Page 49 of Tremaine's True Love
“Also firm.” St. Michael draped his jacket over the chair behind the estate desk, sat, and took out writing implements. “My proposal was oblique at best. A lady deserves a sincere, direct proposal.”
St. Michael was unhappy with himself for his oblique proposal, or perhaps—George knew of no male who endured the emotion easily—he was bewildered.
“A gentleman deserves to know his suit will at least receive fair consideration,” George offered by way of commiseration. “I proposed to a lady once, long ago. The experience was not enjoyable.”
He’d never told his siblings this, lest they get that speculative gleam in their eyes.
St. Michael produced a penknife and went to work on a goose quill. “She turned you down?”
“She laughed in my face, and I was as much in earnest as I could be at that age. I enjoyed her conversation, had no need of her dowry, and had pegged her for a practical, good-natured sort.” Who wouldn’t have minded a marriage where both partners were free to roam, provided appearances were maintained.
The notion struck George as vaguely distasteful now, sad even.
A small pile of shavings accumulated on the desk blotter. “Your expectations of the institution are modest, Mr. Haddonfield. I think your sister’s are too—as were mine.”
Past tense in any accent was worth noting. Somebody needed to take the library in hand again, because they now had no less than three copies ofThe Monk.
“Your estimation of marriage has changed?” George asked. St. Michael had lovely hands—big, competent, elegant. Nita had probably had the same thought.
“Lady Nita is not a woman of modest accomplishments or modest sentiments. Have you never resumed your search for a bride, Mr. Haddonfield?”
The question was casual, while the goose feather had been pared to a perfect point. St. Michael swept the orts and leavings into the dust bin beside the desk and dusted those big palms together.
“I keep an eye out,” George said, which was true. Marriage to the right woman would solve a few problems and stop his siblings from fretting over him. Would it be fair to the lady, though? George liked women, and even desired them on occasion, the way a fellow might desire a hot cup of tea or chocolate with a dash of cinnamon on a cold morning.
Not the way he longed for the fiery pleasure of a good brandy—stupidly, passionately, without any dignity or care for his own well-being.
“Shall we have a drink?” George asked, crossing to the sideboard.
St. Michael uncapped the ink, laid out a piece of foolscap, and began writing. He made a lovely picture at the vast desk, the white feather moving across the page with an assurance George envied.
“A bit early for me,” he said, the pen never breaking rhythm, “but don’t let that stop you. When I’ve completed this epistle, could you spare me time for a discussion of your latest German travels?”
“You’re proposing to my sister, then decamping for the Pumpernickel Courts? That will impress Nita not at all. She’ll go right back to her midwifery and tisanes, and forget you ever existed unless you turn up sick or injured.”
St. Michael dipped his pen again, let a drop of ink gather on the tip, and waited, hand immobile, until that droplet had fallen back into the bottle.
“She well might,” he said as a second drop followed the first. “Perhaps that’s for the best. Do you fancy sheep, Mr. Haddonfield?”
In a different, half-drunken context, George might have misconstrued the question. “I like them well enough. Harmless creatures, pretty, and not given to violence.” Rather like himself.
“I’m passionate about sheep,” St. Michael said. “Your brother-the-earl would do well to recall this.”
George took a steadying sip of excellent brandy and tormented himself by sitting on the edge of the desk, close enough to catch St. Michael’s scent. “Are you passionate about my sister?”
“Interesting question.” St. Michael did not stop writing, and abruptly, weariness pressed down on George.
St. Michael didn’t evenseehim, and if he did—if he somehow divined that George regarded him as potentially desirable—he’d be disgusted or, worse, amused. He would never reciprocate George’s interest, and as to that, what did George know of Tremaine St. Michael?
He was attractive, wealthy, and interested in Nita. So George must pant after him in silent frustration?
Must comport himself with all the emotional delicacy of a tomcat?
Such stirrings flattered nobody. They were for strutting, impulsive boys who had one foot planted in rebellion and the other in boredom.
“Nita is lonely,” George said, setting his glass down near the ink. “She was born immediately after her older brothers, and it’s almost as if Mama and Papa didn’t realize there’d been a change in gender. Nita tagged after us boys, rode like a demon, and tried very hard to keep up with us.”
“And you humored her,” St. Michael muttered, “which she hated.”
