Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,342

it.

His brother, Graham, now the Earl of Carlington, had asked for his assistance in selecting horses for his stable. With a limited budget, the task had been a challenge.

Hugh and his brothers were doing what they could to improve their finances, but more money was going out than was coming in.

Thomas had made significant progress with Artemis Press and now made a tidy profit. He had a talent for selecting books to publish that the public enjoyed, including his wife’s.

It was Hugh’s turn to earn his keep, other than winning at cards. He had thought the simplest solution was to marry wealth. But the past few days made him doubt whether he could do so. Rather, Lucy was the reason for his doubt.

Her presence clouded his goal, which had seemed so clear prior to his arrival.

“You have a nice selection,” Hugh said as he watched the horses, many with blankets on their backs to chase away the chill.

“It’s been a joy to select them.”

“Do you intend to race any?” Hugh asked. Racing was a rich man’s sport. Racing stud farms could cost upwards of 30,000 pounds a year.

“I prefer fox hunting for now. I have a Suffolk Punch that’s brilliant.”

“Impressive.” Hugh nodded. The draft horse was heavier than a thoroughbred but well suited for hunting. Fox hunting season ran from November to March, months that didn’t interfere with the growing of crops.

“Any Irish Hunters?”

Waverly grinned as he turned to look at Hugh. “I have several. Come take a look.” He turned to walk toward the stables.

Irish Hunters had the stamina to go all day and were among Hugh’s favorites.

“If the snow melts, we’ll hunt,” Waverly said as he looked up at the sky as if to weigh the chances. “You’ll come?”

“I’d be honored, sir.” It had been a few years since Hugh had been hunting. His father hadn’t kept any hunters to ride nor any hounds for the chase for years. Both were expensive to maintain. Hugh should’ve realized how poor their finances were when his father had sold them.

The reminder of how much money he needed to pursue his goal was a sobering one. Wealth made life easier, but he was beginning to wonder if it might be even more important to have a woman he loved at his side.

He spent the next hour touring the stables with Waverly, admiring the horses. A few of the other guests joined them, including Viscount Jameson.

“Impressive,” Hugh said as they returned to the house.

“I’ve had my eye on an Irish Hunter,” Jameson said. “After seeing yours, I think I’ll go ahead and make the purchase.”

Waverly responded enthusiastically.

Hugh pushed aside a pang of envy. Soon, he told himself. Somehow, he intended to find a way to buy a few horses and build his dream. Marrying Emma would speed the process, but he no longer thought that was possible based on his growing feelings for Lucy.

Yet a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father’s asked if those emotions would last. How often had the earl told Hugh and his brothers that marriage had nothing to do with feelings as they wouldn’t house, feed, or clothe them?

He had to be practical about his future or determine some other way to make his fortune. Which was it going to be?

Chapter Eight

“No, not that way.” Aunt Edith’s lips tightened, a clear sign of her displeasure. Displeasure with the way she felt. Displeasure with the pillow Lucy was adjusting. Displeasure with Lucy.

Times like this made Lucy consider how long she could continue to care for her aunt. God bless the woman, but she could be difficult, testing Lucy’s patience until she was tempted to throw her hands in the air and stomp from the room.

What had set off Aunt Edith this time, Lucy didn’t know. She’d been in fine spirits that morning when they’d made kissing boughs. Luncheon had gone well enough. But by mid-afternoon, her aunt’s spirits had lowered, bringing physical symptoms with it. It was now evening and nothing had improved.

Reining in her frustration, Lucy resituated the pillow behind her aunt once more. “Is that better?”

Aunt Edith heaved a sigh as she leaned back. “I suppose.”

“How about a cup of tea,” Lucy suggested. “The cook might have a special blend to make you feel better.”

That was a bold statement, considering the fact Lucy had yet to determine what was wrong with her aunt this time. From what little she’d said, her current condition involved a combination of fatigue, an unhappy stomach, and an