how one broached the topic he had in mind. The groom was patiently walking the horses a good distance away, and there were only so many rolls to stall with.
A yellow leaf came twirling down and landed beside his handkerchief.
“You don’t want to be married to me, do you?” Gabriel figured that was a fine place to start, while Marjorie found it worthy of a blush. “You won’t hurt my feelings, Marjorie, if you tell me you’ve developed an attachment to my brother. I rather like him myself.”
“It’s difficult, my lord.” Her voice was low, and she hunched forward as if to hide her face.
Gabriel munched on his roll, though all he could taste was guilt that Marjorie was to be subjected to awkwardness. More awkwardness. “Eat your sweet, my dear. It isn’t difficult. I was more than willing to marry you previously. You’re pretty, intelligent, pleasant company, and familiar with the Hesketh seat and holdings. The match would have been appropriate.” Which was an awful word for an intimate, lifelong relationship.
She stripped off her gloves and dutifully picked up a roll. “But now?”
“Now I think your affections have been engaged elsewhere, and I do not give one good goddamn—pardon my language—for what your mother wants. Neither should you.”
“She isn’t your mother, my lord.”
Gabriel dusted off his fingers on the handkerchief. “I think we might address each other informally, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to call you.” Marjorie tore a bite off her roll but did not eat it. “And you don’t know my mother when she’s determined on something. Ask Aaron, for he’s borne the brunt of her maneuvering.”
Twenty yards away, the groom walked the horses, their hooves sloshing through the carpet of fallen leaves with a sussurating rhythm that put Gabriel in mind of the springs at his former post.
“I do ask Aaron. My brother tells me I’m to get the truth out of you, and he’ll abide by whatever your wishes are regarding the disposition of your marriage. But it isn’t that simple, you see.”
“I don’t see.” Marjorie hunched farther forward, looking young and put upon, which she was. “Mama claims there are legalities upon legalities, and good solicitors could make a great batch of scandal broth out of the lot.”
“And why would she do this to her only daughter? You and Aaron seem not exactly content, but suited.”
“He doesn’t think so,” Marjorie muttered around a mouthful of pastry. “He’s merely dutiful, my lord, and so am I. So here we are.”
Here we are, on a pretty fall day threatening to turn damp and miserable.
“So where are my heirs, Marjorie?” Gabriel put the question quietly, his conversation with Polly ringing in his ears. “I know my brother, and in two years, he hasn’t become a monk.”
She was silent, brushing the dead leaf off their bench, which told him Polly had likely been right.
Gabriel scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and longed for the days when a simple steward might have a pleasant chat with his friend and confidante, the fair Hildegard. “A man doesn’t threaten to call out his own brother over a woman he regards as a mere duty.”
“Aaron threatened to meet you?”
“Which could leave him with the title anyway, something he says he does not want,” Gabriel pointed out. “This suggests he’s not thinking rationally. He cares for you.”
“He’s a gentleman,” Marjorie said, staring at her half-eaten roll. “He hates the business, though. All that correspondence, hours in the library with a pen in his hand, when what he wants is to be out, seeing to the land.”
“So he criticizes George at every turn and finds many excuses to leave his desk and get into the fresh air.”
“George finds many excuses to bother him,” Marjorie countered. “The man is afraid to make a decision, or so Aaron has said.”
“My father did not suffer fools,” Gabriel rejoined, though Papa had had a sweet tooth. “He
A yellow leaf came twirling down and landed beside his handkerchief.
“You don’t want to be married to me, do you?” Gabriel figured that was a fine place to start, while Marjorie found it worthy of a blush. “You won’t hurt my feelings, Marjorie, if you tell me you’ve developed an attachment to my brother. I rather like him myself.”
“It’s difficult, my lord.” Her voice was low, and she hunched forward as if to hide her face.
Gabriel munched on his roll, though all he could taste was guilt that Marjorie was to be subjected to awkwardness. More awkwardness. “Eat your sweet, my dear. It isn’t difficult. I was more than willing to marry you previously. You’re pretty, intelligent, pleasant company, and familiar with the Hesketh seat and holdings. The match would have been appropriate.” Which was an awful word for an intimate, lifelong relationship.
She stripped off her gloves and dutifully picked up a roll. “But now?”
“Now I think your affections have been engaged elsewhere, and I do not give one good goddamn—pardon my language—for what your mother wants. Neither should you.”
“She isn’t your mother, my lord.”
Gabriel dusted off his fingers on the handkerchief. “I think we might address each other informally, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to call you.” Marjorie tore a bite off her roll but did not eat it. “And you don’t know my mother when she’s determined on something. Ask Aaron, for he’s borne the brunt of her maneuvering.”
Twenty yards away, the groom walked the horses, their hooves sloshing through the carpet of fallen leaves with a sussurating rhythm that put Gabriel in mind of the springs at his former post.
“I do ask Aaron. My brother tells me I’m to get the truth out of you, and he’ll abide by whatever your wishes are regarding the disposition of your marriage. But it isn’t that simple, you see.”
“I don’t see.” Marjorie hunched farther forward, looking young and put upon, which she was. “Mama claims there are legalities upon legalities, and good solicitors could make a great batch of scandal broth out of the lot.”
“And why would she do this to her only daughter? You and Aaron seem not exactly content, but suited.”
“He doesn’t think so,” Marjorie muttered around a mouthful of pastry. “He’s merely dutiful, my lord, and so am I. So here we are.”
Here we are, on a pretty fall day threatening to turn damp and miserable.
“So where are my heirs, Marjorie?” Gabriel put the question quietly, his conversation with Polly ringing in his ears. “I know my brother, and in two years, he hasn’t become a monk.”
She was silent, brushing the dead leaf off their bench, which told him Polly had likely been right.
Gabriel scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and longed for the days when a simple steward might have a pleasant chat with his friend and confidante, the fair Hildegard. “A man doesn’t threaten to call out his own brother over a woman he regards as a mere duty.”
“Aaron threatened to meet you?”
“Which could leave him with the title anyway, something he says he does not want,” Gabriel pointed out. “This suggests he’s not thinking rationally. He cares for you.”
“He’s a gentleman,” Marjorie said, staring at her half-eaten roll. “He hates the business, though. All that correspondence, hours in the library with a pen in his hand, when what he wants is to be out, seeing to the land.”
“So he criticizes George at every turn and finds many excuses to leave his desk and get into the fresh air.”
“George finds many excuses to bother him,” Marjorie countered. “The man is afraid to make a decision, or so Aaron has said.”
“My father did not suffer fools,” Gabriel rejoined, though Papa had had a sweet tooth. “He
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