Anna turned for the door. “The ad, Livvie,” she reminded, “Do have a look.”
With a resigned shrug, Olivia put down her pen and skimmed over the short newsprint paragraph.
“Good Lord.”
She read it again.
Then, pulling a face, she tossed the clipping aside. “Ye gods, that is the most absurd thing I ever heard of,” she muttered, before turning her attention back to her work.
Pulling a face, John tossed the newspaper clipping aside. “Ye gods, that is the most absurd thing I ever heard of,” he muttered, before turning his attention back to the letter on his desk blotter.
It was odd how his sister—an eminently sensible female in most every regard—was always au courant with the latest Town gossip. Even odder was the fact that she thought he might be entertained by this latest show of silliness. His lips pursed as he reread the first page of her missive. Under normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed a laugh or two at her pithy observations. But at the moment he had far too serious matters on his mind to find such a juvenile prank amusing.
“Absurd,” John muttered again, glancing at the crumpled newsprint before turning the letter over. There, to his relief, he found a lengthy response to his uncertainties concerning Prescott.
Patience. Perseverance. And a sense of humor in the face of adversity. That part of Cecilia’s advice had a strangely familiar ring to it. As a colonel in the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, he had learned the importance of just such mental attributes in warfare. However, his sister went on to say that unlike in the military, life did not often march along according to carefully mapped out plans. Rather than stand firm, she counseled, it was imperative to improvise. When confronting young people, taking an entrenched position was only inviting ignominious defeat.
The earl shifted uneasily in his chair. Am I digging myself into a hole with my son? On the battlefield he had intuitively known how to react, no matter how thick the choking smoke or heavy the enemy fire.
But now?
Aware of an uncomfortable tightening in his chest, the earl rose and poured himself a stiff brandy. Henry is right—the Manor definitely needs a woman’s touch. Duty, both to his son and to his position in Society, demanded that he take a new countess. So the sooner he made up his mind on the matter of remarrying, the better, he reflected, downing the fiery spirits in one gulp.
Ah, but he had made a choice, John reminded himself. And Lady Serena Wells was a perfectly good one.
So why am I so strangely indecisive?
Resuming his seat, John stared bleakly at the banked fire. The perfect match—or was it? It would, by his own admission, be a marriage of politeness without passion—
“Be damned with passion,” he growled. Passion was dangerous. It fuzzed the brain and made people do rash, reckless things. Discipline, detachment had served him well in war and would serve him well in civilian life. Like a colonel, an earl had a grave responsibility for the well-being of a great many lives.
The hide-and-seek light seemed to stir a ghostly flutter from the portrait of his late wife that hung above the mantel. And what of Scottie’s life? The unspoken question floated for an interminable instant in the dark space between the painted canvas and his chair. Surely you see that he yearns for light and laughter to once again brighten the hallways and hearths of Wrexham Manor…
As if in echo of his pensive mood, a log crackled and a tiny flame flared up from the red-gold sparks.
“Scottie will come to appreciate Lady Serena’s good points,” murmured John aloud.
With her guinea gold hair and highly polished manners, she would certainly bring a welcome shine to the Manor. And if her glow was more reflective—like light bouncing off ice rather than lit by its own inner spark—well, he was sure that relations between her and his son would thaw to a mutual respect over time. After all, a proper lady was supposed to keep all show of emotion tightly hidden beneath a layer of cool reserve.
Toying with the buttons of his waistcoat, John suddenly recalled Scottie’s comment about steel corsets and found himself chuckling aloud. His son, at least, had found a female in whom he could confide. Lucy Simmonds was actually a very sharp little girl, wise beyond her tender years. True, Lady Serena did have a bit of a strait-laced manner—
Stifling his amusement in a brusque cough, he reminded himself that a retired army officer and newly appointed leader in the House of Lords should be much too mature to find such impertinent observations laughable.
Laughter. Strange, he was suddenly aware of how little laughter there was in his life. Even in the military there had been chuckles and guffaws, as well as the occasional thunderous hilarity that could bring tears to the eyes. But perhaps now that he had grown older, if not wiser, it was only natural for things to have changed. No doubt his late wife would have grown more subdued as well, her high spirits slowly tempering to fit into the proper mold.
The proper manners, the proper deportment…
Clearing his throat, the earl forced a frown. Lady Serena was absolutely right. He must think again about whether it was wise to allow Scottie to run tame at the inn. A gentleman of his rank was expected to maintain an appearance of rigid dignity and self-discipline—
Discipline.
Right-ho, he reminded himself. From now on, he would keep his thoughts marching in a straight line.
“Did you enjoy your drive?” asked Olivia.
“Yes, actually it was very pleasant,” answered Anna, her cheeks still a touch rosy from the outdoors.
At least, Olivia had assumed it was the wind that had caused the two spots of color. But as her sister continued, she realized that the flush might be due to some other force of nature.