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F inley Bucks, Marquess of Tenburgh, gave Bates, one of the four secretaries he employed, a pained look. The slice of ham on his plate hadn’t yet been touched. Nor the eggs. They were bound to get cold since Bates tended towards the verbose.

I just wanted a bloody hour to eat breakfast on the terrace .

“Lord Tenburgh, the point of my visit—”

“This is not a visit, Bates. Your presence is an invasion. You were specifically told to remain in London while I retired to Ten Oaks. Not follow me about the countryside pecking at me like some insane chicken unable to find a worm to eat. I spent an entire week with you reviewing any concerns that might arise during my absence. Lord Patton’s desire to wed me to his daughter is not reason enough to follow me to the country. ”

Never mind that Finley had never offered for her. Or given any indication, other than a dance, that he meant to pursue the girl.

“But my lord—” Bates pursed his lips.

“Good grief.” Finley set his fork down. “I do not need you to play matchmaker, Bates. The Season was exhausting. I was circled about at every event, like a lion about to be attacked by a group of hyenas.”

Bates cleared his throat. “The dowager marchioness has impressed upon me the importance of…encouraging you to take a wife. If I may, the former Lord Tenburgh, your brother—”

“Was a much kinder employer than I,” Finley let out a growl.

“I am aware of Lady Tenburgh’s near fanaticism that I wed in light of the death of the previous marquess.

” A wave of pain struck Finley in the center of his chest. Only slightly more tolerable than before, but David had died nearly two years ago.

He supposed at some point the wound might heal.

“Stop annoying me, Bates. Return to London.” He tossed down his napkin and stood. “I insist.”

Bates gasped. “But—”

“I have no interest in Lord Patton’s daughter.” In truth, Finley couldn’t even recall what she looked like. Just ribbons and vaguely reddish hair. “She has the personality of a potted fern.”

“There is also Lady Gertrude.”

Finley strode off the terrace, appetite now gone, thanks to Bates and his matchmaking. He headed out across the sweeping lawn which led to the well-manicured gardens and finally, into the thick woods surrounding his estate.

His secretary trailed a few paces behind, hurrying to catch up.

Taking a deep breath, about to dismiss Bates more forcefully, Finley instead inhaled a mouthful of gnats. “Bloody hell,” he hissed. A drawback to the countryside. More gnats than in London.

Not entirely true . They were merely a larger size in London, wore gowns, and batted their lashes.

“At least allow me to inform you,” Bates puffed behind him, “that a colleague of the Duke of Ware, might be on your property, according to the duke’s household staff. Permit me to send a note that you do not wish to be bothered or have anyone trespass on your property.”

“Stop chasing me,” Finley halted. “I don’t care , Bates. Ware likes bugs. So do his friends. Frankly, I don’t see the appeal, but it seems to keep the duke happy. If his colleague, this ento—” He hesitated, the word unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Entomologist,” Bates supplied, looking down at the paper in his hands.

“ Entomologist . Wishes to poke about my gardens, he is most welcome. Make sure Groswell doesn’t shoot him or anything. Tell him to be on the lookout for an eccentric gentleman speaking to ants.”

Groswell was Finley’s gamekeeper, a boring position to hold since Finley didn’t have any interest in hunting. “Ware likes to lurk about the fountains in the garden usually dusk. Apparently, my dogwood is a prime location for…well, something . In any case, I don’t care.”

There had been times when Finley and David had enjoyed a cheroot on the terrace only to see the hulking form of his neighbor prowling about in the twilight with a tiny net.

“Now, begone,” he choked on another mouthful of gnats. “I’m going for a walk. Might be gone for hours. Don’t come looking for me. Or send anyone else. Possibly I’ll never return.” Finley stomped off, relieved when Bates turned back towards the house.

Finley had left London for a reason. Not only bored with endless hands of cards, playing hazard and drinking until dawn, but also with the tedious existence of attending balls and seducing widows.

Having every matron in London thrusting their daughters at him, most of whom cared for his title far more than Finley.

He couldn’t even stand to ride in the park any longer.

He knew his bloody duty, the weight of it never left his shoulders. Tenburgh could not be without an heir, his mother insisted. The only consolation was that Mother had hounded David just as fiercely.

“This is all your fault, you bastard,” he said up into the trees, thinking of his brother.

Following the path, Finley waved his hand to dispel another cloud of gnats, which were bound to grow worse as he entered the thick canopy of trees.

The bugs were always thick in the woods surrounding the estate.

He plucked at his shirt, pulling the damp fabric away from chest, his skin already sticky given the warmth of the day.

A swim would be nice, something he hadn’t indulged in for some time.

“I do have a lake. Or rather half of one.” Ware claimed the other half, not that there had ever been any dispute about ownership.

He honestly hadn’t seen his neighbor much in recent years, though Finley knew he’d married.

They had a great deal in common, he and Ware.

Inheriting titles never meant for them. Dead brothers.

Running about the island in the middle of the lake.

Ware had tended to visit the area purely to put bugs in his pockets.

But Finley and David had decided the small spit of land in the center was a perfect base of operations for pirates.

Or soldiers. The Battle of Trafalgar had been enacted on its shores many times.

David liked to pretend the perch in the lake were sharks.

The old folly, one his grandfather had built, gave them shelter if it rained, and Finley had kept a tin of flint in case they needed to start a fire.

“I wonder if it is still standing.” The folly faced Ware’s estate, though you couldn’t see Orchard Park from the island. Thick woods surrounding the lake on both sides made the location rather isolated. Finley knew that some of his staff, and likely Ware’s, fished for perch in the lake.

“A swim will do me good.” He marched down the overgrown path until he broke through the trees and stumbled out onto a shoreline of pebbles and rocks.

Looking over the water dappled with sunlight, he smiled.

No one was about, the only sounds were the birds singing and the occasional splash of a fish.

Peaceful. No Bates. No ravenous young ladies. No nagging dowager marchioness.

Taking a seat on a rock facing the water, Finley pulled off his boots.

His shirt was next, along with his cravat, tossed into a heap on the ground.

He debated shucking his trousers, but decided to leave them.

A naked marquess swimming about might cause talk, though it was unlikely he’d see anyone. Maybe Ware’s insect friend.

Half stepping, half diving in, the shock of the cold water pulled at Finley, and he sucked in a breath. He paddled about a bit until his body got used to the temperature. Good God the lake was cold.

Well, shrivel me manhood.

A laugh bubbled out of him. He could almost see David swimming about, teeth chattering, giving his best imitation of a pirate.

The lake wasn’t especially deep. Finley dove down to the bottom, feeling the nibble of a perch on one toe.

Shaking the water from his hair, he decided this was exactly what he needed.

A bit of calm in the chaotic storm his life had become.

He could spend the entire day here, free of responsibilities.

Moving through the water, he rounded the edge of the island and caught sight of the folly, still standing.

Maybe he’d make a fire. Finley was still hungry given Bates hadn’t let him even take a bite of ham before charging at him.

His old fishing hooks might be in the same tin box as the flint he’d kept at the folly.

Smiling and feeling lighter than he had in months, Finley dove once more beneath the waves.