AN EARL FEELS HIS AGE
The following day, Aimsley House, Mayfair
“So gladthat’sover,” Adam Comber, Earl of Aimsley, said as he removed his top hat and handed it to his butler. He’d returned from a political meeting at one of London’s many chocolate shops, the varied discussions in preparation for the opening of the next session of Parliament. “I cannot imagine my father ever had the patience to abide the machinations in the House of Lords.”
As Hummel helped his master out of his greatcoat, he said, “If it’s any consolation, sir, he did not.”
The comment did nothing to alleviate Adam’s concerns. His father, the sixth Earl of Aimsley, had died the year before. As the heir, Adam had done what Mark Comber had trained him to do these past two decades—take on the responsibilities of the Aimsley earldom and take his seat in the House of Lords. As for the ledgers associated with the earldom, Adam had gladly accepted his wife’s offer of assistance. He had decided long ago that the most brilliant moment of his life had been proposing—in a manner of speaking—to a mathematics instructor.
“Is my mother in residence?” Adam asked, referring to the Dowager Countess of Aimsely, Patience Waterford Comber.
Hummel shook his head. “She’s at Carlington House, sir. Helping Lady Morganfield with the plans for Saturday’s garden party.”
Adam stiffened. “And the countess?” he asked, referring to Diana Albright Comber, his wife of two-and-twenty years.
“She’s in the classroom upstairs, sir.”
Frowning, Adam was about to ask why when his attention went to a pair of children who were descending the hall stairs. The boy, about ten, was dressed smartly in dark breeches and a top coat of superfine while the girl wore a peach frock that made her appear much older than her nine years.
“Well, who do we have here?” he asked as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, pretending he didn’t recognize his nephew and niece by way of his wife’s sister, Daisy.
The children’s eyes rounded. Daphne performed a perfect curtsy before offering her hand while her brother, James, bowed.
Adam did the honors with regard to Daphne’s hand, but he didn’t let go after brushing his lips over her knuckles. Instead, he bent down and pulled her into an embrace. “I hardly recognize you,” he said with a huge grin, which had his nephew looking ever so relieved.
“Good afternoon, Uncle Adam,” James said, letting out an “oof” when Adam pulled him into the same hug.
“Uncle, you’re wrinkling my gown,” Daphne complained. Her scolding turned to giggles when Adam tickled her. James managed to escape his uncle’s hold before Adam could tickle him.
“Whatever are you two doing here today?” Adam asked when he finally released Daphne, grinning at seeing her face light up at his antics. On several occasions, he had warned Daisy and her husband, George, Baron Streater, that he had plans to kidnap the young girl to claim her as his own.
He didn’t have a daughter, and they had two.
He did have sons, though. Twins. One-and-twenty and away at Cambridge, which meant the house was mostly quiet these days.
Twenty years ago, he remembered feeling profound relief that his wife had survived the ordeal of their birth. Relief that the babes were both healthy and hearty—their lungs had been proof of that, given how loudly they could wail in the middle of the night. But their birth had left Diana unable to give him more children.
Back then, he hadn’t minded one bit.
Now...
“Aunt Diana is tutoring me in arithmetic,” James stated.
“Me, too,” Daphne chimed in. “I’m learning fractions.”
Adam blinked. “How old are you?” he asked in alarm. He had never been good at mathematics. Fractions had been beyond his ken.
Daphne let out an audible sigh. “Uncle, it’s not polite to ask young ladies their age,” she replied.
“She’s nine,” James offered, rolling his eyes. “And she’s Aunt Diana’s favorite.”
“Of course she is,” Adam replied. “She’s my favorite, too,” he teased. He regarded his niece and felt a twinge of regret that he didn’t have a daughter of his own.
By the gods, what had happened to him over the years? He hadn’t even wanted to marry—not really—when Felix, Earl of Fennington, reminded him of a wager that required he be married by the time he was thirty.
That Diana Albright just happened to be walking past White’s men’s club that afternoon back in 1818 when he and Fennington had been admiring young ladies from the bow window of White’s as they passed by... well, it had to have been fate.
That Diana would take umbrage at being admired from said bow window and decide she had to know exactly how she ranked on their scale of one to ten—how did she even know they assigned numbers to young ladies who passed by?—also had to be Fate, for when she stopped in her tracks and then climbed the stairs to the front door of White’s, asking to speak with the man in the bow window... well, who was he to question Fate?
