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4
“Your Grace, are you listening?”
David looked away from the painting he’d felt compelled to purchase months ago, a seascape by an unknown Italian artist. The swirl of blues representing the ocean had called to him when he’d seen it. David hadn’t realized until now why the seascape held such appeal for him.
“Granby.”
He turned to his aunt, resenting Andromeda Barrington and the way she’d invaded his thoughts so quietly and in such an insidious manner. The swirls of lighter and darker blue in the seascape had reminded him of her eyes. He’d been fortunate, after their unexpected meeting at Madame Dupree’s, not to cross paths with her again before departing London. His desire for her unsettled him to the point where the mere thought of her dispelled every rational notion in his brain.
The painting was proof of such a weakness. He reached up and tugged at his cravat. His valet had tied the bloody thing too tight again.
“Apologies, Aunt. I was only considering the improvements I need to make to the east wing.”
Aunt Pen, short for Penelope, was his paternal aunt, the younger sister of David’s father, Horace. Her presence in David’s life had been spotty at best and virtually nonexistent while his father had been alive. But Aunt Pen was here now, determined to mother David, though it was far too late for her to do so. He’d needed her more after the Duchess of Granby had abandoned her son and husband to run off with her lover. But Aunt Pen hadn’t come, though Horace had begged her to. The scandal, his father had claimed, kept his younger sister away.
Whether to make up for lost time or for some reason as yet unknown to David, Aunt Pen was committed to staying with David and filling The Barrow with guests for a house party he hadn’t asked for. Or wanted.
“I sense you’ve little interest in any of this but most especially in Lady Beatrice,” Aunt Pen said, her tone thoughtful.
“Untrue.” David didn’t care to have this conversation with his aunt, mainly because who he married was none of her concern. “Her lineage is impeccable. The Earl of Foxwood and his family are well-connected. Powerful. His title is even more ancient than my own. Beatrice is beautiful. Accomplished. Well-bred. As a bonus, her dowry contains a parcel of land the Dukes of Granby have coveted for half a century. In short, she is perfect.”
His aunt’s lips drew down. “How many times have you actually spoken to Beatrice? Three? None alone, I’ll warrant.”
“Is conversation necessary to sire an heir? At any rate, I assure you Lady Foxwood spoke enough for all of us. Besides, I thought squiring her about was an uncomplicated way to make my intentions known.”
“You mean it is easier than courting her.” His aunt’s face tightened, wrinkling her brow. Aunt Pen was still a handsome woman. Elegant. David often wondered why she hadn’t remarried after the death of Lord Molsin.
“A courtship would be a waste of time. And pointless. I require a wife of good breeding and unimpeachable reputation. Foxwood would like his daughter to be a duchess. It is a fairly simple trade.”
“Have you no affection for her?” Aunt Pen waved her hand. “Don’t answer. You’ve treated this entire affair as if you are merely purchasing a horse from Tattersall’s.”
David failed to see the cause of Aunt Pen’s upset. Choosing a wife was very much like assessing horseflesh. Marriages, David’s father had often reminded him, were nothing more than business transactions. The wrong decision could have catastrophic effects on one’s reputation and the standing of one’s family. A mistake his father had firsthand knowledge of and had cautioned his heir to be amply aware of.
A well-bred wife ensures a well-bred life.
“What is it about Beatrice you find so objectionable?” David countered.
“Don’t you want companionship, Your Grace? Affection? Friendship, at the very least?”
“None of those are necessary for a successful marriage. She will do her duty, as will I.” Why did it matter whether he spoke to her or not? Once she produced the requisite heir and a spare, David and Beatrice would have little to do with each other.
“I see you’ve thought of everything.” Aunt Pen worried the rings on her fingers, twisting them about.
“Indeed, I have, Aunt Pen.”
Beatrice was a logical choice. He liked beautiful women, and Beatrice was stunning. He’d have no problems bedding her. Best of all, she aroused no emotion in him. Not a whit. He didn’t expect she ever would. Certainly Beatrice didn’t leave him wishing to throw her skirts up and—
David’s gaze wandered again to the magnificent swirls of blue making up the seascape, none of the color nearly as dramatic as that of Lady Andromeda Barrington’s eyes. To only say her eyes were blue would be akin to claiming a painting by Titian resembled a crude pencil drawing done by a child. He likened the color to water caught in a shallow pool when the tide returns to the sea, exactly as the seascape depicted. A ring of indigo, so startling against the lighter blue, circled each of the pupils. Unusual and unforgettable. Much like Andromeda.
It was unfortunate she was a Barrington.
The Duke of Averell and his family had been a particular bone of contention for David’s father. Horace had always held the family up as an example of the demise of the nobility, claiming the family would come to a bad end with their blood so muddied.
Horace had struggled to keep quiet the secret of the origins of David’s mother, while Averell, on the other hand, hadn’t even bothered to hide his wife’s previous life as lady’s companion, as if he were proud of such a thing.
David reached behind him to the small table where a decanter of scotch sat. Grabbing it by the neck, he brought it forward and refilled his glass with the deep amber liquid. He rarely had more than one glass of scotch, two at most, at least not since returning to England. But this conversation merited it.
“I’ve been speaking for several moments, yet you’ve long since ceased listening to me.”
