Page 5 of Reckless Desire

“Why ever not?” Stirling asked. “They are respectable young men. Well, one is a tad bit older, but he is a viscount, so that is a strong incentive. Her family would be delighted to have her become a viscountess.”

Bryson’s heart raced. Which viscount sought a wife? Horror struck. “Viscount Hensley?” He narrowed his eyes on Stirling. “You cannot possibly be considering his suit.”

Stirling laughed. “It is not up to me, lad. She and her aunt will make the decision.”

“I am no fool, Stirling. Your word carries weight. They will, no doubt, heed any advice you offer.”

“Who am I to interfere in her affairs?”

“You are Sir Stirling James, Marquess of Roxburgh, future Duke of Roxburgh.”

Sterling scowled. “Christ, man, you make me sound like the Messiah.”

“In this case, you are. You have it within your power to save her from a life of drudgery as Hensley’s wife.”

“I wouldn’t call it a life of drudgery,” Stirling mused. “Her circumstances would be much improved.”

A horrifying thought struck. “By God, you facilitated the match.”

Stirling shook his head. “As I said, I hold no sway in the matter.”

Bryson worked his hands into fists at his sides. “Encouraged then. I have heard—bloody hell, all of Inverness has heard, and probably half of Scotland, too—how the Marriage Maker makes matches.”

Starling laughed again. “You credit me with far too much influence. I have, on occasion, made introductions. That is all.”

Memory flashed of a wedding several months ago. He stared in horror. “You had a hand in Lady Buchman’s marriage.” He had wondered why the marchioness married so suddenly. Bryson’s gut twisted. He hadn’t given much credence to the rumors that no one in the Marriage Maker’s sights could escape. If the rumors were true, that meant the match between Miss Ramsay and the viscount—

Stirling’s low chuckle yanked Bryson from his thoughts. “I never took you for a man who listens to idle gossip.”

He didn’t. Only, what he’d heard about The Marriage Maker wasn’t idle gossip.

Later that evening, Bryson accepted the full brandy glass Sir Stirling offered him. “Third time’s a charm,” he murmured, and took a healthy drink.

“I beg your pardon?” Stirling sat in the chair to his left.

Bryson released a breath and kept his gaze on the fire burning in the hearth. “I was just thinking that perhaps this glass of brandy might take my mind off things.”

“Things?” Stirling sipped his brandy. “We had a successful day. Your father will be pleased.”

Bryson nodded. “He is as giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of the partnership. He considers shipping one small step away from privateering—which, as we all know, is simply government sanctioned pirating—and he finds privateering a romantic notion.”

Stirling laughed. “He isn’t completely wrong. Given Napoleon’s war, any ship on the open sea risks an encounter with pirates.”

“Which is why my mother will not allow him on that ship.”

Stirling lifted his glass in salute. “To Lady Newhall. Clearly a woman of sense and intelligence.”

Bryson always thought he favored his mother in that regard. Now… He finished the brandy.

“Another?” Stirling asked.

Bryson considered, then nodded. Stirling refilled his glass, again, and again…

At last, the clock struck ten, and Bryson stood. The room swayed slightly. “I believe it is time I take my leave.”

“So soon?” Stirling asked.

“My mother taught me never to overstay my welcome.”