Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

"I t seems I've been invited to a unique gathering, Bowman," Andrew mused as he dressed for dinner that night.

"Christmastide, my lord? Will there be pagan rituals? Dancing around a bonfire?" His valet smirked as he attached the collar to Andrew's linen shirt.

He chuckled. "Don't ever leave me, Bowman. I'd miss your wit."

"Thank you, my lord. I've no intention of going anywhere." Bowman held up the waistcoat of striped spruce and cream that matched his butter-colored trousers. "What is so unique?"

Andrew put his arms out and shrugged on the piece of clothing. "The guest list is composed of possible suitors for our host's daughter. It seems she had trouble in London, of the innocent sort, and refuses to have another Season. So, the suitors shall come to her."

"Very expedient." Bowman held a winding length of linen above his own ashen-brown head and slipped it over the viscount's, then around his neck. "And convenient for you under the circumstances."

"That's the irony of this invitation. I'm not one of the proposed suitors. Beecham had no idea I'd decided to take a wife. He wants my opinion of the young men attending."

"You are an excellent judge of character," agreed Bowman. "But I wouldn't take yourself out of the running."

"I'm too old for her." Did he sound whiny?

"Nonsense. We're of the same age, and I'm certainly not in my dotage. Men take younger women to wife all the time."

Andrew lifted his chin as the valet finished tying the cravat. When Bowman held up the rifle-green coat, Andrew purveyed the room and turned back to his valet. "It seems we're keeping to a theme tonight."

"Yes, my lord," answered his valet with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. "Green is the color of rebirth and renewal. Fortuitous since you are beginning again and will need to revive your courting skills."

"Yes, well, I don't know if the color of my bedchamber will help me in that area."

"It is in the middle of the color spectrum, offering balance." Bowman raised one brow at his employer. "The shade is also known to induce relaxation and relieve anxiety."

"And you believe I am in need of more calm and balance in my life?" Andrew asked with a chuckle. He knew the valet always had a point but preferred the long route to a shortcut.

"Miss Phoebe is often the cause of indigestion for you, my lord. The wedding will be an ordeal by the time it is over. Aging is never easy, and you will be dealing with multiple young bucks trying to win the hand of a thirty-thousand-pound dowry. And if I am correct in my suspicions, you were very attracted to the female attached to said dowry."

With a snort, Andrew scowled at his man. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"I arrived just after she showed you to this room. The tone of your voice was different from conversations with your daughter and her friends. More charming, subtle. And you've mentioned her name several times this evening while preparing for dinner."

"How do you know the size of her dowry?"

"A simple trip into the kitchen of any noble household is always enlightening."

He shook his head. How did Bowman know… everything ? "Well, green it is, then. And thank you for the colorful lesson."

"My pleasure. And of course, if you over imbibe at dinner, you need look no further than your suit of clothes to remember which room you are in."

Andrew guffawed. "Demmit, but you caught me off guard on that one."

"Thank you, sir." The valet opened the bedchamber door for the viscount. "I do not believe you will be needing gloves tonight."

"Thank the etiquette gods for that."

"Speaking of the heavens, you might consider smoothing out that infamous charm of your youth. It might surprise you how easily it returns." Bowman's mouth twitched in one corner, but his expression remained blank.

"Good advice as always." Andrew decided he would follow it and enjoy this festive visit, perhaps oil his rusty flirtations on Lady Annette. He could avoid being awkward when he returned to London for the next session of Parliament. Regardless of Bowman's optimistic words, he could never consider himself a suitor for his friend's daughter. But if he told Phoebe of his intentions, she might have widows storming Westminster, telling her whom he should or should not choose. Blast! He'd rather take his time and let fate guide his path.

Andrew made his way to the drawing room and found his host and Lady Henney sitting on a small sofa, and Lady Annette seated across from them. The younger woman turned and smiled at him. The room seemed suddenly warm, and his finger tugged slightly at his cravat.

Beecham rose and offered him a drink, then made formal introductions. "You've met my betrothed. This is my daughter, Lady Annette. My dear, this is one of my oldest friends, Lord Weston."

"It seems our valet and lady's maid conspired before we dressed tonight," remarked Lady Annette.

Andrew's eyes traveled down the length of Lady Annette's gown, almost the same shade as his coat and trousers—and her eyes. He laughed. "I'll tell Bowman to check with your maid before our next dinner."

"Please do. My reputation is scandalous enough, without adding more wood to the on-dit fires."

He opened his mouth to disagree but saw she was teasing, a smirk turning up her mouth. A woman not afraid to make fun of herself. At least, not in private. Delightful. He took the chair next to Lady Annette. "So, what activities have the ladies planned for us over the next week?"

"There will be the usual parlor games, wassail, the villagers will be caroling. We'll decorate on Christmas Eve, of course." Lady Henney counted on her fingers. "Nettie, er, Lady Annette will be busy for part of St. Stephen's Day. She so enjoys handing out the Christmas boxes."

"And don't forget the outdoor activities," reminded Beecham. "Skating, a game of bandy, perhaps, if we have interest enough."

Andrew remembered the estate was in the area of the fens, the shallow washes and flooded fields making quick frozen ponds for winter activities.

"Are you rested from your journey, my lord?" asked Lady Annette. "I saw you came on horseback rather than carriage."

"Yes, thank you. I prefer the fresh air whenever possible. I hate being cooped up." He turned to accept a glass of whisky from the footman. "I always have the coach follow with my trunks just in case the weather turns bad."

"Especially at our age, eh, Drew?" Beecham grinned. "I'm getting more creaks in these bones than I care to admit."

Andrew rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, to be a youth of eighteen again." The men laughed, but Lady Henney blew out an exasperated sigh.

"Horse feathers! You both exaggerate." She flapped her fan at Beecham. "Do you think I'd marry a decrepit old man?"

"My dear, I'd be whatever you wanted me to be as long as you met me at the church." Beecham picked up her hand and kissed it.

"Do you see what I must live with, Lord Weston? This daily display of calf-love." This time it was Lady Annette who rolled her eyes. But the look of affection she cast over the couple told Andrew how much she approved of the match.

"Be it young and foolish or old and wise, it does not matter. The heart knows what the heart knows," said Beecham.

There was a discrete knock at the door, and the butler appeared. "Dinner is served, my lord."

"Thank you, Gibbs."

When Lady Annette rose, he offered his arm. "My lady, may I escort you to the dining room?" Did he sound foolish or gallant? He rather thought the latter.

"I'd be delighted."

Her smile was like honey on a warm slice of bread, pleasant and sweet, leaving one wanting just one more bite. He smiled in return and decided he'd be foolish more often if this was the result.