Chapter 2

THIS WAS GOING TO be a long house party. For many reasons, Isaac, Duke of Regium, could feel a rope wrapped around his chest being pulled tighter and tighter with each step he took toward Snowick Abbey. One end was inside tethered to raven locks, crimson lips, and purest of hearts. She was a close friend of his and his best friend's little sister. Untouchable. Not that he wanted her. So he told himself every time he saw her.

The other end was currently being pulled taut by his sister. An equally vexing female, but in an entirely different capacity.

He furrowed his brow as he watched Astrid shamelessly bat her eyelashes at the footman grabbing her luggage from the back of the carriage. Sure, the liveried servant had nice calves, thick thighs, and wavy blonde locks any wanton woman would lust after, but did it have to be his sister who was the wanton woman? And did it have to be right in front of his eyes? Couldn't she wait until she was alone? Then again, he didn't want her to be alone with the heavenly-favored footman. There was really no good outcome here. He needed to marry her off. And soon.

"Do be sure to put that one in my room." As if the footman wasn't sure that the pink-tinted leather luggage belonged to the only female alighting from the carriage.

With the footman out of earshot, Isaac admonished his sister, as only an older, wiser, more principled brother could do. "Astrid, might you consider waiting until…well, never, to engage in such behavior?"

"Pfft, Isaac. Please. Don't be such a hypocrite. It's not like I'm doing even half of what you do all of the time."

He did not want to think about what that would mean. If she did half of what he did all the time…Did that mean half of what he did, but that she did it all the time? Or did that mean half of what he did all of the time, thus taking an average of his licentious behavior? It was too early for philosophy. Either way she took the half, she'd be more than halfway out of England.

The worst of it was that he knew she was right. It was absolutely hypocritical to judge her. But it was the way of the world. Men seduced. Chased. Snagged trophies. And maybe one day, if they played their cards right, they would find a trophy shiny enough to marry. Maybe. And even less likely, but still infinitesimally possible, they adored that new shiniest of trophies and didn't hunt down any more trophies. That was a truth he had learned in his youth, at a time when he was not the trophy-attracting type. It had to be the truth. It was what everyone homilized to him. The lectures and mockings he had endured then taught him that a man's worth directly corresponded to the degree of beauty he was able to attract.

That was the crux of it though, wasn't it? The hunt. A man needed to hunt. If he spent the first quarter, or third, of his life hunting, what would ever make him want to stop? It wasn't healthy for a man to quit. To give up his purpose and productivity. Peculiar words to apply to the core of a man, to be sure. But Isaac was no quitter. If there was any principle he held dear, it was to never settle. Always strive for more. Be more. Do more. Have more. And a wife was not more. She was one. And then that was the end. No more hunt. No more more.

So yes, he believed what they said, and he would probably find a wife for himself. He was a duke who needed an heir, after all. And then he would continue the hunt with more. More beauty meant more pride, which in turn meant more satisfaction in life.

Astrid interrupted his thoughts using her singsong voice again. Only, she was directing it to the tall, handsome footman. "You do know which room is mine, don't you?"

Even though Isaac closed his eyes, he was pretty sure he saw her wink. True. No one was around. It was discreet. Enough. But hardly. The woman had no shame.

But really, she could do far less damage here, under his watchful eye, than if he left her alone. God only knew what mischief she would create for herself—and others!—if left to her own devices. And wouldn't it be cruel to leave one's sister alone for Christmas?

That thought led him to ponder Hope's sad state. Not that he pitied her, he just felt for her…in a makes-one's-heart-sting sort of way. She would be miserable not to have her brothers home for Christmas. He already knew that. He knew the chit too well. It was a thorny predicament to walk into. On the one hand, he would stay close to her because Hope needed some protection without her brothers around. Though, Lord knew the long term plan for that—besides the obvious, to find her a husband.

On the other hand, Hope would be throwing herself into every possible nurturing role to distract herself from her emotions; ergo, she would almost definitely make a nuisance of herself to him. Likely no one else would notice or even care. Everyone loved Hope. Besides her undeniable beauty, she was charming, delightful, sweet, and caring. He had seen on more than one occasion how she had paired the right wine to each guest and had planned activities suitable for all ages and abilities. She was the first one to bring an elderly guest a blanket or order tea on a cold evening.

He shuddered at how she mothered people. And now there weren't seven brothers to receive that coddling. He would be the recipient of most of that attention. Another shudder trickled down his spine.

Speaking of nuisances. Astrid walked over to him and straightened his cravat. "Why you insisted on leaving your valet at home, I'll never understand. And my lady's maid as well. It puts everyone out."

"I'm quite capable of dressing myself, Astrid."

"And what about me? Do you have any idea what it takes to dress a woman?"

Undress? Yes. Dress. Ehhh…

There was nothing that Isaac hated more than being doted on. He could take care of himself. He didn't need someone hovering around him. He had seen the damage a lazy spirit caused in people, and that was the last thing in the world he would let happen to himself.

"Astrid," —he swatted her hands away— "just promise me you'll be good for this house party. No luring men into the gardens. Promise?"

Astrid belted out a laugh. After wiping a small tear from her temple, she eyed Isaac. "That was one time. And we both know what happened with that."

"Yes, we do. I hope you learned your lesson."

"God, Isaac. You really know how to burn my buttons. Step off your soapbox, will you? I'm an independent woman. I'll learn the lessons I want to learn and not a note more."

There was no point in arguing with Astrid when she worked herself into such a huff.

"Worry less about me and more about yourself."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You've been invited to a house party." She said the words as if they had an underlying message that he should somehow already be privy to.

"So?"

"By the dowager Duchess of Whitewood."

"And?"

"Also known now by the entire ton as the Matchmaking Maven."

"I've run out of relevant conjunctions, Astrid. What's your point?"

"Isaac. Don't be such a dolt. She's planning to match you with someone."

The very thought of it made him burst into a laugh. "Astrid, I can guarantee you that the dowager is not going to make me a match."

Astrid crossed her arms and tucked her chin defiantly. "Really? How can you be so sure?"

"Two very simple reasons. First of all, if she has ever wanted to match me with someone, she would have done it by now. Do you know how much time I have spent at this house? How many parties I've been to? How many events? Balls? Dinners? I could continue the list, but surely you can concede the point. And second of all, she knows I'm a" —cough— "rake." He felt a cad applying the word to himself, but wasn't about to deny it. "She would never intentionally arrange an attachment of a woman to me."

"First of all," Astrid mimicked back, "for the first time ever, none of her sons are here, so she can demand your full attention. You of all people must know the strength of her will? The determination of her spirit? And the power wielded by her hand? Surely, you must concede the point. And second of all, she knows exactly what kind of rake you are."

"What the he—what is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Isaac. You're just like every other man except you have principles about it. You are protective. You would never hurt those that you love."

Love? Who the deuce was talking about love? A grunt of a reply was the best that Isaac could manage to convey resentment for whatever points his irksome little sister was trying to make.

"I'm weary of this conversation, dear sister."

"Right, well, don't be surprised if for some reason—and it will be very logical—she requires that you pay extra attention to one guest in particular."

He was being baited. He knew it. So he didn't mean to ask, "Which guest?" Of course, only one guest came to mind. A raven-haired, crimson-lipped snowflake. A flurry waiting to happen. She had no idea the trouble she caused.

Astrid rolled her eyes. "I'm going inside to freshen up. I can't wait to see my room. By now my luggage should be there."

Blast it all to hell. This was most definitely going to be a very long house party, indeed.