Page 9 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
His nerves ate at him. He needed the wind to clear his head. The sky to lift him up.
Bugger.
Not only was he a day late for this house party, but he’d been so disturbed by the argument with his father, he’d failed to send his groom out yesterday with a second and longer apology to Esme and her parents.
Christ, why did the man have to fight with him about his marriage?
But he knew why. Because the ignoble duke thought he had him to the wall when he’d learned (only God knew how) that he’d been in Paris these past four weeks.
“One last good boffing before the nuptials, eh?” Brentford had chided him yesterday. “These English fillies require too much breaking in. A wedding night should be one grand go so they’re primed. Tell me, does the gel know she’s to share you with a Frenchwoman?”
The duke understood so little about his only son.So damn little.
But His Grace had summoned him north to get more than smug satisfaction from his son’s compliance with the order to appear.
Oh, yes. I should have expected that.
First, it was for funds. Because the man always needed more money. Because his sire often bucked at the pursestrings Northington had his own solicitor, Chesters, put on his contributions to his father’s errant lifestyle.
Second, it was for the man’s pride. The old roué had the audacity to tell him that a clause in the marriage contracts with Esme’s father was unacceptable.
“Which?” Giles asked.
“You know which.”
“You want more,” he concluded.
“True. And unless you give it, dear boy, I will not sign!” The duke had swilled down the rest of his brandy and glared at him. “An extra thousand a year. You can afford it. Then I’ll order old Wendleton to give your man Chesters what he wants. I need the blunt, Northington. Need it.”
Northington dug his spurs in to the flanks of his very fine steed. Christ, how to tell Lord Courtland his father had not yet signed? The viscount would think him…
Weak.
That made him curl his lip.
He’d fought often with his sire. That was nothing new. Even Brentford’s effrontery to refuse to attend his only son’s nuptials had not roiled Northington as much as this latest outrage.
All this because I was not to hand.
But in Paris.
Doing his duty to King and Crown arguing with the new King Louis’s adviser, duc de Richelieu. That old aristo unwisely wished for retaliation against many of Napoleon’s supporters. Vengeance, Northington had counseled, would not endear the new king to his citizens. But Richelieu would not be moved. He wanted all Bourbon opponents in prison, politely but badly tortured—and dead. Northington had debated him daily, hourly, to no avail.
It was one thing to fail in his diplomatic efforts. Diplomacy was the finesse of a thousand words. What did not come to one the first time or the tenth, could bear fruit on the twentieth. But while he was away in the King’s service, his absence had given his father time to connive a means to get more of what he wanted.
Forget what I want. Forget my marriage. My needs.
The bastard.
He took the turn on the road at breakneck speed. The animal strained to comply and delight him.
Just then, from behind, he heard his coachman yell at his greys and crack the reins on them.
No use killing his fine horseflesh as well as myself because Brentford is an arse.
He slowed his mount and turned back toward the bend in the road to lift his head in recognition of his servants. His coachman at the reins—Jarvis with him eight years. His groom beside the coachman—Smythe with him four. Inside, his valet, Lymon—with him forever. And at the back, his feral little tiger—Henry.Henri—age ten with him two years now, ever since Toulouse when he’d unearthed him from the carnage upon the battlefield.
“Sorry, Jarvis.” He put his hand on his hip as his man brought the fine red lacquer conveyance alongside. “I forgot you’ve not been to Courtland Hall.”
