pretty enough, although not a beauty. I should think Montague would want Charlotte, since she’s the eldest, as well as the most beautiful, although I allow he could pick Bettina or even Amanda, if he chooses.”
The words, some choice! rushed to Thomas’s lips, but his gentlemanly instincts suppressed them. Instead, he sighed, reflecting not much had changed in the three years since he’d left for Jamaica.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” the Marquess said with a perceptive nod, “and you’d be right. Things have gone from bad to worse at Aldershire Manor, starting years ago when Trevyln lost his only son.”
“A real tragedy.” Thomas clearly recalled Lord Trevlyn troubles had begun when Randall, Viscount Montfret, Trevlyn’s one-and-only son, a wastrel if ever there was one, got himself in debt and fled England. “Randall went to Ireland, did he not?”
“Yes, and died there at an early age, after his father disowned him. Don’t know of what. He was completely out of touch with his family those last years of his life.”
“A pity,” Thomas remarked, recalling that after Lord Trevlyn’s only son died, he allowed his younger brother, Walter Trevlyn, and Walter’s unpleasant wife, Lydia, to move into Aldershire Manor along with their three daughters. From all appearances, Walter, prodded by his domineering wife, had just about taken over the estate. “Has the situation at all improved?”
“It’s gotten worse. Trevlyn’s grown quite feeble of late and seems to have lost his grip. His brother and his wife pretty much run the estate and do what they please, although I allow the chicanery is more hers than his.” Papa scowled. “No backbone, that Walter. I don’t much care for him, but, still, he’s now the heir.” His countenance brightened. “As you know, it’s been a dream of mine to conjoin our two estates. Think of it. Montague will marry Charlotte, you will marry Bettina. Thus, Northfield Hall with be forever joined with Aldershire Manor. A grand idea, what?”
Picturing the three daughters, Thomas smiled wryly. “A lofty ambition, Papa. What does Montague say?”
The Marquess’ eyes hardened, reminding Thomas that when occasion warranted, his father could be as unyielding as a stone. “Montague will do as I say. I have put him on notice. He will marry one of Trevlyn’s daughters, preferably Charlotte, and soon.”
Poor Montague, Thomas thought, feeling a rare pang of sympathy for his prodigal older brother.
His father continued, “And it wouldn’t hurt, Thomas, if you considered marrying Bettina sometime soon.”
“Not likely,” Thomas said with a smile. “I’ve told you before I’m not the marrying kind, but if I ever do, it will be for love, not because it’s expected of me.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “One of the few advantages of being a second son.”
The Marquess breathed a wistful sigh. “Ah, Thomas, if only...”
“Give Montague more time, Papa,” Thomas said softly. “Who knows? Some day he might tire of brandy, women, and White’s every night. Then he might surprise you.”
The Marquess returned a skeptical sniff. “I no longer delude myself. Montague will never change. What a travesty that he will inherit my estate, whereas you--”
Thomas raised his hand. “Say no more. I live my life with no regrets. So should you.”
Love and pride filled his father’s eyes. “You’re a son to be proud of.”
Thomas arose and smiled. “Send the message to Lord Trevlyn. I shall be happy to see him, for dinner, or whatever he likes. If it’s dinner, perhaps he’ll invite Penelope, too. Then I won’t be totally bored. I don’t suppose you... ?”
“Dear God, no.” Papa gazed ruefully at his foot. I’m a prisoner in this room until my gout improves.” After a pause, he said, “I appreciate your doing this. Bear in mind there are worse hardships in life than dining with Trevlyn’s daughters.”
“Of course there are,” Thomas assured him. But at the moment I cannot think what, he thought but didn’t say.
* * *
Bored, bored, bored.
Thomas had never been so bored in all his life. No, take that back. He hadn’t been so bored since the last time he’d come to Aldershire for dinner and the Honorable Miss Bettina Trevlyn, Lord Trevlyn’s niece, had deigned to describe to him, in the most excruciating detail, her latest triumphs in the world of needlework. How much longer must he sit here, regaled by a stitch-by-stitch description of her Europa-and-the-bull pillow cover? Where was Lord Trevelyn? When would dinner be served? How soon could he politely leave? How was it possible that one human being could talk incessantly, without end!