seeing the best and the truth in everyone.
"In that case," said Verderan dryly, "I think we should give him a few pointers on a more subtle wooing technique."
"Ha!" scoffed Emily. "Who's claiming to be an expert? As I understand it, Sophie had to woo Randal, and you just teased me to death."
"At least you never hit me," he responded with a smile.
"I tried at least once. You were just too quick for me."
"Then perhaps we should teach Harry that, too." He kissed her hand and sobered. "I think someone should go up and make sure he isn't putting a pistol to his head. Volunteers?"
"He wouldn't," protested Chart. "Over a woman?" Randal got to his feet. "You obviously lack all sympathy with pangs of the heart. And it should be kept in the family. I'll go."
Randal knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he opened it and walked in. Harry was sitting by the window, staring out. The crash had obviously been the decanter which lay shattered in a corner. From the size of the puddle and the strength of the fumes, very little if any had been drunk.
"You prefer to inhale your solace, do you?" said Randal.
Harry didn't turn. "It's all right. I'm neither going to drink myself to death nor shoot myself. Not over a heartless, deceiving bitch."
Randal closed the door. "I'm more concerned that you might walk out and offer for the first woman you see, just to prove how little this one means to you."
Harry did turn at that, sharply. "She means nothing. We only met two days ago."
Randal went to lounge in a chair. "There seems a remarkable amount of heat for such a brief acquaintance. As a senior member of the family, I have to ask. Did you dishonor her yesterday?"
"No," said Harry sharply, color returning to his cheeks.
"But today you asked her to marry you."
"Yes."
"And she said no."
"Yes."
Randal steepled his fingers and considered his cousin. "How did such a simple discussion come to blows?"
Harry got to his feet. "That's none of your damn business. There's no cause for concern. I'm not a danger to myself or anyone else. I will doubtless never set eyes on the alluring Amethyst again, for which I am immensely grateful." He flung open the window. "Best get rid of these fumes before night, or we'll go to bed sober and rise drunk."
Randal shrugged and got to his feet. "What are your plans, then?"
"Hunting's just about over," Harry said. "I suppose I'll visit my parents then settle myself in Town. Run my eye over the latest crop of fillies," he said callously, "and pick the one that takes my fancy most. Might as well go for a handsome portion while I'm at it, I suppose. Any younger children will thank me." He looked at Randal with a slight, humorless smile. "That's how it's done, ain't it?"
"Oh, surely," said Randal dryly. "And be sure to check the soundness of her teeth and the width of her hips." He went to the door. "Are you leaving tomorrow, then?"
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed." With that Randal left and went thoughtfully downstairs. There he related most of the conversation to the others.
Chart groaned. "That means I'll have to do all that social nonsense, too."
"Excellent idea," said Randal. "He needs a close eye kept on him. In fact," he said with a smile at his wife, "I think the Season calls us too."
"Oh good," said Sophie with a brilliant smile. "I'll be able to show off my prize."
"My thought entirely," said Randal and wound one of her auburn curls around his finger.
Verderan said, "Tempting though it is, I think we will give this circus a miss." He took Emily's hand and kissed it. "I have yet to show Emily my principal estate and we intend to live quietly for a while. It is near London, however, on the river near Putney. You will be welcome if you decide you need some country air." He smiled around. "If you wonder why we are settled on bucolic idleness, it is because by next year, there will be three Verderans in the family."
The meeting turned to celebratory drinks.
Chart found the claret soothing, and he began to take a brighter view of the future. He'd always had a bad feeling about Amy de Lacy, and Harry was well rid of her. When he bethought himself that the final defeat of Napoleon Bonaparte was likely to turn the Season of 1814 into a gala affair, Chart was actually beginning