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CHAPTER FIVE

The wedding party was one-third over.

In his mind, Lysander had made a calendar with fifteen boxes, and the top row of five boxes bore heavy black X’s.

Two more rows to go, and then…. What? The house would return to the blessed quiet he so treasured.

Another governess had to be found, for the Dagmire creature had decamped in the middle of the night, leaving Sophronia to Henderson’s long-suffering care.

The harvest looked to be decent this year, the new foals were all healthy. All was proceeding according to the annual plan, though one fewer niece was in need of a husband.

Lysander offered Sindri a final bite of carrot and let Mercer lead the beast away.

Back to work. Back to being a gracious host, a doting uncle, a dutiful papa, a potential suitor.

That last obligation rankled, while the others were merely what an earl did at his niece’s wedding party. Mrs. Cavanaugh was very likely planted on the walkway near the maze, a vantage point where she could see Lysander coming from the direction of the stables or the garden .

He strode into the home wood, taking the path that bordered the stable yard.

“My lord, good day.”

Lady Cargill occupied the middle of the path, though she was wearing a green dress with a brown shawl, and blended into the foliage like some sort of wood nymph, though wood nymphs did not carry top hats.

“My lady. Has the scavenger hunt ensued already?” He could think of no other reason for a woman to be carrying a top hat. “If so, I believe we’re to remain with our teams, lest all of civilization be sundered by unsociability.”

“The scavenger hunt is Monday,” she said. “This is your hat. You left it in the cemetery and I remembered it only this morning.”

He had at least a half dozen top hats with various heights of crown and curls of brims. “That is one of my favorites. I hadn’t realized I’d misplaced it.”

They were blocking each other’s progress, and yet, Lysander would be damned if he’d ruin the glow of a hard ride by traversing the laburnum gauntlet.

“Mr. Offenbach is lurking in the forest this morning,” her ladyship said. “I told him this was my hat and that I was on my way back to the house.”

“Our paths take us to the same destination,” Lysander said. “Does the hat fit? I have others, and I would not want Mr. Offenbach’s curiosity to be aroused.”

Unfortunate word choice.

The lady plopped the hat onto her head, where by virtue of abundant russet hair wound into a braided coronet, the hat did perch most fetchingly. Her temples had gone blond, in the manner of older redheads, and the hat added dash to an otherwise dignified countenance.

“A slight angle,” Lysander said, adjusting the hat to the left. “There. If it was not your hat when you found it, it’s your hat now.” Lucky hat . “Was Mr. Offenbach offering you a flirtation? ”

What the rutting young hound got up to was none of Lysander’s business, unless Offenbach began bothering the maids.

Lady Cargill moved off up the path. “My lord, I know not what he offered, but he fills me with the same sense of foreboding I felt when the uncles presented me with Charles’s first math tutor.

He was all deference and manners when I was in the room.

When my back was turned, he was berating my son needlessly for his own pleasure.

I daresay he more than threatened to use the birch rod. ”

A corner of Lysander’s guilty paternal conscience eased, to know other parents had been taken in by a facade of competence. His longer legs kept up with her ladyship’s stride easily, though she was covering ground at a good clip.

“How did you learn of the tutor’s temper?”

“I dropped into the schoolroom one warm afternoon thinking to whisk Charles to Gunter’s for an ice. The wretch was whaling away so hard he didn’t hear the door open. Charles’s infraction was not answering quickly enough to a problem he’d not been taught how to solve.”

And this small, no-longer-young woman was still furious over the hurt done to her son.

She was supposed to be the inspiration for Lysander to choose a more biddable and beddable bride.

Her example, un-dewey, un-charming, un-fertile in all likelihood, was to turn his eye in the direction of the Mrs. Cavanaughs, or—Cassandra could implement more than one strategy at once—one of Helena’s girlish friends.

Instead, she reminded him that dropping into the nursery should be on his schedule.

The undeniable, inconvenient truth was that he was attracted to Lady Cargill. Physically attracted, which was more of a surprise as it related to his own urges, than it was regarding her.

He’d parted with his last mistress five years ago, and attributed a waning of interest to aging.

Perhaps his urges hadn’t faded, so much as they’d at long last acquired a scintilla of common sense. Lady Cargill was attractive not only as a lover—she would be articulate and demanding in bed— but also as an ally, a source of additional resources and wisdom, a compatriot on life’s forced marches.

“Charles seems to be maturing into a fine young man,” Lysander said. “He sits a horse well, he is polite to the young ladies. He plays a prudent hand of whist, and he doesn’t make stupid jokes.”

He wasn’t a junior version of Offenbach, in other words.

“My only begotten son is trying to learn how to smoke.”

“You say that as if Lucifer’s minions alone acquire the skill.

A young man typically attempts to learn how to smoke before matriculating.

Making creative wagers is another course of independent study, as is tying a cravat just so, and pissing among the fellows without appearing to inspect another man’s equipment.

Then there’s the whole business of acting like you are heir to Casanova’s legacy before you’ve even perfected the art of bowing over a lady’s hand without seeming a fool.

A young man intent on success must also present himself as a connoisseur of all sources of inebriation, while having only the most manly of tender sentiments.

University life is not for the faint of heart. ”

Lysander had used the verb “to piss” in the presence of a lady, and that lady was amused. Her laugh was genuine and warm-hearted. She laughed with Lysander, not at anybody’s expense.

“And for the women making their debuts,” her ladyship said, “there’s the business of inspecting the falls of every man’s breeches, admiring his thighs, and enjoying the waltz with him, all without appearing to know where babies come from.”

“I thought young ladies learned of those mysteries on their wedding nights, when their husbands enlightened them.” What an extraordinary conversation, and what a pleasure to speak so freely. Maria had certainly been knowledgeable on her wedding night, and what a relief that had been.

“I suppose some ladies do come to the marriage bed in ignorance, which must be quite a rude start to the marital festivities. Phoebe knows what’s what, and I certainly did too. ”

Lady Cargill knew what was what, while Lysander was feeling a bit at sea and liking that feeling too much. “Are you concerned Mr. Offenbach will make advances toward your Phoebe?”

“Yes, and toward Charles, possibly even toward my ancient and ungracious self.”

In another twelve yards, they’d break from the trees and emerge into the flowerbeds flanking the conservatory. Lysander stopped while they yet had the privacy of the woods.

“Are you tempted?”

“ Tempted ?”

“To…” He waved a hand. “Frolic. There’s apparently a great deal of frolicking already in progress at Marche Hall, and Mr. Offenbach is instigating much of it.

One doesn’t judge, of course, but one needs to know whether to thrash the fellow or hold one’s peace.

He’ll be gone by dawn if he’s given you offense. ”

“You’d thrash him? For offending me?”

That hat was a distraction, a sober counterpoint to intelligent green eyes and… freckles. Lysander was noticing freckles, and next he’d be counting them, or kissing them, may God help him.

Except that this was Lady Cargill, so he’d ask if he might kiss her freckles before presuming to enjoy that intimacy, and the moment of asking would make him feel something precious, awkward, and difficult.

“If Offenbach requires a lesson in manners,” Lysander said, “I would doubtless emerge from the encounter barely able to walk, and take to my bed for the next week. Young Offenbach would be in worse shape than I, though. I guarantee you that. Has he offended you?”

Please say yes. Offenbach wasn’t even being discreet, wasn’t limiting himself to an affair with one woman for the duration of the gathering.

“He does not tempt me,” Lady Cargill said. “If he truly offends me, I will make it a point to tell you, for he could use a thrashing, but he’s Lord Cargill’s roommate. I create awkwardness there at peril to my son’s regard for me.”

Does anybody tempt you? Lysander would not ask that, not even in the privacy of the wood, because Lady Cargill’s answer would be mercilessly honest.

“Then I will keep my figurative powder dry,” Lysander said, “for now. If he brings scandal upon my house, no corner of England will be safe for him, though. Perhaps I’ll remind him of that.”

Lady Cargill stepped closer and removed the pin from Lysander’s cravat. “Remind him with your fists, my lord?”

“With my consequence first. Surely you’re aware of my impressive and far-reaching consequence?”

Those words had come out all wrong—or had they? Lady Cargill smiled as she untied his cravat, crossed the ends so what had been under was over, and retied his neckcloth into a sober and exactly symmetric mathematical.

“A streak of horse slobber was showing,” she said, repositioning the pin. “Now you and your vast consequence will make a more gentlemanly impact on all who behold you.”