Page 14

“They canna sire children,” Grandmother Gordonstone put in jovially before biting the end off a sausage dangling from her fork. “Or pee standin’.”

“Mother Gordonstone,” Mother chided, color infusing her rounded cheeks.

Exchanging an amused glance, Aunt Mareona and Aunt Eufamie chuckled.

In her youth, Grandmother Gordonstone had been almost as reckless and wild as Sophronie Slater.

His grandmother would adore Miss Slater. Evan was as confident of that fact as he was that his name was Evan Thomas Keith Gordonstone. What mischief those two could get into together.

“Dinna be a goose, Rosalind. It isna possible,” Larissa scolded, a less vibrant version of her older sister.

Whereas Larissa’s hair was more sable than auburn, Sarah’s was a light brown with a few ginger highlights. However, all three sisters both possessed the same dark brown eyes inherited from their sable-haired mother.

“I have to agree with Larissa,” Sarah said with an apologetic glance to Rosalind as she speared a piece of boiled, herbed potato. “Nae woman ridin’ sidesaddle could manage those heights.”

“I might’ve done so astride,” Grandmother Gordonstone declared with a dry chuckle.

Gold rimmed floral teacup poised at her mouth, Grandmother Larimore quirked a gray brow archly. “Ye were always a hoyden, Lizabeth. Even as a young girl ye liked nothin’ better than to flout convention and shock everyone.”

“And ye were always jealous of me, Canne,” Grandmother Gordonstone retorted, though the twinkle in her eyes belied her tart response. “I had six offers of marriage, and ye only had four.”

“Oh, do hush, and let us enjoy our meal,” Mother gently admonished, accustomed to her mother and mother-in-law’s bantering.

“I have to agree with Grandmother and Rosalind,” Aunt Eufamie declared, her expression thoughtful. She idly moved her fork back and forth across her plate as Blige refilled empty teacups. “I believe it can be done.”

Arms folded, Aunt Christina leaned back in her chair. “I ken of only one way to find out.”

Mother went stock still. Slowly, she laid her fork down. “Absolutely, positively no’. I shall no’ have it. Do no’ even ask.”

She speared each of her daughters with a the-subject-is-closed glare.

“But Anna, be reasonable. If one of us won the competition this year,”—Aunt Eufamie scooted her gaze around the table to include the younger women—“the prize money would feed us all for a good while.”

Evan’s heart stopped for a moment, and a combination of dismay and anger stabbed the organ. They shouldn’t have to worry about such things. “I’ve told ye before, Aunt Eufamie, such matters are my worry.”

“Oh, tosh,” Sarah said, flapping her hand at him. “We’re no’ numbskulls, Evan. We ken funds are tight and how hard ye work to make ends meet.” She slathered marmalade on a triangle of toast. “That a man should be burdened with providin’ for his female kin, and they take nae responsibility in their own welfare and wellbein’, is ludicrous.”

He firmed his mouth. “No’ so tight that any of ye should consider such a hazardous venture.”

“I still say one of us could pull it off,” Rosalind muttered mutinously. “I’d wager on it.”

“Nae. That’s my final word,” Mother said. “It’s far too perilous. Why, I’ve never heard of a woman jumpin’ anything higher than three feet—sidesaddle or astride.”

She picked up her fork, indicating the subject was closed.

“I have done so. Several times, in fact.”

Of course ye have.

Sophronie would pick that precise moment to make an entrance.

As one, every person in the dining room swung their attention to the double doors.

Miss Slater hovered at the entrance, looking rather delectable in a soft cornflower blue gown with a creamy lace shawl about her shoulders. She’d tied her hair at her nape with a wide ivory bow. Ribbons of sunshine and fire shimmered in what Evan had, wrongly, believed unremarkable red-gold hair.

Except for faint purple shadows beneath her blue eyes, she looked rested and, more importantly, relieved. The fine lines of stress between her eyebrows and bracketing her mouth had disappeared.

“That wee lass jumps horses?” Grandmother Larimore trumpeted in what was meant to be a whisper. She was hard of hearing and had no idea she was so loud. “I canna believe it.”