick shrubberies with the glee of the truly wicked.
That had been a half hour ago, and she was still creeping about like a lunatic, trying to coax him back out. “You do realize, Lucifer, that Lady Fosberry will have my head if I lose you? I’ll have nothing left but a bloody stump of a neck.”
No answer, not even so much as a whine. Lucifer, devil that he was, didn’t care about her severed head. God above, who could have guessed such a sweet little dog could be so diabolical? Cats, yes. One could believe it of cats, but weren’t dogs meant to be obedient, loyal creatures?
“Lucifer? Come to Tilly, dearest. I’ve a lovely treat for you, if you’ll only come out.” It was a lie, of course. Where in the blazes was she meant to find a dog treat at midnight, for pity’s sake? The only thing that awaited Lucifer when he reappeared was a hearty scold, but he was adog. There was no way he could know she didn’t have a—
“Woof!”
“Lucifer, there you are! Good boy!” A dark nose had emerged from a gap in the branches, and an instant later Lucifer followed, dropping to his bottom in the grass, and gazing up at her with wide, brown doggy eyes.
“That’s it, my perfect little angel.” She edged closer, preparing to pounce. “Come to Tilly, darling, come to…really, Lucifer, the cut direct? Surely, there’s no need forthat.” Though she may as well get used to it, as it was doubtless the first of many she’d receive this season.
