Barely a Bride

Griffin gave his white linen neckcloth a final pat and then fastened the intricately tied folds of his cravat with a gold stickpin bearing his family crest. He turned to Eastman, his valet. “Will I pass muster?”

  “Most excellently, sir,” Eastman pronounced. “You look quite the Corinthian.”

  Griff exhaled. “About time.” After discarding half a dozen waistcoats, jackets, neckcloths, and a variety of pins, watch chains, and fobs, he and Eastman had finally decided upon the perfect combination for the task at hand. A coat of dark blue superfine with brass buttons, a brocade waistcoat, linen shirt and neckcloth, trousers of buff doeskin, and glossy black knee boots. “A uniform would have been much less bother. Hell, turning out in full state kit would have been less bother.”

  The valet shook his head. “It isn’t done, my lord.”

  Griff grinned at Eastman. “I didn’t say it was proper. I said it would have been easier.”

  Eastman met Griffin’s grin with a tiny smile. The only time His Majesty’s Eleventh Blues turned out in full state kit was for coronations, the opening of parliament, royal weddings, funerals, and parades, and the preparation for those events generally took anywhere from eight to twenty hours. The fact that his lordship considered turning out in full state kit easier than dressing to meet the father of the young lady he intended to marry was a measure of his apprehension. And the fact that his lordship was scheduled to meet with his own father to relay the outcome of his interview immediately afterward, served to heighten Lord Abernathy’s nerves. Eastman imagined that His Lordship would rather face a French cavalry charge.

  He glanced at the gold anniversary clock on the mantel. “It’s time, sir.”

  “Pardon?” Griff looked up.

  “You asked that I remind you of the time, sir, so you wouldn’t be late,” Eastman reminded him. “It’s time.”

  Griff nodded. “Is Apollo ready?”

  “Ready and waiting, sir.” Eastman firmed his lips in disapproval but refrained from voicing it.

  Griffin recognized his manservant’s expression. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Speak your mind.”

  Eastman looked askance.

  “You volunteered to accompany me to war, Eastman,” Griffin said. “That more than entitles you to voice your opinion in my presence, whatever the occasion.”

  Eastman took a deep breath. “I question the wisdom of using Apollo as your mode of transportation. He is, after all, a breeding stallion and not the sort of mount a gentleman usually rides when paying a call upon his intended.”

  “I’m not paying a call upon my intended,” Griff said. “I’m paying a call upon her father in order to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage so that she may become my intended.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin. “I’m hoping Apollo will provide added incentive in convincing her father.”

  “I don’t understand the necessity, my lord,” Eastman admitted.

  “The lady I intend to marry is one of the Incomparable Beauties of the season.”

  “Congratulations, my lord.” Eastman grinned. Lord Abernathy had been quite closemouthed about the young lady. Until this moment, he had yet to offer any hint as to her identity. Of course, that was the proper thing to do. A gentleman did not presume or bandy a young lady’s name about until the negotiations were concluded and the wedding notice appeared in the morning paper.

  Griffin continued, “Her father is an earl, and the young lady has a plethora of suitors from which to choose—including the Duke of Sussex. Her family may not see the advantages of having their daughter marry me. I am only a viscount.”

  “A young, handsome viscount. A viscount with an ancient title. A viscount who is wealthy in his own right and heir to the Earl of Weymouth,” Eastman listed Griff’s attributes.

  Griff laughed. “Still a lowly viscount. But one whose father happens to possess one of the finest stables and breeding kennels in England.”

  Eastman looked puzzled.

  “The father of the young lady in question is quite a keen admirer of both.”

  “I see.” And although Eastman was no judge of horseflesh, he knew Apollo was clearly superior to the horses other gentlemen rode. “I don’t see how the young lady’s father could fail to be impressed by Apollo—or by his rider.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Griffin agreed.

  “Still,” Eastman mused, “it seems a shame to have to forgo a carriage ride around the park with your betrothed.”

  “She isn’t my betrothed.”

  “She will be,” Eastman predicted. “Once her pater is dazzled by the splendor of Viscount Abernathy on horseback.”