Dukes By the Dozen

His mother pinned him with a reproving glare he was certain he deserved. “She’s not yet four and twenty. I was older than that when I gave birth to you.”

“You’re throwing a party to find a husband for your companion?”

His mother batted her lashes. “I feel bad about what happened to her.”

So did he, in point of fact.

“Promise you will help.”

Dear God. “Help? How can I help?”

Her eyes lit up and she leaned closer. “You must invite your friends of course.” Her forehead wrinkled. “The decent ones.”

“That is quite a presumption.”

“Pardon?”

“That I have decent friends.”

“Oh.” She laughed, and then she sobered. “What about Bentley?”

“Bentley?” He gaped at her. “Bentley is an inveterate gambler.”

“Well, that’s no good. How about Exeter?”

“He’s a sot.”

“Lud, Jonathan. What kind of friends do you have?” She tapped her chin. “How about Moncrieff?”

Moncrieff had a serious proclivity for trollops. Hardly the marrying kind, but he couldn’t tell his mother that, or he might be in danger of proving her point. “Let me think on it.”

“You do that. And remember, it’s Meg. She’s practically family. She deserves someone nice. It was beastly what Cyril did to her.”

Jonathan murmured something and nodded, but he didn’t mention the fact that this was the way of the world. Though he would never have done so, many men ousted the families of the previous lord when they claimed the title. It was not looked highly upon by the ton, but that didn’t stop it happening. “I’m just glad she had you to take her in, Mother,” he said.

She grunted and stared at the fire. “Cyril should be flogged.”

“Perhaps you can arrange a party for that.”

“Perhaps I shall.” The gleam in her eye was a trifle alarming, so he decided to change the topic.

“Where are the girls?”

His mother took another sip. “Upstairs in bed, of course. It’s the middle of the night.”

Not hardly. It was just past eleven.

“They might be in Meg’s room, though.”

“Meg’s room? Why would my daughters be sleeping in Meg’s room?”

“Oh dear.” She sent him a rueful glance. “They might have frightened off another nanny.”

Another nanny? Jonathan raked back his hair. “Might have?”

“There was some talk of setting her boot on fire.”

“That would do it.” He had no idea why he had to fight back a smile. “How many nannies is that?”

“I’ve lost count. But, Jonathan, it’s not their fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Those girls need a mother. Nannies just won’t do for such high-spirited creatures.”

“They have a father.”

“Hmm.” She finished off her glass and re-poured. “A father who prefers to flitter about in London.”

“I hardly flitter. For the past two months, I’ve been working straight through.” The parliamentary session had been endless.

“My point exactly. They need a mother.”

Blast. She had won that point after all.

“Even though this party is for Meg, it wouldn’t hurt for you to assess some of the young ladies who are coming. Say you will.”

Blast.

But her expression was so compelling, he had to say yes. If only to get her to stop talking about it.

After that major concession, he decided it would be wise to escape before she managed to pry any more from him. It was a skill at which she excelled. “I think I shall pop in on the girls, and then retire.”

“You do that.” She nodded. “I will see you in the morning. Have a list for me then.”

His brow wrinkled. “A list?”

His mother sighed heavily. “Were you even listening to me?”

“Of course I was listening. You didn’t mention a list.”

“I hate when people don’t listen.”

“Which list, Mother?”

“The list of suitors for Meg, of course.”

Ah. That. “I will work on it.”

“You do that. Have it for me first thing.”

He rose, bent to kiss her cheek once more, and then headed up the stairs. It took a moment at the landing to remember the way to the nursery. That was the trouble with having a house one rarely used. After a false start or two, he found the correct hallway and strolled through the dim corridor toward his daughters’ room.

The door was open, so he heard the soft strains of a Brahm’s lullaby as he approached and a grin picked up the corners of his lips. He’d always loved Meg’s singing. Because he didn’t want her to stop, he lingered at the door, taking in the serene scene. She sat in a rocking chair by the fire with her hair down, holding a bundle of his progeny. It was impossible to tell which one in the shadows, but it hardly mattered. After the day he’d had, such peace was a balm. His heart swelled.

He must have made a noise, because Meg stopped singing and turned to him. Even in the darkness, he saw her eyes widen and glow. Her lips quirked and she whispered, “You’re here.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. As though he’d stood here before, a thousand times, watching her hold his sleeping child.

He had no idea why it caused his heart to swell.

CHAPTER 2