“You proposed marriage to Tressingham’s daughter?” Weymouth fought to keep the incredulous note out of his voice. “Egads, but he has to be the biggest bore in England! I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him speak a coherent sentence that didn’t contain references to horses or hounds.”
“That may be so,” Griff agreed. “But there’s nothing boring about his daughter. She’s one of the season’s Incomparables. Lady Tressingham is thrilled at that accomplishment but her daughter’s aspirations run higher.”
“I’m not surprised,” Weymouth answered. “An Incomparable can have her pick of titles.” He pursed his lips. “So she aspires to something higher than a viscountess? Perhaps she wants to be a duchess. I heard a rumor about town that young Sussex was interested in her.”
“He was,” Griff replied. “As was Linton.”
“Bah!” Weymouth dismissed Linton with a wave of his hand. “The Marquess of Linton’s a fortune hunter.”
“As are half the suitors in London,” Griff pointed out.
“Sussex isn’t.”
“Unfortunately for Sussex, Lady Alyssa doesn’t aspire to the title of duchess.”
“Oh?” Weymouth was intrigued in spite of himself. The only rank higher was that of royal princess. “What then?”
“A gardener.”
Weymouth blinked. “Did you say a gardener?”
Griff nodded. “She enjoys gardening and aspires to design them.”
“Then it’s hardly logical that she would turn down the opportunity to become the Duchess of Sussex. The gardens at Sussex House are perfectly magnificent.”
“Too perfectly magnificent,” Griff explained, “for Lady Alyssa’s taste. A Whig at heart, my bride-to-be prefers a more natural style of gardening than Sussex could offer.” Griff leaned back in his chair, sitting patiently as the waiter carefully filled a cup with steaming hot coffee and handed it to him.
“You mean to tell me that the young lady you intend to marry chose you over the Duke of Sussex because she doesn’t care for his garden?”
Griffin grinned at his father. “That’s about the gist of it.”
Weymouth lifted his cup and saucer from the table at his elbow and took a long, bracing swallow of coffee.
“Don’t misunderstand me, my boy, because your mother and I are quite enamored of you and quite certain there’s no finer choice of a husband in all of England. But I cannot help wondering if there is a strain of madness or eccentricity in the young lady’s family? I mean young Sussex is every bit as handsome as you and a wealthy duke to boot. He has a great deal to recommend him as a suitor. And he hasn’t purchased a commission in His Majesty’s Horse Guards.” Weymouth shook his head. “He would make an ideal husband. I don’t understand what her father was thinking. Had I been in his shoes, I would have chosen Sussex.”
“I don’t know about the madness,” Griff said thoughtfully. “Although I’m quite certain the topic will come up when I meet with Lord Tressingham and his solicitor later this afternoon, but I fear there’s definitely an element of eccentricity.” Griff paused.
“How so?” Weymouth wasn’t overly alarmed. Hundreds of years of selective breeding for aristocratic bloodlines often produced eccentricities in family members. Eccentricities could be managed as long as the other family members recognized them for what they were.
“The walls of his study were lined with oil portraits of horses and hounds. There’s a massive portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence of his prized foxhound hanging over the mantel.”
“Then it’s guaranteed to be attractive,” Weymouth commented. Sir Thomas Lawrence was currently in vogue as the favorite portrait painter of the ton. He commanded exorbitant commissions and earned his reputation as a favorite because his portraits were often so flattering they barely resembled the subject.
“It is,” Griff replied. “Prettiest tricolored hound you’ve ever seen.”
“I’m sure he paid handsomely for it.”
“Then you would think he’d pay just as handsomely for portraits of his family.”
Weymouth winced. “There weren’t any Lawrences?”
“There weren’t any. There wasn’t so much as a miniature of Lady Tressingham or any of his four lovely daughters in sight.” Griff stared at his father over the rim of his coffee cup. “Nothing human. Every painting, every sculpture, every tapestry I saw from entry hall to study was canine or equine or both.” Griff paused for a moment to let his father absorb that facet of Tressingham’s personality. “You said it yourself, Father. The Earl of Tressingham is likely the biggest bore in all of England. He’s obsessed with his foxhounds and his horseflesh. The reason he consented to have me as his son-in-law rather than Sussex is because you happen to possess kennels and stables that outstrip everyone else’s—including his. And Tressingham desperately wants to breed his prized female to your stud hound.”
“What?” Weymouth choked on his mouthful of coffee and came very close to spewing it all over Griff and the red Turkey carpets covering the floor.
“He chose me over Sussex because I guaranteed him that breeding. I assured him that you would happily align your kennels and your stables with his. And that as a member of the family, he would have complete entrée to both.” Griff set his cup back on its saucer and reached up and tugged at the folds of his neckcloth. “In short, I bribed him. And when he hesitated, I sweetened the offer by giving him the loan of Apollo for the duration of my service overseas.”
“You’re parting with Apollo?” The earl couldn’t believe it. Griffin had helped bring that stallion into the world, raising and training him himself.