alliance!" He cackled again, but it died to a wheezy cough, the sound a harsh rattle in his chest.
The valet held a glass up to the old man's lips; he drank a little of the pale liquid, but then sputtered, "I want to go downstairs, you bacon-brained idiot! Damned if I'll spend the rest of my life in this bed. M'nephew will take me for a walk in that damned Bath chair I used to use, b'fore I got bedridden."
Marcus was a little alarmed at the thought of being in charge of the old man's movements in such a way. He wondered if he was helping his uncle feel better, or hastening his demise. He hoped it was the former and not the latter. The doctor said the old man had not done so much as sit up for many months before Marcus's arrival home. The last few weeks had been spent in a coma, and he had just emerged within the last couple of days. "Sir, you are hardly strong enough—"
"Don't tell me what I am," he said and struggled to a sitting position again. The bed was huge and it dwarfed the frail man at its center, but it could not swallow up his personality, which still dominated the room. He glared up at his patient valet, and said, "Ain't gettin' any younger while you shilly-shally around like an old woman. I am going to get dressed and come down to lunch with my nephew like a real man, and then he shall take me for a walk in the garden in my Bath chair. And that is that." He cast a sideways glance at his visitor, then, and said, in a more uncertain tone, "That is, if I am not keeping you from more exciting events?"
Marcus stood and gazed down at his uncle. He had not seen the old man in almost thirty years. Unbeknownst to him, he had been presumed dead years ago when no more letters came to family members. But it had seemed pointless after the death of his mother and father to keep writing to aunts and uncles who never answered, so he had stopped. And in the interim many had died, resulting in the present turn of events. "I would be delighted to stay to lunch with you, if you will let me tell you more about the delightful, tantalizing, maddening Miss Arabella Swinley. Maybe you can give me some ideas as to how to handle her. She slapped my cheek, you know, and after tasting my kisses."
"Slapped you, eh?" He cackled and slapped the bedcovers. "I like her already. Feisty—no milk-and-water miss like they make nowadays. I'll give you the benefit of my wisdom, boy. I don't imagine women have changed all that much over the years. The devil knows men have not."
"I'll wait for you downstairs, then, sir, and we shall walk in the garden." Marcus glanced out the window at the brilliant sunny day, and hoped it was not too cold out. He did not want to be accused of helping the old fellow get pneumonia. There would be many who would assume it was purposeful, no doubt, not that he cared what a bunch of society snobs thought. But he did care, he found, to his surprise, about his uncle, and would not hasten his demise even accidentally. "Perhaps after that we can come in and you will let me beat you at whist."
"No more hesitation, my girl. You get a proposal from Lord Pelimore tonight! I have arranged with Olivia Howland to have you sit next to him at dinner, so make the most of it!"
This was hissed in Arabella's ear by her mother, just as they entered the Howlands' fashionable Bruton Street residence for a dinner party. She did not need the warning. Just that morning the butcher, who had become increasingly importunate, as they had apparently not paid him a penny since they had come to town, had threatened that since they were staying at the earl and countess's house, that perhaps they would be approached. Arabella had been appalled. She did not want their personal insolvency to be brunted about the streets, especially after that awful Conroy incident, which she was sure would come back to haunt her somehow. And it was unbearably humiliating to think of the Earl of Leathorne, her cousin's father-in-law, being approached for the
The valet held a glass up to the old man's lips; he drank a little of the pale liquid, but then sputtered, "I want to go downstairs, you bacon-brained idiot! Damned if I'll spend the rest of my life in this bed. M'nephew will take me for a walk in that damned Bath chair I used to use, b'fore I got bedridden."
Marcus was a little alarmed at the thought of being in charge of the old man's movements in such a way. He wondered if he was helping his uncle feel better, or hastening his demise. He hoped it was the former and not the latter. The doctor said the old man had not done so much as sit up for many months before Marcus's arrival home. The last few weeks had been spent in a coma, and he had just emerged within the last couple of days. "Sir, you are hardly strong enough—"
"Don't tell me what I am," he said and struggled to a sitting position again. The bed was huge and it dwarfed the frail man at its center, but it could not swallow up his personality, which still dominated the room. He glared up at his patient valet, and said, "Ain't gettin' any younger while you shilly-shally around like an old woman. I am going to get dressed and come down to lunch with my nephew like a real man, and then he shall take me for a walk in the garden in my Bath chair. And that is that." He cast a sideways glance at his visitor, then, and said, in a more uncertain tone, "That is, if I am not keeping you from more exciting events?"
Marcus stood and gazed down at his uncle. He had not seen the old man in almost thirty years. Unbeknownst to him, he had been presumed dead years ago when no more letters came to family members. But it had seemed pointless after the death of his mother and father to keep writing to aunts and uncles who never answered, so he had stopped. And in the interim many had died, resulting in the present turn of events. "I would be delighted to stay to lunch with you, if you will let me tell you more about the delightful, tantalizing, maddening Miss Arabella Swinley. Maybe you can give me some ideas as to how to handle her. She slapped my cheek, you know, and after tasting my kisses."
"Slapped you, eh?" He cackled and slapped the bedcovers. "I like her already. Feisty—no milk-and-water miss like they make nowadays. I'll give you the benefit of my wisdom, boy. I don't imagine women have changed all that much over the years. The devil knows men have not."
"I'll wait for you downstairs, then, sir, and we shall walk in the garden." Marcus glanced out the window at the brilliant sunny day, and hoped it was not too cold out. He did not want to be accused of helping the old fellow get pneumonia. There would be many who would assume it was purposeful, no doubt, not that he cared what a bunch of society snobs thought. But he did care, he found, to his surprise, about his uncle, and would not hasten his demise even accidentally. "Perhaps after that we can come in and you will let me beat you at whist."
"No more hesitation, my girl. You get a proposal from Lord Pelimore tonight! I have arranged with Olivia Howland to have you sit next to him at dinner, so make the most of it!"
This was hissed in Arabella's ear by her mother, just as they entered the Howlands' fashionable Bruton Street residence for a dinner party. She did not need the warning. Just that morning the butcher, who had become increasingly importunate, as they had apparently not paid him a penny since they had come to town, had threatened that since they were staying at the earl and countess's house, that perhaps they would be approached. Arabella had been appalled. She did not want their personal insolvency to be brunted about the streets, especially after that awful Conroy incident, which she was sure would come back to haunt her somehow. And it was unbearably humiliating to think of the Earl of Leathorne, her cousin's father-in-law, being approached for the
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