‘I am thirty,’ Ashe said, stung.
‘Exactly my point.’
The words came out again, apparently bypassing the conscious part of his brain, apparently from some well of certainty deep inside his mind. ‘I will marry when I fall in love, and not before.’
‘In love?’ Lady Dereham regarded her son with well-bred horror. ‘In love? That is no criterion for a good marriage, Reynard. Heaven knows who you might fall in love with! Men fall in love with dairymaids, but they do not marry them—not men in your position, at least.’
‘I consider it a perfectly reasonable criterion,’ Ashe said firmly, deciding that a protest that he had never so much looked at a dairymaid in that, or any other, light was a waste of time. Marrying for love had never occurred to him until a minute ago; up until then he would have agreed with his mother.
Marriage demanded a well-dowered young woman of suitable family, modest habits, intelligence and good health. One assessed which of the available ladies on the Marriage Mart fulfilled these requirements, selected from amongst them the one for whom one felt the greatest liking and respect, and proposed. Short of a Royal princess, there were few females who would consider the Viscount Dereham anything short of a brilliant catch, and he knew it.
‘And what will you say if your sisters come to you with some unsuitable man in tow and demand to marry for love, might I ask?’ his outraged parent demanded.
‘I will trust their judgement.’ Ashe was conscious of three wide-eyed, open-mouthed faces staring at him.
‘Oh,’ breathed Frederica softly. ‘Oh, Ashe.’
Oh, Ashe, indeed! She is in love with Barrington and I have just walked straight into that!
‘As soon as they reach the age of twenty-one,’ Ashe added hastily. ‘Unless the man they love also meets the usual criteria of acceptability.’
‘Oh,’ Frederica said again, flatly.
‘That’s all right,’ Katy announced smugly. ‘I intend falling in love with a duke. You will have to approve of him, Ashe, won’t you?’
‘Which duke?’ Ashe asked, diverted and rapidly running the available candidates under review. ‘I do not think there are any available.’
‘I have six years,’ his baby sister informed him smugly. ‘One is sure to die and have a young heir, or be widowed or something in that time.’
‘Why a duke?’
Katy proceeded to count off points on her fingers. ‘They are all rich. I would like being called your Grace and I would outrank Lucy Thorage.’
‘She might marry one too,’ Ashe pointed out, fascinated and alarmed in equal measure.
‘I am prettier,’ his sister pointed out, incontrovertibly.
‘If you do not wish to go to bed now without your dinner, Katherine Henrietta Reynard,’ said her mother awfully, ‘you will be quiet and behave like a lady.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Katy subsided, leaving Ashe the uncomfortable focus of attention again.
‘And what are you going to do to find this paragon?’ Lady Dereham enquired. ‘Wait for her to appear like a princess in a fairy tale?’
A princess on a white bear who will carry me off to Paradise…But that was Bel. I am not going to have that sort of luck twice.
‘I shall do my duty escorting you and Anna next Season. Perhaps I will find her there.’
‘I sincerely hope so.’ His mother regarded him anxiously. ‘I worry about you. You do seem different somehow, dear.’
‘Poor Ashe has been through a terrible experience.’ Anna leapt to his defence. ‘Of course he seems a little altered. Several weeks here at Coppergate with us and he will be his old self again.’
Several weeks in the country? No, ten days at most, and then back to London, back to Bel. Back to uncomplicated bliss.
Ashe spent the next day riding around the estate with Barrington, trying to size up the man, not as an estate manager, for he had already done that and was satisfied, but as a husband for his sister. He would do, he thought grudgingly. A far from brilliant match, but a kind, decent, loving husband was more important for sensitive Frederica than some cold and suitable society marriage.
She would be well dowered. An intelligent, hard-working man like Barrington could build on that foundation to give them a good life. There were a few years before he need worry too much—more than enough time to see if this attachment of his sister’s lasted and whether it was returned.
‘What do you think of the Wilstone estate?’ he asked, an idea coming to him as they reined in to inspect the effects of liming on a stubbornly sour field.
‘That was a good purchase, my lord,’ Barrington said judiciously. ‘Needs work, of course, it had been neglected, but in time it could be very productive. There are fine stands of timber and it borders the new canal—I think you could build wharfs there, a timber yard. It would repay the investment with all the building going on in London. But I had thought you were intending to sell it on.’
‘No. I think we will keep it.’ The idea was taking more concrete shape as the estate manager talked. ‘Make it a special project, Barrington; give it, say, three years and see what you can make of it.’
‘What about the house?’ Barrington looked interested. ‘Sell and just keep the land? The last owner neglected it badly, what with all his debts and so forth. But it is quite sound—just shabby.’
‘No, don’t sell it. Get it into order. I’ll give you a free hand—think what you’d like if it was yours, but stay within the income from the lands.’ They moved off, satisfied with the state of the field, the expression on the steward’s face showing he was already thinking about the prospect of reviving the rundown estate that Ashe had bought as a speculation the year before. Ashe waited a few minutes, then added, as if the idea had just come to him, ‘See if my sister would like to help with the house.’
‘Miss Frederica?’
‘Yes,’ Ashe agreed. ‘Frederica.’
If things worked out, then he would give Frederica the estate as part of her dowry and if Barrington couldn’t manage to found his fortune from there, then he was not the man Ashe thought him.
‘Thank you, my lord, I will get right on to it.’
‘Reynard,’ Ashe corrected, a warm feeling blossoming inside as he contemplated the possible outcome of his matchmaking. All this talk of love—he must be getting soft. ‘But don’t neglect everything else,’ he added severely, wiping the grin off the younger man’s face.
‘No, of course not, my…Reynard.’
Hopefully that would take care of Frederica. Anna, he had no doubt, would sail serenely into society and find herself an eminently suitable beau without his help, and as for Katy—well, there were at least four years before he had to face that nightmare, and perhaps one could hire Bow Street Runners as chaperons.
Bel could advise him; he would enjoy talking to her about his sisters. She would take an interest. He could imagine her grey eyes lighting up at the thought of all the alarming things women appeared to find so fascinating: shopping, gossip, matchmaking. But he was trying to matchmake now himself—what had come over him?
‘…coppicing?’
‘Hmm?’ Damn, he was daydreaming. His hack was standing next to Barrington’s and the man had