Page 17 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Samuel patted a stall board, his smile a slash of white in the dark. “For all those brood mares, one good stallion.”
A big bay lifted his head and stomped the ground. The stallion’s composition was difficult to assess without good light, but he was a full hand higher than Khan, boasting powerful haunches.
“A prime blood,” Marcus acknowledged.
Samuel spouted feed projections and increased regional hostelry demands since the bridge was built. They shared a love of the four-legged beasts, both having gotten an equine tattoo in Saint George Town, but become a man of business? For hostelry horses? Fine racing steeds to sell at Tattersall’s was a worthy idea. Not that it mattered. Hewasleaving once his brother wedded and bedded a wealthy bride.
“If the mares get enough sunlight, we could breed them as early as February or March.” Samuel’s eyes slanted sideways. “Ifthere’s enough land and fodder.”
“We could do this for a time.”
“No.” Samuel moved off the stall and faced him. “This venture requires full commitment.”
Marcus hooked a finger inside his neckcloth.Commitment.The word carried requirements, often followed by phrases likeone should do thisandone mustdo that. He craved London’s madness, the press of smoky taverns and willing women. Evenings offered diversions of every flavor. Streets wove one into another, excellent places for a man to lose himself. By morning he’d wash away the night’s revelry in a coffeehouse before finding his way home.
“You say you want to live as you please,” Samuel prodded. “To be free of your brother’s hold on the purse strings.”
“I do.”
“Then what’s your plan? Look for a woman with a fat dowry like the marquis?”
Marcus rested his forearms on the top slat. “To find a wealthy wife or not. The dilemma of a second son.”
Samuel could sneer all he wanted, but the common ploy had fed hungry coffers for centuries…and made miserable marriages. Despite his faults, Marcus wished for true love, a truth he’d not confess to anyone.
Was he a romantic at heart?
His mother, the marchioness, had hinted of marital plans. She’d summoned him to her private salon and, leaning heavily on her cane, had implored him to leave—the same day his brother demanded he go north.
“Go to Pallinsburn. Keep out of trouble until North secures a fine wife,” she’d said, squeezing his arm. “Your scandal at the Cocoa Tree has scared off his better prospects. We can arrange something for you later.”
He’d left of his own accord to keep the family peace and clear his head. Much as he hated leaving London, she was a party to his downfall, a wretched woman preying on his vices. The country would force him to confront the strange plague whiskey and gambling had become. It was one of the few times he and North were in agreement.
Samuel rested his arms on the slat beside him. “You don’t want marriage to a woman to solve your problems any more than I do. You’d be miserable.”
A good point. England swam in a sea of unhappy dynastic marriages. Husbands and wives sailed past each other at social events, coming together only for the sake of creating an heir. It was how his mother and father had lived. The marchioness could line up all the eligible ladies in the realm, but he’d not bite the marriage-of-convenience bait.
He wanted a woman to take him for the man he was, not his place in society or hallowed family name. It was one of the reasons he favored London’s workingwomen. Tavern maids and seamstresses, an actress or two…they all graced him with smiling acceptance, asking little in return. To them, he was simply a man.
He stared at Samuel’s prized bay. “Being with a woman isn’t the problem. Being leg-shackled is.”
“Thendosomething different, work for what you want,” Samuel urged. “Men of substance sweat the same as the rest of us.”
Samuel stood stalwart as a battlement, blond hair neatly queued, the short curl touching the back of his collar. He had been a perfect fit for the army: routines of discipline and order came naturally to him, as did staunch pride and a sense of responsibility. When his parents had died four years ago, guardianship of Alexander and Adam had fallen squarely on Sam’s wide, capable shoulders, something he’d gladly accepted.
Life hadn’t been easy for Samuel Beckworth, but he was solid as oak. Yet, he lived under the cloud of an incontrovertible truth. A country squire with a paltry holding would have few prospects for himself or his brothers. This venture would give the Beckworth family much-deserved good fortune.
“Pallinsburn isn’t part of the entail. North wouldn’t have much say here,” Marcus reasoned. “Neither do I, for that matter. The land belongs to the marchioness until I inherit.”
Samuel tapped the wooden slat like a patient tutor helping a dull student. “Then what your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“You’ve never been one for an omission of truth.”
“Because I’ve never been this low in the heel.” Samuel’s voice dropped to harsher notes. “I need something. Soon. Or you’ll see me herding sheep for Baron Atal.”
Marcus slipped a hand inside his coat, the comforting habit long ingrained. He sought the smooth metal of his flask, but his hand scraped an earthen jar. Miss Turner’s healing salve for his chilblains sat in the pocket. He’d left the flask behind for the day, a wise decision considering that a new, intoxicating idea spun wildly in his head.
His balled hand fell to his side. Throat dry, he could be teetering on a cliff. Only a fool would make this leap.
