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He’d sought the quiet of the library at mid-afternoon, while his guests rested from the day’s archery contest. Nobody had been shot in the arse, though Phoebe had demonstrated an accuracy that had the young men regarding her more closely—and more respectfully.

Lady Cargill, alas, had declined to take up a weapon, while her son had also shown himself to good advantage. Without being told as much, Lysander knew that the mother’s skill eclipsed that of her children, though she would leave all the accolades to them.

“What sort of reading do you favor?” Lysander asked Mrs. Cavanaugh.

He did not glance past her shoulder to ensure the door was open, for that would be the behavior of a rude or worried man.

Mrs. Cavanaugh was a pleasant woman with enough experience of life and marriage to partner Lysander in a cordial, fruitful union.

He should use this moment to further investigate the possibility.

“I favor deferring to the judgment of the man who owns the library,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said. “Of all the treasures here, which do you suggest I sample in the limited time remaining to me at Marche Hall?”

Subtle, that was not. The look she sent Lysander was probably intended to excite his manly humors. She was a handsome woman, a robust blond who would age well, and yet…

She had four boys, whom Lysander would be expected to step-parent.

Four of the little darlings, all male, poised like penguins before a pool, to dive one by one into the perils of adolescence.

She had not one but two sets of former in-laws, and if anybody liked to meddle with a man’s peace, it was relatives of the distant in-law variety.

“You seem to enjoy novels,” Lysander said. “Have you read all of Sir Walter’s offerings? He and Mrs. Radcliffe are side by side on the shelves beneath Lord Killoway’s portrait.

The painting had been done as George had left behind the first trapping of boyhood.

His facial bones were emerging from the roundness of childhood, his gaze was becoming not merely curious but educated.

This version of George seemed to regard his father exactly as Lysander had regarded his son at that age:

Steady on, my boy. Perils ahead, keep a sharp eye and cool head. Though what did a man on the brink of his sixth decade have in common with a young fellow going off to public school?

“I do favor an entertaining tale,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said. “This is a fine portrait. I should have one done of my boys, though I can’t imagine all four of them holding still long enough to sit to anybody.”

“Have it done now,” Lysander said. “For soon they will be scattered to the winds of time and fate, and such a portrait will mean a great deal to them and to their progeny. ”

She approached George’s portrait, peering at the signature. “My lord, may I speak honestly?”

Must you? “Of course.”

“I do not enjoy the widowed state. Many women tout its freedoms, but I suspect they do so out of a need to appear content with a situation they are powerless to change. If blunt speaking will alter my circumstances for the better, then I will risk appearing forward and speak up.”

The dratted woman had closed the door. Lysander planted himself by the window with the best view of the gardens, a gamble. If she plastered herself to his person where anybody in the garden could see, he was compromised, but would she be so bold?

“I am known to be direct myself,” Lysander said, lacing his hands behind his back. “Do go on.”

“You have only the one heir, my lord. I’ve studied DeBrett’s and had occasion to hear your sister lamenting the lack of spares. She worries exceedingly as I know your nieces do as well. Should anything happen to you and Lord Killoway, the earldom would revert to the crown.”

And reversion to the crown, as every peer’s son knew, was a failure of duty so monstrous as to exceed mortal sins and hanging felonies.

“You are admonishing me to take another wife,” Lysander said. “My dear sister has done the same.”

Mrs. Cavanaugh’s smile was that of a governess whose charge had recited the entire royal succession without a blunder.

“You take my point. I knew you were a man of insight. I’ve written as much to my sons.”

All four of them, no doubt. The male sons of the masculine gender. Those sons, though at least two of them were likely too young to read.

“My sister does share your concern, though you will be pleased to know that most of the Marche wealth is personal rather than entangled with the title. ”

Her brows rose, as much consternation as a lady on campaign could show, though the point was valid. None of the Marches would end up destitute if the succession failed. Not nearly.

“I’m pleased for the sake of your family to hear that, my lord, but what of Marche Hall? Shall you go to your reward knowing that our sovereign, ever one to squander wealth, sold this magnificent property to fund another dome on his Pavilion?”

She was arguing sense to him as she crossed the library, and yet, her version of sense did not appeal to Lysander half so much as Daphne Cargill’s did.

“I have distant cousins,” Lysander said, “in America. My father corresponded with them, and I had a letter a year or two ago. I’m planning on writing back.” Had just that moment made the decision to pen those cousins a friendly note. Really should have done it two years ago.

“Americans?” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s better than nothing, but who’s to say how an American will treat your nieces and sisters should they become dependent upon him in their old age?”

This was not a courtship or even a flirtation, this was a lecture, one Lysander had heard from his sister and his own conscience often enough. Had Lady Cargill shown any interest in Lysander as a man, had she complained of the burdens of the widowed state, he might well be…

But she hadn’t. Just the opposite.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh, I do appreciate your concern for my family, and I will consider your words. For me to remarry a suitable partner would be nothing more than common sense, and in all likelihood, the kindest gesture I could make toward my son and family. I am considering remarriage very seriously, though I’ll thank you to keep that admission in confidence. ”

Her countenance changed, from guarded graciousness to joy, and something else. In her eyes, Lysander caught a flash of desperate relief.

The poor woman did not simply long to remarry, she needed to. Creditors, perhaps, or unkind family that did not treat her sons well. Perhaps she had gambling debts to settle, or had acquired followers whose lack of discretion was poised to sully her good name.

She longed to remarry for the institution itself, not for the man who’d share it with her.

“I knew you for a sensible, dutiful man the first time we danced, my lord. Your conversation was intelligent without being boring, your partnering on the dancefloor competent without calling attention to itself. I knew you were worthy of my esteem, and my judgment has been vindicated.”

She gazed up at him, as if willing him to offer a reciprocal compliment.

A betrothal started in such a moment with such a glance.

He should admit to esteeming her similarly—for her poise, charm, or some other similarly insubstantial quality—she’d smile knowingly.

They’d exchange more innuendos and glances, and an understanding would be born.

Lysander longed to open the window and bellow for his horse.

“I should hope,” he said, “that a decent education and my dancing master’s tireless efforts were for some worthy purpose. We never did find you a book.”

Again, her eyes gave her away. Her smile remained fixed, but her gaze faltered from hopeful to determined. Lysander saw the moment she decided to kiss him, saw that strategy graduate from a potential choice to a battlefield option to a necessary maneuver.

Turn from her, walk away. Even duty should be chosen on a man’s own terms.

Mrs. Cavanaugh leaned closer, her eyelids lowered. “My lord, I must impose more honesty on you.”

Climb out the damned window. Cough. Be assailed by a blinding megrim. And yet, Lysander stood there, feeling sorry for Mrs. Cavanaugh, and knowing what his duty was.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “Perhaps your admission need not be made. ”

Another peeping glance, and Lysander’s heart ached. Maria would not want to see him married to a woman who spoke vows in desperation. Maria would understand why four step-sons was a daunting prospect. Maria would know what to say to diffuse the entire situation without offending anybody.

And Maria was gone.

“I yet grieve,” Lysander said.

“We all do,” Mrs. Cavanaugh retorted, closing the last of the distance between them. “For our youth, for our happy memories, for our wasted powers. We grieve but duty yet calls to us, if we are honorable.”

Another lecture, delivered from very close range. From kissing range.

Maria, help me. But Maria could not. Duty was duty, and Mrs. Cavanaugh was a willing partner in that duty.

She closed her eyes, put a hand on Lysander’s chest, and was half-way up on her toes when the door opened.

“Good afternoon, my lord, ma’am.” Young Lord Cargill had a book in his hand. “I thought to return borrowed treasure and perhaps find another tome. Why is it that at school, one always has one’s nose in a book, but one never seems to truly read?”

The lad sent an admiring glance around to the library’s myriad shelves. He wandered into the room, and—blessings upon his house unto the nineteenth generation—he left the damned door wide open.

“Ivanhoe belongs over here,” he said, “as best I recall. Is that a portrait of Lord Killoway? He bears a resemblance to you, sir, about the eyes and mouth. Perhaps you’d like to have a go at Ivanhoe, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

Yes, please, have a go at Ivanhoe.

The moment Lord Cargill had stepped into the room, Mrs. Cavanaugh had stepped back as if Lysander’s coat had burst into flames.

“I believe I’ve already read that one,” she said. “That’s the story with the knights and intrigues and castles and whatnot, isn’t it? ”

Lord Cargill studied the book in his hand, and Lysander knew exactly what the boy was thinking: What does a gentleman say to that ?

“The very one,” Lysander replied. “Much traveling about, lurking in forests, and longing for what cannot be.”

Mrs. Cavanaugh moved toward the door. “Not a very happy tale. I’ll leave you gentlemen to your literature. My lord, pleasant chatting with you, as always. I do hope you can resolve your difficulties in the very near future.”

And my bedroom door will be unlocked all the while.

Though perhaps not. A woman who’d borne four children might insist on waiting until the wedding night, though she’d also likely insist on a short engagement.

Lysander took Lord Cargill by the arm and turned him toward the door. “Thank you, my boy. I don’t know if you meant to intrude, but your interruption was so timely, I’m tempted to remember you in my will.”

“She stalks you,” he said quietly. “Offenbach pointed it out, envying you the lady’s attentions, I think.

Phoebe mentioned it as well in discussions with Miss Gavineau when they thought I was absorbed in my reading.

When I asked Mama if Mrs. Cavanaugh was pursuing you, Mama grew quiet and changed the subject.

Mama is never one to keep an opinion to herself. ”

Lysander walked with Cargill down the corridor and opened the door to the estate office, a room guests were not permitted access to.

“You discussed my situation with your mother?” He crossed to the decanters and poured a drink. “Join me in a tot?”

“Before dinner, sir?”

“After an ambush. I stock only good quality spirits, young man. Not that swill Offenbach likely has in his flask.”

His lordship grinned, looking very much like his mother. “I would be remiss to pass up an opportunity to drink good brandy in good company. I haven’t discussed you with my mother, though. She dodged the topic both times I brought it up, which is unlike her. ”

Lysander poured the lad a short serving. Good spirits or not, he was a slender fellow with some growing yet to do. He had doubtless yet to acquire much of a head for liquor.

“Your mother is wonderfully forthright,” Lysander said. “If she dodged the topic, it’s likely because my social calendar didn’t interest her. To her health.”

Cargill drank to that, and even appeared to appreciate his brandy. “Perhaps Mama has no interest in who is keeping you company, sir, but why do you suppose my mama, a woman of much resolve and clarity of purpose, was crying when last I passed her door?”