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bridle, and I am too old to try."
"Of course. That's why you carry her hair from London to Sussex and
back again."
The viscount couldn't keep his eyes from flashing upward. "Never tell
me you check my rooms, Your Grace."
"I don't have to, dear. You just told me."
"I thought the hair upset you at the manor," he said, praying that the
warmth he felt was not showing as red on his face. "That's all there is to it,
by George."
"Don't swear, Forrest. You've been around your father too much. And
don't worry over being so blind you cannot recognize what your own heart
is telling you. Your father never believed he loved me either until I told
him. Just don't wait too long, Forrest, for royalty won't be too high for
Miss Sydney when I am through."
The coffee was bitter and the eggs were cold. Forrest put his plate on
the floor for the dogs to squabble over and excused himself. "I am sure you
and the housekeeper can work out all the details for your dinner party.
Father's new secretary seems a capable sort, too, but feel free to call on me
if I can be of assistance."
She was back at her lists before he reached the door. "Oh, by the way,
Forrest," she called when his hand touched the knob, "I gave Sydney a
dog."
The viscount's hand fell to his side and his head struck the door. "Do
you really hate me that much, Mother?"
Did he love her? Not which horse should he ride, which route should he
take to the park, just: Did he love her? Forrest controlled his mount
through the traffic, galloped down the usual rides, cooled the chestnut
gelding on tree-shaded pathways, all without noticing the other men also
exercising their cattle or the nursemaids with their charges or the old
ladies feeding the pigeons. He was lost in the center of London, lost in his
thoughts.
He supposed he did love her. He surely had all the attics-to-let
symptoms of a mooncalf in love. But could he live with Sydney Lattimore?
Hell, could he live without her?
He had yet another concern: Did she love him? He knew from her kisses
that she was not altogether unresponsive to him, but she also resented
him, sometimes despised him, and never respected him. More often than
not, she looked at him as if he were queerer than Dick's hatband. Maybe
he was, to care what she thought. Hang it, he'd had more kicks than kisses
from the wench!
His mother thought Sydney loved him, for what the opinion of another
totty-headed, illogical female was worth. Plenty, most likely, he thought as
he picked up the horse's pace again. Now, there was another woman he
never hoped to understand. The duke said you'd end up cross-eyed if you
tried, anyway. But the duchess had always preached propriety, breeding,
duty to the family name. Now she was pleased to consider one of the
devil's own imps as her successor. He shuddered at the thought. Sydney as
duchess meant Sydney as his wife.
Confused by the mixed signals it was receiving, the chestnut reared.
Forest brought it back under control with a firm hand and a pat on the
neck. "Sorry, old fellow. My fault for wool-gathering. I don't suppose you
have any advice?" The horse shook its head and resumed the center. "No,
gelding is not the answer."
He set his mind to the matter at hand, looking out for other riders and
strollers now that the park was getting more crowded. When they reached
another shaded alleyway, however, Forrest let the horse pick their way
while he searched his mind for answers.
If he loved Sydney, he should marry her. If she loved him, she would
marry him. He did not think for a moment that she would wed for
convenience, not his Sydney with her fiery emotions. And there was no
longer a reason for her to make a cream-pot marriage, not with Winnie's
future guaranteed. She had to know Brennan would look after her, and the
general as well. Forrest would see to the settlements himself, ensuring she
never had to concoct any more bubble-headed schemes, even if she did not
marry him.
But she would marry him if she loved him. If he asked, Zeus, what if she
refused? What if a slip of a girl with less sense than God gave a duck
refused the Viscount of Mayne, one of the most eligible bachelors in
London? He'd never recover, that's what. She'd be a fool to turn down his
title, wealth, and prospects, but he would be shattered.
And the duchess would know. She always did. Gads, he'd have to listen
to her taunts whenever he was at home, unless she told all her friends.
Then he'd be a laughingstock everywhere he went. He may as well move to
the Colonies, for all the joy he'd find in England.
He reined the horse to a standstill, tipping his hat to a family of geese
crossing the path to the Serpentine. The gossip did not matter any more
than the honking of the geese. There would be no joy without Sydney,
period.
Such being the case, he acknowledged, kneeing the horse onward, still
at a walk, there was nothing for it but to put his luck to the touch. He had
to ask. But when? His mother had both girls so hedged about with callers
and servants, he'd never get to see Sydney alone now. The duchess was not
leaving the rumor hounds a whiff of scandal. Forrest was glad, for no one
with baser desires could reach the Lattimores either. He had not forgotten
about the moneylending scum and still had men watching the house and
scouring London for Randall and Chester. His men had turned up the
information that they were brothers, as unlikely as it seemed, by the name
of O'Toole. Bow Street was also extremely interested in their whereabouts.
Let Bow Street worry about the blackguards, Forrest decided. The best
way to keep Sydney safe was to keep her by his side. Which, he thought
with a frown, his own mother was preventing. He might get her alone the
night of the betrothal dinner his mother was hosting for Brennan and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]