Page 111 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

“Shocking for you to say as much in front of us ladies,” Daisy said, giving a flirtatious little smile.

Ah, so that’s what kind of ladies these were. He was exhausted by their little games already, and they hadn’t been there but five minutes.

“Why didn’t you ride with Howers in his carriage?” James asked, ignoring the lady’s invitation to engage.

“There’s something dreadfully wrong with his feet. I cannot be in confined spaces with the man. It’s as if he soaked his boots in a barrel of rotten cabbages.”

“Careful,” Lord Cavendish deadpanned. “The ladies might swoon.”

He didn’t sound concerned in the least, but the ladies tittered anyway, not realizing they were the brunt of that particular joke. Lord Cavendish raised his eyebrows at James as if to say, See what I’ve been dealing with these past few days?

James smirked, then nodded at the maids hovering in the doorway waiting to see if it was the right time to serve tea.

“Good heavens,” Daisy whispered, loudly enough for the room to hear. “I haven’t seen such a nose since the Romans were driven out of Europe.”

One of the maids stiffened slightly but continued her duties diligently.

James frowned and turned to Daisy. “I apologize, I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

“Nothing, Your Grace.” She shook her head quickly, her cheeks growing pink.

At least the lady had some shame, then.

James ignored the brief, grateful look his servant shot his direction and turned to the Marquess Beaufort. “What are you interested in shooting these next couple of weeks?”

He hoped the men in the grouping would catch the intentional hint—that he wasn’t looking to make this an indefinite visit.

“Whatever’s foolhardy enough to step in front of my rifle.”

“Very well. Deer are moving in the south pasture early. Let’s meet in the gun room before dawn and get a good start on the day.”

“You’re an industrious fellow. I’d thought to sleep in on the morrow and hunt the next day. Ducks aren’t as early risers as the deer, isn’t that right?”

“Ducks it is, then. Deer the following day.”

“If you gentlemen are excellent shots, we’ll have to find some way to reward you.” Miss Ritten giggled.

“Are you proposing a wager of some kind?” Lord Cavendish said.

Miss Ritten dithered, eyes wide. It was as if she was unsure what to do with male attention once she had it.

“It would make things more interesting,” James said, turning to his friend. “We could say that whoever shoots the most doesn’t have to dress his own game.”

“Whoever kills the most.” Lord Cavendish put up his finger in correction. “If you don’t make that stipulation, Beaufort is liable to just wing things left and right and claim the victory.”

“Only clean shots on my land,” James said. “Anything else is simply dishonorable.”

He said the words lightly so they wouldn’t offend, but he meant every word. There was nothing he hated more than an unskilled hunter who left an animal to suffer. He counted them on the same level as men who kicked their hounds when they lost their temper.

“You’d better keep that dog of yours indoors, lest we mistake it for a bear,” the marquess joked. “Where on earth did you get the beast?”

“The Duke of Forthswhite breeds them. We might need to add to the family soon, get a female.”

“You’ll have a herd of them before long if you’re not careful.”

“I don’t mind,” James said. “They’re gentle. Wonderful with children, and excellent watch dogs.”

“He’s terrifying.” Daisy held a hand to her chest as if overwhelmed by the very thought. “You must keep him away from me while I’m here.”