style="font-size:15px;"> ‘And Max,’ said Richard grimly.
Braybrook’s jaw dropped. ‘That would explain why Max is at outs with her.’
‘Exactly,’ said Richard. ‘Which is why I agreed to stay with her,’ he went on. ‘To try to convince her that Max’s marriage has not consigned me to poverty, before she says something to create a permanent breach between herself and Max!’
A sceptical brow lifted. ‘And questioning the child’s paternity to his face hasn’t done that already?’
Richard grimaced. ‘Not quite. Max doesn’t want a breach any more than I do, but if it comes to a choice between Almeria or protecting Verity—’ He broke off. ‘You know what he will do.’
Braybrook made a rude noise. ‘Slight understatement there, Ricky. If it came to a choice between the entire world and protecting Lady Blakehurst, Max would consign the lot of us to perdition!’
Richard smiled. ‘True.’
Braybrook looked curious. ‘You know, Ricky—I’ve never quite understood just why Lady Arnsworth was so fixated on Max remaining single?’
Richard frowned. ‘Max never told you?’
‘I never asked.’
He nodded. ‘It was my accident that started it. Mama and Almeria blamed Max for daring me to ride the cursed horse. Never mind that I was perfectly capable of saying no to him, he’d suggested it and therefore it was all his fault. Later, I was supposed to go into the army—Mama insisted that my leg made that unsuitable, and that Max should be bought a commission instead.’
‘What else did they have in mind for him?’ asked Julian.
‘The church, if you can believe it.’
A most peculiar choking sound came from Lord Braybrook.
‘Quite,’ said Richard. ‘I think he preferred the army on the whole. He was a damn sight better suited to it than I was.’ He sighed. ‘And then Freddy died not long after our father. And suddenly Max was the earl. But instead of demanding that he settle down and secure the succession, both Mama and Almeria decided between them that he owed it to me to remain single!’
‘How very melodramatic of them,’ observed Julian.
Richard snorted. ‘I didn’t take it seriously, but Max did. He always blamed himself for my accident anyway and Mama and Almeria had rubbed it in with a vengeance over the years.’
Braybrook’s mouth twitched. ‘And, of course, it’s plain to the meanest intelligence that you yourself are bitterly disappointed in being cut out of an earldom,’ he said drily.
‘Bitterly,’ said Richard, yawning. ‘I’ve enough money for my wants.’
‘And if you don’t,’ said Braybrook, ‘you could always marry Miss Winslow.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘No point cutting off your nose to spite your face, you know. After all, she might be your perfect bride!’
‘As long as her brother doesn’t shoot me first,’ said Richard sarcastically.
Unholy amusement gleamed in bright blue eyes. ‘A risk, of course. Mind you, it would certainly calm Lady Arnsworth down to see you safely legshackled to an heiress!’ He grinned. ‘Proof positive that your game leg and Max’s marriage have not combined to blight your life.’
‘Oh, go to the devil, Julian,’ recommended Richard.
All the same, the flippant advice niggled at him as he blew out his bedside lamp later that night, after walking back to Arnsworth House, as it had done all through dinner and numerous hands of piquet afterwards. A circumstance that had led to Julian relieving him of a vast, if imaginary, fortune.
In the best spare bedchamber, Thea Winslow was probably sound asleep … a thought that had made him very, very edgy as he’d tiptoed past to his own room … It had been a distinct shock to find a sleepy footman waiting up for him. He’d forgotten to keep his voice down as he told the man never to do such a thing again. He hoped it hadn’t disturbed Thea … He pushed the recurring thought of Thea away. Thea Winslow, sleeping peacefully just down the hallway, was no concern of his. Or she ought not to be.
No point cutting off your nose to spite your face … she might be your perfect bride …
Leaving perfect out of it, he had always intended to marry. Marriage had always made complete sense—at some dim, unspecified future time. Apparently the future had arrived. With the purchase of an estate and a London house, marriage was becoming, if not imperative, then at least desirable. All he needed to do was choose the right woman—and of course persuade her that he was the right man. Yes, a sensible, intelligent woman with a sense of humour. She didn’t need to be wealthy, just someone he liked and respected … His stomach clenched—someone who wouldn’t view a child’s broken leg as an interruption to her own life. Someone who wouldn’t mind that her husband had absolutely no ambition to figure in society, but preferred a quiet life in the country with his books and acres, and was happy to remain there with him for the most part. Happy to remain, not self-sacrificing … not complaining that she had nothing to amuse her, and flitting off to yet another house party with her lover—he slammed a lid down on that; there was no point being bitter about the past, but you could learn from it. He added another criterion: honour. He wanted a woman to whom honour was more important than discretion.
Common sense firmly in place, he permitted his thoughts to turn to Thea. He liked her. He always had. She had always been blazingly honest as a child, and young girl, sometimes when it might have been wiser to dissemble a little. And she was loyal—if she had mourned Nigel Lallerton so deeply, he needed no further proof of that. What if she were the right choice for him? The sensible, logical choice … folly to discount her simply because of Almeria’s entirely predictable matchmaking.
She was here in the house. It was the perfect opportunity to find out if she really would suit him. He caught himself—if they would suit. For all he knew, his bookish habits might drive her to distraction. Or his tendency to leave curls of shaved wood everywhere from his whittling. If their old childhood friendship could become an adult friendship and the basis for a successful marriage … an irritatingly rational voice suggested that perhaps he was being a little bit too rational about this, that perhaps he might look for a woman to love … after all, love wasn’t ruining Max’s life. Quite the opposite.
He rolled over and punched the pillow. That was all very well, but if he hadn’t fallen in love in thirty-two years, what were the odds of it happening now? A sensible marriage would be far more … sensible. Logical.
Safe.
His father had loved—and look what that had led to … a totally unsuitable choice. Max had been lucky. Damned lucky.
There could be no harm in spending time with Thea, and renewing their friendship. He liked that idea. What he didn’t like was the memory of Thea as he had seen her that afternoon, all the old laughter and liveliness quenched. A feeling that was not in the least sensible stole over him … whatever had been responsible for the grey shadow in eyes that ought to have been blue—he wanted to remove it.
Hours after going to bed Thea lay waiting for sleep. Perhaps she should light a lamp and read for a while. The strange bed unnerved her … but it was so late. Surely
