"But soon will be, I assume," Sir Henry commented. "When are your wards arriving, Edward?"
His companion took a long drink of his brandy before replying. "Probably today, if they left yesterday as I Arected," he said.
And you are not there to greet them?"
"Good God, no. Inheriting the title and the property hardly makes up for being saddled with two female Raymore shuddered. Why bring them to London if their existence is so distasteful to you?" Sir Henry asked.
His friend raised haughty eyebrows. "Is the reason not glaringly obvious?" he asked. "This is the marriage market of the nation, Henry, and this the height of the buying and selling season."
Sir Henry looked at him with interest. "You have no intention of getting to know them, Edward? One of them is your cousin, is she not?"
"Daughter of the fifth earl," Raymore replied. "They are females, Henry, of marriageable age. Doubtless they have their heads full of nothing except finding husbands. I intend to oblige them."
"Do you have anyone in mind?" There was an undertone of sarcasm in Sir Henry's voice.
"I shall have to look them over first," Raymore replied with an arctic smile. "They both have dowries large enough to add to their attractions. But the better-looking they are, the higher we can aim. Either way I shall be done with the obligation before the Season ends."
Sir Henry Martel drained his glass. "Yet if you were selling some of your cattle, my friend," he said, "you would take a year or more if necessary to ensure that you had found a suitable buyer."
The earl shrugged. "But then girls are not horses," he said.
His friend rose to his feet, shaking his head. "I must be going," he said. "Coming my way, Edward?"
"No," Raymore replied. "I shall stay here to dine. Good day to you, Henry."
The Earl of Raymore summoned a waiter and ordered another brandy. He waved carelessly to a group of acquaintances across the room, who were engaged in a lively discussion, but made no move to join them. He allowed his mind to dwell on the topic that had been depressing him for days. For how long would his home and his peace of mind be invaded by a pack of females? Cousin Hetty had arrived two days before, accompanied by three pesky little poodles. Fortunately, she was a reasonably sensible woman, though she did like to talk rather more than was necessary and in a somewhat strident voice. However, her presence was absolutely necessary while his two wards were in residence with him.
He shuddered at the thought of being saddled with two hopeful debutantes for the rest of the Season. His cousin Sylvia had been eighteen at the time of her father's death, the lawyer had told him. He had never met her and, in fact, had met his aunt and uncle only once or twice in his life. His father had never been close to his brother, the Earl of Raymore, and had rarely visited him. Would the child be pretty? Silly? Shy? And what about the other girl? The earl felt particularly annoyed about his position as her guardian. He had really just inherited her from his uncle. She was not even related to him; she was a niece of the dead countess. She was a few years older than Sylvia, the buyer had told him vaguely. How many years older? Raymore hoped that she would not too certainly have ••>ined the ranks of the old maids. He could find it very tricky to get her married off if she were too old. And then he would be stuck with her for life, forever moving the fading creature around from one home to another, wherever he happened not to be.
Raymore took a snuffbox from his pocket and gazed absently at the ruby-studded lid, his thumbnail against the catch, though he did not immediately open it. How be hated women. He wished to heaven that he never need have anything to do with any of them. He should have entered a monastery, he thought with cold humor. But then, of course, that would not have served his purpose. There was that base bodily craving that had to be satisfied-and satisfy it he did with the type of woman he most despised. He always chose his women -::h care, assuming almost without conscious thought that physical beauty might compensate for the fact that he despised both the woman who gave her favors for money or expensive baubles and himself who bought.
Raymore flicked open the lid of his snuffbox with a practiced thumb and placed a pinch of his favorite blend on the back of his right hand. He sniffed delicately, first through one nostril and then through the other. He soon felt more himself. But he could not force himself to move. He had told Cousin Hetty that uld return for dinner. They would await his arrival. Yet he had told Henry less than an hour before that he would dine at the club. Confound it, and he would, too. Let the girls wait to make his acquaintance. Perhaps he would have more stomach for the introductions in the light of day.
He placed one booted foot against a stool and gazed gloomily at the high gloss of the black leather. Women had always been the bane of his life. His own mother! He had vague memories of her. He believed that she must have given him much attention. The memories mostly involved her leaning over him with a gentle smile-whether to soothe away a headache, or to admire a daisy chain, or to bid him good night, he could not clearly recall. But he had loved her, trusted the permanence of her love. She had run away with the curate of a neighboring village when he was seven, leaving him behind. He had suffered cruelly from his sense of loss and rejection and from his father's drunken rages.
And then there had been Rachel, his father's second wife. She had been Edward's governess for three years, and all the while had been sweet and attentive. She had seemed to devote herself entirely to the lonely child, and he had gradually allowed himself to love and to depend upon another human being again. He had felt deeply shocked, even betrayed, when he knew that she was to marry his father. How had she been able to get to know him when she spent all her time with the boy? But he had talked himself into accepting the marriage. After all, it would be infinitely better, more permanent, to have her as a mother than merely as a governess.
It was only six months after the wedding when Edward, exploring the upper hallway as he often did when playing imaginative games, opened the door to a room that he knew was not occupied by any of the servants, and found two people threshing around on the bed. They both turned alarmed faces at the sound of the opening door. The woman with her head on the pillow was Rachel. The man on top of her was his father's head groom. There were no covers over them. They were both naked.
Edward had not understood what was happening, but he had rushed outside and hurtled his way into the closest clump of bushes, where he had vomited for several minutes. He knew after that that he had Rachel in his power. He had never used his advantage, though the had pleaded with him later that same day and watched him out of anxious eyes for weeks afterward. After that she had fawned on him, praised him in his father's presence, bought him gifts. And he had gradually withdrawn more and more inside himself, refusing for the rest of his father's life to so much as recognize her existence. She had married the groom one week after his father's death, five days after Edward had dismissed the man from his service. He could still not understand why they had left that door unlocked.
“Your table is ready, my lord," a waiter said with a discreet cough at Raymore's elbow.
The earl indicated by raising his half-empty glass that he would adjourn to the dining room as soon as his drink was finished. He must have been a slow learner, he thought, a sneer marring his face, to have trusted another woman. But during his first full Season in London, fresh down from Oxford, he had fallen in love with Annette Longford-tiny, vivacious, pretty Annette. He had spent hours dreaming of her, and as many hours contriving meetings when they could converse with some privacy and perhaps touch each other. She was the sweetest, truest person he had ever known. When he gazed into her wide hazel eyes, he beheld perfect innocence.