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Scott had intentionally brought up the day Asquith had taken Lenora to Gunter’s by himself. Hampton’s explanation had not fooled Scott, either.

Asquith mentally assessed whether he could refuse the port without looking disreputable, or even worse, culpable.

He could not.

He inclined his head. “I’d be honored.”

As he moved with them through the parlor, he caught his mother’s eye. Though she maintained a lazy expression, he recognized her sharpened interest. Her subtle nod of approval confirmed his suspicion.

But what was she trying to say?

Was she hoping he’d speak to Lord Hampton about Amelia? Or was she giving a match with Lenora her quiet approval?

He seldom bothered to examine his mother’s intentions, but she always had them. Her nod left little doubt she’d decided Asquith should marry, but to which lady?

And what further stratagems from his mother should he expect?

Hampton reached a door hidden away in the chamber’s corner. He opened the door, then quietly guided Asquith and Scott within.

The study was smaller than Asquith had envisioned, yet its walls teemed with vibrant sketches of horses, and the shelves gleamed with an impressive array of race-winning silver cups.

Wonderful. Everything Asquith wanted. Everything he’d dreamed of creating.

Two distinct futures lay before him—in the first, he placed himself under Hampton’s tutelage, creating the stables rivaling the earl’s; in the second, he sold his horses, padded his account books until they balanced, and won the Chancellor’s permission to wed his ward.

In an ideal world, he’d have both. But for the Chancellor to approve the match, Asquith’s business venture had to have books that balanced now, not because of Lenora's portion, and definitely not at some distant, unspecified time.

He had to choose.

He stared at his distorted reflection in the nearest silver cup, not seeing the prize, but his own future. Asquith Park Stud would give him pride, but Lenora—ah, Lenora—with her, he could experience life’s enduring aspects, things he’d never believed he could embrace—love, well-being, pleasure, joy.

In a stark side-by-side, there was no contest.

He’d always choose Lenora.

Hampton motioned for the men to sit, and then he poured and distributed three glasses. Asquith lifted his glass simultaneously with the other two men. As he sipped intermittently, the rich, complex liquid soothed his nerves.

“Well, Asquith? What do you think?”

Asquith revolved his glass; the thick liquid left red legs against the bowl. “An excellent vintage.”

“Lord Asquith has a taste for fine things,” Scott said. “Or so I hear.”

“Not things. Horses,” Asquith corrected. He could accept justifiable criticism about his stables, but he would not allow misconceptions about his competence. In other areas of estate management, he was prudent. “My cellars, for instance, leave much to be desired.”

“Well,” Hampton said, “you haven’t been able to attend to them, have you? At least not here in London. At present, you don’t live at Asquith House.”

“No, I don’t,” he confirmed. “Not for the last few Seasons.”

Scott settled back into his chair, touching his knuckles to his lips. “Concurrent with the arrival of the Wainwright girls, eh?”

Asquith nodded. “I moved into the Albany to guard against speculation.”

“Commendable, commendable.” Scott said slowly. “I’ve known men twice your age who did not protect their charges with such diligence.”

“When the girls’ father chose Asquith”—Hampton gestured with his glass—“he chose well.”

“I remember Wainwright.” A shadow passed over Scott’s features. “I served with him in Parliament.”