His Convenient Marchioness. Elizabeth Rolls

wrap it in that, sir.’

      ‘That’s very kind, Georgie,’ he said gravely, not meeting Lady Emma’s eyes. ‘But your mama will not wish you to lose your handkerchief.’

      Georgie’s expression took on an air of wholly spurious innocence. ‘You could bring it back if you walked Fergus to Chelsea. We live on Symons Street, in the row behind the stone yard.’

      If not for the frozen expression on Lady Emma’s face, he might have laughed.

      ‘Georgie.’ Lady Emma’s voice was very firm. ‘His lordship does not have the time to walk all the way to Chelsea. You have other handkerchiefs.’

      Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir. I do have lots of hankies.’ But her gaze lingered on the dog.

      ‘One should never contradict a lady, of course.’ Hunt accepted the handkerchief, wrapped the ball carefully and dropped it in his pocket. ‘But I can always find time to walk Fergus and he very much enjoys Chelsea Common.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day, ladies.’ He held out his hand. ‘Harry.’

      Beaming, Harry shook hands. ‘It was very nice to meet you, sir.’

      Yes, excellent manners. He smiled. ‘Au revoir.’

      He turned and left them, Fergus trotting beside him.

      Georgie’s clear voice followed them. ‘He said au revoir, Mama. That means until we see each other again! He’s going to come!’

      Well, at least someone would be pleased to see him. But he still couldn’t think what the devil he had said to make Lady Emma poker up like that.

      No, as in, No, thank you, I am not interested.

      And he was damned if he could think why that annoyed him. It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to see her again, had he? Just return the child’s handkerchief, because she’d been so delightfully open about her desire to see Fergus again. That was all.

      * * *

      Hunt was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street when it dawned that a gentleman strolling with an impoverished widow might have less altruistic intentions than walking a dog and indulging two children...

      ‘Bloody hell, Fergus,’ he said. ‘She thought I was trolling for a mistress!’

      Fergus looked up, interested. Hunt shook his head. At the very least he was going to clear up that misunderstanding, but—

      A carriage halted beside him.

      He recognised the carriage, horses and coachman even before Letty put her head out of the window. ‘Giles! How very convenient. If you stop in now I have that list.’

      This list would be much more appropriate. Women of some maturity and dignity who would understand the advantages and convenience of a second marriage. But the thought of perusing that list under Letty’s gimlet gaze and no doubt being expected to indicate a preference...

      ‘Thank you, Letty. But I have Fergus with me. Perhaps you might send it around?’

      That would buy time to consider the possibilities in private.

      Letty gave Fergus a disapproving stare. ‘I cannot think why you have a dog in town at all. Or, if you must, why a servant can’t take it for an airing.’

      ‘Well, you see, Letty,’ Hunt said cheerfully, ‘since he is my dog, I like to walk him. So, send your—’

      Letty snorted. ‘One can only hope that a wife will curb some of your bachelor habits. I dare say I can put up with the wretched animal in my drawing room. It appears well behaved enough. I shall see you in a few minutes.’ She rapped with her cane on the ceiling. ‘Drive on, Bagsby!’

      Hunt stared after the carriage as it lumbered away from the curb. He glanced down at the dog. ‘Much help you were! Couldn’t you have misbehaved for once?’

      Fergus just grinned up at him. Hunt snorted. ‘It would serve you right if I did let a wife change some of my bachelor habits.’

      * * *

      Hunt, fortified with his brother-in-law’s brandy, rose as Letty sailed into her drawing room a short time later. She gave Fergus, lying quietly by the hearth, a disapproving look, but said nothing. Hunt suspected that not a single woman on this new list would care for dogs in the house. Idly he wondered if Lady Emma minded dogs in the house.

      Letty took the chair opposite him and arranged her skirts very precisely. ‘Caro and I have given a great deal of thought to this.’ She frowned. ‘The last thing you want in a wife is any breath of scandal. I am sad to say that there is often far more than a breath about many widows.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure you won’t consider—?’

      ‘No virgins,’ he said. He cleared his throat as Letty’s brows shot up. ‘Your list?’

      Letty scowled. ‘It isn’t a list, as such. Merely a suggestion.’

      ‘A suggestion?’ He stared at her. ‘Just one? Do you mean that in the length and breadth of Britain you can only suggest one possible candidate? Who?’

      Letty preened a little. ‘My goddaughter—Amelia Trumble.’

      Hunt stared. ‘Amelia? She must be well over thirty, surely!’

      Letty bristled. ‘Twenty-seven. And she is a very good sort of woman,’ she said. ‘You could hardly do better, especially since you already know her.’

      Hunt didn’t see that as an advantage. Amelia Trumble was about the most boring female of his acquaintance. Her late husband, eldest son of Baron Trumble, had been equally dull. How a young woman of twenty-seven contrived to make herself look and act forty, he wasn’t sure, but...

      ‘Dear Amelia is the very pattern of Respectability and Good Sense,’ Letty pronounced.

      He knew that. And Respectability and Good Sense were all very admirable. But did they have to be allied with Dullness?

      ‘She would make you a most dutiful wife, Giles. She has every qualification—including an annuity that remains with her and would do for pin money. Nor will you be bothered with her son. As Trumble’s heir he will remain in the custody of his grandfather.’

      Hunt frowned. ‘She would leave the child with Trumble?’ He was surprised that it bothered him. Most men would be delighted not to have the evidence of a woman’s previous marriage underfoot, but—he saw a woman wearing a neat grey gown, her daughter snuggled in her lap... He shoved the memory away.

      ‘Trumble would not countenance otherwise,’ Letty said. ‘No doubt Amelia would visit the child, but she is not unduly sentimental.’

      The memory of Emma’s face as she accepted her son’s shamefaced apology slid into his mind. Unduly sentimental?

      But...he didn’t dislike Amelia. She just didn’t interest him. Did that matter? If Letty and Caro were satisfied he’d done his duty...

      ‘Very well. I’ll consider your suggestion. By the by, are you acquainted with Lady Emma Lacy?’

      She blinked. ‘Who is—? Good God! Emma Brandon-Smythe, you mean? Giles, she may be a widow, but you are not considering an alliance with that dreadful creature, are you?’

      ‘What?’ Hunt stared at her. ‘No. Of course not.’ Dreadful creature? ‘I ran into her in Hatchard’s, that’s all. It took me a moment to place her.’

      Letty snorted. ‘No doubt the shameless hussy presumed upon your acquaintance with Dersingham and forced herself upon your notice. She ran off, you know—from the altar, no less!—to live openly with young Lacy. And then persuaded him to make an honest woman of her. Dersingham cast her off regardless and naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’ Letty shuddered. ‘If she approaches you again, you must ignore her as everybody else does. I wonder at Hatchard allowing her in the shop. I shall have a word with him about that. Disgraceful that she