It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(25)

“I’ll go with you,” Hunt said at once, unfolding his long body from the chair. “My wife will be looking for me.”

“So will mine,” Shaw said agreeably, rising also.

St. Vincent shot Marcus a glance of bright mischief. “God spare me from ever letting a woman put a ring through my nose—and worse, appearing so bloody pleased about it.”

It was a sentiment that Marcus happened to agree with.

However, as the four men strolled negligently away from the study, Marcus couldn’t help but reflect on the curious fact that Simon Hunt, who, aside from St. Vincent, had been the most dedicated bachelor Marcus had ever known, seemed unexpectedly content in the chains of marriage. Knowing more than anyone how tightly Hunt had clung to his freedom, and the scant number of positive relationships that he’d ever had with women, Marcus had been astonished by Hunt’s willingness to surrender his autonomy. And to a woman like Annabelle, who at first had seemed little more than a shallow, self-absorbed husband hunter. But it had eventually become clear that an unusual degree of devotion existed between the pair, and Marcus had been forced to concede that Hunt had chosen well for himself.

“No regrets?” he murmured to Hunt as they strode down the hall, while Shaw and St. Vincent followed at a more leisurely pace.

Hunt glanced at him with a questioning smile. He was a big, dark-haired man, with the same sense of uncompromising masculinity and the same avid interest in hunting and sportsmanship that Marcus possessed. “About what?”

“Being led around by the nose by your wife.”

That drew a wry grin from Hunt, and he shook his head. “If my wife does lead me around, Westcliff, it’s by an altogether different body part. And no, I have no regrets whatsoever.”

“I suppose there’s a certain convenience in being married,” Marcus mused aloud. “Having a woman close at hand to satisfy your needs, not to mention the fact that a wife is undoubtedly more economical than a mistress. There is, moreover, the begetting of heirs to consider…”

Hunt laughed at his effort to cast the issue in a practical light. “I didn’t marry Annabelle for convenience. And although I haven’t tabulated any numbers, I can assure you that she is not cheaper than a mistress. As for the begetting of heirs, that was the farthest thing from my mind when I proposed to her.”

“Then why did you?”

“I would tell you, but not long ago you said that you hoped I wouldn’t start—how did you put it?—‘pollinate the air with maudlin sentiment.’”

“You believe yourself to be in love with her.”

“No,” Hunt countered in a relaxed manner, “I am in love with her.”

Marcus lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug. “If believing that makes marriage more palatable to you, so be it.”

“Good God, Westcliff…” Hunt murmured, a curious smile on his face, “haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Of course. Obviously I have found that some women are preferable to others in terms of disposition and physical appearance—”

“No, no, no …I’m not referring to finding someone who is ‘preferable.’ I mean completely being absorbed by a woman who fills you with desperation, longing, ecstasy…”

Marcus threw him a disparaging glance. “I haven’t time for that nonsense.”

Hunt annoyed him by laughing. “Then love won’t be a factor in the decision of whom you’re going to marry?”

“Absolutely not. Marriage is too important an issue to be decided by mercurial emotions.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Hunt agreed easily. A bit too easily, as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying. “A man like you should choose a wife in a logical manner. I will be interested in seeing how you accomplish it.”

They reached one of the receiving rooms, where Livia was tactfully encouraging guests to prepare for the formal procession into the dining hall. As soon as she saw Marcus, she threw him a quick frown, for so far he had left her to deal with the assemblage on her own. He returned her shaming glance with an unrepentant one. Moving farther into the room, Marcus saw that Thomas Bowman and his wife, Mercedes, were standing immediately to his right.

Marcus shook hands with Bowman, a quiet and heavy-set man with a broomlike mustache of such thickness that it nearly atoned for the scarcity of hair on his head. When he was in society, Bowman displayed the perpetually distracted manner of someone who would rather be doing other things. It was only when the discussion came around to business—any kind of business—that his attention was engaged with rapier sharpness.

“Good evening,” Marcus murmured, and bowed over Mercedes Bowman’s hand. She was so thin that the knuckles and ridges beneath her glove formed a surface suitable for shredding carrots. She was an abrasive woman, a bundle of nerves and coiled aggressiveness. “Please accept my regrets for not being able to welcome you this afternoon,” Marcus continued. “And allow me to say how agreeable your return to Stony Cross Park is.”

“Oh, my lord,” Mercedes trilled, “we are so very delighted to stay at your magnificent estate once again! And as to this afternoon—we thought nothing of your absence, other than to acknowledge that an important man like you, with so many concerns and responsibilities, must find innumerable demands made upon your time.” One of her arms gestured in a way that reminded Marcus of the movements of a praying mantis. “Ah—I see my two lovely girls standing right over there—” Her voice raised even higher as she called to them, and motioned sharply for them to come to her. “Girls! Girls, look whom I’ve found. Come talk to Lord Westcliff!”