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Darby moodily drank some Madeira.

“We move to the city on the first of February. Will you be in London for the opening of the season?” Miss Aiken asked him.

“Almost certainly,” he said. He drank some more Madeira. Her eyes sharpened. She had beady black eyes, and her hair was definitely reddish. Precisely like a fox, Darby thought to himself.

“Aren’t you excited about the season, sir?”

“Truthfully, no.”

“Goodness, why not? It sounds like the most pleasant thing in the world to me!” Her hands were clasped in an ecstasy of anticipation. “Dancing at Almack’s, riding in the park, Her Royal Majesty’s Drawing Room!”

“I dislike pushing women around the room to a tuneless orchestra. And the only men who ride in the park are manmilliners,” he drawled.

“The season is not a new experience for Mr. Darby as it is for you, Lucy dear,” Henrietta said, jumping into the rather awkward silence that ensued.

Miss Aiken was clearly rethinking her initial buyer’s lust.

“Goodness me,” she trilled. “I must find my dear aunt. She’ll be wondering whatever became of me!” And she tripped away, but not before casting a glance over her shoulder at Darby that made it quite clear that if he wished to trot after her, like a little pony on a string, she wouldn’t be averse to keeping him. She would, in fact, overlook his exhibition of churlishness and lack of enthusiasm for the season. He stayed where he was.

70 Eloisa

James

“Now that was foolish,” Henrietta Maclellan said in a clear voice.

“What?”

“Blowing Lucy Aiken down the wind,” she said promptly.

“Lucy is a remarkably sweet girl who would be quite a good mother to your sisters. She has a passion for London, and will be easily satisfied by living there and riding in the Row a few times a week. You couldn’t do better than marry her.”

He blinked. Didn’t she know that young ladies did not discuss other ladies’ marriageable prospects in polite company?

In other words, in the presence of a man?

Before he thought it through, he said, “I believe I am not quite used to the idea of assessing women as marriageable commodities.” That made him sound insufferably conceited, so he added: “Of course, the assessment occurs on both sides.”

“Perhaps your dismay is due to your gender. We women are, by necessity, quite familiar with the concept of the marriage market. I suspect that the problem is not that you didn’t see yourself as part of that market previously. It’s that you are used to being an object of great worth, and now your aunt’s happy condition has made you slightly—but only slightly, Mr. Darby—more affordable.”

There was nothing mocking in her eyes, actually. And it made sense that she thought he needed to marry an heiress.

“I suppose that’s it,” he said. He finished his Madeira.

“You are remarkably frank, Lady Henrietta.” He could never remember being labeled affordable in the past.

“I’m afraid it’s a fault of mine,” she agreed, looking utterly unrepentant. “Perhaps it’s a facet of small-town life. One needn’t obfuscate quite as much.”

“Never having spent any time in the country,” Darby said,

“I can hardly disagree with you. I gather you heard the rumor that I have made this particular visit in order to wait out my Fool for Love

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aunt’s confinement and determine whether I am my uncle’s heir?”

“Is it true?”

Darby jiggled his wineglass, watching the last few drops of ruby liquid chase about the bottom. “I believe you would find my answer truly shocking, Lady Henrietta.”