Page 5 of Two Vows and a Viscount

“I suppose that’s something,” Devin said.

“St. Trevelyon assured me that his daughter is a quiet girl who’s been raised entirely in the country. I’d rather my future wife didn’t have Lady Regina’s ambitions to rule society, since I have developed a strong distaste for fashionable activities.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to betroth yourself to the woman sight unseen.”

“I will see her. I told St. Trevelyon I’ll sign the papers the morning after her debut ball. Lawrence’s portraits are notoriously flattering, after all. Red balls are gone. Yellow nominated.”

“Isn’t it my turn now?”

“No.”

“I heard a story about St. Trevelyon,” Devin mused. “A friend of Prinny’s, isn’t he?”

Fiennes had no fondness for the Prince of Wales. “I’ve no idea.” He began rapidly potting the remaining balls.

Devin snapped his fingers. “That’s right! I remember now. St. Trevelyon bet 500 guineas on Napoleon escaping from Elba.”

“Won that one,” Fiennes commented, rounding the table again.

“Actually, he lost, since he bet that the Italians would keep the Emperor penned up,” Devin said. “Rumor has it that he’s run off his legs. Are you certain of the dowry?”

“Stocks and bonds,” Devin said. “We didn’t get into the specifics.”

“It isn’t much fun to watch you gambol around the table, sinking all the balls.”

Fiennes drilled another ball into its pocket.

Devin sighed and folded his arms. “So, you’re going to marry a supposedly intelligent girl whom your father met a decade ago? For heaven’s sake, man, I’d have thought you’d learned better after the debacle with Lady Regina. You didn’t know what she was like behind closed doors, and it didn’t turn out well, did it?”

“It hardly matters, as I’ve never met a woman I’d like to marry. No, that’s not true. I might have married Miss Valentine, now the Duchess of Lennox.”

“Who wouldn’t have?” Devin said, a palpable edge of regret in his voice. “I scarcely got to dance with her before Lennox scooped her up. Turns out she was an heiress, did you know that?”

Fiennes didn’t need an heiress. His father had made a fortune, and he had doubled it.

“Course, it doesn’t matter to you,” Devin muttered. “The papers claim the Golden Ball is the richest man in England, but I fancy you have him beat.”

“An uncouth subject,” Fiennes said, sinking the last ball. “Do you want to play again?”

“What’s the bloody point?” Devin asked. “I hardly put my hand on a cue before you beat me. I’ve never made it past three reds.” He put the cue down and fixed Fiennes with a stern look. “You’re making a mistake. A huge mistake.”

“I never knew you were such a romantic,” Fiennes said, grinning at his friend.

“I’m not a romantic. I’m practical. At the very least, you need a wife who is affable and well-behaved, wouldn’t you agree? You can’t tell that from a couple of dances.”

“My mother cannot be described as such,” Fiennes said, pulling up the red balls.

“Yes, and your father died with merely his son in attendance. I’m not suggesting that you should fall in love. Frankly, it’s not gentlemanly, and it leads to appalling manners. It’s had a terrible effect on Lennox. I traveled to his estate last summer, but he wouldn’t accompany me to the racetrack because his wife didn’t wish to go.”

“Happy, is he?”

“As a Sunday in Paris,” Devin confirmed. “I couldn’t round a corner without finding him kissing the duchess.”

“I’m in no danger of that,” Fiennes said. “I wouldn’t even know how to go about it.”

Devin hooted. “Kissing?”

“Don’t be an ass. Falling in love.” Fiennes started pulling out the red balls and arranging them in a tight triangle.