Barbara Metzger Read Free

searching for signs of decay. Gordie was gaining some girth, but he was still the rosy-cheeked lad from school days. And Franny, despite his affectations in dress, was still a blond, blue-eyed cherub. They were all of an age, so how was Max the only one getting old?
    He pondered the question while he waited for the footman to bring another bottle to the table. At this rate, he estimated, in less than a decade his teeth would be coming loose and his stomach would be straining toward his knees, no matter how hard he worked at Gentleman Jackson’s. He sucked in those muscles with a gasp.
    “Are you all right, my lord?” the worried servant asked.
    Max scowled the waiter away. He didn’t feel old, that was the rub. Gordie could settle into middle age with his career and his flighty wife; Max wasn’t ready. Perhaps because he’d given three years to Wellesley’s campaign, he felt cheated. There was too much he hadn’t done, like secure his own succession, for one. Here he was chiding Gordie, and he had naught but a chinless cousin to inherit. He’d thought to have plenty of time, at least until he was forty, before starting his nursery. Now who knew how soon before he lost that, too? Zeus, by the time he found a suitable bride, he’d likely be wearing whalebone corsets and ivory teeth. Held together by dead creatures, by George, he’d creak when he stooped to one knee to make his offer, and have to be helped up by some smirking chit who’d have to shout her acceptance into his ear trumpet.
    Not that Max doubted she’d accept, whichever woman he chose to bear his sons. He was still an earl with deep pockets, no matter that he was nearing his dotage. Unfortunately, he was enough of the dreamer to regret being accepted for his title and wealth alone. Name, fortune, and an acceptable appearance made a much better bargain. A shiny pate was no more acceptable to Maxim than stains on his linen.
    He sighed. Perhaps he should take the advice he’d so blithely offered to Franny and find himself a comfortable wife now, while there were still strands long enough to pull across his forehead. Hair today, groom tomorrow.
    The glittering London belles held no appeal for him. He’d dread seeing his scalp reflected back in his fashionable wife’s cold, disapproving eyes. No, he’d think about going into the country with his friends to look over the provincial possibilities—tomorrow. For tonight he had to concentrate on getting home without looking like he couldn’t hold his liquor anymore, either.
    He made it across the floor without mishap, and waited with studied nonchalance for the doorman to hand over his hat and gloves.
    “Best to bundle up, my lord,” the man offered with a smile. “It’s cold enough out there to freeze the whiskers off a rat.”
    Hair jokes? Was he now to be the butt of hair jokes? Lord Blanford changed the doorman’s tip to a smaller coin, crammed his curly-brimmed beaver down over his ears, and stalked off into the night.
    *
    Gordon, Lord Halbersham, managed to convince his pretty young wife to leave the gaiety of the capital without too much effort. Viola was already contemplating a visit to Bedfordshire anyway, with London so thin of company. With all those starchy dowagers giving her gimlet looks, Viola thought she’d do well to let memories of that New Year’s party fade a bit lest she find certain doors closed to her at the start of the real Season.
    So Gordie merely had to promise her a new set of diamonds, the refurbishment of Briarwoods, his country seat, in time for a lavish Valentine’s Day ball, and the management of Lord Podell’s love life.
    “Let me see. There’s Lord Craymore’s daughter. Ten thousand a year. She’s been on the shelf so long, even Franny’s empty pockets should look good.” She chewed on the stub of her pencil, adding names to the list. “That awful Mr. Martin’s girl should be out by now. He’s in trade, rich as Croesus, but the mother was acceptable.