Page 4 of Miss Determined
Lissa made her escape into cold, sunny air and five minutes later was on the path that connected Twidboro Hall with Lark’s Nest.
“Why now?” Sycamore Dorning poured Trevor a portion of excellent claret. “Why come back to England this year? You’ve threatened to abandon France before, but here you are in the handsome flesh. What’s changed?”
Trevor had called on Dorning—Step-mama’s husband—not at his home, but at the club in which Sycamore was the senior partner. The Coventry blended elegance with daring—gambling was illegal at least in name—and good supper fare with better gossip and honest tables.
“It’s time,” Trevor said. “At my age, my father was already married and raising me. I love France, love the whole business of winemaking and champagne in particular, but one has obligations.”
Dorning, who was as tall as Trevor, dark-haired, and not that much older, poured a drink for himself. “To your prospects.”
An odd toast. “To your health.” The wine savored more of Merlot than Cabernet, with a pleasantly smooth texture and decorous hints of red cherries and raspberries. A polite wine, from a man who could be polite when he pleased to be.
“Is this one of Fournier’s?”
“He considers this vintage suitable for every day and prices it accordingly. The man is daft. He could charge twice what he does for this and sell three times as much.”
Xavier Fournier was French and had happily returned to his homeland for most of the year. He made fine clarets and adored his wife at the ancestral home in Bordeaux. He knew more about making clarets than Sycamore Dorning knew about all of his siblings combined.
Trevor settled on a sofa that looked about the right length for napping. Dorning’s office was tidy, masculine, and comfortable. He had opted for neither ostentation nor a cluttered hub of commerce.
Or perhaps Jeanette’s hand was evident in these surrounds. She spent a fair amount of time at the club as well.
“I might well return to France,” Trevor said. “The solicitors are trying to marry me off to an heiress.”
Dorning perched on a corner of his desk. “Any particular heiress?”
“Any heiress will do, provided her papa is reasonable about the settlements.”
“Change solicitors.”
The advice was welcome, though unexpected. “The Dornings are notoriously impecunious, or they were, while the Vincents have traditionally married money and prospered accordingly. Do you object to that approach?” Trevor did, for reasons he could not quite articulate.
Dorning dipped a finger into his drink and dabbed brandy on the back of his hand, waved it about, then sniffed the results, an old vintner’s test for assessing a wine’s subtleties.
“If you had a daughter or a sister,” Dorning said, “would you want some impecunious lordling pretending to care for her when what he truly wanted was her money?”
If Trevor had a daughter or sister… He had five female cousins—each one well dowered—but that was apparently of no moment. “The lady would become my marchioness and enjoy both standing and material security.”
Dorning ceased sniffing his hand. “Don’t be a dunderhead. A title will not comfort a woman in the agony of childbed. A title will not understand when the megrims are upon her, or hold her when memories make her wistful. A title cannot learn how she likes to be kissed, or what her favorite novel is. For that matter, a fortune can’t rub a fellow’s back when he’s feeling old and creaky, be he ever so robust in truth. A fortune can’t make him laugh in the midst of a bad day. A fortune can’t climb into bed beside him and cuddle up for a long chat.”
Sycamore was shrewd, bold, and increasingly wealthy, but he was lamentably prone to intuitive leaps rather than sound logic.
“My father never brought my mother flowers, that I know of,” Trevor said. “He might have sent a bouquet to a mistress when he was a young man, but as for the other…” All quite sentimental and personal. Hard to dismiss, though, in a way that was connected to Trevor’s reluctance to go fortune hunting.
“How destitute are you?” Dorning asked.
Should one be insulted or touched at such rudeness? “I don’t need a loan, thank you just the same.”
“You need an heiress, though, suggesting your finances are structurally weak, not simply suffering a setback due to a drop in wool prices. My oldest brother tried to marry for money.”
Trevor mentally flipped through Debrett’s until he came to Grey Dorning, Earl of Casriel. A rusticating sort of peer whose seat was in Dorset. Well liked, horticulturally inclined, commended for seeing his army of younger siblings well and solvently settled.
“How does onetryto marry for money?” Trevor asked for purely theoretical reasons.
“One spends the Season sporting about all the fashionable gatherings, title in one hand, charm in the other. Witty repartee helps, competent dancing comes into it, as does regular participation in the carriage parade. Most of all, one needs a willingness to accept decades of marital misery where joy, desire, and respect ought to be. Casriel came to his senses and married for love.”
“And the earl is happy with his choice?”
“Grey is damned near jolly, and let me tell you, when a fellow relies on his eldest brother to be a sensible prig, jolly was quite an adjustment.”
