severity. “I don’t know if I’ll forgive you entirely for handing a wedding of such magnitude to me with only two months to prepare—and for robbing me of a proper wedding trip.”
“I apologize in advance for the rush. When Parliament closes, we’ll go anywhere you wish. And as to the preparations, I’ll put Marsden at your disposal.”
She frowned. “Must we involve your secretary in this matter?”
“Only so that you may have time to sleep and dine and bathe once in a while.”
“But Mr. Marsden grates on my nerves.”
Women usually adored Marsden. Stuart lifted one of her hands and lightly kissed the back of it. “Let him help. I do not wish you to run yourself to the ground.”
She grimaced, then sighed. “All right, I will tolerate Mr. Marsden, but only to save you the worrying.”
He rose. “Shall we find your father and inform him that he will soon have me for a son-in-law?”
She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes. “Aren’t you forgetting something, sir?”
She expected him to kiss her. He sat down on the chaise longue again and pulled her toward him. She lifted her chin and obligingly closed her eyes.
He placed his hands on either side of her face. Her cheeks were as smooth as the finest powder. And when he leaned in closer, he smelled the fragrance of lily of the valley, the same perfume she’d worn ever since she turned sixteen.
His lips almost touched hers. He held still for a moment, then kissed her on the forehead instead. Strange that they should end up engaged, a middle-aged man too late to the Marriage Mart and a young woman who should have been out of it long ago.
“We are to be married now,” she chided him. “You must stop being so brotherly.”
Brotherly. Avuncular was more like it.
A knock sounded at the door. They glanced at each other. Stuart rose, expecting that it was Mr. Bessler, impatient for the good news. But it was the butler.
“There is someone waiting to see you, sir. A Mr. Marvin, from Locke, Marvin, and Sons. He says it’s urgent. I have him in the morning room.”
Stuart forwned. Locke, Marvin, & Sons were Bertie’s solicitors. What could Bertie possibly want of him?
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to his new fiancée.
Stuart’s first reaction upon seeing Mr. Marvin was that the years had not been kind: The solicitor had deteriorated from the rather eminent-looking individual Stuart remembered to this nondescript little old man. Then he realized, no, he’d never met Mr. Marvin. He was thinking of Mr. Locke, with whom he’d conferred twice early in ’82, to see if they could come to some sort of mutually acceptable agreement that would allow Stuart, bankrupt from Bertie’s five years of relentless legal maneuvers, to bring an end to the nightmare and still hold on to a fig leaf of dignity.
“Mr. Marvin, an unexpected pleasure,” he said, offering his hand.
“My apologies, Mr. Somerset, for disturbing you in your hour of leisure,” answered Mr. Marvin.
“I assume it’s a matter of some importance that brought you here today,” Stuart said.
“It is, sir,” said Mr. Marvin. “My condolences. Your brother passed away earlier this evening.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Bertram Somerset passed away earlier this evening. I called on you as soon as I received the news myself. Your man was kind enough to give me directions to Mr. Bessler’s house.”
Whether Bertie lived or died made little difference to Stuart, except—
“You mean to tell me I’m his heir?”
“Indeed, sir,” affirmed the lawyer. “As he never married and sired no children, all his worldly possessions have devolved to you: Fairleigh Park, land in Manchester, Leeds, and Liverpool, a house in Torquay—”
“Excuse me,” said Stuart. He didn’t need an enumeration of Bertie’s properties. They’d fought over every last rock and brick that hadn’t been part of Fairleigh Park. “How did he die?”
“The doctor believes it to have been a
“I apologize in advance for the rush. When Parliament closes, we’ll go anywhere you wish. And as to the preparations, I’ll put Marsden at your disposal.”
She frowned. “Must we involve your secretary in this matter?”
“Only so that you may have time to sleep and dine and bathe once in a while.”
“But Mr. Marsden grates on my nerves.”
Women usually adored Marsden. Stuart lifted one of her hands and lightly kissed the back of it. “Let him help. I do not wish you to run yourself to the ground.”
She grimaced, then sighed. “All right, I will tolerate Mr. Marsden, but only to save you the worrying.”
He rose. “Shall we find your father and inform him that he will soon have me for a son-in-law?”
She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes. “Aren’t you forgetting something, sir?”
She expected him to kiss her. He sat down on the chaise longue again and pulled her toward him. She lifted her chin and obligingly closed her eyes.
He placed his hands on either side of her face. Her cheeks were as smooth as the finest powder. And when he leaned in closer, he smelled the fragrance of lily of the valley, the same perfume she’d worn ever since she turned sixteen.
His lips almost touched hers. He held still for a moment, then kissed her on the forehead instead. Strange that they should end up engaged, a middle-aged man too late to the Marriage Mart and a young woman who should have been out of it long ago.
“We are to be married now,” she chided him. “You must stop being so brotherly.”
Brotherly. Avuncular was more like it.
A knock sounded at the door. They glanced at each other. Stuart rose, expecting that it was Mr. Bessler, impatient for the good news. But it was the butler.
“There is someone waiting to see you, sir. A Mr. Marvin, from Locke, Marvin, and Sons. He says it’s urgent. I have him in the morning room.”
Stuart forwned. Locke, Marvin, & Sons were Bertie’s solicitors. What could Bertie possibly want of him?
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to his new fiancée.
Stuart’s first reaction upon seeing Mr. Marvin was that the years had not been kind: The solicitor had deteriorated from the rather eminent-looking individual Stuart remembered to this nondescript little old man. Then he realized, no, he’d never met Mr. Marvin. He was thinking of Mr. Locke, with whom he’d conferred twice early in ’82, to see if they could come to some sort of mutually acceptable agreement that would allow Stuart, bankrupt from Bertie’s five years of relentless legal maneuvers, to bring an end to the nightmare and still hold on to a fig leaf of dignity.
“Mr. Marvin, an unexpected pleasure,” he said, offering his hand.
“My apologies, Mr. Somerset, for disturbing you in your hour of leisure,” answered Mr. Marvin.
“I assume it’s a matter of some importance that brought you here today,” Stuart said.
“It is, sir,” said Mr. Marvin. “My condolences. Your brother passed away earlier this evening.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Bertram Somerset passed away earlier this evening. I called on you as soon as I received the news myself. Your man was kind enough to give me directions to Mr. Bessler’s house.”
Whether Bertie lived or died made little difference to Stuart, except—
“You mean to tell me I’m his heir?”
“Indeed, sir,” affirmed the lawyer. “As he never married and sired no children, all his worldly possessions have devolved to you: Fairleigh Park, land in Manchester, Leeds, and Liverpool, a house in Torquay—”
“Excuse me,” said Stuart. He didn’t need an enumeration of Bertie’s properties. They’d fought over every last rock and brick that hadn’t been part of Fairleigh Park. “How did he die?”
“The doctor believes it to have been a
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