The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(89)

“Would you?” George stared at Oscar.

He looked taken aback.

She switched her gaze to Tony. “Either of you? If you were forced to marry by the brothers of your bride, would you soon forgive and forget?”

“Well, maybe—” Oscar began.

Tony spoke over him. “No.” She raised her eyebrows. “Look—” Oscar started.

The door opened and Cecil Barclay stuck his head around it. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Come back later, shall I?”

“No!” George lowered her voice. “Come in, Cecil, do. We were just talking about you.”

“Oh?” He looked warily at Tony and Oscar, but he closed the door behind him and advanced into the room. He shook out a sleeve, spraying drops of water. “Ghastly weather out. Can’t remember when it’s rained so much.”

“Did you read my letter?” George asked.

Oscar muttered something and flopped into an armchair. Tony propped his chin in a hand, long bony fingers covering his mouth.

“Quite.” Cecil glanced at Tony. “It seems an interesting proposition. I take it you have discussed this idea with your brothers and it meets with their approval?”

George swallowed down a wave of nausea. “Oh, yes.” Oscar muttered, more loudly this time.

Tony arched a hairy eyebrow. “But does it meet with your approval, Cecil?” George forced herself to ask.

Cecil started. He’d been looking rather worriedly at Oscar, slumped in the armchair. “Yes. Yes, actually it does. Solves a rather tricky problem, in fact. Due to a childhood illness, I doubt I’m able to, uh, father a… a…” Cecil petered out, staring a bit fixedly at her tummy.

George pressed a hand to her belly, wishing desperately that it would calm down.

“Quite. Quite. Quite.” Cecil had regained his power of speech. He brought out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip. “There is only one hitch, as it were.”

“Oh?” Tony dropped his hand.

“Yes.” Cecil sat in an armchair next to George, and she realized guiltily that she’d forgotten to offer him a seat. “It’s the title, I’m afraid. It isn’t much of one, only a obscure baronetcy that Grandfather has, but the estate that goes with it is rather large.” Cecil passed the handkerchief over his brow. “Huge, to be quite vulgar.”

“And you wouldn’t want the child inheriting it?” Tony spoke quietly.

“No. That is, yes,” Cecil gasped. “Whole point of the proposition, isn’t it? Having an heir? No, the problem is in my aunt. Aunt Irene, that is. The bally woman has always blamed me for being next in line to inherit.” Cecil shuddered. “Fact is, I’d be afraid to meet the old bat in a dark alley. Might take the opportunity to make the succession a little closer to her own son, Alphonse.”

“Fascinating as this family history is, Cecil, old man, how does it pertain to Georgie?” Oscar asked. He’d sat up during Cecil’s recitation.

“Well, don’t you see? Aunt Irene might challenge any heir that arrived, er, a little early.”

Tony stared. “What about your younger brother, Freddy?”

Cecil nodded. “Yes, I know. A sane woman would see that too many stood between her Alphonse and the inheritance, but that’s just it. Aunt Irene ain’t sane.”

“Ah.” Tony sat back, apparently in thought. “So what are we to do?” George just wanted to retire to her rooms and go to sleep.

“If t’were done, t’were best done quickly,” Oscar said softly.

“What?” Cecil knit his brow.

But Tony sat up and nodded. “Yes. You’ve mangled the quote, of course, but you’re quite right.” He turned to Cecil. “How soon can you get a special license?”

“I…” Cecil blinked. “In a fortnight?”

Oscar shook his head. “Too long. Two, three days at the most. Knew a fellow got one within a day of applying.”

“But the archbishop of—” “Canterbury’s a personal friend of Aunt Beatrice’s,” Oscar said. “He’s in London right now. She was telling me only the other day.” He clapped Cecil on the back. “Come on, I’ll help you find him. And congratulations. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent brother-in-law.”

“Oh, er, thanks.”

Oscar and Cecil slammed out of the room.

George looked at Tony.

He turned down one corner of his wide mouth. “You’d better start looking for a wedding dress, Georgie.”

Which was when George realized she was engaged—to the wrong man.

She grabbed the basin just in time.

THE RAIN POUNDED DOWN. Harry stepped unwarily and sank ankle-deep in oozing muck. The entire road was more a moving stream than solid ground.

“Jesus Christ,” Bennet panted from atop his horse. “I think I’m growing mildew between my toes. I can’t believe this rain. Can you? Four days straight without any letup.”

“Nasty,” Will mumbled indistinctly from his place behind Bennet. His face was all but hidden in Bennet’s cape.

It had started raining the day of Thomas’s funeral and continued through Lord Granville’s internment the day after, but Harry didn’t say that. Bennet knew the facts well enough. “Aye, it’s nasty all right.” The mare nuzzled the back of his neck, blowing a warm, musty breath against his skin.