Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] by His Captive Lady Page B

coffers.
    Poor Rafe had been trying to avoid the inevitable ever since he’d emerged from the war relatively unscathed. He didn’t relish the role of sacrificial lamb—not when it involved marriage.
    “Is anyone else comin’ with them?” Ethan asked diffidently. “The boys, mebbe?”
    Harry consulted the letter. “Yes, the boys and several of the Royal Zindarian Guard—oh and Callie’s friend, Miss Tibby. She and Callie are going shopping.”
    “That explains it,” Luke said. “Ladies always like to shop. No shops in Zindaria—not like London. When’re they coming?”
    “December,” Harry told him. “They’re staying for Christmas.”
    He broke open the second letter, read it, and swallowed. He took a large drink of wine.
    “Who’s it from?” Ethan asked curiously.
    “My aunt Gosforth,” Harry said. “She says she’s found me several very eligible bridal possibilities. I’m to come to Bath next week and meet them.”

Five
    “ C ome now, Harry,” Aunt Maude said, “don’t make a fuss—I just need a strong arm to lean on if I’m to negotiate that dreadfully steep hill.”
    “It’s downhill, but I’ll fetch you a sedan chair, shall I?” Harry knew perfectly well what his aunt wanted of him, and a strong arm was the least of it. She wanted his company in the Pump Room.
    Harry loathed the Pump Room, with its rituals, its gossip, the vile tasting waters, and worst of all, the community of genteel spinsters who eyed the arrival of a young man in their midst with all the excitement of a fox come into the henhouse. Only Harry didn’t feel like a fox; he felt, under their avid gaze, like a tasty ear of wheat.
    And Aunt Maude knew it, too, curse her. She found the whole thing enormously entertaining.
    “You wouldn’t begrudge a frail old woman your help, would you?” she said in a plaintive voice.
    “Frail, is it, Aunt Maudie? And who was it danced every dance at the ball last night?” Harry arched his brows. “Must have been some other frail old woman.”
    “It was because I danced every dance that I am feeling so delicate this morning,” his aunt responded with dignity.
    “Oh, it was the dancing, was it? I thought it was the champagne. How many glasses was it?” her unrepentant nephew responded.
    Maude, Lady Gosforth, clutched her head and said with asperity, “A gentleman would not count.”
    “I didn’t,” Harry said. “I lost count.”
    “Well, if you must be so vulgar as to refer to it,” his aunt declared, “you will understand why I am in need of the restorative powers of the waters at the pump room. And since the only reason I went to the ball last night was to assist you in this search for a wife, the least you can do is escort me.”
    It was a barefaced lie. Wild horses couldn’t keep Aunt Maude from a party, but Harry was aware she’d gone to a lot of trouble for him. He sighed and presented his arm. “All right, but only to the door.”
    “Nonsense.” His triumphant aunt tried not to smirk. “You are clearly liverish and out of sorts. You need to take the waters.”
    “I don’t,” he snapped. “It’s filthy stuff and I can’t bear those rooms, full of old tabbies and—” He broke off and said in a firm voice, “I’ll escort you there, but that’s my limit.”
    He was in a foul mood. For the past three days he’d done everything Aunt Maude had asked him to do: dressed up like a tailor’s dummy, sat and walked and made painstaking conversation with daughters and their fathers and mothers. He’d been as agreeable as he could possibly be to a bunch of people he never wanted to see again.
    It had all been a complete waste of time. He was no closer to finding a suitable wife than he had been the last time he’d come to Bath. Worse, in fact, because then he wasn’t comparing every blasted girl he met with her .
    Nell, Lady Helen Freymore, with her creamy, pure complexion and her honey-dark voice. No girl he’d met had such a clear direct gaze, such