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Better sooner rather than later.

Once he’d settled things here, hired a reliable man of business, and replaced the ancient steward, whom he’d found sleeping every time he’d desired a word, he could trot along with his life.

His life with Kendra.

A pleasurable warmth spread from his gut outward that couldn’t be attributed to the rather good whisky.

Nonetheless, lurking at the forefront of his mind, hovered the knowledge that someone wanted him dead. Yes, it was better he remained at Sommerley, luring the killer away from Eytone Hall, Kendra, and his mother.

But did that put his wards and their mother in jeopardy?

Another question remained, too.

How much time and effort should he allow before giving up the hunt for his assassin? What he should do was set a trap. That idea had real merit. Entice Edwin or his henchman into making a stupid move and revealing themselves.

But how?

Time to ponder that later, he supposed. But not too much later. He was deuced eager to be on his way. He’d believed he’d be back in Scotland by now, wooing Kendra, but had greatly underestimated how much was required of him once he’d claimed the earldom.

More fool he.

He’d always been a man who kept busy, but he grudgingly admitted there was more to this peerage business than he’d realized. At least, that was, if a noble took his responsibilities seriously. Broden never did anything in half-measures, and his role as the Earl of Montforth was no exception.

Managing the countess was no small accomplishment, either. Narcissa was a deceptively serene woman, quiet and poised, quite lovely in truth. But with a stubborn streak wider than the Atlantic Ocean. And she had very decided opinions about what was expected of him when she deigned to speak to him at all.

Though only a year Broden’s senior, she’d taken it upon herself to hint she could suggest young ladies she deemed qualified to be the next countess. Although she’d conceded, there was no need for him to rush into a marriage. He was young, after all.

Their first argument had occurred when he informed her he’d already selected a lass to become his wife.

Never had he been so completely and politely taken to task. A Scotswoman not of noble birth was simply not appropriate, Narcissa staunchly maintained. Such a woman would never be accepted by Society, nor by Narcissa.

He might’ve suggested she mind her own business in less than gentlemanly terms.

If it hadn’t been for his wards, he would’ve moved the countess to the dower house, but he’d inspected the place when he’d first arrived, and with only five bedchambers, two of which were for servants, he didn’t have the heart to make her toddle off with her boisterous brood.

After meeting her sunny-haired daughters, Amaryllis, Bergenia, Celosia, Dianella, and Eustoma, ages nine, seven, four, three, and six months, each named after flora and in alphabetical order, he’d found himself surprisingly taken by the energetic, but sweet-natured lasses.

Their haughty mother, not so much.

Her deceased sons, Standish Jr. and Harry, had been spared the horror of floral names.

A rap at the door interrupted his reflections, and he lifted his head. “Come.”