Page 78 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
The second thing he noticed was the expression on his father’s face. To be sure, he looked elated, but Michael also detected a trace of moisture in his father’s eyes. There was a moment of indecision when they finally came together, when Michael got the impression that his father was thinking about… hugging him?
Not that the marquess said anything about it, and he settled upon a vigorous handshake accompanied by a few thumps on Michael’s shoulder. But still, this was about as much emotion as Michael had seen out of his father since his mother died. It brought him up rather short.
His father led him down the hall to the library, where he went straight to the decanter in the corner. “I don’t care if it’s half nine, we’re having a drink.” He handed Michael a snifter of brandy. “I won’t ask why you came back, as the answer is obvious. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you weren’t here when I arrived.”
Michael tugged at his cravat as they settled into a pair of leather wing chairs. “Yes, I had some business early this morning.”
“Ha! I’m sure you did, but I wasn’t referring to this morning. I got in late last night, and I know full well you just came home. To say nothing of the fascinating note that arrived an hour ago, requesting that a fresh change of clothes be sent to a certain lady’s house.”
Michael was fairly certain he was blushing. “I… well… you see…” Gad, now he really did need a drink. He took a fortifying sip from his glass.
“I take it you got the job done this time?” his father asked conversationally.
Of course he choked, and came alarmingly close to spewing his drink across the room for the third time in three days. Oh, God, did he really have to discuss this with his father? “I… um… that is to say…”
His father laughed at his obvious discomfort. “I don’t need to hear the details, son. Just tell me this—has Lady Anne agreed to be your wife?”
“Yes.” Michael couldn’t help smiling, as he recalled the moment Anne had said yes. “I proposed, and she accepted.”
His father thumped the armrest with his fist. “That’s my boy.”
“Well,” Michael quickly amended, “there are a couple of issues we’re still trying to work out. Anne has some concerns about how she’ll be able to run her society—”
“Well, of course, as well she should. Our Lady Anne has become an important patroness in her own right, as you have no doubt seen for yourself. We will put whatever conditions she requires into the marriage settlement. It will just be a matter of the attorneys figuring out the exact wording.”
Michael decided not to enlighten his father that things were a bit more fraught. After all, he was going to marry Anne. That was not in question.
“We will have to make a worthy donation to Lady Anne’s charity to mark the occasion of your marriage.” His father paused, tapping his finger against his glass. “Do you think that twenty thousand pounds would suffice?”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “I am sure that twenty thousand pounds will do quite handsomely, and that Anne will put it to the best of use.” He laughed. “I hadn’t thought to be the one bringing twenty thousand pounds to my marriage. I didn’t realize I had a ‘dowry.’”
His father laughed. “That’s the only advantage of just having the one of you. No daughters to dower, and no younger sons to set up. So there’s plenty of money to go around.” His father looked down, and Michael knew he was thinking about the daughter he had almost had, and about Michael’s mother. But he didn’t say anything. He never did.
Michael cleared his throat. “So, how is everything at Ravenswell?”
They spent the morning exchanging news regarding the family holdings, both in Gloucestershire and Upper Canada. It was so good to see his father again, Michael scarcely noticed the passing of time.
His stomach, by contrast, eventually announced the arrival of midday with a loud rumble.
His father laughed, consulting his pocket watch. “Noon already?” The marquess stood. “Come on, let’s go to White’s for a chop. I want to show you off a bit.”
White’s was largely empty. The fashionable dinner hour wasn’t for a few hours hence, so the marquess was disappointed in his hopes of parading his strapping young son before his friends. But upon entering the dining room, they spotted the Astley brothers occupying a corner table.
Fauconbridge immediately stood and bowed. “Lord Redditch, how nice it is to see you in town.”
“Good afternoon Fauconbridge, Harrington,” his father said. “It was good of you to send me that note, Fauconbridge, letting me know that Michael had returned.”
“It was my pleasure,” the viscount replied. “Won’t you join us?”
They accepted gladly. Additional drinks were obtained, and Michael ordered his usual three beefsteaks. Fauconbridge turned to the marquess. “Lord Redditch, how is your new grove of apple trees coming along?”
“Quite well, quite well, especially considering what a dry spring we’ve had. I think they’ll take.”
“I don’t know how you contrive to get anything to grow in that loamy soil you have in your bottomlands,” Fauconbridge replied. “We have some two dozen acres of it, too, and I can’t get anything to grow there, other than rapeseed.”
“The secret,” his father replied, “is to select the right variety of apple. A Dymock Red will grow in the clay. A Foxwhelp or a Councillor, you’re just wasting your time.”
“What about a Longney Russet?” Fauconbridge asked.
