Chapter 9
As he had so frequently over the last thirteen days, Lion was once again hiding in his study. But no amount of poring over ledgers, reports, and correspondence could sufficiently distract him.
Two days filled with his sisters, aunt and uncle, Addy, and her aunt Pearl had proven rather akin to a boiling pot that was rapidly overflowing, making a mess of everything.
Too many voices, too much excitement. Too many people suddenly descending upon his household when he had arisen that morning with the intention of asking Addy for her hand in marriage and righting the wrongs he had committed when he had taken her virginity.
Uncle Algernon had his ear for much of the two days since their arrival, droning on about horseflesh and bloodlines and a mare he had his eye on, along with everything from his gout to his older brother’s biliousness.
Aunt Helene’s shrewd gaze had taken in the tension between Lion and Addy even as his sisters had failed to yet take note.
Letty and Lila had been too busy laughing and prattling about everything from their finishing school scrapes to Worth gowns to New York City and London gossip.
Letty?
He frowned down at the assortment of papers he was ignoring on his desk.
Since when had he begun to think of his own sister, whom he had known all her life, as Letty?
Addy had not just managed to find her way into his bed, but into his mind as well.
And, if he were honest, perhaps into another part of himself as well.
His heart.
Lion exhaled a puff of air, wishing he had a cigar or even a glass of port with which he might sufficiently distract himself.
This was madness. He couldn’t hide in his study forever.
He would have to emerge and somehow separate Addy from his sisters’ clutches so that he could have a private word with her.
Two days had passed. Christmas was on the morrow.
And he had yet to have a moment alone with her, let alone an audience in which he could ask for her hand.
A tapping at his door broke through his thoughts. Lion rose, hoping it was Addy. Perhaps she was as eager to find time with him as he was with her. Perhaps she had finally surrendered and stolen away from his sisters’ sides.
“Come,” he called.
But it wasn’t Addy’s golden hair and dancing green eyes that greeted him when the portal opened. Rather, it was his father’s youngest sister. Aunt Helene had not been cut from the same cruel cloth as Lion’s sire, but she was a cunning woman. He had no wish to be interrogated by her at the moment.
Still, he bowed. “Aunt Helene.”
“Marchingham.” She left the door ajar as she swept into the room, wearing a handsome gown of lavender silk. “I was wondering if I might speak with you.”
Blast.
“Of course.” He gestured to the armchairs flanking the hearth. “Would you care to sit?”
She crossed the room toward the seating area, and they both sat. His aunt regarded him for a moment.
“It is good to see you again, Marchingham,” she said. “When your sisters suggested traveling to you for Christmas, I will admit that I was hesitant to do so because I know how you prefer your solitude.”
He did like solitude. Or, rather, he had liked being alone. Now…well, the boisterous Addy Fox had changed him, and he couldn’t deny it.
“I’m pleased to have company, particularly for Christmas.” As the words left him, Lion realized they were truth rather than a polite platitude.
He had not celebrated Yuletide in years, not since his mother had been alive.
In opposition to his father, each year, she had overseen the hanging of kissing balls and fir boughs and even erected a tree in the drawing room that had been ringed with gifts.
His sire had deemed the festivities unnecessary folderol and had preferred to stay in London.
After his mother had died, Lion hadn’t had the heart to continue her traditions.
Instead, he had sent his sisters away and remained within the seclusion of Marchingham Hall, busying himself with estate matters and attending his duties.
“I always believed you were in my brother’s mold in regard to Christmas gaiety,” Aunt Helene observed.
“I have no wish to be in his mold,” he answered with raw honesty. “Not in any way.”
“He was a harsh man,” Aunt Helene agreed, giving Lion a pitying look that made him want to writhe in his chair. “It has always aggrieved me to know how cold he was to you and your sisters, how unfeeling.”
He was not comfortable speaking about his sire and rarely did so, which was why he had been so startled when he had revealed so much to Addy about Mittens. She simply had a way with him. She didn’t dismantle his walls; she galloped past them and turned them into dust.
“It is in the past now,” he managed. “You are not responsible for your brother’s faults.”
“Quite a mercy, that,” Aunt Helene responded wryly.
“My brother had many, many faults. He was far too much like our father and not nearly enough like our mother. Maman was an angel amongst mere mortals. I shall never know what she saw in Father, but whatever it was, he worked diligently for the entirety of their marriage to destroy it.”
Lion knew that his grandfather had been a wastrel and a faithless rake; he had died of apoplexy just before Lion had been born, so he’d never known him.
The conquests of the sixth Duke of Marchingham, however, had been much written and whispered about.
Lion was also well aware that Aunt Helene had not come to his study to relive past disappointments.
“I cannot think you sought me out to speak about my grandfather’s shortcomings,” he said.
“Quite right,” she drawled. “Otherwise, we would still be speaking well into next year. The reason I wished to speak with you is decidedly different. It concerns Miss Fox.”
The mere mentioning of Addy was enough to make his blood heat.
Although he had made a colossal mess by bedding her and failing to ask her to marry him in that moment, he wanted her more than ever.
Each hour that passed whilst she merrily avoided him in favor of his sisters was utter torture.
If he didn’t soon get her alone, he would go mad.
“What of Miss Fox?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice neutral.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Aunt Helene said.
Lion’s spine stiffened. “I have no notion what you’re speaking about.”
“I think you do.”
Curse Aunt Helene. She knew him too well. Years ago, she and Uncle Algernon had stepped into a maternal and paternal role for not just Letty and Lila, but Lion as well.
He sighed. “I intend to ask Miss Fox to marry me.”
“That is wonderful news.” Aunt Helene pressed a hand over her heart.
“Your uncle and I have been fretting over the state of Marchingham Hall and your other estates. My brother left you heavily in debt. Miss Fox is a wealthy heiress in her own right. Marrying her shall solve all your financial problems. An American heiress is precisely what you need.”
His aunt and uncle had repeatedly offered to loan him the necessary funds, but Lion had been too proud.
He was determined to do what he could on his own.
Marrying Addy would change that, but he would have to swallow his pride where she was concerned.
She was accustomed to a lavish life in New York City, and he would not expect her to suffer here.
“Yes,” he agreed reluctantly. “It will.”
He kept the rest of what he might have said to himself.
This was the first he had even contemplated Addy’s fortune.
He was aware she was an heiress; that much was impossible to ignore.
But it hadn’t been the promise of her wealth enabling him to pay off his looming debts that had drawn him to her. Rather, it had been Addy herself.
“You’ll no longer have to sell off any of the estates,” Aunt Helene added. “Marchingham Hall has been in desperate need of a restoration since I was a girl, and that was many years ago now.”
“It is long past time that the leaking roof is repaired and the threadbare Axminster is taken away,” he agreed.
“You will want to hire additional domestics as well, I should think. How you have managed to carry on here with scarcely any maids and footmen is beyond my ken. Do you even have a head gardener?”
“Mr. Morton left three years ago.” He frowned, thinking. “Or perhaps it was four.”
Aunt Helene shuddered. “I thought the rosebushes looked snarled. And the boxwoods, my dear boy. They are woefully in wont of trimming. Then, there is the matter of the stables. Your uncle was horrified by your lack of horseflesh. My father had a fine head for the equine. Indeed, it was perhaps the only thing at which he excelled, unless one counts gambling, drinking to excess, and taking mistresses. I suppose you’ve had to sell off all the finest mounts in an effort to keep the creditors away. ”
A sound at the study door—the telltale creak of a floorboard—caught Lion’s attention then. He glanced toward the hall but didn’t see anyone. More than likely, it had been one of the servants. Dismissing it, he turned back to the conversation at hand.
Aunt Helene was ordinarily far too mild-mannered to dare to speak of scandalous moral failings or—God forbid—money aloud.
He wondered if she had made her way into the wine cellar after breakfast. Her fondness for good French wine was no secret, and the well-preserved bottles at Marchingham Hall were one of few assets that had not been depleted, gambled away, or sold off by the previous Dukes of Marchingham.
Discreetly, he gave the air a sniff, but he didn’t detect the familiar scent. “We have had to sell many of the Highland ponies, Arabians, and Clydesdales, along with some Gainsborough landscapes, two Titians, and a Rembrandt.”
“The Titians?” Aunt Helene held a hand to her brow at the news. “Why did you not tell me, nephew? Your uncle would have been more than happy to—”