Barbara Metzger Read Free Page B

other equipment on the shaving stand. “Perhaps a bit of boot polish would do.”
    Max sat up, too suddenly for his aching head. “What the devil…?”
    “Here, this bare spot in the back. If we cover it with blacking, perhaps no one will notice.”
    Max jumped up and craned his neck around toward the mirror. “The back? You mean there’s a bare spot on the back, too, not just the receding hairline?”
    Thistlewaite silently held up a hand mirror so the earl could see his back’s reflection. “Oh Lud.” He sank back into his chair.
    “The boot polish, my lord?”
    “What, and have it drip down my back as soon as I break a sweat at Jackson’s? No, just comb it across as best you can,” Max said with resignation.
    “Very good, my lord. I suppose we cannot consider some rice powder for the, ah, forehead then, to take away the shine?”
    Max grabbed for the mirror again. “Shine? There’s no blasted shine. It’s the light, that’s all.”
    Thistlewaite stared at the wall behind his employer. “When a gentleman reaches a certain age…”
    “I know, I know! Dash it, I’ve already decided to look around at the available chits Lady Halbersham trots out for Franny. Better get the job done while I still have some grass in the meadow.”
    “Excellent plan, my lord. There are some fine country families in Bedford.”
    Max stood up to have his coat fitted across his broad shoulders. “I’m glad you approve. For a moment I was worried you’d hold out for a bride from the social columns, some starched-up aristocrat.”
    Thistlewaite brushed at the sleeves. “Since a dowry is not the first consideration, although not to be disdained if one is available, character is more important in our countess. A kind heart, a loving nature.”
    Those were more or less the requirements Max had arrived at, since he’d not yet stumbled across a woman who inspired eternal devotion. Of course, he couldn’t admit to his valet that he was willing to settle for comfort instead of passion. “Why, Thistlewaite, you old dog you, I didn’t know you had such a soft streak. I thought you’d have me make one of those dynastic arranged marriages of titles, lands, and money. Lud knows you’ve been nattering on about this debutante ball or that duke’s daughter for ages.”
    “Exactly, my lord. And nothing came of it.”
    “Oh, so now you are willing to accept a lesser mortal, to see me in parson’s mousetrap. Female, fertile and friendly, that’s all, eh? Well, I suppose a fellow could do worse.” Max gave one last swipe of the comb across his head, then looked longingly at the hairs left in the comb’s teeth. “A lot worse.”
    Thistlewaite followed his eyes. “Perhaps it is time to consider a hairpiece, my lord.”
    “What, a wig?” Max practically shouted. “Never!”
    “Not an old-fashioned full wig, just a subtle addition to your own hair. The ladies do it all the time, with false curls or added braids for height.”
    “Good grief, I’m not that vain, man.”
    “But we do have an appearance to maintain. It’s not like buckram wadding to broaden our shoulders, or, heaven forfend, sawdust to pad our calves. We have no need to resort to such subterfuges. But a discreet bit of hair…”
    “Dash it, I’m not going to wear a dead rat on my head! I’d be the laughingstock of London.”
    “In London, perhaps, but in Bedfordshire, where no one knows us? ’Twould make a better impression on the young ladies.”
    Max thought of some sweet young female cringing at his looks, forced by her family to accept his suit. “So I make a better impression. What happens after the wedding night when my new little wife goes to run her fingers through my hair? Surprise, sweetheart, your husband is as bald as a baby’s behind?”
    Thistlewaite clucked his tongue. “We wear a nightcap for a month or two until she grows used to it.”
    “Blast it, we’re not getting into bed with some silly chit who’s going to set up a screech when