“Clearly. Now, I do not wish to be unkind, but you must understand that other people do not care for your horses with the same…fervor that you do. For example, I like to sew. Would you be very engaged if I were to only talk about my sewing and my missed stitches and the thread I prefer?”
“Talk about sewing? Why?”
“Exactly. Do you see, Lord Lymington? You must broaden your conversation, it cannot all be about your horses. As well, if youareto tell a story, you ought to tell it just one time and not start over because you forgot a detail. If you’ve forgotten something, you just must live with it.”
This seemed to be a lot of information for Lord Lymington. His eyebrows had been approaching each other and now they met at the top of his nose.
In a softer manner, she said, “I will help you if you wish it, as I think that underneath all of that horse talk, you are a very genial gentleman.”
“Excellent, yes,” Lord Lymington said, his brows retreating to their respective sides. “My mother has said something similar. She says I ought to marry soon but I’ll never talk anybody into it at the rate I’m going.”
Isabel felt a pang for Lord Lymington. “What does your father say about it?” she asked, rather afraid of whathemight have said.
“Oh, we don’t talk about it. We only talk about our stable,” the lord said cheerfully.
Isabel suppressed a sigh. Of course they did. “I challenge you, Lord Lymington, to forgo mentioning horses for this entire supper.”
If Isabel was at all competent at reading expressions, this suggestion had fallen hard upon the lord. He looked as if she’d just asked him to stab himself. He also looked as if he did not know where to start.
“For instance,” Isabel said, “I find this wine delightful. I believe it to be German.”
Lord Lymington desperately looked at his wine glass and grabbed it, taking a gulp. “I think you are right,” he said with an air of triumph.
She looked at him encouragingly. He stared this way and that and then cried, “Oh wait, I know—what do you think of the weather?”
Isabel smiled. It was a start, anyway.
Chapter Nine
Harry likened LadyRembly’s ball to one of darkness and light. He had danced with Lady Isabel and it had been everything he thought it would be. She was so gloriously beautiful and graceful, and her manner was everything elegant.
He could have led her round the floor all evening.
He’d thought he would plough right in with his campaign to overturn the lady’s notions of marrying high. It was security she really sought, not a title, and so he had attempted to make a case for that.
Though, it was clear enough that the lady had spent vast amounts of time thinking about security and all the ways it might go wrong. He had not given a thought to the idea that the estate was entailed, as he would surely have a son.
But, as the lady had so directly pointed out, what would happen to a wife if he were to die before a son arrived?
He had not said what would happen, but it was rather worse than she might imagine. The estate would go to his cousin Martin. The fellow was a farmer, he was coarse, and he was uneducated. He was all those things not for lack of opportunity, but for preference. Harry’s father, the current baron, had offered to educate him but he’d paid no attention to his studies. He’d been offered some financial support so he might live as a gentleman, but he was not interested in that either.
What Martin liked to do was some desultory work on his small farm that never produced very much, and then trundle down to the local tavern, get hideously drunk, usually start a fight, stagger home late at night, get up with a black eye, and start all over again.
Martin would destroy the estate one way or the other in a few short years. He certainly would not take any special care of his cousin’s widow. His father had urged him to marry to avoid that disaster, but Harry had insisted he would hold out forher. He could not bear the idea of making a compromise and then taking this new wife to Town one season and encounteringher. Of knowing he’d made a disastrous mistake in not waiting.
Harry had told Lady Isabel he did not have any plans on dying. Truth be told, he did not dare die until he had a son.
Her words had given him pause. Would it really be right to put Lady Isabel into such a situation? Even if the chances of him dying before a son arrived were remote, itcouldhappen. Worse, once she became acquainted with his circumstances more closely, once she got a look at Martin, she’d have to live with the idea every day until sons were produced and had passed out of the usual childhood dangers.
But then, the thought of throwing over the idea of pursuing Lady Isabel struck him hard. The thought of giving her up, though he did not actually have her, struck Harry very hard indeed.
No. He simply would refuse to die under any circumstances and then all would be well.
Dancing with Miss Rightstone was the usual project to be got through, full of demands, fan hits, near insults, and strange innuendos.
Now he escorted her into the dining room. He could feel both Lady Rembly’s and the duchess’ eyes upon him. This could not continue to go on. He must be direct with Miss Rightstone. The duchess had meddled a step too far.
The lady accepted a glass of wine from a footman and promptly drained it. Harry had seen her do this before and was fairly certain she’d dispatch four or five more before the evening was out.
