“It belonged to a marquess. I believe Reading was his title,” Ertugrul replied.
Letting out a guffaw, George said, “The Connie I spoke of is his marchioness. His wife,” he added, not sure how familiar the sultan’s son was with titles in England. “Although Reading knows his horses, she’s the brains behind their breeding program.”
“You say that as if it’s their... theirbusiness,” Ertugrul murmured. “Their means of making their livings.”
“Considering how much they make in winnings, it is to some extent,” George agreed. “However, raising horses is expensive. Reading has stables here in London—behind his house as well as on the west end of town—but his main horse stables are in Reading. The seat of his marquessate. It’s west of here about forty miles,” he added.
“If they breed such excellent horses, they must have some heirs as well,” Ertugrul reasoned. “A young lady or two? I understand I must be sure to dance with as many of them as I’m able at all the balls I’m told we’re to attend.”
George chuckled. “Reading has two heirs about your age but his only daughter has been married for at least ten years.”
“Will Gisborn bring his family to the capital this year?” David asked, referring to Henry, Earl of Gisborn. Henry had married Elizabeth’s other best friend, Hannah, shortly after Elizabeth and George were married. “Grace is surely of an age to marry,” he added before he took his first shot.
“Was,” George replied. “Elizabeth sponsored her last year, and Christina and Richard joined us for the Season,” he added, referring to David’s oldest sister and her husband, Viscount Hartwell. “They thought you’d be coming home.”
David straightened, his face momentarily betraying his disappointment. “I’m too late, aren’t I?” he asked in a quiet voice. Although he didn’t know Grace Foster well, he had always thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Like her mother, Grace looked like a fairy princess from the pages of a book, her blonde tresses, cornflower blue eyes, and pale skin almost ethereal. “So... who did she marry?”
His brows furrowing, George said, “Reading’s heir, Raymond. She’ll be a marchioness one day. I thought you knew.”
Feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut, David struggled to keep an impassive expression on his face. “I must not have received that particular letter,” he managed to get out before he stepped aside so Ertugrul could take his turn.
George dipped his head, understanding exactly how his son felt. At one time, for about an hour, he had believed Elizabeth had accepted an offer of marriage from the Earl of Trenton. That had been the worst hour of his life, the sense of disappointment and loss so intense, he wished he were dead. The memory of the elation he had felt moments later, when Elizabeth proposed to him, sustained him whenever he experienced one of life’s disappointments.
“I have a list,” George offered, pulling the sheet he had quickly penned while Adeline had been in his study earlier that day. He had managed to put them into the order of their ages, at least as closely as he could remember.
“A list?” David repeated.
“Eligible young ladies, born between eighteen-seventeen and eighteen-twenty-three, and not yet courting anyone.”
Ertugrul blinked. “That’s terribly specific,” he remarked, moving to the other end of the table so David could take his turn.
George chuckled and said, “Yes, but helpful.”
“So... who is on that list?” David asked lightly, pretending nonchalance.
George’s eyes narrowed a moment, but he held up the bit of parchment and wished he had his reading spectacles. Holding it out farther from his chest, he grinned. “Well, the first one on the list is dear to my heart because I had a hand in her parent’s marriage,” he said proudly. “Faith Hope Batey. Viscount Lancaster’s daughter with Charity, our matchmaker atFinding Wives for the Wounded.”
Ertugrul glanced over at David, as if to gauge his interest. “Marrying Hope would be like marrying my sister,” David claimed as he shook his head, referring to Faith by her more common name.
George rolled his eyes but went to the next names on the list. “Barbara and Grace Whitney, daughters of Augustus Whitney, who is the Duke of Huntington’s brother.”
David furrowed his brows. “Grace is a friend of Adeline’s, but I don’t recall meeting Barbara,” he replied, pretending interest. “Next?”
“Helen Tennison, the Earl of Everly’s only daughter.”
“How is she not already married?” David asked in surprise. “She had her come-out before I left on my Grand Tour.” He turned to Ertugrul. “Her mother is half Greek,” he added, arching a brow.
George frowned. “As for Lady Helen... I really couldn’t say why she hasn’t married, other than she hasn’t been courted by anyone. Her father is an explorer. A naturalist, I think they call them now,” he said. “Everly always claims his wife is Aphrodite, although a more loyal version, of course. She gave him another son a few years ago.” He winced. “I can’t imagine being a father again at fifty.”
Ertugrul’s eyes widened at hearing the reference to the Greek goddess, but then he grinned at George’s last remark. “My father is past fifty now, and obviously enjoying his newest progeny,” he remarked. “I think children keep him feeling young.”
“Until he has to marry them off,” George replied with a smirk. “Nothing ages a father more than his daughter’s courtships.”
Ertugrul and David exchanged quick glances as they both winced. “Does that mean there is a suitor for Adeline?” David asked.
His father’s brows lifted. “Not that I’m aware,” he replied in alarm. “I was referring to your oldest sister.” Christina had married a viscount a few years earlier, even though the man’s true identity—a bastard son of the Marquess of Reading raised as the legitimate son of a viscount—had been a source of concern for the few who knew the truth.
“I thought you liked Hartwell,” David said, referring to Christina’s husband, Richard, Viscount Hartwell. His own brows furrowed in worry.
