Back in his own residence, he called for Matthews and informed him that he would marry Greenfield’s daughter and that he needed the rooms adjacent to his private chambers prepared. Since his usual perceptiveness was blunted by his preoccupation, he missed the expression of keen disapproval flashing across Matthews’s face.
She now knows the name your mother gave you, he thought as he made his way to his study. Even Aoife only knew him as Luke. Apparently, the dirty, ignorant boy from several lives ago wanted to be a part of their union.
He collected his special marriage license on Wednesday. On Friday, the Times announced the date and venue: the Saturday after next in a chapel in St. James’s. It wasn’t St. George’s at Hanover Square, but it would do, and Saturday after next meant he had four days to settle Harriet in his Belgravia house before traveling up to Drummuir.
He was at his desk analyzing last week’s movements of the New York Stock Exchange when Matthews delivered the weekend mail. A letter plastered in Scottish stamps from Mr. Stewart, the man he intended as the new mine manager for Drummuir.
“What’s this?” he asked, nodding at the slip of paper remaining on the silver tray as he sliced open the envelope.
“A telegram from Italy,” said Matthews. His voice was bright, his complexion glowing. His eyes, however, were rimmed red. He must have drunk and gambled deep last night in his chosen den of iniquity, and won. He’d have a new pocket watch soon, or a new suit, or be off to the racecourses to bet on a losing horse. Or perhaps he’d install a new woman in his personal flat in Camden. The women never stayed long.
“Italy,” Lucian said. He had no active contacts in Italy, so he set the telegram aside and told Matthews to go and supervise the airing and refurbishment of Harriet’s rooms.
Stewart’s letter was to the point: all required rooms at the Drover’s Inn had been successfully booked for the dates Lucian had requested; the conditions in Drummuir’s collieries were dire; the spirit in the mining community was low. One could expect no less from a mine that had been in the Earl of Rutland’s neglectful hands. Resentment washed over Lucian; he had to physically shake it off before he could continue reading.
He picked up the telegram, which had been sent from Naples.
Blackstone old boy STOP Heard you are to marry Miss Harriet Greenfield STOP Congratulations STOP May I humbly recommend “The Art of Begetting Handsome Children” to ensure connubial bliss STOP In emergencies and I cannot stress this enough say it through flowers STOP Yrs Ballentine
He gave a grunt of disbelief. The arrogance. He read the lines again just to be certain. No, it still sounded as though his lordship was trying to instruct him in how to fuck. Lucian crumpled the telegram in his fist. Ballentine had effortlessly seduced men and women by the dozen before he had settled down with a fiancée last month; he was good counsel for any man in need of carnal performance advice. But the viscount knew that Lucian wasn’t an untried lad. No, this message implied he needed help with approaching his bride because Harriet Greenfield was a gently bred virgin, while Lucian was anything but.
He loosened his cravat and tugged his shirt collar away from his throat. He had thought about it yesterday when they had delivered her new bed. Yes, he was aware that he had never shagged a virgin before. He knew that she and her ilk wouldn’t deem his bastardly hands fit to touch one silky inch of her. She was still a woman, and he a man, and the mechanics would be the same as always. Ballentine’s telegram didn’t merit so much as a vaffanculo, and he returned to his stock exchange data table. For all of two minutes. Visions of Harriet Greenfield’s naked, softly rounded body made the figures swim before his eyes.
He leaned back in his chair, uncomfortably aroused and distracted. First impressions mattered, and he wanted her to like it. Needed her to like it, for he had been serious about honoring his wedding vows. It was common for upper-class husbands and wives to romp around outside the marriage bed, but he wasn’t in the habit of whoring, and he’d grown up thinking of men who strayed as weak. He’d seen the troubles it caused in small communities and the bastard babies it inevitably left scattered around. Now, a saintly husband would probably resign himself to a life of tepid couplings, while a polite one went to a brothel for his pleasure. He was neither saintly nor polite. He wouldn’t approach her with his more deviant preferences, but he sure as hell wouldn’t spend the rest of his life joylessly rutting over an appropriately martyred woman in the dark. He’d find a way, as always.