My Lady's Honor. Julia Justiss

dowry, you will do well enough.”

      “Thank you, cousin,” Gwen said sweetly with a clenched-teeth smile, “for your kind condolences on my father’s death. And I am…gratified to earn your approval.”

      “Your tendency to indulge in levity at inappropriate moments does not become you, Gwennor,” he replied loftily. “I’m quite certain I offered you my sympathies upon my arrival yesterday. However, it does no good to linger in the past. Changes will be taking place at Southford now that I am baron, and you must adapt to them.”

      “Naturally, cousin.” She would not refer to him as “my lord,” she thought mutinously, no matter that she was no longer the daughter of the house but merely a female relation dependent on his charity. “Does your reference to my dowry mean that you intend sending me to London for the Season, as I’ve requested? I shall be ready to leave as soon as my bags can be packed.”

      She cast her eyes down and clasped her hands in such a picture of maidenly humility that Nigel, no fool despite his affectations, gave her a sharp look.

      “I have given thought to your eventual settlement, yes. I think we both agree that it is in neither of our interests that you remain at Southford. After all, the quality of establishment you maintained for your papa, though adequate enough, I suppose, for a Welsh baron of rural tastes, will not do for me.”

      “No, cousin, my sort of household—” which, she added silently, would be notable for simplicity, kindness and courtesy to all “—would definitely not suit you.”

      “I’m glad we agree on that score. And since with the alterations necessary to bring the manor and outbuildings up to the standards worthy of my stewardship, the estate is likely to suffer some heavy financial demands, I see no reason to throw away money on a London season. You’re well past the age of presentation, no great beauty and your dowry is merely adequate. I do not wish to be unkind, but a dispassionate assessment must conclude that your chances of attracting the eye of a gentleman wealthy and influential enough to make a connection with his family worth the heavy expense of sending you to London are, I regret to say, remote. In this, you must trust my far greater knowledge of the sensibilities of ton gentlemen.”

      So used to his disparagement that his strictures scarcely made her wince, Gwen’s active mind considered instead the implications. Not London. Would he send her to Bath, perhaps? Or to the Assembly in Gloucester?

      “It was to announce my solution to this delicate dilemma that I summoned you. Of course, I am fully sensible that as a Southford and my cousin, you must wed a man of good reputation and standing, if not one as discriminating in his requirements as I am myself. I have chosen such a husband for you, cousin. You may congratulate yourself on soon becoming the bride of Lord Edgerton.”

      Shock riveted her to the spot. “Edgar Edgerton, B-Baron Edgerton?” she stuttered, hoping there might be some misunderstanding.

      “Indeed,” the new Lord Southford replied, smiling benevolently. “I can see how overwhelmed you are by my choice. Lord Edgerton may be a trifle older than you, but he is still a fine figure of a man, and his six motherless sons, poor lads, will give you ample opportunity to practice your preferences for frugality and a rustic outdoor life.”

      Gwen swallowed hard. Edgar Edgerton, a hunting crony of Nigel’s, was pushing fifty, with a short, stout figure and high coloring that indicated a probable tendency to gout. He resided all year on his estates in Lincolnshire, having, as far as Gwen knew, few interests beyond his stables and his kennels. There would certainly be no need to expend Southford estate money on modish gowns for her trousseau, she thought acidly.

      “I…I have heard by all reports that Lord Edgerton is a most…amiable gentleman,” she said with only a slight quaver in her voice. “But I am somewhat concerned about his sons, whom rumor would hold to be a bit…spirited.” In truth, the alarming escapades indulged in by the baron’s energetic offspring, descriptions of which had been brought back to Southford by her father when he hunted with the baron’s pack the previous year, had made even as indulgent a gentleman as her papa shake his head in dismay. “I hope they will not be too rough with Parry.”

      Her cousin had been listening idly, his attention focused on removing a barely visible speck of lint from the sleeve of his immaculate coat of black superfine, but at this his fingers stilled. “Parry?” he said with a frown. “What has that half-wit to do with this?”

      “Well, naturally I assumed that since you do not…get on with Parry, he would go with me when I married.”

      “Whatever would cause you to believe such nonsense as that?” her cousin demanded, his tone aggrieved. “Use what little wit you possess, Gwennor. For one thing, your father long ago designated me as the boy’s guardian after his death. Even though he’s not a blood relative, I am not one to shirk a duty, no matter how distasteful. Besides, Lord Edgerton, who prides himself upon the bloodlines of his breeding stock, could never abide having that degenerate about, no more than would any other person of sensibility.”

      “Parry is no degenerate,” Gwen replied hotly, “and he possessed more wit than you until that stallion kicked him!”

      Nigel looked at her with cold eyes. “I shall forgive you that remark only because I know you still harbor some ridiculous conviction that, since Parry was injured going to your defense, you are obligated now to defend him. But do not trespass too far upon my goodwill. I grant you, so devastating an accident occurring to a child of his tender age was tragic, but ’tis long past time to be done with such sentimentality. He’s now—eighteen, is he not? He should have been confined years ago, instead of being allowed to wander the woods and fields of Southford, an embarrassment to the family and a threat to the countryside.”

      “Parry is no threat to anyone!” Gwen protested. “He treats every fellow creature with consideration! And he’s not an embarrassment—everyone at Southford knows and appreciates him.” Save you, she thought furiously.

      “Not an embarrassment?” Nigel retorted. “And what would you call it when he interrupted the solemnity of your father’s obsequies, stumbling into the church in dirty boots and a torn jacket, his pocket full of wild creatures!” He made a grimace of repulsion.

      “Baby rabbits,” Gwen replied, trying to hold back the tears that threatened. “Papa was developing a new domestic strain, you’ll remember, and interbreeding them with the darker-colored wild rabbits from the mountains. Parry brought him those as a parting gift.”

      “Gift—bah!” Nigel said contemptuously. “That drooling simpleton had no idea the man who’d died was his stepfather—nor any conception of what death means. Although he’s soon to get a lesson in the latter.”

      “You’re wrong, cousin Nigel. He knew it was his papa,” she emphasized the word, “and he understands about death.” True, Parry might not have comprehended the threat to his own position implicit in his stepfather’s demise, a threat that—with good reason, it turned out—Gwen had so feared, but he knew the elderly man who’d treated him with love and gentleness had gone away forever.

      “Well, I find him offensive, so something shall certainly be done about it. Edgerton wishes to have you settled in at the Hall between the last of the hunting season and the beginning of spring planting, so the wedding is to be at week’s end, here at Southford. Given the groom’s age and the shortness of time to prepare, I see no need for anything elaborate. A simple ceremony with a small reception immediately after should be sufficient.”

      Cheese-paring nip-squeeze, Gwen thought, too furious to respond. The will had not even been read yet, and already the new baron was determined to expend as few funds as possible on the former daughter of the house.

      “Congratulations on your good fortune, Gwennor. You may go now to begin the preparations.” He waved an imperious hand toward the door—dismissing her from her own library like a lackey.

      Too shocked and angry to reply with a remark her cousin would consider suitable for a gentlewoman, in icy silence she pivoted toward the door.

      “By