to heat his blood and fill him with immoderate fury.
Sir Edward Baxendale had claimed that the marriage of Eleanor to Nicholas’s eldest brother Thomas was illegal, and thus her baby son not, as all believed, the Marquis of Burford, but stained with the stigma of illegitimacy. He’d presented his own wife Octavia, with diabolical cunning, as Thomas’s true wife, the true Marchioness of Burford. Since Thomas had died in a tragic accident, the shocking tale had cast the family into instant scandal, only salvaged by the efforts of Nicholas and his brother Hal proving that Eleanor’s marriage to Thomas had indeed been valid and Baxendale nothing but a malevolent trickster. Hal had then declared his love for Eleanor and, with typical highhandedness, taken her and the baby off to New York. But all could so easily have been a disaster if Baxendale had triumphed. So much pain deliberately inflicted by the greed of one man. No wonder Nicholas detested Sir Edward with every sinew in his body, every drop of blood.
By sheer effort of will, Nicholas forced his muscles to relax, his hands to unclench, as Lady Beatrice continued with her social catechism, unaware of the impact of her chance comment.
‘And Tom. He will be more than three years old now.’
‘Four more like. Time passes. Eleanor said that Hal was teaching him to ride.’
‘Do you think they will ever return?’ Judith asked a little wistfully.
‘No. I do not. I think Hal’s life is there in America.’
‘And the estate?’ Disapproval was clear in Beatrice’s tight-lipped mouth. She simply could not accept that the young Marquis of Burford should be allowed to live in America, far from his family, his land and his responsibilities. It was beyond anything. ‘What will happen to it? It is all very well—’
‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas broke in before she could get into full flow. This was not a new situation over which they disagreed. ‘That is for the future. For the present it is carefully administered. I shall not permit anything other. What Hal will choose to do is entirely his own concern. And nothing to do with me—or, with respect, with you, Aunt Beatrice!’
Which statement, Lady Beatrice decided with something akin to shock, was certainly guaranteed to put her in her place!
‘No. And of course you will act in the best interests of the family. I would expect no less and I intended no criticism of your trusteeship.’ Beatrice controlled her concerns, leaned over to pat his arm. ‘There is no point in discussing it further. Forgive me, Nicholas.’ With respect, indeed! Now here was a novelty! ‘Now, since you are here at last, perhaps you can escort us to Almack’s one evening.’ She hesitated only momentarily before launching in. ‘There are some very pretty débutantes this Season.’
‘I am sure there are.’
‘One or two are quite exceptional. Sir John Carver’s daughter, for instance.’
Nicholas raised his hand, turning a stern gaze on his aunt. His eyes, often so friendly and full of laughter, had the quality of ice. As had his voice. He may as well, he decided, nip this in the bud immediately. ‘Aunt Beatrice, I wish that you would not. I am perfectly capable of selecting a wife for myself without any help from you, when I decide that I wish to marry. I agree with you that I should consider it, but it will be in the time of my choosing, as will be the identity of the lady who I eventually ask to become my bride. Do we have an understanding?’
There it was, laid out for her. Beatrice stiffened at the snub, taken aback for the second time since Nicholas had entered the room. She had forgotten that her nephew was no longer a young and impressionable boy. It was so easy to forget when he was the youngest in the family. But the years had moved on and he had put her firmly in her place twice within as many minutes with a perfect exhibition of suave, cool—and implacable—good manners. Beatrice took in the stern mouth, the austere features, and wisely retreated.
‘Of course. I would not dream of interfering in your affairs, my boy—’
‘Yes, you would. But I ask that you do not. I would not wish to feel obliged to refuse your kind invitations. And I will if necessary.’ He was clearly not prepared to compromise over this. ‘I am sure that you take my meaning?’
Oh, yes. She took his meaning very well—and realised that she must reassess Lord Nicholas Faringdon. She raised her hands and let them fall in her lap. ‘Of course. I will do nothing that you do not wish for, Nicholas.’
‘I should be grateful, Aunt.’ He deliberately changed the subject. ‘So, how is Sher? I have not seen or heard from him for well over a year.’
Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon. Undoubtedly the black sheep of the otherwise impeccable Faringdon family. And the bane of Lady Beatrice’s life.
‘My son Joshua is still in Paris.’
‘Is he well?’
‘I presume.’ The response from the less than doting mama was tight-lipped. ‘All we hear is scandal and gossip.’
‘He has a new mistress,’ Judith added with an irrepressible twinkle. ‘An actress, we understand.’
‘I think that is not a subject for my withdrawing room, Judith. Joshua will go to the devil in his own way. There is no need for us to show interest in it. Now … did you know that Simon has been to Newmarket? One of his horses is expected to do particularly well on the Turf this year …’
The conversation passed into calmer waters, Nicholas turning to Judith for news of Simon and the promising stallion.
Beatrice watched the pair as they sat at ease, reliving old times, discussing friends in common. It was time Nicholas married. He needed a family. Not merely the responsibility of the estate—God knew he had enough of that!—but responsibility for a wife and children. He had been too long pleasing himself. He needed someone to ruffle his equilibrium, to shake his self-confidence. It appeared that he could be as difficult and opinionated as all male Faringdons. Look at Henry. A law unto himself, taking himself and Eleanor and the child off to New York without a word to anyone! And as for her own dearest husband, now long deceased, and her son … whom she did not even wish to contemplate. They were all the same—excessively handsome with all the charm and address in the world, but all with that fatal streak of arrogance and self-worth. And Nicholas, to make matters more difficult, had that cool reserve which was difficult to shake. When that had developed she did not know, but the aura of cold detachment and control coated him with a hard brilliance.
At least Judith was easy to deal with—she was like an open book! Beatrice watched with affection her daughter’s expressive face as she laughed at some comment from Nicholas. That was from her side of the family, of course, just as much as the red hair and green eyes. Nicholas was a Faringdon from his dark hair and equally dark brows to his toes of his polished boots. And he needed someone who would challenge his intellect and keep him on those toes—give him something to think about other than farming and cattle and such.
She watched, tapping her lorgnette against her lips as she studied him, the lad whom she had known from birth and had watched grow into this spectacularly handsome young man. Even tempered, easy to converse with, but underneath … Well, they said still waters … She was quite sure that he could acquire a bride with an arch of those expressive brows or a crook of his finger. But not any débutante would do. He needed someone to stir him out of his complacence. He was too much in the habit of going his own way with no one to question his decisions or his opinion.
Lady Beatrice blinked as the thought slid so simply, so effortlessly into her mind, the image as clear as an etching on crystal. Now there was an interesting prospect. Beauty. Money. Excellent breeding. But also strong-willed, independent, outspoken and … Well! What could be better?
‘Nicholas …’ She interrupted the exchange of news between her nephew and her daughter. ‘Will you be very busy during your stay in town?’
‘Nothing out of the way. I have an appointment to see Hoskins. My tailor will no doubt see me. Friends, of course. I have no definite plans. Why?’