Page 35 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

When the door closed behind her, Andrew turned to look at Simon. “You cannot be serious. Hartwell and Josephine?”

Simon shrugged. “He’s my friend and a good man. Why not?”

“I would say I am both those things, yet you wouldn’t make a match of your sister and me.” He snorted and watched his friend from the corner of his eye. Would Simon ever entertain that notion? He’d never suggested to Andrew, not so much as the barest of hints, that Andrew and Josephine might form an attachment to one another. And he didn’t seem to care to address the matter at that moment, either.

“I’m not making matches of anyone,” Simon said, pointedly not making eye contact with Andrew. “Merely presenting an opportunity to both of them. Hartwell is smart enough to take advantage of that opportunity. Whatever Josephine makes of it is her business. If she finds Hartwell suitable, I will not argue the point.”

Though Andrew found he wanted to give a whole list of reasons why Hartwell wouldn’t be suitable, he couldn’t think of a single one. But he would. And Josephine would likely think of several. She’d avoided matchmaking mothers and gentlemen ever since her presentation at court three years before. As a duke’s daughter, she could take all the time she wished before selecting a husband. She could likely wait until she turned eighty years old and still find plenty of men willing to marry her for her fortune alone.

He winced. Poor Josephine. How would she ever know if a man wanted her for herself or for her position?

Not that it should matter to him. Her family had things well in hand, and Josephine would never accept a match unless it was precisely what she wanted.

He shrugged, picked up his post, and followed Andrew to the duke’s study. There, they would answer their letters of business before going out riding. And really—what better way to distract himself from thoughts of Josephine than spending his time on horseback?

* * *

Josephine knocked at the door of her grandmother’s suite. Then she waited until her grandmother’s companion, a new one pulled from the world of underprivileged and widowed second-cousins, opened the door.

“Mrs. Rollins, is my grandmother available?” Josephine asked kindly.

The middle-aged woman smiled as fondly as if Josephine had been her own grandchild. “Yes, of course, Lady Josephine. She is having her breakfast in bed, but you know that would never stop her from welcoming you.”

Josephine followed Mrs. Rollins through the sitting room, decorated in her grandmother’s favorite Egyptian style, and through to the airy bedchamber. The bed at the center of the room was one of the most important sticks of furniture in the castle. Family legend stated that King Henry VIII had once slept in that very bed when he came for a hunt with the Earl of Montfort in the sixteenth century.

No one in her family particularly cared for Henry VIII, but the ability to associate with royalty and history in any way somehow elevated one’s standing in Society.

Her Grace, Sarah, the Duchess of Montfort, certainly looked queenly in her lace cap and purple shawl. A tray of breakfast was at her side, with more on a table near her should she wish for something other than her usual favorites.

“Josephine,” she said with a welcome smile. “Why are you not downstairs at breakfast?”

“Everyone finished early. Today’s post sent everyone into raptures.” She didn’t bother hiding her crooked smile. Her grandmother could be a bit of a dragon, but Josephine found her more amusing than intimidating.

“I see no reason a bit of mail should keep young people from eating properly. Take some toast, dear. Or bacon. And tea.”

Though she had left the table without an appetite, making her way to her grandmother’s rooms had restored her desire for food. She made herself a small plate, then sat in a chair beside her grandmother’s bed. Her grandmother’s companion remained in the adjoining sitting room, giving them privacy.

“I have had my own letter today, from your mother. She writes that all is well in London, though she misses her daughters’ company. She went to the most intriguing lecture at the palace.” The dowager duchess went on to describe her daughter-in-law’s letter, giving Josephine time to enjoy her second attempt at breakfast.

When Josephine finished her last bite of toast, her grandmother finally said, “I cannot help but wonder, my dear, whom it was that wrote something to excite everyone.”

“Oh. That.” Josephine’s shoulders dropped, but she snapped them back into place at once. Grandmother couldn’t abide poor posture in young people. “Lord Hartwell wrote that he is coming to visit.”

“Hartwell? He’s Simon’s friend, isn’t he? That Yorkshire baron.”

“The very one.” She traced the edge of her plate with one finger, avoiding her grandmother’s gaze.

“Good. He is a lively young man. And rather nice to look at.”

A startled laugh escaped from Josephine, then she gasped. “Grandmama!”

“I may be old, dear girl.” Her grandmother tipped her nose in the air. “But there is nothing wrong with my eyesight.” A tart retort rose to Josephine’s lips, but good sense meant she kept them closed. “I suppose your sisters squealed happily, your brother warned you to be on your best behavior, and Sir Andrew glowered.”

“Right on almost every account.” Josephine rose and gathered her grandmother’s plate on top of her own. “But why would Sir Andrew glower? He’s as much a friend to Hartwell as Simon.” She turned to stack both plates on the tray.

“Jealousy, of course.”

Josephine peered over her shoulder at her grandmother. “For Simon’s attention? I do not think he is so needy a friend as that.” She gave her attention to the teapot, checking the small candle beneath that kept it warm, then poured her grandmother a fresh cup of tea.