Page 17 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

James considered his answer carefully. The truth of the matter was, he had been thinking of marriage, but only because of a certain redhead who plagued his every waking thought. Not that such thoughts mattered; she was unavailable. Though the ashes of her betrothal even now blew across London, Candace would never look at James romantically. He kept telling himself that, but his subconscious hadn’t yet deigned to listen to logic.

Thoughts of her naturally led him back to that bastard, Shelbourne. The way he’d treated Candace, in front of everyone... James’s hands curled into fists on top of his thighs. It took all his focus to return his attention to the conversation at hand.

“What would you think of me marrying again?” James asked to relieve the pressure of the silence.

Arthur’s bottom lip disappeared into his mouth as it always did when he was thinking. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether she’s kind. Whether she likes me.” He sat on his hands as if he’d admitted too much.

“Arthur, I would only marry an intelligent woman, so of course she’d like you. She’d love you.”

A picture entered his mind, like a sudden flash of sunlight through the leaves—he and Candace and Arthur around the breakfast table, laughing. The image was so real, so tangible, for a moment James felt as if he were there. He could almost smell the bacon on the breakfast platter...

“Ugh! What is that?” He clamped a hand over his nose and his eyes flew to the huge form of his son’s dog, Seamus, sprawled between them on the carriage floor. “Have you been sneaking him cheese again?”

“No.” But Arthur looked guilty as he slapped his own small hand over his nose, pinching it firmly.

The carriage bumped to a stop. James flung open the door and bounded down, gasping for fresh air. Arthur hovered in the doorway until James held his arms out. His son jumped into them with all the desperation of one escaping a raging fire.

Seamus lifted his head in mild inquisition, as if wondering what the sudden fuss was about. Finding a dearth of treats, he lay back down with a small grumble.

“Promise me, Arthur—no more cheese for Seamus.”

“I’m sorry, Father. He was hungry. He was staring at my sandwich.”

James knew the power of that look well—soft puppy eyes, emoting eyebrows, jowls twitching in hope …. He’d fallen for it more than a few times himself.

“He’s as big as a calf. He can miss a meal once in awhile.”

“All right, Father. I’m sorry.” Arthur levied a look at him that was so similar to Seamus’s in both expression and effect that James had to stifle the urge to laugh.

“Fair enough. But remember—apologies aren’t worth the words used to speak them if they’re not followed by a change in action.”

“Yes, Father.” The boy nodded solemnly.

“Off with you now. Politely ask for some tea and sandwiches to be sent to the morning room, then meet me there and we’ll eat together.”

“What about Seamus?” Arthur nodded at the dog, who was even now trundling down the special wood ramp the footmen had set at the carriage door. The mastiff was too large to bound down from the heights of a carriage; it might hurt his joints.

“He can come, too.”

In the entryway, James stood upon the familiar black-and-grey marble floor and briskly handed his coat, gloves, and hat off to the butler. Arthur streaked past him in the direction of the kitchen, Seamus trotting at his heels.

“Your Grace, Mr. Wright is waiting for you in your study. He said you were expecting his arrival.”

“Very good; thank you. Please have Mrs. Fitzgibbons look after Arthur while I’m busy.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

James strode down the long hall to his study in the back of the house, passing beneath the dour expression of many of his forebears. Although his family tree was not filled with particularly attractive people, he’d hung them where he’d see them every day and be reminded of his duty—it wasn’t just his own legacy he labored for, nor his son’s.

The tall wooden door swung in on well-oiled hinges with a touch to the handle. Reginald Wright rose and gave a small bow. He was a portly fellow, with a ruddy complexion and a large nose that might have suggested on overfondness for drink. However, James knew that the man abstained from all vices—save for large slabs of cake—one of the many reasons James trusted him implicitly.

There was a tea tray beside him on the table holding a plate of sandwiches, a tiered platter of biscuits, and an individual lemon cake that was Cook’s specialty. It appeared Reginald had started at one end and was waging a dogged war of attrition against the contents, gaining ground plate by plate. A cup of tea still steamed at the man’s elbow.

“Your Grace, how may I be of service?”