"Not as much as I had hoped. I suppose I just do not have it in me to seduce widows and ruin debutantes."
"No," answered Enthorpe rather regretfully, "nor do I."
Another pause.
"So, who will you marry then?" This time Enthorpe broke the silence.
"Perhaps Lady Mary. She is a good sort. I think we would rub along rather well together. She has indicated, quite forcefully, that a quiet life in the Irish countryside would be no hardship to her. It may as well be her as anyone. And you?"
"The Lady Catherine, I think," was the eventual answer after some minutes pondering the question. "I must consider the duties of a duchess when making my decision. Nobody knows the rules of society as much as she. She is pretty and pleasant. And it will please my father to align ourselves with that family. She is on his list of acceptable wives."
Neither of the men spoke in terms of asking these women. They knew, everyone knew, that a refusal would be completely out of the question for any of the ladies in Town.
There was an air of finality about the conversation between the two young men. They both knew they were on the cusp of respectability and their days of misadventure would soon be behind them.
Thus, it was with a fond nostalgia that the conversation continued once they were safely ensconced in the warmth of the ducal carriage and making their way back to Mayfair.
"It has been a good ride Thorpe," said Lord Carrington fondly.
The marquess grinned. "It has been at that Carry."
"I wonder how many brats you will have," Carrington quipped.
"Less than you I warrant! An heir and spare is all I require, though I believe ladies have a fondness for daughters too."
"I shall want at least four to fill up that museum of a house in Offaly. As long as one of them is a boy I shan't mind about the others."
"Boys will be infinitely more manageable than girls, Carry."
"Nonsense. Girls are pliable and pleasing. They do as they are told quietly and without fuss." Carrington answered this firmly and with confidence, having had no experience of sisters or close female cousins.
The marquess, however, had grown up with sisters and smirked at Carrington's innocence and naivety.
"And what of the trouble of marrying them off?"
"Well, what of it? I shall give them their Seasons and they will marry."
"My dear Carry, do think of the Season we've just had. You will subject your daughters to the likes of us?"
"I had not thought of that," answered Carrington, his sudden look of consternation confirming that he'd forgotten that his daughters would not be exempt from the ups and downs of the marriage mart.
The marquess gave him a moment to digest this new piece of information and to re-evaluate his desire for girls.
"I've got it," he announced so suddenly that Enthorpe almost jumped out of his skin.
"Damnation, Carry! You almost scared me to death!"
"Apologies, old man. But I've got it."
"Got what?"
"The solution, of course."
"To what?" the marquess asked in exasperation.
"Why, the marrying off of my children," announced Carrington in a booming voice. "I shall just marry them to yours!"
Now, neither of these young men were hair brained or stupid. However, both were very firmly in their cups and, in such a state, the idea seemed ideal. Having enough sensibilities between them still to actually hash out some details, they decided that since the duke's heir probably should live where his actual dukedom was, it would be more appropriate to marry off a daughter of the earl's to a son of the duke's.
And, as young men of vast wealth and power are wont to do, they immediately called upon the duke's solicitor and forced that poor man out of his bed to draw up a legally binding contract that would secure the futures of their children. And all this before either man was engaged.
Thus, both men went on to marry their intended ladies and start on the children they were to produce, safe in the knowledge that at least two of them could look forward to a very agreeable match…
CHAPTER ONE
Offaly, Ireland, 1815
"Remind me again what we're doing here." The command, issued in a bored drawl came from Edward Crawdon, Duke of Hartridge.
The ducal carriage was bouncing along a rather bumpy, if beautiful, road in the Irish countryside, carrying its passengers to stay with Very Dear Friends. A term oft used by his mother and usually, as in this instance, meaning people Edward had either never met or could not remember.
His mother speared him with a steely glint and slightly raised eyebrow, designed to quell his stubbornness even from infancy.
"I told you dear. Several times. We are to visit our very dear friends, the Carringtons."
"You do know, Mother," pressed Edward, "that I have never actually met the Carringtons?"
"You've met Ranford, dear."
"Have I?"
"Why, yes," the dowager answered sweetly. Too sweetly.
"And, how old was I when I met him, Mother?" He speared her with a steely look of his own.
"I cannot recall the exact age…"
"Take a guess."