Barely a Bride (Free Fellows League 1)

Griff met her gaze. ?

?Why me?”

“Why not?” she replied. “You’re in need of a wife, and you happen to be the only gentleman I’ve ever seen who made me feel as if I were meant to be his wife.” She threw his words back at him.

“Touché.” He smiled. “Did those words sound as well-rehearsed when I said them to you?”

“Oh, no.” She looked up at him. “Quite the opposite. They sounded entirely sincere.”

“That’s nice,” he said. “Because they were.” He winked at her. “Make no mistake about it, Lady Alyssa Carrollton, I want you for my viscountess.”

Recognizing the gleam in his eye for the challenge that it was, Alyssa met his gaze, “Then don’t disappoint me.”

Griff almost kissed her on the spot. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He escorted Alyssa to her mother. Lifting her hand as he bowed at the waist, he brushed his lips across the back of it and murmured, “A pleasure making your acquaintance, Lady Alyssa. Thank you most kindly for the dance.”

“My pleasure, Lord Abernathy.”

He let go of Alyssa’s hand and turned to her mother. “With your permission, ma’am, I would like to call upon Lord Tressingham tomorrow in order to pay my respects.”

Lady Tressingham eyed him speculatively. “I’ll see that he’s made aware of your impending arrival,” she said. “And now, we shall bid you good night, Lord Abernathy, and good luck.”

Griff accepted the dismissal. He bowed once more, then turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd toward the card room.

Alyssa lifted her fan to her face in an effort to disguise the fact that she was following his every move.

“Don’t bother, Alyssa,” Lady Tressingham remarked from behind her own fan. “He’s a dream to look upon, but Abernathy’s only a viscount and quite unsuitable as long as there are marquesses and a duke in the running.”

Chapter Eight

“According to the War Office’s latest dispatches, Massena has chosen his field marshals and is preparing for battle. I have chosen my bride and am preparing to marry.”

—Griffin, Viscount Abernathy, journal entry, 26 April 1810

Griffin gave his white linen neckcloth a final pat and then fastened the intricately tied folds of his cravat with a gold stickpin bearing his family crest. He turned to Eastman, his valet. “Will I pass muster?”

“Most excellently, sir,” Eastman pronounced. “You look quite the Corinthian.”

Griff exhaled. “About time.” After discarding half a dozen waistcoats, jackets, neckcloths, and a variety of pins, watch chains, and fobs, he and Eastman had finally decided upon the perfect combination for the task at hand. A coat of dark blue superfine with brass buttons, a brocade waistcoat, linen shirt and neckcloth, trousers of buff doeskin, and glossy black knee boots. “A uniform would have been much less bother. Hell, turning out in full state kit would have been less bother.”

The valet shook his head. “It isn’t done, my lord.”

Griff grinned at Eastman. “I didn’t say it was proper. I said it would have been easier.”

Eastman met Griffin’s grin with a tiny smile. The only time His Majesty’s Eleventh Blues turned out in full state kit was for coronations, the opening of parliament, royal weddings, funerals, and parades, and the preparation for those events generally took anywhere from eight to twenty hours. The fact that his lordship considered turning out in full state kit easier than dressing to meet the father of the young lady he intended to marry was a measure of his apprehension. And the fact that his lordship was scheduled to meet with his own father to relay the outcome of his interview immediately afterward, served to heighten Lord Abernathy’s nerves. Eastman imagined that His Lordship would rather face a French cavalry charge.

He glanced at the gold anniversary clock on the mantel. “It’s time, sir.”

“Pardon?” Griff looked up.

“You asked that I remind you of the time, sir, so you wouldn’t be late,” Eastman reminded him. “It’s time.”

Griff nodded. “Is Apollo ready?”

“Ready and waiting, sir.” Eastman firmed his lips in disapproval but refrained from voicing it.

Griffin recognized his manservant’s expression. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Speak your mind.”