‘That nincompoop? He has no more brain than a pea-goose and thinks only of his appearance and what is the latest scandalous tale upon the town.’ Henrietta fixed him with a compelling stare. ‘If you will not do it for yourself, then do it for me. Had I to refer to Raymond as the head of the family, I should soon find myself in my grave.’
‘Poor Henri.’ Nicolas smiled affectionately, becoming in that moment a very different man than was known in the clubs and certain drawing rooms in London. ‘Has my cousin been lecturing you on my morals again? He tried to remind me of my duty to the family name recently. I fear I sent him about his business with his tail between his legs.’
‘Perfectly understandable. I should have done the same in your place. He has no right to tell you how to behave, Rothsay. Yet, do you not see, that makes it all the more important for you to set up your nursery? If Raymond begins to imagine himself your rightful heir, it will make him more conceited than ever—and perhaps resentful if at the last minute you produce an heir. Besides, the children of old men are often weaklings.’
‘Henrietta, I adore you.’ Nicolas swept his godmother from her feet, planting a kiss on her cheek. She gave him a mocking wrathful look and he set her down carefully. ‘Forgive me, but you tempt me so.’
‘Remember I am more than twice your age and to be treated with respect,’ Henrietta said, but there was a smile in her eyes. ‘Will you at least consider marriage, Nicolas?’
Nicolas caught the hint of tears in her eyes and realised that the matter of his heir was important to her. She had no children of her own and, although not precisely lonely, for she had many friends, she must wish for a child to dote on. He suspected that his godmother had not been truly well for a while now. She might be thinking of making her own will, and, while he knew himself her favourite, he believed she would leave her fortune to his son if he had one. She was forever telling him he had more money than was good for him.
In his heart Nicolas knew that her pleas made perfect sense. It was time he produced an heir for the family. His father had begged him to do so on his death bed and Nicolas had pushed the memory to the back of his mind, a little resentful that his father should make such a demand after the neglect of years.
The trouble was that he had become used to his life as it was and had no wish for a change. Love caused more trouble than it was worth and he would avoid it at all cost—but perhaps a marriage of convenience might suit him? It was, as Henrietta said, his duty. He was not yet in his dotage, but if his lack of a wife was causing his godmother distress, he must certainly give it some consideration.
‘For your sake I shall give the matter of an heir some thought—when I return from Paris.’
‘You intend to visit Paris?’
‘Yes, for a few weeks. The company grows stale in London. I need a change of air.’
‘What you need is a passionate adventure,’ Henrietta replied. ‘I do not mean your opera dancers and actresses, who oblige you for the sake of the money you lavish on them. No, Nicolas, you need to fall desperately in love and to be brought back to life. I fear you have no real interest in anything.’
‘Love is a myth,’ he replied, withdrawing from her, a look of disdain upon his mouth. ‘If I marry, it will be to a woman who understands that I must be free to live my own way. As you said, there need be no more than a token marriage on either side. She will give me an heir. I shall give her a home and jewels and there it ends—if I find anyone foolish enough to take me, that is.’
Even for Henri’s sake, he had no intention of surrendering his heart and soul to love. He had witnessed the way love destroyed a man, making him a shadow of his former self, and causing him to withdraw into a lonely place inside his head. Nicolas’s father had worshipped his mother; when she died, he had shut himself off from everyone, including his only child—leaving Nicolas to cope with the loss of both parents alone.
As a young man he had briefly believed himself in love but learned a sharp lesson when the young lady laughed at his offer of devotion. After Elizabeth, he had decided that he would never let another woman under his skin.
‘Believe me, I can do without a romantic attachment, Henri. Love is for fools.’
‘Well, I have said my piece. You must go your own way, Nicolas—and now I shall bid you good morning.’
‘Leaving already?’ The smile had come back to his dark eyes. ‘Stay and have nuncheon with me? It is rare enough that you honour me with a visit, Henri.’
‘If you visited Rothsay Manor occasionally, I dare say I should see more of you. London is too much of a racket for me these days.’
‘You are not truly unwell?’ For a moment real anxiety flashed into his eyes.
Henrietta smiled. The boy she had loved was still there beneath the cold aloof manner he had assumed these past years.
‘No, dearest, I am not unwell—and, yes, I shall stay and eat with you since you ask…’
Chapter One
‘What have you there?’ Lady Hoskins asked as Charlotte Stanton entered the parlour carrying a letter. ‘Is it from your father?’
‘From Clarice,’ Lottie answered with a smile. ‘She apologises for not having written before, but they have been too busy.’
‘Too busy!’ Aunt Beth gave a snort as she looked at her favourite niece. ‘Too busy to write to her own twin? Well, is that not typical of them both? They leave you here and go gallivanting off to Paris while you have the bother of an invalid.’
‘I did not wish to go to Paris with them,’ Lottie replied a little untruthfully. She might have wished to go had her aunt been in better health, or if Clarice had agreed to remain at home with her this time. ‘Besides, you were quite unwell, dearest Beth. I could not have been happy knowing you were here alone.’
‘Nonsense, I have Muffet and the maids,’ Lady Hoskins replied, but the tone of her voice told Beth that she would not have wished to be left alone to cope.
‘I would much rather be here in the country with you than racketing around all those hotels and gaming halls with Papa. Besides, someone had to give an eye to the estate, though Mr Jackson is a very good agent and does his best for us.’
‘Well, I certainly hope that your sister is not racketing around gambling clubs,’ her aunt said looking alarmed. ‘It would be quite improper for a young woman of her age. Your father is a confirmed gambler and will never change. It was the death of my poor sister, never knowing where the next penny would come from. That, my dearest Lottie, is what you get for marrying a rake and a gambler.’
‘Papa did break Mama’s heart,’ Lottie admitted, sadness in her eyes. ‘She had to follow him all over Europe, never knowing whether they would have enough money to pay for a roof over their heads or the next meal. It was fortunate that Papa was left this house. At least Mama was able to rest here in peace for a few years, though Papa did not stay long with her. He does have a small mortgage on the house, of course, but the bank will not lend him any more. That is just as well, otherwise, I fear we should not have a roof over our heads.’
Lottie looked round the charming room. Although the soft furnishings and curtains were faded and showing signs of wear, it was a comfortable place to sit in the afternoons. At this precise moment the sun was pouring in through the French windows, which they had opened to allow for some air. The furniture was for the most part old, some of it belonging to an age long gone, heavy carved Jacobean pieces that gave Lottie a feeling of permanence, of belonging. However, the previous owner had been an admirer of Mr Chippendale and there was a very handsome bookcase in the best parlour, as well as a set of good chairs in the dining room. Aunt Beth sat in a comfortable wing chair, her sewing table to hand and a book of poetry on the