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“Imagine my surprise when Fulvia took one of my grooms by the hand and informed me that they were bound for Gretna Green—in my brother’s coach, no less!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
IN WHICH FIENNES QUESTIONS HIS MOST DEARLY HELD CONVICTIONS
SALTEM HOUSE ON THE THAMES
MR. AND MRS. BAYTHORN’S ANNUAL COLLATION AL FRESCO
Fiennes didn’t frequent social “breakfasts,” any more than he made appearances at “musicales.”
But he arrived home after Fulvia’s debut ball realizing that he was at a crossroads.
He needed to talk to the one man whom he knew had chosen his wife for irrational reasons: Jonah, the Duke of Lennox.
After bathing, Fiennes went directly to His Grace’s residence, only to find that the duke and duchess had left for Saltem House.
Luckily, Fiennes had been invited to the Baythorn picnic, which explained how he now found himself seated on a blanket—a situation he despised—between a giggling debutante and the Duchess of Lennox.
Beatrice, Jonah’s wife, was charming; he would have liked to marry her back when she was Miss Valentine. Interestingly, now he looked at her luscious figure and didn’t feel even a twinge of lust.
Bea was exquisite, from her laughing mouth to her curves, but her beauty meant nothing to him.
It was almost alarming.
His fiancée, Fulvia, was accounted one of the beauties of the Season, as had been Regina during her debut. Oddly, all three women left him cold.
“Want to go for a walk?” Jonah said, appearing at his shoulder.
Fiennes rose thankfully, bowed to the ladies, and followed Jonah down the path that wound along by the Thames.
“I’m too tired to chatter,” Jonah said, throwing himself down on a bench.
“Why?” Fiennes asked, seating himself. Why in the hell would people sprawl on the ground when some clever chap had designed proper outdoor seating?
“Our baby. Sophia.”
Fiennes considered that statement and found the obvious flaw. “Nanny? Nursemaid?”
Jonah snorted. “Wait until you have a baby. We can hear Sophia howling from the nursery a floor above, and believe me, you won’t sleep through it.”
“I shall,” Fiennes stated. “Why don’t you sleep at your club, if the house is too noisy?”
Jonah glanced at him. “Many men likely do.”
He seemed to be offering implicit criticism, but Fiennes couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’m considering engaging in conduct unbecoming of a gentleman,” he said without preface.
Jonah’s eyebrows flew up. “Financial?”
“No.” Fiennes scowled at him. “I would never do that.”
“Then what would you do?” Jonah tipped back his head and looked up at the shifting oak leaves overhead.
“I’m thinking of breaking my betrothal.”
“To Miss Fulvia St. Trevelyon? The betrothal that you announced last night?” Jonah glanced at Fiennes, sardonic eyebrow in play. “The course of true love never did run smooth, but you are setting records for brief engagements.”
“I do not love her,” Fiennes stated. “I understand she’ll be ruined if I don’t marry her, but I cannot, Jonah. I simply cannot.”
