inwardly at the picture she conjured up, but his face remained impassive and faintly disdainful. ‘No, not quite. I thought a house party might do the trick.’
‘A house party?’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I loathe the country at this time of year.’
Magnus shrugged. ‘It needn’t be for long. A week or so will do.’
‘A week!’ Laetitia almost shrieked. ‘A week to court a bride! Lord, the ton will never stop talking about it.’
Magnus clenched his jaw. If there had been any other way he would have walked out then and there. But his cousin was a young, apparently respectable, society matron—exactly what he required. No one else could so easily introduce him to eligible young ladies. And she could help him circumvent the tedium of the dreaded marriage mart—courting under the eyes of hundreds. He shuddered inwardly again. Laetitia might be a shallow featherbrain with a taste for malicious gossip, and he disliked having to ask for her assistance in anything, but she was all he had.
‘Will you do it?’ he repeated.
Laetitia’s delicately painted features took on a calculating look. Magnus was familiar with the expression; he usually encountered it on the faces of less respectable females, though he’d first learnt it from his mother. He relaxed. This aspect of the female of the species was one he knew how to deal with.
‘It might be awkward for me to get away—the Season may not have started, but we have numerous engagements…’ She glanced meaningfully at the over-mantel mirror, the gilt frame of which bore half a dozen engraved invitations.
‘And to organise a house party at Manningham at such short notice…’ She sighed. ‘Well, it is a great deal of work, and I would have to take on extra help, you know…and George might not like it, for it will be very expens—’
‘I will cover all expenses, of course,’ Magnus interrupted. ‘And I’ll make it worth your while, too, Laetitia. Would diamonds make it any easier to forgo your balls and routs for a week or two?’
Laetitia pursed her lips, annoyed at his bluntness but unable to resist the bait. ‘What—?’
‘Necklace, earrings and bracelet.’ His cold grey eyes met hers with cynical indifference. Laetitia bridled at his cool certainty.
‘Oh, Magnus, how vulgar you are. As if I would wish to be paid for assisting my dearest cous—’
‘Then you don’t want the diamonds?’
‘No, no, no. I didn’t say that. Naturally, if you care to present me with some small token…’
‘Good, then it’s decided. You invite half a dozen girls—’
‘—and their mamas.’
A faint grimace disturbed the cool impassivity of his expression. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, you invite them, and I’ll choose one.’
Laetitia shuddered delicately. ‘So cold-blooded, Magnus. No wonder they call you The Ic—’
His freezing look cut her off in midsentence. He stood up to leave.
‘You cannot intend to leave yet, surely?’ said Laetitia.
He regarded her in faint puzzlement. ‘Why not? It is all decided, is it not?’
‘But which girls do you want me to invite?’ she demanded through her teeth.
Magnus looked at her with blank surprise. He shrugged. ‘Damn it, Tish, I don’t know. That’s your job.’ He walked towards the door.
‘I don’t believe it! You want me to choose your bride for you?’ she shrieked shrilly.
Faint irritation appeared in his eyes. ‘No, I’ll choose her from the girls you pick out. Lord, Tish, haven’t you got it straight yet? What else have we been talking about for the last fifteen minutes?’
Laetitia stared at him in stupefaction. He was picking out a bride with no more care than he would take to buy a horse. Less, actually. Magnus was very particular about his horseflesh.
‘Are…I mean, do you have any special requirements?’ she said at last.
Magnus sat down again. He had not really thought past the idea of children, but it was a fair request, he supposed. He thought for a moment. ‘She must be sound, of course…with good bloodlines, naturally. Umm…good teeth, reasonably intelligent, but with a placid temperament…and wide enough hips—for childbearing, you know. I think that about covers it.’
Laetitia gritted her teeth. ‘We are talking about a lady, are we not? Or are you only after a brood mare?’
Magnus ignored her sarcasm. He shrugged. ‘More or less, I suppose. I have little interest in the dam, only the offspring.’
‘Do you not even care what she looks like?’
‘Not particularly. Although I suppose I’d prefer someone good-looking, at least passably so. But not beautiful. A beautiful wife would be too much trouble.’ His lips twitched sardonically. ‘I’ve known too many beautiful wives not to realise what a temptation they are—to others.’
His subtle reference was not lost on Laetitia, and to her annoyance she found herself flushing slightly under his ironic gaze. She would have liked to fling his request in his even white teeth. However, a diamond necklace, earrings and a bracelet were not to be looked in the mouth.
Even if Lord d’Arenville’s bride was.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said sourly.
The black knight reached down, caught her around the waist and lifted her onto his gallant charger, up and away, out of reach of the slavering wolves snapping at her heels.
‘Begone you vicious curs!’ he shouted in a thrillingly deep, manly voice. ‘This tender morsel is not for you!’ His arms tightened around her, protectively, tenderly, possessively. ‘Hold on, my pretty one, I have you safe now,’ he murmured in her ear, his warm breath stirring the curls at her nape. ‘And now I have you, Tallie, my little love, I’ll never let you go.’ Clasping her hard against his broad, strong chest, he lowered his mouth to hers…
‘Miss? Miss Tallie? Are you all right?’
Tallie jerked out of her reverie with a start. The buttons she had been sorting spilled out over the table and she scrabbled hurriedly to retrieve them. Brooks, her cousin’s elderly butler, and Mrs Wilmot, the housekeeper, were bending over her, concerned.
‘Oh, yes, yes, perfectly,’ Tallie, blushing, hastened to assure them. ‘I was in a silly daze—miles away, I’m afraid. Was there something you wanted?’
Brooks proffered a letter on a silver tray. ‘A letter, Miss Tallie. From the mistress.’
Tallie smiled. Brooks still behaved as if he were in charge of the grand London mansion, instead of stuck away in the country house belonging to Tallie’s cousin Laetitia. Tallie took the letter from the tray and thanked him. Dear Brooks—as if she were the lady of the house, receiving correspondence in the parlour, instead of a poor relation, dreaming foolish dreams over a jar of old buttons. She broke open the wafer and began to read.
‘Oh, no!’ Tallie closed her eyes as a sudden surge of bitterness rushed through her. She had assumed that with Christmas over, and Laetitia and George returned to Town, she and the children would be left in peace for several months at least.
‘What is it, Miss Tallie? Bad news?’
‘No, no—or at least nothing tragic, at any rate.’ Tallie hastened to reassure the elderly housekeeper. She glanced across at Brooks, and explained.
‘Cousin Laetitia writes to say she is holding a house party here. We are to make all the arrangements for the accommodation and entertainment of six or seven young ladies and their mothers, possibly a number of fathers also. Five or six other gentlemen may be invited, too; she is not yet decided. And there is to be a ball at the