Page 124 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Only if his wife is a toper,” Andrew replied.
“She has every right to be, if it’s her fortune that pays for it,” Baxter said, laughing, “though I assure you, Miss Howard is not the sort to imbibe every night. In fact, she hardly touches the stuff.”
“She sounds a veritable paragon of womanly perfection,” Andrew said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Baxter frowned, but Marable let out a belly laugh.
“Careful there, Baxter!” he cried. “If you’re overly assertive when marketing the goods, your prospective buyer will flee. Miss Howard is a charming creature, but I doubt she’d welcome being described as ‘a paragon of womanly perfection.’”
“Why not?” Andrew asked. “Don’t all women wish to be praised?”
“In my experience, women only wish to be heard,” Marable said. “And the very worst sort of woman a man can take for a wife is one whom Society deems to be perfect.”
“So Miss Howard isnotperfect,” Andrew said.
“She is not a debutante in search of a title,” Baxter said. “But she’s a charming creature, and my wife quite adores her. She’s suffered greatly yet carries not a trace of bitterness.”
“Really?” Andrew flinched as he uttered the question.
“And she has the sweetest little boy imaginable,” Axley said.
“That she does,” Baxter added. “Of course, some men may be deterred from paying court to Miss Howard, given that she has a son. It’s a rare good soul indeed who’s prepared to love another’s children as if they were their own. But Miss Howard may yet enjoy the same good fortune as me. I never believed I could find a woman to love my three little brigands—until my Bella.”
Baxter gave a soft sigh and smiled.
“Here we go again,” Marable said, rolling his eyes. “We all know how devoted you are to Lady Arabella—there’s no need to hang your tongue out like a lovesick puppy every time you think of her.”
“Leave him alone,” Axley said, giving Marable a push. “We all know you’d crawl through broken glass stripped naked if it pleased my sister.”
“Well, there is that,” Marable replied, a smile of satisfaction on his lips. “I was never one to recommend marriage until Imet my Carin. You must forgive us lovesick fools, Radham. Rest assured, we shall not tease you when the ladies arrive.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Axley said. “My sister would cut off your—what was it?”
“Ballocks,” Andrew said.
“I beg your pardon?” a female voice cried, and Andrew turned to see four ladies in the doorway.
The woman who’d spoken must be their hostess, judging by the way Baxter stared at her with slavish devotion. With glossy black hair set in an elegant style, dotted with pearls, and eyes the color of sapphires, she was a striking creature.
Andrew’s cheeks warmed, and he shifted from one foot to the other. One of her companions, a brown-haired woman with a determined set to her chin and dark, intense brown eyes, let out a laugh.
“Has my wayward husband been teaching you his particular style of cursing, Lord Radham?” she asked. “I assume youareLord Radham.” She approached Andrew and offered her hand. “Carinthia MacCallum,” she said. “Lady Marable.”
Andrew glanced toward the tall Scot, who nodded. “Aye, that’s my Carin,” he said, pride in his voice. “The love of my life and purveyor of the finest poetry in the land—even to rival Burns himself.”
Andrew glanced at Axley, the woman’s brother, then recognition slid into place. “CarinthiaAxley? The poet?”
“The very same,” she said.
Andrew took her hand and bowed over it. “A pleasure,” he said. “My late brother kept a copy of your poems in his study. I happened upon them when I took residence at Radham Hall.”
She smiled in response then glided across the floor toward her husband.
Lady Arabella gestured to her two remaining companions. “Mrs. Axley and Lady Alice Trelawney. Ladies, this is Lord Radham.”
The ladies nodded in acknowledgment. Mrs. Axley smiled then joined her husband, but Lady Alice tilted her head to one side and cast her gaze over Andrew’s form as if undertaking a critique, not only of his style of dress, but of his very nature. At length, she lifted her gaze. As her eyes met Andrew’s, his skin tightened, as if cold fingers caressed the back of his neck. Her benign expression was that of any Society beauty, save for the flicker of pain simmering in her gaze. Though she was a young woman, small creases marred the corners of her eyes.
She hid her pain well, but nevertheless it shimmered around her, shifting the air as she moved.
