“True enough,” Tess said, putting her arm around Imogen.
“At first I was happy when he was so rude to his mother,” Imogen continued. “But then I realized that he was just baiting her. He didn’t really mean to defend me, did he?”
“There will be someone else, someday,” Tess said after a moment, rocking her against her shoulder.
“No, there won’t,” Imogen said, wiping tears away with the linen sheet. “There won’t be, not for me. If I don’t marry Draven, I’ll marry no one.”
Imogen hadn’t braided her hair for bed yet, and it tumbled past her shoulders, sleek blue-black as a raven’s feather, her eyes a stormy blue slanting under perfect eyebrows. She was too beautiful and too dear to spend her life grieving over an irresponsible, uncaring boy.
“Then you’ll come and live with me and my fabulously wealthy spouse,” Annabel said, smiling at her. “We’ll spend all our days dressing in silks and dancing all night. Who needs a husband?”
“I’ll marry no one,” Imogen repeated, taking a deep breath. “It’s just the sort of person I am.”
“Then that’s settled,” Annabel said briskly. “I know you all think that I am jesting about the earl, but I am not. Frankly, I’m concerned that Holbrook may be ill prepared to bring us into society. I doubt he has ever been to Almack’s in his life. I would be surprised if our guardian knew the names of a tenth of the society matrons in London. How are we to depend on him to launch us properly on the season?”
There was a moment of silence. For all Tess’s new-found fondness for Rafe, she felt the truth of Annabel’s assessment.
“My maid reports that Mayne is quite unattached,” Annabel continued. “He is clearly a man of taste and breeding. He does not drink to excess. He can bring us into fashion, allowing the rest of you to find appropriate husbands.”
“What of plain Mr. Felton?” Tess asked.
“Not good enough for any of us,” Annabel said. “Just listen to all those things that Lady Clarice said about the importance of titles. I do believe she indicated that not one of us should look below the level of a baron.”
Josie said the very thing that Tess was thinking. “Now who’s the naive one?” she asked jeeringly. “A title will not keep the house warm, or so you said yourself. I’m guessing that plain Mr. Felton is worth more than the duke and the earl put together. Do you know who he has in his stable?” Her voice hushed. “He bought Pantaloon last year. And he has Royal Oak.”
“Pish-posh,” Annabel said. “That’s enough to convince me to pass him by, were he the Golden Ball himself. I’ve no wish to marry a horse-mad man and watch him liquidate his estate to buy a poor, swaybacked mare that couldn’t win the Derby if she tried.”
Josie’s voice was needle-sharp. “I hope that is not an interpretation of Papa’s buying practices, Annabel.”
But Annabel was off to bed. “It’s merely a statement of fact,” she said, pausing at the door. “I want a man who will think about buying me rubies, not about paying a thousand pounds for a horse. And I do believe that the Earl of Mayne is just the man for the purpose.”
“Did you like him, then?” Tess asked curiously, hugging her knees. Sometimes her younger sister seemed so much older and more worldly than she herself was. The earl rather frightened her, to be honest. It was something about how polished he was: polished and large and exquisitely dressed.
But Annabel grinned wickedly, and there wasn’t a shadow in her eyes. “I looked him over quite closely,” she said demurely. “Before and behind. He will do.”
“Annabel!” Tess squealed.
But she was off through the door, and the only thing they heard of her was an echo of laughter.
Chapter 8
Quite late that night
“T he man who marries your eldest ward gets Something Wanton? In truth?” Mayne exclaimed.
“There were only four offspring of Patchem in all the British Isles,” Rafe confirmed. “And my lawyer just told me that each of my wards has one of those horses as her dowry. Something Wanton, as the eldest Thoroughbred, is Tess’s dowry. The other three are foals—two fillies and a colt.”“A horse as a dowry,” Lucius commented. “A peculiar provision. This Brydone must have been an eccentric man.”
“He could have ordered the horses sold, and the proceeds converted to a dowry,” Rafe said. “But the will very clearly states that the horses are the dowry. I can only gather that he wanted his children to marry men who were as mad about horses as he was.”
“There’s nothing to stop a man of poor moral character from marrying one of the girls, and then selling the horse at auction,” Lucius pointed out. “Any of the four would bring at least eight hundred guineas at Tattersall’s. And since Something Wanton almost won the Ascot last year, he’d fetch even more.”
“The lucky man is not allowed to sell his wife’s dowry for a year,” Rafe said, looking back at the documents in his hand. “But, of course, you are right.”
“Something Wanton!” Mayne said. And then, with a broad grin: “Were you gentlemen aware that I am looking for a wife?”
“I will confess that the thought had occurred to me that perhaps I could persuade you or Lucius to marry my eldest ward,” Rafe said. “Teresa—Tess—is a beautiful woman.”
“Exquisite,” Lucius said briefly.
“You and she would be perfect for each other,” Rafe said, looking at Lucius. “She’s remarkably intelligent, and unlikely to serve you up tantrums. And you haven’t, as far as I know, any serious female interest at the moment.”
“This is a most improper conversation,” Lucius observed.
“Oh, don’t be so damned gentlemanly,” Rafe retorted. “If you don’t want to tie the ribbon, just say so.”
“You’re in luck, Rafe,” Mayne said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m considering it. But in truth, what is there to consider? She’s good-looking—not as gorgeous as Annabel of the golden curls, but pretty damn beautiful. My sister is forever nattering at me to find a wife. And here is a perfect wife: beautiful and endowed with a horse.” He swallowed another gulp of brandy. “She’ll need a bit of training in social niceties; those girls don’t seem to have spent overmuch time with a governess, but if she’s that intelligent, she’ll catch on quickly. I’ll do it.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. Mayne had been possessed of a wildness ever since he was rejected by a countess whom he wished to make his mistress. “Do you think to love her?” he said, finding the words queer on his tongue, even as he said them. But he was a guardian now; presumably this was the sort of question guardians asked prospective spouses. Or brothers asked men who wished to marry their sisters.
“Love…that I doubt,” Mayne replied, peering at the wallpaper through the golden film of brandy clinging to his glass. “But there’s no need for love between us. I shall be faithful and if not, discreet, and Tess shall probably be faithful, and if not, discreet. We shall enjoy each other’s company on a regular basis until I am pitched from a horse into a ditch somewhere.”