Page 48 of Tremaine's True Love
“Send for Horton if you must,” Edward said, topping up his cup of tea. “He’ll bleed the boy, prescribe a mustard plaster for his chest and feet, and send a prodigious bill after drinking some of my best brandy.”
“Thank you.”
Elsie’s thank-yous were as cold as Edward’s eggs. “In future, madam, you will no longer pester me with your importuning. I intend to propose to Susannah on the occasion of the assembly, and as the lady of my household, she will tend to matters of health among the children and servants.”
Edward wouldn’t proposeatthe assembly, of course, but just before, so the announcement could be made to all their neighbors in traditional country fashion.
“I wish you luck, Edward. Lady Susannah is a lovely woman.”
That tone of voice, that mocking, superior tone of voice…Edward wouldnotgratify such insubordination with a display of temper.
“What do you mean, Elsie? Of course Susannah is a lovely woman. Do you imply I should plight my troth with a troll?”
Elsie toyed with her eggs, her fork scraping across the plate. “I meant nothing, Edward, except a sincere wish that your proposal be accepted. Lady Susannah will be good company for me. She’s well connected and seems to suit you.”
In a manner Edward would never understand, Elsie’s demure, practical words implied something else entirely. Susannah wouldn’t speak to him thus— nobody else spoke to him thus.
“Madam, let me remind you that you and the boy are here on my charity, which I can ill afford. I must marry responsibly, as befits the succession of the baronetcy, and Susannah is my choice.”
Edward polished off the last of his eggs, determined to leave the table without shouting. Then the dratted woman muttered something behind her teacup.
“I beg your pardon, Elsie.”
Elsie closed her eyes, as if assaulted by a sudden megrim. “LadySusannah. She will always beLadySusannah. You show her disrespect by assuming familiar address prior to an engagement.”
The urge to strike the fool woman coursed through him. Edward’s arm actually lifted, then fell. A display of temper gratified Elsie somehow, and—the insight nearly had him smiling—this entire round of disrespect from Elsie was merely a symptom of jealousy, because she was to be displaced as the lady of the Stonebridge household.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Edward said, rising. “Digby isn’t running a fever, his throat isn’t sore. A mere cold does not necessitate a call from Dr. Horton. You may treat Digby as you please, but we’ll not incur an unnecessary bill to humor your overprotectiveness. In future, please ensure the kitchen serves only hot eggs and toast.”
“Yes, Edward.” Elsie could put a wealth of rebellion in two words.
Edward nearly admired that about her. “Something for you to consider, Elsie Nash. This household might not have room for two ladies, particularly once the nursery includes a proper heir to the baronetcy. While I would never disrespect my brother’s memory, you’re long past first mourning. Perhaps you should consider attaching yourself to another establishment. Digby would of course remain in my care, for I owe the boy nothing less than my personal supervision in his formative years.”
That spiked Elsie’s guns neatly. She stared at the remains of her meal, her grip on her teacup turning her knuckles white.
Edward enjoyed the moment, with Elsie in a silent temper as he stood over her. This was progress for them. Nobody had shouted, nobody had been forced to a display of violence to settle the matter. His patience with her was paying off, finally.
“Have a pleasant day, my dear.”
“You as well, Edward.”
He paused outside the door of the breakfast parlor, half hoping to hear the sound of a teacup smashing—which was very bad of him. When several moments of silence had passed, he went off to the comfortable warmth of his library, to do battle once again with a ledger that would not balance.
* * *
“I may have proposed to your sister,” Tremaine St. Michael said when he’d closed the door to the Belle Maison library.
George liked listening to St. Michael talk. All manner of ancestry presented itself in his vowels and consonants, in what was dropped, elided, or rolled. George also liked looking at Mr. St. Michael, particularly when the man removed his jacket and undid his cuffs, as if in anticipation of some manual task.
Though George had recently discovered he liked looking at Elsie Nash too—a puzzle, albeit a pretty one. He’d enjoyed the company of women in the past, the same as any other fellow at university, some women, anyway.
And a few men.
“I gather Nita did not accept this matrimonial overture, or you’d know for sure whether you proposed,” George replied, replacing his volume of Mrs. Radcliffe on the library shelf where it belonged. Nita had established a system for organizing the library books, and one thwarted that system at one’s peril.
“Lady Nita neither accepted nor rejected my offer,” St. Michael said, “but then, I didn’t exactly propose.”
“Nita is formidable.” George liked St. Michael, but he loved his sister. “Nonetheless, she can’t abide a suffering creature. Her rejection would be as kind as possible.”
