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He set the poker in place before planting his palms on his thighs and pushing upright once more, accompanied by a hefty, resigned sigh.

Christ and all the angels would descend from heaven before he trotted himself off to England to claim a Sassenach earldom. God’s teeth. He already could hear Liam MacKay’s and Graeme Kennedy’s mocking chortles. Logan Rutherford and Coburn Wallace would be utterly unbearable.

“What if I refuse?”

“Refuse? Why… Why… You cannot.” Blinking rapidly, his eyes owl-like behind his lenses, Oswald spluttered like a stubby candle’s flame about to die. “The title is yours. Yours.”

Yes, definite scorn riddled his terse speech.

“What you do with the honor is, of course, up to you. But there is no question of not accepting,” the solicitor insisted. “You are the Earl of Montforth until you depart this earth, my lord.”

Just because the paperwork said he was an earl didn’t mean Broden must adjust his life one iota. He leaned a shoulder against the stone mantel—stones which had been cleared from his lands by his two times two-grandfather—and crossed his arms. “And if I choose to ignore it and continue as I have for the past three decades?”

Oswald raised his bland gaze for a moment before attending to his spectacles once more. Something deep within the depths of his eyes shifted. The briefest flash before he sank his attention to cleaning his eyewear.

“As you can imagine, my lord, Lady Montforth is quite beside herself, awaiting news of her future and that of her children, as well. She is a gentle creature, devoted to her daughters, and the epitome of refinement.”

Aye,Broden grudgingly admitted to himself. The countess was in a precarious predicament through no fault of her own.

“The household staff, the tenants, not to mention the villagers, all await your directives.” Oswald spoke clearly and deliberately as if striving to make a bacon brain or mutton head understand a complex mathematical formula. “These past months have been a hardship for them all as the stewards and solicitors could only make superficial decisions.”

The twig of a man all but implied Broden owed it to those people he’d never met—strangers—to ensure their futures and well-being. He wasn’t a selfish man, by God, but to uproot himself and charge off to England? To become part of that uppity set—the haughty aristocrats who looked down their snooty noises upon the Scots?

Nae.

Not as long as he drew a breath.

The familial home he shared with his mother, a cook, a maid of all work, and on occasion, his childhood friend, Quinn Catherwood, until he’d married last Christmastide, was simple but comfortable.

And the eighteen acres he owned, which fed sheep, a few cows, and other livestock quite nicely. Conveniently, a brook rambled through the northernmost edge of his property, where he enjoyed fishing as time permitted.

He also employed two laborers who tended everything from the garden to the stables, and he worked alongside them at whatever task most needed completing. Hence his dirty nails and soiled garments today.

Broden highly doubted the previous Earls of Montforth had ever even broken a sweat, let alone cleaned hog sties, dug peat, helped deliver lambs, or used a blade upon another man.

Though he’d never attended a fancy university, Broden was well-educated and knew how to wield a sword and a dirk, thanks to his scholarly father’s tutelage. And thanks to his mother, he could maneuver a ballroom when required to dance, spoke a dab of French, and when pressed, could conduct himself like the poshest of gentleman.

But don the shroud of a noble?

An earl?

Wouldn’t that make him the worst sort of hypocrite?

“At the very least, I would expect, your lordship, that you’d want to examine your holdings.” Oswald rubbed his reedy nose, leaving a faint ink trail down the side. “After all, Sommerley Parke House is not even two days’ journey from here.”

A better man might’ve told the man of law about the ink smear.

Broden wasn’t such a man.

With the smudge on his thin nose, Oswald resembled an over-sized rodent. Appropriate, since Broden regarded all attorneys as vermin. He had yet to meet one who didn’t serve his selfish interests first. Oh, no doubt there were a good number of ethical and honest lawyers in their field. He’d just not had the privilege of meeting one as yet.

“I suppose, you could hire a man of business to oversee your estate or expand the duties of your current stewards,” Oswald continued, as if thinking aloud, his eyes slightly narrowed and fingers loosely steepled. “The countess did ask me to inquire what your wishes are for her and her daughters—now your wards. Should they remain at Sommerley Parke House? Retire to the dower house? One of the other estates? Bellewaite House? Come here?”

Dower house? Other estates?

Wait, the bloody hell!

Here? Them come here?