“All right,” Aoife relented. “Must be bad in the mine, if you go to see for yourself.”
“The reports weren’t good.”
“But you don’t like going up North and beyond.”
“I don’t, no.”
Her face softened. “Still trying to change the ways of the world, are you?”
“I’ve just made headway,” he said curtly.
She gasped when understanding dawned. “Your new father-in-law?” She barked a laugh, startling the dozing cat on the armrest. “Luke, no single man can turn politics. It’s a cesspool and they’re all drowning in it, Greenfield, too.” She ran her hand over the cat, and the animal stretched and kneaded air with clawed paws.
“Enough influential peers are Greenfield’s clients,” Lucian said. “He could enforce private loan contracts, but for a select few, he doesn’t. If he did, the card houses would come tumbling down. At the very least, he’ll get me the right dinner invitations.”
“You think he’d do all that for a daughter?” Aoife mocked. “He’s got several, hasn’t he? He can well spare one.”
“From what I can tell, her family sticks together like lemmings.”
“They can’t love her too much if they gave her to you, that’s for certain.”
Her impertinence was habitual, so he ignored it. “He’ll want his grandsons,” he said.
Aoife’s mouth formed a perfect O. “So it’s not even her you’re after but the children,” she said. “Bloody hell. When’s the wedding, you said?”
“Next Saturday.”
She cackled. “You have less than a week to become charming, then,” and, at his blank expression, “To woo your wide-eyed bride, of course. Babes don’t grow on trees.”
“Not you, too,” he muttered, thinking of Ballentine’s bloody telegram.
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said. “In any case, I always begin as I mean to go on.”
“Not counting your staff, you haven’t even shared lodgings with anyone in over a decade,” she said. “Will be a change.”
“My houses are big.”
“You should’ve taken my advice to get a dog.”
His brows rose with acute displeasure. “Are you likening pets to my wife now?”
“No,” she said with a faint smile, “I’m saying you’ve never cared for another creature.”
He shook his head. “There’s no point in keeping a dog.”
“Why not?”
“Their lives are short. They die.”
Aoife made to reply something cynical, but then an understanding passed behind her eyes and she resumed stroking the cat. “I hope you know that if you ride the likes of her too hard, they break before you get much use out of them.”
Back in Belgravia, Matthews had refilled all the vases with fresh hothouse flowers, and the scent of roses followed Lucian down the corridor all the way to the study. His work progressed unusually slowly, and he finally closed his folder. Perhaps he should have informed Harriet that there’d be no honeymoon. It hadn’t been relevant to him, so he hadn’t thought of it. But he never left his business commitments unattended for more than a day; besides, where would he take her? Italy? Then what? He hadn’t time, not for the trip nor the planning. He needed to prepare his stock portfolio and thoroughly instruct his men of business so that his affairs remained in sound condition during his week in Fife.
Ride the likes of her too hard, and they break …
He cursed softly and rang for Matthews.
“Matthews. I need you to find me a book about flower language.” His assistant looked puzzled but began taking notes. “And a book, or perhaps it’s just a pamphlet, called The Art of Begetting Handsome Children.”
Matthews’s brows flew up.
“I need it on my desk within the next three days,” Lucian said stonily.
“Of course,” Matthews said. “I shall try my best. Sir.”
He nearly added a current etiquette guide for gentlemen to the list, but he could probably procure that himself quickly enough. His mood darkened. He hadn’t touched an etiquette manual in years.
Matthews delivered the requested reading material the evening before the wedding. By then, Lucian’s suit and hat were brushed and Harriet’s rooms were prepared. It left him with plenty of time to settle behind his desk to study The Art of Begetting Handsome Children, which turned out to be a thin pamphlet, first printed in 1860, written by Anonymous.