Page 63 of Tremaine's True Love
“Greater affairs?” Nick nearly laughed. “Whataffairis greater than maintaining harmony with the woman you love? Will you keep your wife all buttoned up in the family parlor, studying menus and reading improving tracts?”
St. Michael was a handsome devil, in a tall, dark-haired, broody sort of way. He was bright too, if Beckman’s letters were to be believed. Coin and valuable works of art accumulated at St. Michael’s bidding as if he were a financial alchemist. He controlled a substantial portion of the wool trade, and yet Nick’s question puzzled him.
“I expect my wife will study menus, as your countess does,” St. Michael replied evenly. “She’ll read whatever she pleases to read.”
Leah occasionally read an improving tract for entertainment, though in fairness to St. Michael, the countess was bedeviled by the menus.
“You’re barmy, St. Michael, or perhaps trying not to give offense. What did you want to discuss?” No man could explain to another the complexities of sharing a meaningful life with a woman who was her own person, her own soul. St. Michael’s wife would have to educate him in that regard.
Nick wished her the joy of such a project.
St. Michael sauntered off, propping an elbow on the mantel over the fireplace. Nick stayed by the windows, where he might catch a glimpse of his errant sisters returning to the fold.
“When last we discussed the purpose for my visit,” St. Michael said, “I gained the impression that you regard your merinos as a suitable addition to Lady Susannah’s dowry.”
“Edward Nash regards them thus.” While Nick had increasing reservations about Susannah’s choice. George had expressed doubts about Edward Nash, and George’s judgment—inmostregards—was sound.
“I am investigating the possibility that Lady Nita might be receptive to an offer of marriage from me,” St. Michael said. “I want those sheep too, and will put them to far better use than Nash could.”
Investigatingthepossibilitythat Lady Nitamight… St. Michael had probably asked Nita to save him a dance at the assembly. Nita would allow him that much out of sheer pity for a lamb sent to slaughter at the hands of the marriage-mad mamas of Haddondale.
Of which there was a sizable herd.
“I’minvestigatingthepossibilityof splitting the herd,” Nick said. “Nash needs those sheep more than you do. You simply want them.”
“I want them badly, and I do not want a half or a third of the herd, Bellefonte.”
“Nash wants them very badly.”
While Nick wanted them not at all. Sheep required land and were hard on their pastures. The merinos were good breeders, which meant Nick owned too damned many of them. St. Michael knew better than to reveal his emotions in the midst of a business discussion, but something—distaste, exasperation, Nick couldn’t tell exactly what—crossed his features.
“Then think of it this way, Bellefonte. Which sister is more urgently in need of a husband? Lady Susannah is sweet, biddable, pretty, and content to spend time in the company of the Bard. Lady Nita could at this very minute be dealing with a deadly illness, and now Lady Kirsten is accompanying her.”
Well, thank the heavenly powers St. Michael had the sense to be alarmed at that prospect.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Nick wanted to put his fist through the windowpane. “Papa told me to look after the girls. He said the boys would sort themselves out, but for the girls, my influence and support would be needed.”
Nick hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to allow exasperation and bewilderment to see the cold light of day.
“Bellefonte, I’ll give her babies, God willing. What in all of creation can compete with a woman’s own children for her attention? Married to me, Lady Nita will have no more need to haunt sickrooms or antagonize the local physician.”
Had St. Michael reached that understanding with Nita, or was he simply presuming that his household would run exactly as he envisioned it? Or was Nita so besotted with her sheep count that she’d set aside her medical activities in favor of making lambs with him?
Nick prayed it was so.
“Your proposal to Nita stands or falls on its own merit,” Nick said. “You cannot marry a woman you merely tolerate because she’s brought you financial gain. Nita deserves better than that.”
“Then I have your permission to court Lady Nita?” St. Michael lounged against the mantel, all elegant grace in a country gentleman’s attire. Beckman had said not to underestimate him, and not to entirely trust him either.
“You have my permission,” Nick said. “I thought we’d established that much.” Beyond the window, Nita and Kirsten came marching up from the stable yard. They were arguing or discussing something with great animation in typical Haddonfield fashion.
Nick’s relief at the simple sight of them was… troubling.
“Nita loves babies,” he said, half to himself. “Kirsten’s affections are by no means as tender, but Nita…she loves all the children.” She’d been more mother to her younger siblings than sister,once the countess had fallen ill.
Why hadn’t Nick seen that sooner?
St. Michael appeared at Nick’s elbow. “And you love her. You admire her, you respect her, but you don’t know what to do with her. She’s run this household for years, and now you’ve taken that from her, and you rail against the only thing she has left that feels meaningful to her.”
