Page 5 of The Meriwell Legacy
“A good evening, my lord?” Hilliard asked.
“Well enough.” Alaric dismounted and handed over the reins. “I’ll need him again tomorrow—about nine o’clock.”
Hilliard stroked Sultan’s nose. “Back to the Hall?”
“Indeed.” Alaric started toward the manor’s side door. “Only four more days to go, thank God!”
Hilliard chuckled; a local and longtime servitor, the grizzled stableman was aware that Alaric was attending Percy’s house party more from a sense of duty and loyalty than from any real wish to indulge.
Alaric continued along the flagstone path; through the pervasive quiet, he heard Hilliard coo to Sultan and the heavy clop of the horse’s hooves as he was led into the stable. Alaric reached the side door, opened it, and strode along the corridor that led to the front hall.
The lamps in the hall were still lit, but turned low. Through the dimness, Johns, Alaric’s gentleman’s gentleman, came hurrying from the rear of the house. “Do you require anything, my lord?”
Alaric paused to consider, then shook his head. “No—you can retire.”
With a dip of his head, Johns retreated.
Standing at the base of the stairs, Alaric debated where best to think—in his bed or over a nightcap in the library?
The nightcap won. He walked on to the library and went in. No lamps were lit, but the heavy velvet curtains had been left open, and sufficient light streamed in through the tall windows for Alaric’s purpose. He crossed to the tantalus and poured a measure of French brandy into a cut-crystal tumbler; the clink of the decanter against the lip of the glass produced a pure, clear note that hung in the silence.
Glass in hand, Alaric sank into his favorite armchair, angled before the cold hearth. Given the season, no fire burned in the grate, yet there was a certain comfort in the familiar position.
He sipped, and his gaze rose to rest on the coat of arms carved into the stone overmantel. It fell to him to marry and beget an heir so the long line of Radleighs could continue unbroken—from father to son down the generations. He’d always known that to be his duty, and now…it was time.
Everything was in readiness; there was nothing left to do—to prepare. All that remained was for him to choose.
So who was the lady who would be the right wife for him?
With his gaze locked on the empty hearth, he tapped the bottom of his glass against the chair’s arm. “I have no clue who she might be, so perhaps I should definewhatshe needs to be.”
That seemed the most logical way forward.
He tried to conjure a vision of his paragon, imbuing her with the characteristics he required. She would, he assumed, be sweet faced and gentle, mild mannered and biddable—an elementally cheerful soul to balance his more cynical nature. Importantly, he required a lady unlikely to challenge, in any meaningful way, the direction in which he chose to steer their joint lives.
He knew himself well enough to admit that he never appreciated being countermanded, much less being directly opposed. He could and would hold his own in any confrontation, but he didn’t like being forced to do so. Consequently, in order to guarantee a peaceful married life, his lady should be an acquiescent sort, one who would lean on his arm and leave it to him to guide them both.
On the thought, an image of Glynis Johnson as she’d looked up at him while on his arm and strolling the terrace blazed across his mind.
After a moment, he grimaced and drained his glass. “Obviously, my vision of my ideal wife requires further work.” His hard edges and implacable will would frighten the Glynises of this world, and she—they—would bore him within a week.
And if a niggling inkling that a gentle, submissive wife might not be good for him—might exacerbate rather than ameliorate his tendency to hold aloof from the world—kept prodding at his brain, there was no denying that marrying such a lady would result in a more peaceful life.
Alaric snorted, rose, set the empty glass on a side table, and headed for the door.
As he climbed the stairs to his lonely bed, he reflected that that, at least, would shortly be rectified—just as soon as he found his ideal wife.
* * *
By the time Alaric rode into the Hall stable yard the next morning, the sun was well up, promising another warm summer’s day.
After handing Sultan’s reins to Hughes, Alaric, as usual, strode into and through the shrubbery. The area was extensive; the Mandeville Hall shrubbery consisted of five garden clearings of varying sizes, lined with high hedges and linked by grassed paths. The central clearing hosted a stone-lined rectangular pool with a small gazebo tucked away at the far end. The ivory water lilies floating on the surface of the pool had opened to the sun, and lazy droning drifted on the air as bees dipped into the cosmos nodding their bright flower heads along the pool’s edge.
Fixing his gaze on the neatly clipped grass before his boots, Alaric strode briskly over the lawn bordering the pool. Another glorious day he was proposing to waste pretending to enjoy a type of entertainment that had palled and, in truth, now bored him to the depths of his soul.
I’ve outgrown this.
The next phase of his life hovered in the wings—waiting for him to give it his full attention.
