Page 3 of A Flurry for a Duke

With the footman out of earshot, Isaac admonished his sister, as only an older, wiser, more principled brother could do. “Astrid, might you consider waiting until…well, never, to engage in such behavior?”

“Pfft, Isaac. Please. Don’t be such a hypocrite. It’s not like I’m doing even half of what you do all of the time.”

He did not want to think about what that would mean. If she did half of what he did all the time…Did that mean half of what he did, but that she did it all the time? Or did that mean half of what he did all of the time, thus taking an average of his licentious behavior? It was too early for philosophy. Either way she took the half, she’d be more than halfway out of England.

The worst of it was that he knew she was right. It was absolutely hypocritical to judge her. But it was the way of the world. Men seduced. Chased. Snagged trophies. And maybe one day, if they played their cards right, they would find a trophy shiny enough to marry. Maybe. And even less likely, but still infinitesimally possible, they adored that new shiniest of trophies and didn’t hunt down any more trophies. That was a truth he had learned in his youth, at a time when he was not the trophy-attracting type. It had to be the truth. It was what everyone homilized to him. The lectures and mockings he had endured then taught him that a man’s worth directly corresponded to the degree of beauty he was able to attract.

That was the crux of it though, wasn’t it? The hunt. A man needed to hunt. If he spent the first quarter, or third, of his life hunting, what would ever make him want to stop? It wasn’t healthy for a man to quit. To give up his purpose and productivity. Peculiar words to apply to the core of a man, to be sure. But Isaac was no quitter. If there was any principle he held dear, it was to never settle. Always strive for more. Be more. Do more. Have more. And a wife was not more. She was one. And then that was the end. No more hunt. No moremore.

So yes, he believed what they said, and he would probably find a wife for himself. He was a duke who needed an heir, after all. And then he would continue the hunt withmore. More beauty meant more pride, which in turn meant more satisfaction in life.

Astrid interrupted his thoughts using her singsong voice again. Only, she was directing it to the tall, handsome footman. “You do know which room is mine, don’t you?”

Even though Isaac closed his eyes, he was pretty sure he saw her wink. True. No one was around. It was discreet. Enough. But hardly. The woman had no shame.

But really, she could do far less damage here, under his watchful eye, than if he left her alone. God only knew what mischief she would create for herself—and others!—if left to her own devices. And wouldn’t it be cruel to leave one’s sister alone for Christmas?

That thought led him to ponder Hope’s sad state. Not that he pitied her, he just felt for her…in a makes-one’s-heart-sting sort of way. She would be miserable not to have her brothers home for Christmas. He already knew that. He knew the chit too well. It was a thorny predicament to walk into. On the one hand, he would stay close to her because Hope needed some protection without her brothers around. Though, Lord knew the long term plan for that—besides the obvious, to find her a husband.

On the other hand, Hope would be throwing herself into every possible nurturing role to distract herself from her emotions; ergo, she would almost definitely make a nuisance of herself to him. Likely no one else would notice or even care. Everyone loved Hope. Besides her undeniable beauty, she was charming, delightful, sweet, and caring. He had seen on more than one occasion how she had paired the right wine to each guest and had planned activities suitable for all ages and abilities. She was the first one to bring an elderly guest a blanket or order tea on a cold evening.

He shuddered at how she mothered people. And now there weren’t seven brothers to receive that coddling. He would be the recipient of most of that attention. Another shudder trickled down his spine.

Speaking of nuisances. Astrid walked over to him and straightened his cravat. “Why you insisted on leaving your valet at home, I’ll never understand. And my lady’s maid as well. It puts everyone out.”

“I’m quite capable of dressing myself, Astrid.”

“And what about me? Do you have any idea what it takes to dress a woman?”

Undress? Yes. Dress. Ehhh…

There was nothing that Isaac hated more than being doted on. He could take care of himself. He didn’t need someone hovering around him. He had seen the damage a lazy spirit caused in people, and that was the last thing in the world he would let happen to himself.

“Astrid,” —he swatted her hands away— “just promise me you’ll be good for this house party. No luring men into the gardens. Promise?”

Astrid belted out a laugh. After wiping a small tear from her temple, she eyed Isaac. “That was one time. And we both know what happened with that.”

“Yes, we do. I hope you learned your lesson.”

“God, Isaac. You really know how to burn my buttons. Step off your soapbox, will you? I’m an independent woman. I’ll learn the lessons I want to learn and not a note more.”

There was no point in arguing with Astrid when she worked herself into such a huff.

“Worry less about me and more about yourself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been invited to a house party.” She said the words as if they had an underlying message that he should somehow already be privy to.

“So?”

“By the dowager Duchess of Whitewood.”

“And?”

“Also known now by the entiretonas the Matchmaking Maven.”

“I’ve run out of relevant conjunctions, Astrid. What’s your point?”

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