Since the companion and this particular daughter rarely agreed on anything concerning Jessica, he’d put up a weak protest then crumbled.
What he had not expected was to be hunted as if he were a prize on the marriage mart, too.
He retreated to the library, his private refuge, for protection. A haven for gentlemen—greenery and female free—the library was already occupied by a neighbor with the same idea as he. He scowled at Gideon Whitfield, a longtime friend and confidant. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.”
“Do they have you on the defensive again, too?” Whitfield queried from where he sat, making himself at home with his feet stretched out toward the crackling fire. Whitfield, a gentleman in his prime, was a confirmed bachelor of retiring habits, fortunate enough to still have a full head of dark wavy hair that the ladies so often admired.
“Indeed.” Nicolas took a peek outside toward the snowy drive. The dark of night was not far off, but he was expecting carolers to arrive at any moment. “Why did I agree to this?”
“Because you would do anything for your daughter’s happiness.” The man leaned forward. “You know, if you chose your own wife, you might be spared the worst of female machinations during the coming season. Like wolves, women only chase if you run. Let one catch you and your cares will be over.”
He grunted. That was another reason he was dreading the upcoming season. As much as he’d enjoy the idea of taking a wife again, to have sex and companionship and even more sex, he could not consider it until his daughter had found a suitable husband. Only one of them needed to be on the marriage mart, and at his age, he had trouble imagining starting over.
It had been just he and Jessica for a number of years, except for a string of governesses who had come and gone for various reasons. Earlier this year, he’d employed a companion for Jessica instead of a governess and been very pleased with the results.
Mrs. Gillian Thorpe had from the start been the exception to an otherwise unexceptional string of females he’d hired to keep Jessica in line. Mrs. Thorpe made no attempt to manage anyone but Jessica, and ensured he was always informed about disturbances to his daughter’s routine. He currently had the perfect arrangement and was in dread of the next large change in his life—losing Jessica to a husband who had better deserve her or else.
“That is why you are here,” he told Whitfield, pushing aside his unease. “Since my sons are otherwise engaged, you alone must distract females in want of a husband with your prettier face and deep pockets.”
Nicolas was indeed no prize to look at, with his broken nose and hair showing more gray than the black he’d been born with. There were times Nicolas felt positively ancient beside Whitfield, who was nearly a decade his junior. But for all the years between them, they had a great deal in common.
; Besides, of all his friends, Whitfield was entirely to be trusted around his innocent youngest daughter.
Whitfield waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, but you’re the duke every woman wants to catch, or so your daughter’s claim, even with your annual sour Christmas disposition on full display.”
“Please don’t remind me of the season.”
“I am cruelly used as your shield,” Whitfield complained, but amusement colored his tone, leaving Nicolas in no doubt that he was happy with his role in this particular house party. Whitfield leaned his head back. “Promise you’ve placed me next to someone other than the companion for dinner?” Whitfield begged.
Whitfield’s hopeful expression brought a laugh bubbling out of Nicolas’ chest. The younger man’s pretense of being a put-upon bachelor amused him. The fool relished his current popularity among the fairer sex. “I had a word with the housekeeper, and she assures me the place settings will not change again. You are placed next to Jessica this evening.”
“Good,” Whitfield said, smiling broadly. “No offense intended to your charming companion, but all she ever does is talk about her charge. I may as well sit beside Jessica at least one night and hear of her adventures firsthand. Tell me though, do all of your servants have no other information to share other than what Jessica did last?”
“Mrs. Thorpe is devoted to my daughter,” he said with satisfaction. “They are always together, so it is not surprising she speaks of Jessica a great deal. I couldn’t have asked for a better woman to guide her at this age.”
“Jessica seems to have slowed down very little since I last saw her,” Whitfield mused. “Two months ago, she was still the cheeky hoyden who almost took my head off playing cricket and then laughed about the near miss I had.”
“You do play exceptionally badly. You’re supposed to catch the ball with your hands, not your head,” Nicolas joked, remembering that sunny day fondly. Even Mrs. Thorpe had been laughing so hard she’d complained of a stitch in her side. Nicolas had had to chase after the furious Whitfield to make sure his daughter wasn’t strangled or dumped in the nearby pond.
He took another peek outside and was pleased to see approaching carriages. “Here they come. We should gather my guests and go out to meet them.”
Unfortunately, the fast clip of footsteps warned Nicolas his sanctuary had been invaded by a woman, and greeting the carolers might have to wait a little longer.
“I must speak to you about Jessica, Father,” Nicolas’ daughter, Mrs. Rebecca Warner, exclaimed abruptly.
He turned slowly, doomed to yet another inevitable lecture about the right way to raise a female child. Rebecca was forever telling Nicolas what to do, as if he’d not managed to turn out two satisfactory female children before. Rebecca took her role as an elder sister to extremes.
She turned her attention on Whitfield and smiled at the man. “Do excuse us.”
“No, stay exactly where you are.” Nicolas wasn’t about to have his evening spoiled by having his friend shooed away by the family’s feminine major general. “Whatever you have to say can wait until tomorrow, Rebecca.”
Whitfield fled anyway.
Wretched coward.
“You cannot put me off forever,” Rebecca insisted, as she looked about the space with a critical eye. “This room could do with a good airing. Some flowers, perhaps, too.”