Page 10 of The Earl’s Hoyden

Lucien reread the page and hummed a response that presented no opinion at all. This was merely a catalyst for a conversation they often had.

“She already has three children, two boys and a girl,” Lady Brightstone continued. “One can only imagine being blessed with so many grandchildren.”

It was beyond Lucien why his mother wished for grandchildren when she had scarcely abided him as a child.

“Are you suggesting I make a bid for Miss Bexley’s hand to procure several grandchildren for you?” Even as Lucien spoke, he couldn’t help the curious little thrill of his words.

“Oh heavens, of course not.” His mother put her hand to her chest as though the very idea was enough to send her into an apoplectic fit. “She’s far too provincial to be with a Lambert. But she could be good practice.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes at the sly tone to Lady Brightstone’s nasally drawl. “I fail to understand what you mean.”

She waved her hand airily. “You could flirt with her. Have her be a whetstone to sharpen your wit upon.”

“My wit is plenty sharp,” Lucien muttered. It was perhaps too much so, which set him apart from those around him in an awkward, uncomfortable manner.

“Your wit is dry,” his mother corrected. “And it isn’t as though you would have competition. No one else has shown interest in the hoyden for three seasons. I’d thought perhaps Lord Ranford might take the plunge, but she likely scared him off with all her chatter. Or that raucous laugh.”

“I haven’t paid attention to how other’s seasons transpire,” he replied truthfully. There were far too many comings and goings of this or that person’s interest in the span of a single night to give their activities more than a passing thought, let alone keeping track of an entire season.

“She seems like the kind of girl to gossip.” Lady Brightstone pursed her lips. “A busybody always in everyone else’s business.”

Lucien arched a brow at his mother’s scowl. “How very ironic.”

She shot him a long-suffering glare, apparently catching his meaning. “You must wed, Lucien, to have an heir. No matter the cost.”

A distant banging sounded outside, muted by the windows. The repairs were officially underway.

“I refuse to obtain a wife by using another eligible woman as practice,” Lucien retorted.

“Eligible.” His mother scoffed and needlessly adjusted the deep blue puff of one velvet sleeve. The thing looked overlarge on her thin arms.

“Miss Bexley is a kind and honest lady.” He closed his book and gave his mother a sharp look. The world might cower at her feet, but he was not that kind of man. “I will not hurt her to appease you.”

“You need a wife, and you need an heir,” she replied vehemently. “I don’t care how you procure a reasonable lady to acquire them.”

If his parents’ marriage was any indication of how wedded life could be, it was no wonder he’d never applied himself in the pursuit of a bride. The former Earl of Brightstone had skulked around his wife, desperate to be free of her waspish ways, often finding solace in the arms of various women. Though he had been discreet, Lady Brightstone was well aware of these indiscretions, which had only made the acid of her verbal assaults all the more potent.

But while Lucien would take a life of solace and books over such marital torment, he knew his mother was correct. He would need to wed eventually, regardless of his disinclination to do so. It was, after all, his duty to produce the next Earl of Brightstone.

“Ladies are uninterested in me.” It was a dull argument, but one he was comfortable falling back on. After all, none of those ladies had interested him either.

“Then you need to address why they are not.” His mother indicated his person. “Look at you, wearing a plain yellow waistcoat when blue would bring out your eyes. And your hair flopping about in your face. You were lucky enough to inherit my cheekbones.” She paused to delicately stroke the elegant line of her face. “You ought to let them be seen.”

His mother was far too attentive to her appearance. Her blue day dress was adorned with a costly brooch and matching earbobs, despite a lack of visitors to their country estate since the former earl’s death. Regardless, every morning she rose with the sun and insisted her maid scrape her silver-and-gold hair back into a high chignon with exactly six sausage-like curls framing her face.

He sighed. “I don’t need to primp myself to be put on display, mother.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “Women are expected to do so, as are men.”

“I’m hardly a popinjay.” He scanned the scores of books behind his mother, eager to lose himself in their edifying embrace once more. Honestly, he’d rather subject himself in the scribbling of a dilettante’s attempts at poetry than endure this conversation for much longer.

His mother issued a harsh laugh. “You assuredly are not. But you could at least apply yourself. What about that Bexley hoyden next door?”

Lucien didn’t bother to suppress his sigh. “Miss Bexley,” he corrected.

Again.

“She may be far too brash for my liking, but she does have a good eye for fashion.” Lady Brightstone’s lips pinched as if the grudging praise caused her a physical ache. “If nothing else, you could at least ask her for advice on what to wear. Since you refuse to accept any of the gentle suggestions I’ve offered.” She sniffed with indignity.