Chapter 9 #2
Grey dropped his épée and raised his hands in apology, his gaze locked on Colin. “Forgive me, my lord. That was unintentional.”
Colin managed a nod, and when he removed his hand from his burning cheek, blood tinged his fingertips.
“First blood, sir. I concede the match.” Colin bowed. He would give Grey one thing: the man could fight. It would be good to have him as a friend rather than an opponent.
“Ashton!” Burwood called.
But his call was unnecessary; Ashton had already leapt from his seat on the terrace and was before Colin in a matter of moments.
He grasped Colin’s jaw and turned his head. “It appears superficial. I doubt you will need to be stitched, but let’s get you cleaned up so I can make a better determination.”
“Will it leave a scar?” Colin asked.
“Possibly. Again, it depends on how deep the wound is. From the amount of blood, I would say the chance is negligible.”
“Blast. I was hoping a scar would make me more dashing. Yours seems to attract the ladies, Grey.”
Ashton gave a sly grin. He sported his own silver scar on the side of his face. Perhaps they could all form a club.
Lord, the blow made him touched in the head. He plucked Lady Miranda’s pierced handkerchief from the ground.
His gaze following Colin’s movement, Grey reached for his discarded sword. “If you require a deeper wound, say the word.”
Cold shivers notched up Colin’s spine at Grey’s dangerous tone. “I’ll pass.” One humiliating failure in front of the woman he’d hoped to impress was enough.
“Let’s go inside, and I’ll clean the wound,” Ashton said.
When they reached the terrace, Honoria rushed forward. “Colin! What were you thinking? It’s a good thing Father isn’t here. He would have your head.”
“I’m fine. Ashton says it’s only a scratch.”
He stepped around his sister to Lady Miranda and handed her the handkerchief. “Apologies, my lady, for not keeping your precious gift safe. I shall purchase you another.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said. “It is Mr. Grey who is at fault.” She shot Grey a murderous glare, then dabbed at Colin’s face with the torn piece of linen.
He should have felt vindicated by Lady Miranda’s attention and support, but instead, his gaze drifted to the Elfin Menace, and his heart thumped hard at the concern in her blue eyes.
“If anyone sees my children, please tell them I’m fine.” With that, he followed Ashton into the house and to his room.
Ten minutes later, Ashton assured him the wound was shallow and most likely would heal without scarring. “It’s even stopped bleeding already. I’ll change the dressing tomorrow, but in a few days, you should be able to remove it entirely.”
Fitz stood by, wringing his hands as he waited until Ashton left them alone. “Sir, sir. What were you thinking?”
“My sister and His Grace have already lectured me, Fitz. I don’t need to hear it from my valet. Now, help me change my shirt. I have something important to attend to.”
Fresh shirt in his hands, Fitz raised a brow. “Oh? What might that be?”
“I’m going to find Lady Miranda and suggest we begin courting.”
“Lady Miranda? Are you certain, sir?”
Colin stopped fussing with the sleeves of his coat and met his valet’s eyes. “Why not? She’s a well-bred, sensible woman. Her brother seems most eager to see her married. He even mentioned a substantial dowry to me. Not that it matters.”
Fitz’s lips pressed together in a line as thin as the blade used to shave Colin’s evening whiskers. “It’s probably nothing.”
“What’s nothing?” Damn, but he hated when his man talked in riddles. “Spit it out. For over a year, you’ve been beating about the bush for me to remarry.”
“There was some talk among the servants—”
“Let me stop you right there. You know how I feel about gossip, and I will not have you or any other servant besmirch the name of a member of good society.”
“Of course, sir. Very good, sir.” Fitz bowed so many times he looked like a springed toy Colin once had as a boy. At the door, he bowed once more and left Colin in peace.
Colin adjusted his cravat, which in truth was perfectly tied, then plucked a flower from an arrangement on his dressing table. A smile formed on his lips.
Women loved flowers.
The more he thought about it, the more perfect he found the solution to be. The girls needed a mother, and he still needed an heir.
The very idea of entering the Marriage Mart again, with its endless balls, soirees, garden parties, and vapid conversation with silly young women, set his teeth on edge.
He’d been fortunate with Margery, their families arranging the match during Margery’s first Season.
Colin himself had only been twenty-three.
Society had christened it the perfect pairing.
They courted for a year before marrying, something Margery’s family had insisted upon, and Colin had no objection.
He had been in no great hurry, and the engagement freed him from fending off the advances of other hopeful ladies.
Quiet and reserved, yet poised and elegant, Margery proved to be the perfect woman to become his viscountess, and the future Marchioness of Stratford.
No burning passion ignited between them, but over the years a steady and honest affection built on respect and mutual love for their daughters grew. Their marriage was comfortable, like sinking into an overstuffed cushioned chair and reading a good book.
Their union had been better than many in the aristocracy, where husbands stole off to mistresses for excitement and wives took their own lovers after producing the requisite heir and a spare.
Colin had never strayed. He’d been faithful, even through Margery’s illness.
But Honoria’s marriage to Burwood gave Colin pause. What he believed to be a youthful infatuation had blossomed into an enduring love. Witnessing such adoration and devotion had been eye-opening.
Colin had attributed it to the newness of their marriage, much like Victor Pratt and his wife, Juliana. Even he had experienced some of the blush of excitement with Margery at the beginning.
Yet, there were others, married for some years with many children, who still exhibited the same intensity of devotion. Ashton and his duchess for one, Lord Montgomery and his bluestocking viscountess another, even Mr. and Mrs. Weatherby exchanged glances sparkling with passion.
Part of Colin wondered what it would be like to be adored so deeply, to love so passionately.
But he didn’t need passion. He needed stability for the girls, not some romantic fantasy for himself. As he considered his choices, Lady Miranda appeared perfect.
A woman like Lady Charlotte with her direct and often confrontational manner would certainly frighten the girls, and Colin admired Mr. Beckham for his patience. Although the man certainly appeared besotted with his outspoken wife. Perhaps there was something to be said about opposite temperaments.
On the other end of the spectrum, Anne Weatherby shoved her way to the front of his thoughts.
Reluctantly, he admitted his attraction to her, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.
Flighty, exuberant, lacking decorum, she was the complete opposite of Margery—and in many respects to himself, or at least the man he presented to the world.
But as the heir to a marquessate, he had to maintain a certain image, and so he had put aside all the boyish notions of adventure and daring, and yes, danger. In other words, he grew up.
And he needed a wife who matched that image. Lady Miranda fell safely in between Lady Charlotte and the Elfin Menace, like a comfortable shoe broken in just enough but still new and shiny.
Although closer to his age than a newly presented debutante, Lady Miranda had plenty of childbearing years ahead of her, and Colin intended to get started on that task immediately after he remarried.
It had been too long. In many respects.
Flower in hand, he marched downstairs, intent on finding Lady Miranda.