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A nthony woke to the tap on his bedroom door after achieving about four hours of sleep, which was usual for him. He’d not slept long hours at Blackwood Hall, and that had become a habit.

“What?” he bellowed.

“You have visitors, my lord.”

“Who?”

“Your aunts, my lord,” the voice told him through the door.

Scrubbing his face, Anthony sat on the side of the bed. Only they would dare to show up at his house at such an hour. Unlike the rest of society, they did not fear him.

“Enter, Dibley, but only if you have coffee.”

The door moved and then his butler appeared with his manservant on his heels. Tall, bald, and with manners that would make any mother weep with joy, Dibley had been in Anthony’s employ for ten years.

“Are they all here?”

His butler lowered the tray he carried to the nightstand, thankfully bearing coffee, while Bernard scurried to the window to open the heavy drapes. Anthony grabbed the cup and sipped, letting the hot, black, bitter taste slide down his throat.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did they offer any clue as to why?”

“As to that, Lord Hamilton, I am unsure. I believe the words, ‘it is dire, Dibley, extremely so. Please wake our nephew with coffee at once,’ were spoken by Lady Petunia.”

Anthony didn’t growl because he’d learned long ago to let no one hear or see what he felt, but it was clearly implied as his butler took a large step back and left, bowing out the door.

The room he slept in was not as grand as the rest of the house. Anthony had stripped every memory of his father from it. Changed the curtains and flooring. Removed the bed and had a new one put in. It was now plain without the fussy trimmings the late earl had adored.

“The gray will do, Bernard,” Anthony said when his manservant appeared with a pale green waistcoat and black jacket.

“Your aunts—”

“Will take me as I am at such an hour,” Anthony added as Bernard scurried back to replace the green for the gray waistcoat.

He pulled on his clothes and allowed Bernard to tie his neckcloth.

“I have no wish to look like a puppy; no more folds if you please.” Wisely, his manservant kept his thoughts on the matter to himself, although the tightening of his lips suggested he was displeased.

Another who had been in his employ for some time, Bernard was short, immaculate, and knew a great deal about meat as his father had been a butcher, much to the delight of Anthony’s cook.

He looked in the mirror and saw the bruise on his chin was now an ugly shade of burgundy, but there was little he could do about that, so he stomped his feet into boots and left the room.

Stalking along the halls lined with the treasures of his ancestors, he took the stairs down and reached the parlor his aunts were in.

Their conversations were never quiet, so Anthony could hear every word as he approached.

“He will have to come about, Petunia.”

“There is no choice.”

“We have the list now.”

Anthony entered the room, bracing himself for the kissing and touching. He’d told them he’d rather they didn’t do that every time they saw him, but they’d ignored his wishes. So, he endured the fussing because he owed them that much.

“One hopes that bruise was not from a fist, Nephew!” The first to reach him was the eldest of his father’s sisters, Lady Petunia.

“We have an urgent matter to discuss with you.” She leaned in to brush the air beside his cheek, leaving the scent of lilacs when she straightened.

Large in every way, including her personality, her husband had died, leaving his entire fortune to a nephew, and thus her penniless.

“Of course not,” Anthony said.

Like the other two women in the room, Aunt Petunia had silver hair styled perfectly in a bun at the back of her head, and she always wore the color of lavender no matter the season. The shade varied slightly but little else.

“Hello, darling boy.” Lady Agatha was next.

“That bruise looks sore.” The middle sister, who Anthony thought secretly had the most sense, stepped forward.

She patted his cheek with a soft hand and smiled.

“Sorry to descend on you, but the matter is urgent.” She had married an earl, who had died five months later, leaving no heir and all his money to his brother. Her favorite color was apricot.

“Quite urgent,” the youngest sister said. Aunt Lavinia was the smallest and had little to say unless she first asked her sisters if it was appropriate to do so. She’d been the gentlest of his aunts growing up. Her favorite color was a soft sage green.

Her husband had been the third son of a baron, and they’d had fifteen years of wedded bliss before he passed. Anthony knew she still missed the man she’d loved dearly.

“Please sit,” he said, waving to the sofa they always sat on when they invaded his privacy. Petunia on the right, and Agatha on the left. Lavinia wedged in the middle. His aunts were creatures of habit.

Anthony had left for school, happy, as the nephew of three doting aunts, who had stepped into his and his sister Harriet’s lives when their parents died. That soon changed, and the cruelty he faced left him reeling.

“Have you heard from your sister?” Aunt Petunia demanded in that forthright way she had, sounding like the words were fired from a pistol.

“A letter arrived yesterday. I will be reading it when I take my morning meal.” Harriet was married and living in the country happily with her husband. They were as close as he let anyone get, but did not see each other often.

“She’s well, and happy with Simon. We also received a letter yesterday, but unlike you, have read ours.”

“I know she’s happy, Aunt Petunia,” he said, resisting the need to rub his forehead. Conversations with these three were exhausting.

“She’s excited about the child.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You should have read the letter,” Aunt Aggie said stepping into the conversation.

“Child?” he said instead of repeating that he was about to read it before they invaded.

“She is with child, Anthony,” Aunt Petunia snapped.

He was to be an uncle. Anthony felt a stab of something he thought could be joy, closely followed by pain that a child would be someone else he needed to watch over. Someone who could be harmed if not protected. It would also need love, but not from him. He was incapable of such things.

“You must visit her, Anthony,” Aunt Petunia said.

“I will.” He gave the response he always did when they asked something of him, and then usually did what he wanted, but in this they were right. He would make time to visit with his sister, now he knew she was expecting.

“Now tell me, what else has you all here at this early hour?” he added, looking pointedly at the clock on the wall behind them.

“We saw your Aunt Louise,” Aunt Agatha said. “I told my brother all those years ago not to wed her, yet he would not listen. Woman is completely irrational.”

“Dreadful person,” Aunt Lavinia added.

“Beastly,” Aunt Petunia agreed.

They always talked like this. One would start a conversation, and then the others all added their bit, until eventually someone got to the point. Anthony waited patiently, which wasn’t something he excelled at.

“She said that seeing as there is no heir, it’s imperative that simpering weasel Nigel, her—”

“Son,” Aunt Agatha added, cutting her elder sister off, in case Anthony did not know his cousin’s name.

“I know who Nigel is,” he said.

“Yes, well,” Aunt Petunia continued. “Your Aunt Louise said that Nigel should learn how to run the earldom, seeing as he is the one who will be inheriting it!”

After speaking, his aunt waved a hand in front of her face, upset, and her sisters clucked their comfort to her. It was for his benefit, as Aunt Petunia had the constitution of a bull.

The door opened and in staggered Dibley with the tea tray.

“Oh, Dibley, you have arrived just in time!” Aunt Lavinia said. “My sister is quite overcome. I hope you brought the honey?”

“I did, my lady.”

There followed ten minutes of teapot turning to the left and right, and cups eventually filled with the beverage, and liberally doused with honey until everyone was happy. Dibley handed Anthony another cup of coffee.

“I’m not sure why you drink that sludge,” Aunt Aggie said.

“And yet we digress,” Anthony said with the practiced ease of a man who had dealt with these three for years.

If society saw him now, he thought, they’d never believe he could exercise so much patience.

“We are here, nephew,” Aunt Petunia said after they all exchanged looks, “to tell you it is time for you to marry. You need an heir. That sniveling weasel—”

“For the purposes of expediting this conversation, shall we call him Nigel?” Anthony asked.

“You cannot allow us to be thrust into his unscrupulous hands if you die, Anthony,” Aunt Agatha said dramatically. “We shall be tossed onto the streets.”

“Not that we want you to die,” Aunt Lavinia added quickly.

Anthony wasn’t worried about death—it would come when it did—and he doubted anyone but the six closest to him would miss him.

In fact, they’d probably rejoice. But he was worried about what would happen to these three if it came prematurely.

He may appear to care about very little, but he took his responsibilities to his aunts seriously.

Thrust into the role of earl at a young age, he’d worked hard to repair the damage his father had left behind after his death.

The late Lord Hamilton had believed money magically appeared, even when you spent more of it than you had.

He was like many from that generation and loathed the thought of actually investing in your future, to ensure those you supported were cared for.

“I will ensure you are not left destitute should I die tomorrow. I have things already in place with my lawyers. You need not worry about your futures.”

“We’ve made a list,” Aunt Petunia said pulling something from the small bag she always carried around her wrist. “All nice young ladies and will be suitable applicants for your countess.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“List, nephew. You’ve shown no inclination to get yourself a wife, so we thought to hurry the matter along,” Aunt Agatha said, taking the note and bringing it to him.

“There are only three, as we had no wish to overwhelm you. But should none of these women interest you, we have a secondary list of possible brides. Of course, that horrid Miss Beasley is not on it. The woman is convinced you will choose her this season and has been putting it about the place.”

He stared at the paper in his hand. “You cannot be serious?”

“Oh, we are, dear,” Aunt Lavinia added, thinking he was talking about Miss Beasley and not the note. “I heard from Lady Baldwood, and Mrs. Smythe, that Miss Beasley has decided you will be her husband, and none other will do.”

Anthony actually shook his head to clear it. “I’ve never spoken to her. I don’t speak to young ladies. They tend to faint.”

“Pooh to that. We know you’re nothing like you appear.” Aunt Petunia waved a hand about, as if the matter of his reputation was a trifling thing he would in time grow out of.

Anthony had never understood why they didn’t chastise him over his behavior. They always patted his cheek and hugged him, as if he were not one of society’s most notorious bachelors.

“Miss Beasley’s mother, you understand, is behind the entire thing. Cynthia hunted her husband, poor man, until she caught him, and she’s urging her daughter to do the same with you,” Aunt Petunia added.

“A very calculating woman, that one,” Aunt Aggie said.

Anthony took a large mouthful of coffee. “It’s too early for this,” he muttered after swallowing.

“Now, back to the lists. I have memorized both. As you know, reading is not something I do well.”

Aunt Petunia had made up stories when he was a child because she struggled to read. Some had teased her for that, but not him. Anthony and Harriet had loved her stories.

“I am not marrying anyone,” he said slowly and firmly so they understood. “If I do, it will be years from now.”

“It is time. We cannot have that sniveling weasel as the next Earl of Hamilton. It’s not right,” Aunt Petunia said getting to her feet. Not as agile as the others, it took a few attempts. “We’ll leave this with you and call again next week to see how things are progressing.”

“I don’t want to marry,” Anthony said with more force as he too rose. “This discussion is over,” he added in his society voice. None of them so much as flinched.

This was the problem when people had seen you in the cradle.

Aunt Lavinia was the first to reach him.

She patted his cheek with a soft, sad smile.

“It’s time, nephew. You need someone to care for other than us.

Now the last name on the list we only met this season, but she had a great deal to say on the healing properties of lavender and seemed a sensible girl. ”

“Oh yes, lovely gal. I chatted with her at the musical. A little older, which could suit you, Anthony, and did not appear to be someone who giggles all the time and says silly things like some of the new crop of debutantes. I will dig some more there, but she’s on the list until we say otherwise,” Aunt Petunia said.

And then they were gone, leaving the familiar blend of their scents behind. Anthony sat again and out of curiosity unfolded the piece of paper clenched in his fist.

You need someone to care for other than us.

No, he did not. He dismissed Aunt Lavinia’s words. Anthony cared for his aunts out of duty; there was no more to it than that. He had nothing left for anyone else.

He tried to imagine sitting across the breakfast table from Lady Hester, who was the first name, and remembered her penchant for laughing like a goose. The second was Miss Amelia Leighton, who ran in the other direction if he so much as glanced her way.

The last name was Miss Evangeline Spencer. Anthony shuddered, remembering their encounter at the musical Jamie had forced him to attend. But their irritation of each other had started before that.

Miss Spencer had been walking out of a door, and Anthony had been walking through it, the night of the Shepperton soiree. He’d not been looking and collided with her, sending her backward and a glass of champagne flying. He’d staggered, attempting to right them and fallen, landing on top of her.

They’d stared at each other briefly, shocked.

She’d regained her composure first and shrieked, “get off me at once!” Anthony had complied, lifting her to her feet.

She’d called him a clumsy fool. He’d said she needed eyeglasses and to look where she was going in the future.

They’d both then turned and walked in opposite directions, fuming.

Their interactions since had done little to endear either of them to each other.

Shrew.

No one got a reaction out of Anthony, but she had… did.

Rising, he walked to the small desk in the corner and took out his pen. Dipping it in the ink pot, he then drew a dark line through her name.