Page 61 of Appointment in Bath

“We?” Ivo repeated. “You don’t speak for everyone in the family, James.”

“Do you imagine this won’t hurt the family?” James asked. “That Sir Frederick won’t start spewing his lies again? Telling anyone who’ll listen that father has no right to hold the title? All you’re doing is hitting a hornet’s nest. It’s that which should concern you.”

“It does. But not as much as it concerns you, apparently.” Ivo’s eyes narrowed. “Which makes me wonder, why do you seem to know so much more about the past than Jack and Kate and me? Merely because you’re the oldest and an absolute pain in everybody’s arse?”

“I’m the heir,” James said simply.

“Ah yes. Of course. That old justification. Well let me take leave to inform you, my Lord St. Clare, that I am not the heir. I am my own man, with my own means, forging my own path in this life. If I choose to go riding with a girl then I’ll damned well go riding with her. I don’t care if she’s a goddess, a goblin, or a blasted Grecian fury.”

“A goddess,” James murmured. “I see.”

A prickle of heat crept up Ivo’s neck. He was silent for a time. And then: “You would like her.”

James looked at him steadily. “It doesn’t matter.”

“She’s a good person. A sweet, gentle person.”

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

Anguish twisted in Ivo’s gut. “Oh, doesn’t it, just?”

“You’re not to see her anymore. That’s an end to it.”

“By your command?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t command me, James.”

“Try me, Ivo,” James said. “You won’t like how this ends.”

Ivo’s jaw clenched harder. In that moment, he could have happily throttled his brother. Someone needed to.

Though it was doubtful there was a gentleman alive who could best the insufferable heir apparent. James may be a sentient block of ice, but he was fit and capable, as likely to level an opponent with a punishing blow as with the Beresfords’ legendary skill with a pistol.

No. If ever anyone was to knock him down, it likely wouldn’t be a man.

“Do you have something else you wish to say to me?” James asked mildly, appearing to comprehend the violent trend of his younger brother’s thoughts.

“Only this,” Ivo replied. “I hope to God that one day—and I pray it will be soon—you meet a lady who knocks you for six. An entirely inappropriate, unsuitable female who turns your world upside down and wipes that blasted overconfident look from your face once and for all.”

James was unmoved. “I look forward to making her acquaintance.” He rapped hard on the ceiling of the carriage again. “Take us back to Beasley!”

Chapter Seventeen

Meg celebrated Christmas with her father in the pine-bough and holly-and-ivy festooned drawing room of Letchford Hall at half past ten the following Monday. There, she gave him the silver tobacco box she’d purchased for him and received his single gift in return.

She looked up at him after opening it. “Figured silk?”

Her father was seated across from her in a wingchair Mrs. Church had arranged for him by the blazing fire. His thick, carved ebony cane leaned beside him.

He’d made an effort this morning, combing his graying red hair into order and abandoning his dressing gown in favor of a deep green frock coat and dark trousers. It had taken a toll. There was a paleness to his ruddy features and a glimmer of sweat on his brow. Though his health was improving, he had a long way to go yet. Descending the stairs from his rooms was still a trial, even with the assistance of his cane and two of the footmen.

“French silk,” he said. “I’m assured it’s the latest thing for young ladies.”

Meg withdrew the folded fabric from the box. Pale apricot in color, with a finely wrought floral pattern of darker apricot sprigs, it was easily more than ten yards altogether. “Assured by whom?”

“One of my correspondents in town. Claims this weave is being used by the best modistes in London and Paris at the moment to outfit ladies of fashion.”