The Marriage List by Dorothy McFalls

was no horse, but he was flesh and blood just the same. May was right. If he wanted to heal he’d need to take the expense and pamper himself for a while.
    Damnation! He must be a fool . . . for he wanted nothing more than to send for her and lavish poetic sentiments of gratitude on her dainty head. Worse, he dearly wished to have her standing by his side to feed him her courage when he went out to see this new horse of his.
    And to kiss her . . . oh yes, kiss her. He had been greatly tempted to cover her lips with his when she dared call him a fool. The temptation hadn’t diminished. He still wanted to kiss her and, Lord help him, perhaps do a little more.
    “My lord?” Bannor stood in the doorway, his expression a gaping depiction of bald embarrassment. “I had knocked,” he quietly explained.
    Radford realized suddenly that he’d picked up his accursed cane and had been beating it against the floor while silently berating himself. He’d no right for feeling those damnable soft feelings for an ordinary bird like Miss Sheffers. She was not at all suitable for marriage to him—the blasted list had already proved that. His time would be better spent contemplating how best to please his Lady Lillian or reviewing business matters with his man-of-affairs.
    With a quick toss, the cane clattered to the floor. He cleared his throat. “Before we begin going over the books,” he said, “I have some matter of business to ask you about.”
    Bannor nodded as if seeing his employer in a royal rage were a common occurrence. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and took his regular seat opposite Radford’s desk. His nimble fingers plucked a quill pen from its stand and blotted it, very precisely.
    Bannor did everything with precision. Radford’s father wouldn’t have hired this man to serve as his estate’s man-of-affairs if he had been anything but the model of perfection.
    “What is this matter of business, my lord?” he asked once he finished his lengthy ritual of setting up his papers at the desk.
    “That young lady renting number twelve Sydney Place.” Radford kept his tone purposefully neutral.
    “Number 12?” Bannor fiddled with his papers. “Ah, yes, Miss Margaret Sheffers. Although the back rent has been paid, there is no sign that she or her elderly aunt will be able to produce any future payments. They should be out by the end of the month.”
    “Yes.” Radford negligently waved his hand. “About that. Don’t evict them. If they wish to leave on their own accord, we naturally cannot stop them. But I will not have you push them out.”
    Bannor dropped his pen. Ink splattered on his ledger. “But, my lord. We are not a charity .”
    “Nor will this be a regular practice. Tell me, what do you know about the lady?” Although he had promised her he wouldn’t pry into her affairs, Radford could not curb a nagging feeling that he was duty-bound as a gentleman to take some action. She was considering marriage to an old codger, for Heaven’s sake. Miss Sheffers had to be at the end of her rope.
    “I spoke with her banker. He told me her account had been seized by the courts. I do not know the reason.”
    “And her family? I suppose she is related to the Earl of Redfield?”
    “That is her uncle,” Bannor supplied, though Radford already knew as much. “Her mother, I believe, was the earl’s youngest sibling. Miss Sheffers cares for her aunt, who is the earl’s eldest sibling. I sense a strained relationship between the earl and his sister, however. I imagine that is one reason why the pair of hens were allowed to flounder for so long.”
    “Very good.” This told Radford nothing new. “Find out whatever you can about the two women as soon as possible. I want deep, dark secrets if there are any to be had. Understood?”
    Bannor swallowed hard and adjusted his glasses. “You-you aren’t planning to coerce the young lady in some disgraceful manner, are you?” he whispered the