Excerpt:
CHAPTER TWO
“How in Hades’s name can you drink at this hour of the
morning, Highgate?”
Hart tossed back his brandy, swallowed, and laughed at his
brother-in-law’s words. The two sat across from each other at Brooks’s
gentlemen’s club. It was decidedly before noon. The only reason Hart was up at
this hour was because he’d promised to meet Lord Christian Berkeley. His
brother-in-law rarely asked for favors and Hart suspected this meeting was his
sister Sarah’s doing, but he would humor the viscount just the same.
“Berkeley, old chap, you don’t know the half of it.” Hart
clapped the viscount on the back. “Helps with the devil of a head left over
from last night, don’t ya know?”
Berkeley lifted his teacup to his lips. “No. I don’t. But
I’ll take your word for it.”
That reply only made Hart laugh harder, which made his head
hurt more. Hart liked his brother-in-law a great deal, but the man was
decidedly humdrum when it came to amusements. Berkeley rarely drank, rarely smoked,
and preferred to spend his time at his estate in the north of England or his
hunting lodge in Scotland. Berkeley enjoyed quiet pursuits like reading or
carving things out of wood much more than the amusements London had to offer.
But Viscount Berkeley was a good man and one who clearly adored Hart’s sister,
and that was what mattered.
The viscount had gone so far as to dramatically interrupt
Sarah’s wedding to a pompous marquess and claim her for himself, thereby not
only proving his commitment to Sarah but also saving Hart from having the
self-involved Marquess of Branford as a brother-in-law. Overall it had been
quite a fortunate turn of events for everyone. Everyone except Hart and Sarah’s
enraged, thwarted parents, that is.
Berkeley tugged at his cravat. “How are your—ahem— parents
getting on?”
Hart cracked a smile. “Still angry, of course, even after
all these months. You and Sarah made a good decision, staying up north for the
winter. Gave Father and Mother time to calm down.” His father’s anger at having
a scandal mar his family name and his daughter marry a mere viscount as opposed
to a marquess who had the ear of the Prince Regent had barely abated over the
winter, but no need to tell Berkeley as much.
Berkeley leaned back in his chair and crossed one
silk-stockinged ankle over an immaculately creased knee, his hands lightly
clutching the arms of his chair. He shook his head. “They’re not calmed down,
are they?”
“A bit.” Hart stopped a footman and ordered another brandy.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be civil when they see you. For Sarah’s sake.”
“Well, that’s something. Are you seriously ordering another
drink?”
“Are you seriously surprised?” Hart scratched his rough
cheek. He’d been running late and hadn’t bothered to ask his usually drunken
valet to shave him this morning. For Christ’s sake, that man drank more than he
did. Not exactly someone he wanted near his throat with a straight razor.
“Besides I have quite a good reason to drink today.”
“Really?” Berkeley tugged at his cuff. Ever since Sarah had
taught him how to dress properly, the viscount was much more attentive to his
clothing. He was downright dapper these days. “Why is that?”
“I’m getting married.” Hart emitted a groan to accompany
those incomprehensible words.
Berkeley’s brows shot up. He set down his cup and placed a
hand behind his ear. “Pardon? I must have heard you incorrectly. I thought you
said married.”
The footman returned with the drink and Hart snatched it
from the man’s gloved hand and downed nearly half of it in a single gulp. “I
did,” he muttered through clenched teeth, wincing.
“You? Married?” Berkeley’s brow remained steadfastly
furrowed, and he blinked as if the word were foreign.
“Me. Married.” Hart gave a firm nod before taking another
fortifying gulp of brandy.
“Ahem, who is the, uh, fortunate lady?” Berkeley lifted his
cup back to his lips and took a long gulp, as if needing the hot drink to
banish his astonishment.
“I haven’t the first idea.” Hart shook his head. He was
giving serious thought to the notion of ordering a third brandy. Would that be
bad form? Probably.
“Now you’re simply confusing me,” Berkeley said with an
unmistakable smile on his face. With his free hand, he pulled the morning’s
copy of the Times from the tabletop next to him and scanned the headlines.
Hart took another sip of brandy and savored it this time. “I
haven’t made any decisions as to the chit yet. I’ve merely announced to Father
that this is the year I intend to find a bride. The idea of marriage has always
made my stomach turn. After all, if my parents’ imperfect union is anything by
which to gauge the institution, it’s a bloody nightmare.”
“Why the change of heart?” Berkeley asked.
Hart scrubbed a hand through his hair. The truth was, he
wasn’t less sickened by the prospect of marriage these days, but he couldn’t
avoid the institution forever. At some point he’d have to put the parson’s
noose firmly around his own throat and pull. Wives were fickle, and marriages
meant little other than the exchange of money and property. His own father had
announced that fact on more than one occasion. His parents treated each other
like unhappy strangers, and his father had made it clear that they were
anything but in love. That, Hart supposed, was his fate. To live a life as his
parents had in the pursuit of procreating and producing the next future Earl of
Highfield. So be it, but was it any wonder he’d been putting it off?
“Seeing Sarah marry had more of an effect on me than I
expected,” Hart admitted, frowning at his notquite-empty glass. “And if you
ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll call you out.” He looked at Berkeley and
grinned again.
“You have my word,” Berkeley replied with a nod. “But may I
ask how it affected you?”
Hart pushed himself back in the large leather chair and
crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “I started thinking about it all, you
know? Life, marriage, children, family. I expect you and Sarah will be having a
child soon, and by God I’d like my children to grow up knowing their kin. My
cousin Nicole was quite close to Sarah and me when we were children. Nicole’s
marriage isn’t one to emulate, either. She hasn’t even seen her husband in
years. Last I heard, she’s living somewhere in France, childless. By God,
perhaps I should rethink this.” Hart pulled at his cravat. The bloody thing was
nearly choking him what with all of this talk of marriage.
Berkeley leaned back in his seat, mirroring Hart. “Perhaps
you should focus on the positive aspects of marriage. I assure you, there are
many.”
“Believe me, I’m trying,” Hart continued, reminding himself
for the hundredth time of the reasons why he’d finally come to this decision.
God knew it hadn’t been an easy one. “Whether I like it or not, it’s time for
me to choose a bride. Sarah is my younger sister. While she wasn’t married, it
all seemed like fun and games, but now, well, seems everyone is tying the
proverbial knot these days what with Owen Monroe and Rafe Cavendish marrying.
Even Rafe’s twin, Cade, has fallen to the parson’s noose.”
Just this morning when Hart had woken with a splitting head
for the dozenth time in as many days, he’d thought yet again how he needed to
stop being so reckless. He wasn’t able to bounce back from a night of
debauchery nearly as quickly as he used to when he was at university. Seeing
Sarah marry had made him consider his duties, his responsibilities, and his . .
. age. For the love of God, he was nearly thirty. That thought alone was enough
to make him want another brandy. It was his duty to sire the next Earl of
Highfield, and duty meant something to him. What else mattered if he didn’t
respect his duty? Hadn’t that been hammered into his head since birth by his
father, along with all the dire warnings not to choose the wrong wife?
“It’s true that several marriages have taken place lately in
our set of friends,” Berkeley replied, still leisurely perusing the paper while
sipping tea. “But I thought you were immune to all of that, Highgate.”
“I have been.” Hart sighed again. “But I’ve finally decided
it’s time to get to it.”
Berkeley raised his teacup in salute. “Here’s to the future
Lady Highfield. May she be healthy, beautiful, and wise.”
“Thank you,” Hart replied. He tugged at his pythonlike
cravat again.
Berkeley regarded Hart down the length of his nose. “Any
ladies catch your fancy?”
Hart shook his head. He braced an elbow on the table beside
them and set his chin on his fist. “No. That’s the problem. I’m uncertain where
to begin.”
Berkeley let the paper drop to his lap. “What sort of lady
are you looking for?”
Hart considered the question for a moment. What sort of
lady, indeed? “She’ll need to be reasonable, well connected, clever, witty, a
happy soul. Someone who is honest, and forthright, and who isn’t marrying me
only for my title. Someone who doesn’t nag and has an indecently large dowry,
of course. Father puts great stock in such things. Not to mention if I’m going
to be legshackled, I might as well get a new set of horses out of the bargain.
I’m thinking a set of matching grays and a new coach.”
“Oh, that’s not much of a list,” Berkeley said with a snort.
“
I don’t expect the search to be a simple one, or a quick
one.” The truth was Hart had no earthly idea who he was looking for. He only
knew who he wasn’t looking for . . . someone like his mother. Or the
treacherous Annabelle Cardiff. He wanted the exact opposite.
Berkeley tossed the paper back onto the tabletop. “Knowing
your father’s decided opinions on such matters, I’m surprised he hasn’t
provided you with a list of eligible females from which you may choose.”
Hart rolled his eyes. “He has. He’s named half a dozen
ladies he would gladly accept.”
Berkeley inclined his head to the side. “Why don’t you
choose one of them then?”
Hart gave his brother-in-law an are-you-quite-serious look,
chin tucked down, head tilted to the side. “I’m bloody well not about to allow
my father to choose a bride for me. Besides, after seeing you and Sarah, I hold
out some hope of finding a lady with whom I’m actually compatible.”
“Why, Highgate, do you mean . . . love?” Berkeley grinned
and leaned forward in mock astonishment.
“Let’s not go that far.” Hart took another sip of his
quickly dwindling brandy. That’s precisely what confused him so much. He knew
love matches existed. He’d witnessed one in his sister’s marriage. On the other
hand, her choice had so enraged his parents, they still hadn’t forgiven her.
Hart didn’t intend to go about the business of finding a wife in quite so
dramatic a fashion. Love matches attracted drama. However, his parents’ unhappy
union was nothing to aspire to, and he’d nearly made the mistake of marrying a
woman who wanted nothing more than title and fortune before. It was a tricky
business, the marriage mart, but he’d rather take advice from Sarah and
Berkeley than his father. The proof of the pudding was in the eating, after
all.
Berkeley laughed. “What if you fall madly in love and become
a devoted husband? Jealous even. Now, that would be a sight.”
“Jealous? That’s not possible.” Hart grinned back at
Berkeley. “I’ve never been jealous. Don’t have it in me. My friends at
university used to tease me about it. No ties to any particular lady. No
regrets.” He settled back in his chair and straightened his cravat, which was
tighter than ever.
“We’ll see.” Berkeley took another sip of tea. His eyes
danced with amusement.
“I was hoping you and Sarah might help me this Season.
Sarah knows most of the young ladies. She also knows me as
well as anyone does. Not to mention, the two of you seem to have got the thing
right.”
Berkeley glanced up. “Why, Highgate, is that a compliment on
our marriage?”
“Take it as you will.” Hart waved a noncommittal hand in the
air. He avoided meeting Berkeley’s eyes.
Berkeley settled further into his chair. “I shall take it as
a compliment, then. I have a feeling Sarah would like nothing more than to help
you with such an endeavor. She fancies herself a matchmaker these days.”
“Will you two be staying in London for the Season?”
“Yes. Sarah wants to stay and I, of course, will support
her, at least as long as I can remain in the same town as your father without
him calling me out.” A smirk settled on Berkeley’s face.
Hart eyed the remaining liquid in his glass. “I’ll be happy
to play the role of peacemaker to the best of my ability.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Berkeley inclined his head toward
his brother-in-law.
“Who else is Sarah matchmaking for?” Hart sloshed the brandy
in the bottom of the glass.
“She’s not merely matchmaking. No. To hear her tell it, she
has an important mission this Season.”
Hart set down the glass and pulled another section of the
Times off the table and began scanning it. He’d talked enough about marriage
for one day. Odious topic. “A mission? What mission?” he asked, merely to be
polite.
“To find Meg Timmons a husband.”
Hart startled in surprise, grasping the paper so tightly it
tore in the middle. Tossing it aside, he reached for his glass and gulped the
last of his brandy.
Meg Timmons. He knew Meg Timmons. She was Sarah’s closest
friend, the daughter of his father’s mortal enemy, and a woman with whom Hart
had experienced an incident last summer that he’d been seriously trying to
forget.
Copyright © 2017 by
Valerie Bowman and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer
