Page 3 of Miss Devon’s Choice

The thump of a tail on his desk made him look down at his feet where his prized hunter, Ajax, lounged on the carpet, his coppery fur blending into the shadows beneath the desk.

“Come, boy.” The dog responded immediately by rising to nudge his master’s hand, then fell into step beside Christian as he left the room. A footman in the hall stayed standing at attention when Christian passed, as stalwart as any soldier guarding a prison.

Christian made his way to the music room, his mind thrumming with the anticipation of playing his violin. When he’d come from Italy to live with his paternal grandfather, he’d been forced to give up many of his pursuits and habits. But the earl had let him keep his music, so long as it didn’t get in the way of his education or duties to the title.

His beloved instrument rested in its case, protected from dust and damage. He lifted the delicately carved violin into his hands, tucking it carefully beneath his chin. He swept the bow across the strings, waking the room and his soul with the warmth of his opening notes. He closed his eyes, leaning into the music—

A throat cleared and Christian opened his eyes to see a footman standing in the doorway. “My lord? The earl wishes to see you.”

Had he been ten years younger, Christian’s shoulders would’ve slumped and he’d have dragged his feet every step of the way to his grandfather’s study. As it was, he gave the footman a curt nod, carefully replaced his violin, and left the music room with regret. He would play no more tonight.

Ajax snorted as they came to the stairs and Christian’s lips twitched. “I agree, old boy. I’d rather do something more amusing, too. But grandfather must be obeyed.”

The dog looked up at him, sympathetic to his master’s displeasure.

“On we go.” Christian took the stairs as sedately as he’d been taught and went down the hallway to knock on the dark mahogany door of his grandfather’s most frequented room. He checked that his sleeves were straight and tugged once at the bottom of his waistcoat before answering the summons to enter.

“You wished to see me, Grandfather?” he asked, closing the door behind him. Ajax sat at once, knowing he was not welcome further into the room, but Christian went all the way forward to the large desk.

His grandfather sat in a high-backed chair, lined with plush red velvet cushions, behind a desk far too immense to be truly useful. The man, seventy-six years old and as sharp as a person half that age, looked up from a book laying open before him.

“Yes. Sit, Easton.”

Christian obeyed, keeping his back straight and his countenance a mask of civility. He had an idea of what his grandfather wished to speak of, and the very thought of the conversation made his insides twist.

“The contracts are complete. I have secured you a bride.”

Christian swallowed and kept his eyes on his grandfather. The old man’s smile was surely meant to be encouraging—he’d had his doubts about finding anyone willing to take on his elusive grandson—but all Christian could feel was the sting of disappointment in his breast. He forced himself to nod, though he could not even pretend to be pleased.

It didn’t matter that he had requested this method of securing a wife, it seemed. It was necessary, of course. Only a marriage arranged on his terms would keep him safe from the pain and devastation his parents’ union had caused.

“At what price?” He had to ask. He had to know who had agreed to marry him, and through what means she was persuaded.

“A few business negotiations. Promises of favors to her father. Nothing serious. The man is hungry for prestige and we can easily lend him some of ours.”

“Some of yours,” Christian corrected.

“The title is yours, too.” His grandfather fixed him with a calculating smile Christian had seen too often. It served to remind him of all the ways he’d been manipulated by the man sitting before him.

“Thank you, Grandfather.” He wanted to clench his hands, to decry the unfairness of it, but he maintained his calm. “Do we know anything about her?”

His grandfather raised an eyebrow and scoffed. Christian should’ve known better than to ask.

“I’ve had her watched since Devon started making inquiries.” That was no surprise. The Earl of Ivyford, Christian’s grandfather, had just about everyone in society watched. It was how he had done business for years. Observing people allowed him to discover what they most wanted. He was not above using that knowledge to coerce others into doing as he wished; he simply dangled the object of their desire before them and thus attained a multitude of favors.

Christian was both inspired and repelled by the amount of information his grandfather could obtain with relatively little trouble.

“And?” he asked, wondering why he cared. It was done. He would marry the woman, whoever she was, because the earl had chosen her and she had agreed to the match. It was more than he ought to hope for, given the way most people looked at him, the way the whispers followed him wherever he went.

“She is barely out in society. Young, malleable I should think. Her reputation is sound and unsullied, her close acquaintances above reproach. There is some small question about the matches made by her sisters, but nothing too serious. They married beneath themselves, so this alliance is a boon to the family.”

Christian knew he had no right to further information. Not yet. And what did it matter, really, what she looked like or if she had any accomplishments? It wouldn’t change whether or not they would marry. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“When will we marry?”

“September.”

That soon? In just two months, Christian’s contented peace would be interrupted by a woman who knew nothing about him and who likely saw no more than her father did—a way to climb the rungs of society and class. He accepted this, as he had when the idea occurred to him. Finding a bride through a means other than the marriage mart of London would almost assuredly keep him from the expectations of young women hoping for a love match. Still. One couldn’t be too careful. As much as he hated to ask the question, it rose to his lips.