Page 79 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
His father considered. “A Longney Russet might do, but of course, those aren’t any good for cider. You might try a Hen’s Turd, but only if the spot has good drainage.”
“How glad I am in this moment,” Harrington said, “to be the second son. I have absolutely no idea what you two are talking about, and I have no desire to find out. Have I truly been drinking something called a Hen’s Turd?”
The marquess laughed. “I regret to inform you that you have. At least it tastes better than it sounds. It’s a bit of a mystery how it got that name.”
“Are you getting all of this, Morsley?” Harrington asked. “You’ll need to remember to plant Hen’s Turd in all of that loamy, well-drained soil you’re going to inherit one day.”
“Perhaps I should make a few notes,” Michael said. He made the comment lightly, but in truth, he was out of his depth. The farming he’d been doing in Canada had been relatively straightforward: clear some land, plant some wheat, then clear some more land, and plant some more wheat. He’d known that farming in England wasn’t that simple, but he hadn’t realized it was quite so complex.
He would need to learn all of this before the time came for him to take over the estate. People were depending on him, after all.
“My apologies,” Fauconbridge said. “I must be boring you two. Let us speak of something else. I believe you have some news of a much more exciting nature, Morsley.”
“Indeed he does.” His father elbowed him. “Tell them, Michael.”
Michael grinned. “Anne accepted me.”
A round of congratulations followed. “Splendid, Morsley, splendid,” Harrington said. Although I would not say precisely that it comes as news.”
“I suppose not. You did know I was planning to ask her, after all,” Michael allowed.
“I was more referring to the fact that I watched you propose.” Harrington shook his head. “Couldn’t see a thing from the balcony, but I found a room on the second floor with an unimpeded view.”
Michael blanched. “You… you were spying on us?”
“My favorite part,” Harrington continued, “was when she said yes, and you picked her up and started spinning her around. I had no idea you were such a romantic, Morsley! Although I also enjoyed the part that followed soon thereafter, when you decided you needed to leave the garden immediately, and you rammed the gate with your shoulder. Somewhere you were eager to get to?”
“My apologies for my brother,” Fauconbridge said. “As always.” He turned to Michael’s father. “Don’t worry, my lord, Morsley made a good show of it. Got down on one knee and everything.”
Michael sighed. “Et tu, Fauconbridge?”
“Naturally I was watching,” the viscount replied. “That is my little sister you were leading off into the garden. I was fairly confident Anne would accept you, but had she given any sign that your attentions were unwelcome, as much as I value our friendship, I had to be ready to charge down there and run you through.” Fauconbridge delivered this threat of dismemberment with an amiable smile.
“It was a bit touch and go at the start,” Harrington informed his father. “At first I thought she had refused him! But he started kissing her, and then he hauled her into his lap, and apparently he was able to persuade her of the size of his, let us say, regard.”
Fauconbridge turned to Michael. “You’re a brave man, Morsley. Marrying Anne means you’ll have Harrington for a brother-in-law.”
“I wouldn’t have even considered it,” Michael said, “were it not for the fact that there will be an entire ocean separating us from Harrington.”
“What?” his father cried, his voice raw with shock. Everyone at the table froze, looking at the marquess’s stunned face. “You… you mean to go back?” his father said after a few beats of silence. “To Canada?”
Oh, hell. “I… er… yes. Anne and I will settle in Canada. You know of all I’ve been doing there, for the army and the navy, and the Crown. And just the other day Lord Hobart asked to see me. He wants me to succeed Sir Robert Milnes. As governor general.”
What his father said was, “Governor general. What an honor. I’m proud of you, son. I… I just hadn’t realized you were going to leave again.” But the marquess’s voice was completely flat, and his expression could only be described as…
Crestfallen.
Fauconbridge was urgently signaling for the waiter to bring the marquess another drink. Harrington, on the other hand, was eyeing Michael skeptically. “I say, Morsley, has my sister really agreed to give up her charity and move to Canada?”
“Well,” Michael replied, nodding his thanks to the waiter who placed his three beefsteaks before him, “not precisely. We’re currently trying to figure out how she can continue running her charity while we’re in Canada.”
Harrington snorted. “Well, that’s a ‘no’ if ever I’ve heard one.”
Michael swallowed a mouthful of beef. “We’re going to figure something out.”
“I know my sister,” Harrington said, “and she’s not giving up her charity. I can tell you that right now. She’s every bit as bullheaded as you, beneath her sweet-as-sugar exterior. You’ve seen the hours she has to put in to keep it running. There’s no way she can do that from Canada.” Harrington studied Michael’s face for a few beats. “I’ll warrant she told you she couldn’t marry you after all, as soon as you sprung this whole ‘Canada’ business on her.”
Michael almost choked. He didn’t mind that Anne could read his face; it had certainly been convenient last night. But Harrington Astley reading him like a book was a most unwelcome development. “We’re going to figure it out,” Michael repeated. “And we’re going to live in Canada. Because I say so. I’m the man, and the man is in charge.”
