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He was fairly certain he didn’t know either woman. If he did, their names escaped him, and he didn’t give ten figs that they had. He’d never been one to care a whit about who was or was not in town. Nor did he note which females were new to the Marriage Mart each Season or which spinsters and wallflowers returned year after year, ever more wilted and disheartened.
As a younger son, he’d been blessedly spared the hassle, obligation, and pressure of marrying and producing an heir. Until inheriting the guardianship, Ronan’s life had been unfettered and unencumbered. He’d been free to pursue his interests and indulge his hobbies, both in England and abroad.
Something, truth be told, he still hankered to do.
One couldn’t very well tow two round-eyed innocents to a boxing match, a horserace, or to inspect the latest cargo from India or other Oriental ports.
Could one?
And yet here he was, at exactly half of two as his mother had ordered, standing deucedly out of place outside a modiste’s shop and acting the part of a doting parent, so to speak.
Attempting to erase the pained expression from his face, for he supposed he had a good decade of this type of torture before him, he glanced up and down the street. At least fate hadn’t conspired to have anyone he knew spy him entering the establishment.
He was good and done with the jests, disparaging remarks, and poking fun at his expense.
Even Ronan’s more sensible friends, Landry Audsley, Earl of Keyworth, Allen Wimpleton, and Kingston Barclay, had quirked skeptical brows while grinning like bosky sailors over their glasses of brandy. Ewan McTavish, Viscount Sethwick, whose wife owned Stapleton Shipping and Supplies and with whom Ronan had a business relationship, had dissolved into laughter that he poorly disguised as a coughing fit.
God rot them.
Worst of all, Ronan’s closest friend Jason Steele, the captain of The Arcturus, had laughed so hard he’d upset his glass of whisky by pounding his fist upon the table.
“You, Brockman? A guardian to girls?” Jason chortled while wiping his eyes. “Masterson must’ve been good and desperate.”
Bloody American sod.
Well, half American. Steele’s maternal grandfather was a British earl, though he’d never met the man.
“Laugh all you want, Steele. My guardianship may well mean I will have to entrust you with my responsibilities in America.”
At once, Jason sobered. “You know you can count on me, Ronan. Whatever you need.”
“I know.” It relieved Ronan’s mind a great deal. He need never leave England again if he didn’t wish to.
Did he wish to?
Yes, of course.
What about his wards?
Blast his indecisiveness.
Venting his ire, Ronan kicked viciously at a pebble.
Why everyone thought it so absurdly hilarious that he should be named a guardian had become downright insulting and offensive. There was nothing in his past or his character to warrant such mockery—at least not to his way of thinking.
This guardianship business—if done correctly, as he was determined to do—was a pain in the… His attention fell on the rock he’d just kicked.
Well, a blasted pebble in one’s shoe. A sharp, pointy stone that aggravated incessantly.
The shop door made a loud snick when he shoved it shut with perhaps a tad more force than necessary.
Having wards took a bit of getting accustomed to, that was all.
In time, he would get the hang of it.
Wouldn’t he?
Naturally, to do the thing right meant spending time with Arabelle and Bellamy. Which, often—far too often for his raging libido—meant spending time with their much too attractive governess as well.
