Page 3

Ansley was not a conversationalist. Even his two former mistresses had complained about his reluctance to converse. Exasperation tightened his shoulders. For God’s sake. He hadn’t sought their deuced company for conversation. Not before, during, or after the act.

He’d terminated his last paramour a year and a half ago, and though he sorely missed a woman’s soft curves and the sweet release her body afforded, he didn’t miss the pouting or bloody jabbering.

One eyebrow quirked, he narrowed his gaze the merest bit.

Odd, his mother and sister Nicolette didn’t jabber. Neither did Nicolette’s friends, the Duchesses of Sutcliff, Pennington, and Sheffield. Pressing a finger to the bridge of his nose, he pondered that fact for a blink.

If—and that is one hell of a big if— he could find a woman with a degree of intellect whose conversations held substance rather than ridiculous flummery, who didn’t mind his unusual penchant for routines, and who liked English Foxhounds—he had five at Fawtonbrooke Hall—Ansley might consider wedlock.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, rubbing the smooth stone nestled there between his forefinger and thumb. He’d carried the token with him everywhere since a small lad of less than nine summers. A kindly, understanding tutor had suggested he pick something unobtrusive to help relieve his anxiety.

Extraordinarily, rubbing the stone had worked.

He could still remember the week he and Mr. Quessling had spent days combing the grounds, meadows, and a nearby stream bed until Ansley found what, to an eight-year-old lad, was the perfect stone.

Bluish gray with white lines marbled throughout, that small, unremarkable pebble had seen him through one trying situation after another for two decades.

As he turned to depart, the Earls of Sharonford and Keyworth glanced up from their nearby chairs, their expressions open and friendly.

“Calling it a night?” Keyworth asked, bestowing a genial half-grin.

Ansley inclined his head. “Yes. The hour grows late.”

In truth, it was only half-past ten. But he retired at precisely eleven o’clock every night. At least he tried to.

Sharonford set his glass down, and leaning back into his chair, crossed his arms. “Several of us are venturing to Tattersall’s tomorrow. Would you like to come along?”

Keyworth sent him a startled glance before swinging his attention back to Ansley. “Excellent notion. Do join us, Scarborough. It’d be us, you, Dandridge, Sterling, and Pennington.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse the offer before he remembered he was in need of another horse to complete his matched team. Polly had simply been too old to continue pulling conveyances, and he’d ordered the sweet mare retired to Fawtonbrooke Hall. Besides, the other men mentioned were already acquaintances he knew well.

Squeezing his fist around the stone, he slowly counted to ten and mentally visualized his appointment book.

Yes. Yes. A trip to Tattersall’s might be managed.

He did have time tomorrow afternoon after he met with the registry office about hiring a new housekeeper, a fitting with his tailor, and his weekly appointment with Druthers, his man-of-affairs.

Dear rheumatic Mrs. Bloomfield had reached an age where she no longer could perform her duties adequately. She muddled along fairly well at his London townhouse, but Fawtonbrooke Hall was beyond her now. However, she refused to retire with the generous pension he’d offered until she’d properly trained her replacement.

“Few women have the head, patience, stamina, attention to detail, or organizational skills for a housekeeper’s duties, my lord,” she avowed again yesterday morning, plopping her gnarled fingers on her plump hips. “I could never sleep a wink if I left before a competent woman assumed my duties.”

In other words, a woman she’d trained to recognize and skillfully handle his peculiarities.

He’d been remiss in hiring a new housekeeper, mainly because he despised change. But this morning, upon witnessing the poor woman’s painful attempts to dust, his guilty conscience had demanded he do the necessary.

“I do need to purchase a horse,” he admitted. “My afternoon is free. What time did you plan on attending?”

Keyworth and Sharonford exchanged a glance before Keyworth lifted a shoulder. “Three o’clock?”

Three o’clock. Yes, that will work.

“I’ll be there.” Not altogether certain what to make of the friendly overture, he forced his mouth to arc upward. It was expected, wasn’t it? “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Quite welcome,” Keyworth said as Sharonford dipped his chin in agreement.

With a brief nod, Ansley departed the parlor. A few minutes later, he accepted his hat, gloves, and cane from the majordomo; an interesting fellow with bright curly red hair, a proclivity for swearing most foully beneath his breath, and for taking frequent nips from the flask he believed no one knew rested inside his somber black livery jacket.

“I presume we’ll have the pleasure of your company on Thursday, my lord?” The butler said with his typical aplomb.