Barely a Bride (Free Fellows League 1)

“Adelaide, Alyssa, Amelia, Anne. All my gels favor and all of them have names that start with an A. Damned if I can keep them straight.” He looked at Griffin. “But you understand the problem, of course, seeing as how you’re acquainted with them.”

“I’ve only had the pleasure of making Lady Alyssa’s acquaintance,” Griff replied. “That’s why I’ve come.”

Tressingham took a deep breath. “What’s the gel done now?”

Griff blinked in surprise. “Something quite extraordinary, really. She managed to catch my eye.”

Tressingham snorted. “Nothing out of the ordinary about that. All my gels are lookers.”

“I wouldn’t know about the others, sir,” Griff told him. “Only Lady Alyssa.”

“Alyssa. Alyssa. Oh, yes, that one. Filly. Light brown mane, streaked with blond. Nice big eyes. Blue, if I’m not mistaken. Good ground manners. Hasn’t been broken to ride. But that’s only natural as she lacks an adequate handler.”

Griff had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping in astonishment. The earl described his daughter as if she belonged in someone’s stable. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Lord Tressingham, you appear to be discussing horseflesh. I’m talking about your daughter.”

Tressingham laughed, a big, booming guffaw that spoke of a male camaraderie Griffin didn’t feel. Tressingham stopped laughing and stared at Griffin. “No sense of humor, eh?”

Griffin tried not to appear affronted. The man before him was, after all, the man he hoped would become his father-in-law. “On the contrary, sir,” he answered. “My friends tell me I have quite a good sense of humor.”

“No evidence of it,” Tressingham murmured. “And who can trust what their friends say? Friends are supposed to minimize your shortcomings and maximize your attributes. If they’re loyal. That’s their job. Abernathy…” He reached up and scratched his brow as if trying to place the family name. “Abernathy. What rank did you say you were?”

“Major, sir, about to take commission in His Majesty’s Eleventh Blues.”

“Going off to war to fight the Frenchies, eh?”

Griff nodded.

“I suppose someone has to do it,” Tressingham said. “And I guess it’s all right for younger sons and those unfortunates who’ve no money to go along with their titles. Or the blighters who actually like the army life.” Tressingham turned to the sideboard to the right of his desk and poured himself two fingers of Scots whisky. He looked at Griff and gestured with the whisky decanter. “Join me?”

Griff shook his head. “No, thank you, sir, it’s a bit early in the day for me.”

Tressingham snorted in derision as if to say there was no such thing, then took a deep draught from his glass. “Go on,” he urged. “Explain yourself. Are you going into the army to make your name or your fortune?”

“Neither,” Griff replied. “I’m going into the army to fight Napoleon. I’m not a younger son, I’m the heir. And I possess an ancient and honorable title.”

“Good for you.” Tressingham’s offhanded congratulations sounded entirely genuine. “And what rank might that title be?”

“Viscount,” Griffin answered. “I’m the seventeenth Viscount Abernathy.”

“A viscount, eh?” Tressingham clucked his tongue in sympathy and eyed Griff more carefully. “That’s too bad.” In his experience viscounts tended to be perpetually short of blunt and always looking to marry heiresses. This one, however, wore a well-tailored coat of dark blue superfine, a snowy white shirt of fine linen, an impeccably tied four-in-hand, a brocade waistcoat, and buff doeskin trousers that molded his long, muscular limbs. He looked exceedingly prosperous. But looks could be deceiving. Beau Brummell always looked exceedingly prosperous, and Brummell was always borrowing money from the Prince of Wales or some of his other more prosperous cronies in order to buy off his creditors. “And you’ve come about my filly, Alyssa.”

“I’ve come about your daughter, Lady Alyssa. And I don’t expect to find her in residence in the stables.”

“Then you must have Amy or Adelaide or Anne in mind,” Tressingham said. “Unfortunately for you and fortunately for me and Lady Tressingham, they’re safely married.”

Griff shook his head. “I’m not interested in your other daughters. I’ve come about the unmarried one. Lady Alyssa.” Griff paused for a moment. “The one who likes to garden.”

“Then surely you know the best place to find her is in the stables.” Tressingham blew out an exasperated breath. “She’s probably mucking them even as we speak.”

“Mucking stalls?”

“For the fertilizer, don’t you know? But the gardens at our country house have never looked better. Course, her mother has forbidden her to help out in the stable or work in the gardens while we’re here in London.”

“Why?” Griff wondered.

“Because the gel cares about little else but gardening and riding, reading and puttering about. Half the time she looks and smells like a stableboy. Which would be fine if she smelt that way because she was riding all the time, but she’s experimenting with different types of muck for the gardens. And that’s no way to catch a suitable husband. Not in London. Course, she has had a pile of suitors in spite of it.” He paused. “But none to suit her mother. Lady Tressingham has her heart set on the Duke of Sussex. You seem like a nice sort of chap, but if you’re only a viscount, you’ve come too late. My other gels married lads who are earls or better. We’ll not be settling for a mere viscount for the last one. Especially since my wife and Her Grace have had an understanding since our gels came into the world.”

Griff frowned.