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“We’ll leave out Lady Beatrice Howard as a potential match.” Blythe swirled the scotch in his mouth before taking a swallow. “I believe she’s spoken for, isn’t she? Leave it to Gran to put his claim on the most beautiful young lady in England. But then, Gran likes pretty things. Is fond of collecting them, in fact.”
“I do.” David declined to elaborate further, though most of London assumed he would offer officially for Beatrice during the house party.
A pair of magnificent blue eyes floated before him. Andromeda Barrington. Far more beautiful, in his estimation, than Lady Beatrice Howard, but so much more unsuitable. She was stunning even wearing the hideous dress he’d seen her in at Madame Dupree’s.
Or better still, if she wore nothing at all.
Arousal slipped down his thighs at the thought of Andromeda, naked, beneath him. David’s cock hardened. Painfully. Thank God his coat was now the correct length.
“Lady Beatrice will be just another possession for Gran, like those bloody statues he’s been collecting. Or those stone paintings.” Blythe tossed back his drink with an angry flick of his wrist.
“Frescoes,” David corrected him, wondering at Blythe’s mood. “Ancient Roman frescoes.”
“I do like the new painting, by the way.” Blythe nodded at the seascape hanging on the wall. “Fills me with a sense of melancholy. Terribly expensive, I’m sure.”
“It wasn’t,” David said, knowing even if the seascape’s cost had been exorbitant, he would have purchased it. The knowledge irritated him.
“Art is a waste of money,” Haven grumbled.
“Spoken as a man with little appreciation or funds for it,” Blythe said. “Shouldwe be expecting an announcement, Your Grace?”
“Foxwood certainly thinks so.” David was bothered by his own inexplicable reticence in confirming his plans to marry Beatrice. His decisions were always the result of careful thought. Planning. Logic. Once decided, he rarely deviated from his chosen path.
Which was Beatrice.
His cock, still stimulated by thoughts of Andromeda, disagreed.
“You don’t even like her, Gran.” Blythe’s words bled with irritation. “Shouldn’t you at leastlikethe woman you’ll marry?”
“I don’tdislikeher, if that is your meaning.” She evoked no emotion in David at all. Not even a hint of irritation. “Liking your wife isn’t relevant in most marriages of our class, is it?”
His gaze landed on the seascape again. Ridiculous to buy a bloody painting because it reminded him of a young woman who had insulted him. He didn’t even like seascapes. He would instruct his butler, Bowen, to remove the painting.
“Not anounceof affection,” Blythe persisted.
Blythe was a hopeless romantic. He read poetry, for God’s sake.
“It isn’t necessary. You know that as well as I. Beatrice is eminently suitable,” David stated.
“A resounding endorsement, if I ever heard one.”
Blythe had never approved of David offering for Lady Beatrice Howard for reasons his friend had never explained, though he claimed not to want her for himself.
A soft knock sounded at the study door.
“Your Grace.” His butler bowed, keeping his eyes lowered. “Lady Molsin wishes me to remind you that your guests are on the terrace enjoying a late luncheon.”
David set down his glass, still half-full, at the subtle reminder from Aunt Pen that his presence was required. Resigning himself to the remainder of his day spent in bland conversation, he nodded to the butler.
“Please inform Lady Molsin I’ll be along directly.”
