LITMIR.BIZ

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Ha! What a joke! His wretched cousin had about as much discretion as a parrot! That had been made plain to Magnus within days, when he’d realised he was being hunted—with all the subtlety of a pack of hounds in full pursuit.

      Creamy bosoms were made to heave and quiver under his nose at every opportunity. Well-turned ankles flashed from modest concealment. And every time he entered a room eyelashes batted so feverishly there was almost a draught. He’d been treated to displays of virtuosity on harp, pianoforte and flute, had folios of watercolours thrust under his nose, his expert inspection bashfully solicited. His superior masculine opinion had been sought and deferred to on every topic under the sun and his every reluctant pronouncement greeted with sighs, sycophantic titters and syrupy admiration.

      They accosted him morning, noon and night—in the garden, in the drawing room, in the breakfast parlour—even, once, behind the stables, where a man had a right to expect some peace and quiet. But it was no use—eligible misses lurked, apparently, in every corner of the estate.

      Yet, despite his overwhelming aversion to the task in hand, Magnus was still determined to select a wife. The house party had convinced him it was best to get the deed over with as soon as possible. Any courtship was bound to be appalling to a man of his solitary tastes, he reasoned, and if he did not choose now, he would only prolong the process. And this collection of girls seemed no different from any others currently on the marriage mart.

      The trouble was, Magnus could not imagine any of them as mother to his children. Not one had two thoughts to rub together; each seemed completely devoted to fashion, gossip and male flattery—not necessarily in that order. And, like Laetitia, they despised rural life.

      That was a problem. He had somehow assumed his wife would live at d’Arenville with the children. Though why he should expect his wife to live in the country when few women of his acquaintance did so, Magnus could not imagine. His own mother certainly had not. She hadn’t been able to bear the country. But then he didn’t want a wife like his mother.

      Freddie’s wife lived, seemingly content, all year round in the wilds of Yorkshire with her husband and children. The children’s obvious happiness had made a profound impression on Magnus—his own parents had been virtual strangers who had descended on his home at infrequent intervals, their visits the bane of his youthful existence.

      But Freddie’s wife truly seemed to love her children. Magnus’s own mother had appeared to love Magnus—in company. So Freddie’s wife could have been fudging it, but Magnus didn’t think so. Freddie’s wife also seemed to love Freddie. But Freddie was, Magnus knew, a lovable person.

      It was not the same for Magnus. He had clearly been an unlovable child. And was therefore not a lovable man. But he would do everything in his power to ensure his children had the chance to be lovable. And therefore to be loved.

      Magnus glanced around the room again. He supposed it was possible that some of these frivolous girls would settle into motherhood, but it was difficult to believe, especially with the example of his cousin before him.

      ‘Oh, it is such a delightfully mild evening,’ cried Laetitia. ‘Let us stroll on the terrace before dinner. Come Magnus, as my guest of honour, you shall escort the lady of your choice.’

      A dozen feminine gazes turned his way. There was an expectant hush. Magnus silently cursed his cousin for trying to force his hand. Clearly she wished the house party concluded so that she could return to Town and the myriad entertainments there. Magnus smiled. He danced to no female’s tune.

      ‘Then, as a good guest, I must look to the care of my charming hostess,’ he responded lightly. ‘Cousin, shall we?’ He took her arm, allowing her no choice, and they stepped through the French doors onto the terrace. The other guests followed.

      Tallie trailed awkwardly in their wake. She felt most uncomfortable. Several of the young ladies had eyed her gown, whispering and tittering with careless amusement. Their mothers had totally ignored her and two of the gentlemen guests had made improper suggestions. The guests had taken their tone from Laetitia—Tallie was an unconsidered encumbrance, little better than a servant, and in the current mood of thwarted ambition she was a convenient target.

      Tallie was angry, but told herself sternly that there was little point in expressing her feelings—they would be gone soon, and she would be left in peace again with the children and Brooks and Mrs Wilmot. It should be simple enough for her to ignore the spite of a few ill-bred aristocrats.

      The pale young marquise held her chin high, ignoring the vile insults flung at her by the ignorant canaille, as the tumbrel rolled onwards. She was dressed in rags, her lovely gowns stolen by the prison guards, but her dignity was unimpaired…

      Tallie slipped unobtrusively to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the stone balustrade to the closely scythed sweep of lawn and the woods beyond. It was a truly lovely view…

      ‘Aaargh! Get down, you filthy beast!’ Laetitia’s screeches pierced the air. ‘Get it off me, someone! Aaargh!’

      Tallie hurried to see what had occurred. She wriggled between some of the gathered guests and let out an exclamation of distress.

      Her cousin’s small son, Georgie, had obviously escaped from the nursery and gone adventuring with the puppy that Tallie had given him several weeks before. He stood in front of his mother, a ragged bunch of snowdrops held pathetically out towards her. His shoes and nankeen pantaloons were covered in mud, as was the puppy. It was the cause of the trouble—muddy pawprints marred Laetitia’s new jonquil silk gown.

      Laetitia, unused to dogs, screeched and backed away, hysterically flapping her fan at the pup, who seemed to think it a delightful game. He leaped up, yapping in excitement, attempting to catch the fan in his jaws, liberally spattering the exquisite gown in the process.

      Tallie was still attempting to wriggle through the press of guests when Lord d’Arenville grabbed the pup and handed him by the scruff of its neck to the little boy. Tallie reached the child just as his mother’s tirade broke over him.

      ‘How dare you bring that filthy beast near me, you wicked boy! Do you see what it has done? This gown is ruined! Ruined, I tell you!’

      The small face whitened in distress. Mutely Georgie offered the wilting bunch of snowdrops. Laetitia dashed them impatiently from his hands.

      ‘Do not try to turn me up sweet, Georgie! See what you have done? Look at this dress! Worn for the first time today, from the finest of London’s modistes, and costing the earth! Ruined! And why? Because a wicked boy brought a filthy animal into a civilised gathering! Who gave you permission to leave the nursery? I left the strictest orders. You will be punished for such disobedience! And the animal is clearly dangerous! It must be shot at once! Someone call for a groom—’

      The little boy’s face paled further. His small body shook in fright at the venom in his mother’s voice. His face puckered in fear and distress and he clutched the puppy tightly to his chest. It whimpered and scrabbled for release.

      Magnus watched, tense in a way he hadn’t been since he himself was a small boy. He fought the sensation. His eyes darkened with sympathy and remembrance as he observed the frightened child and his puppy. He felt for the boy, but it was not his place to interfere with a mother disciplining her child. And anyway, he supposed it was how it had to be. It was certainly how his own childhood had been.

      It would be hard for the boy to lose his beloved pup, but it was probably better for Georgie that he learn to toughen up now, rather than later. Pets were invariably used as hostage to one’s good behaviour. Once the boy learnt not to care so much, his life would be easier. Magnus had certainly found it so…although the learning had been very hard…Three pets had died for his disobedience by the time he was eight. The last a liquid-eyed setter bitch by the name of Polly.

      Polly, his constant companion and his best friend. But Magnus had taken her out hunting one day instead of finishing his Greek translations and his father had destroyed Polly to teach his son a lesson in responsibility.

      Magnus had learned his lesson well.

      By

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