The Naked Viscount. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
He silently counted to ten. He was a grown man. This was his house. He did not need—he did not want—to explain anything to Aunt Winifred. “Out. I have been out.”
Aunt Winifred sniffed. “That’s obvious.”
“Obvious. Obvious. Clear as the nose on my face.”
He hated it when Theo turned supercilious. “You don’t have a nose, Theo.”
Theo fluffed his feathers. “Aw, don’t be nasty, mate.”
“Exactly.” Aunt Winifred looked at him reproachfully. “It really is beneath you to argue with Theo, Edmund. He is only a parrot, you know.”
“I know.” He took a deep breath. He would not argue with Aunt Winifred either. “I thought you were going out with the other aunts to some musical evening.”
“Oh, no. I wanted to stay home and be certain Theo and Edmund were settled in their new surroundings.”
“Edmund.” Motton looked cautiously around the room. He didn’t see Aunt Winifred’s monkey, but it could be hiding in the drapery. “Where is Edmund?”
“Up in my room. The poor thing was exhausted from our travels.”
“Ah.” Too bad the damn monkey couldn’t stay exhausted. His house was already a bloody zoo with Cordelia’s cat, Dorothea’s two little yappy poodles, and Louisa’s greyhound. Adding a parrot and a monkey was more than any man should be asked to bear. “I imagine you are tired, too. Are you off to bed then?”
“No.” Winifred settled into one of his wing chairs. Theo perched on the chair back and glared at him.
His heart fell. He’d dearly love a glass of brandy, but then he’d have to offer Winifred something and chances were she’d take it and be here even longer. Perhaps if he remained standing, she’d be encouraged to come to the point quickly.
She came to the point immediately. “It’s time you married, Edmund.”
He sat down and poured himself a large brandy. To hell with good manners. “Married?” He cleared his throat. “Oh, there’s plenty of time for that. I’m barely thirty.”
“You’re thirty-three, almost thirty-four.”
“That’s not so old.”
“It is if you consider your history.”
He took another gulp of brandy. What the hell could Aunt Winifred mean? He thought he’d been rather discreet in his liaisons over the years. “My history?”
“Well, perhaps I should have said pedigree. Your father’s father didn’t get an heir until his sixth child, and your father, though prompt in getting you, only had one child—though no one thought he tried to get any more.”
“Aunt Winifred!” Motton rubbed his forehead. He did not want to discuss—he did not want to think about—his deceased parents’ conjugal relations or lack thereof.
Aunt Winifred sniffed. “Well, the point is, we have no time to lose.”
He had a sudden horrifying image of his aunt—all his aunts—supervising his wedding night. “I am quite capable of managing the issue—every aspect of the issue—myself.” He looked her in the eye and spoke slowly and distinctly. “I do not need your help.”
“Of course you need my help. Better mine than Gertrude’s. She’s already picked out Miss Elderberry for you.”
“Aldenberry, Aunt. The girl’s name is Aldenberry.”
“Well, it should be Elderberry. She’s only twenty-six, but she looks like she’s forty-six. Scraggy, with no bosom to speak of.”
“Aunt, please. You are putting me to the blush.” He swallowed another gulp of brandy. Georgiana—George, as she was called by everyone—was painfully thin and angular. And dour. He’d never seen her smile, let alone laugh, in all the years he’d known her. How could Gertrude think she’d be an acceptable bride for him?
Simple. Miss Aldenberry had six brothers.
“Pshaw. I’m sure it takes more than a little plain speaking to make you blush.” She tapped the edge of his desk. “You can be certain I set Gertrude straight. Men like breasts, I told her, the bigger the better.”
He dropped his head into his hands. “Aunt.”
“Dandy diddies, that’s what ye need, matey. Big bubbies. Two—”
“Theo!” He and Aunt Winifred shouted simultaneously.
Theo hung his head. “Just having a bit o’ fun, matey.”
“Don’t you have a Holland cloth or something we can drop over that bird’s head to make him go to sleep, Aunt?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” She glared at Theo. “I’ll lock you up in the brig, sir, if you don’t behave. Confine you to my room, you mark my words.”
Theo ducked his head between his wings and turned away so all they saw was his hunched, feathered back. He looked suitably cowed.
Aunt Winifred nodded and then turned back to Motton. She tapped his desk again. “Now, about your marriage—”
“Aunt Winifred.” He would try to look at her as sternly as she had looked at Theo. “I have already told you, I don’t need your help. I don’t want it; in fact, I’m offended—”
Aunt Winifred was not as easily cowed as Theo. She raised her hand to stop him. She now had more than seventy years in her dish, but age had hardly slowed—and had not dimmed—her will.
“Of course you don’t need my help with the actual getting of an heir. What you need is someone to give you a good swift kick in the breeches to get you moving toward the altar. That’s the aid I’m here to furnish.”
Chapter 3
Thank God! The door closed securely behind Aunt Winifred and Theo. Motton blew out a long breath and poured his third glass of brandy. This one he could savor in blessed solitude.
His aunt had spent the last twenty minutes cataloguing every bloody girl on the Marriage Mart. He’d thought she would never leave.
He held a mouthful of brandy on his tongue and let the fumes fill his mouth. Why had she come to Town this Season? She’d left his marital state alone up to this point, contenting herself with an occasional pointed comment. Why suddenly appear on his doorstep now with a list of potential wives?
He swallowed the brandy. The answer was obvious. She was here because the other aunts had descended upon him. She’d been off with her friend Lady Wordham at Baron Dawson’s estate celebrating the christening of Dawson’s second child. Winifred considered herself an honorary grandmother as she’d been instrumental in bringing the baron and his wife—the former Lady Grace Belmont—together. But once she got wind that the other aunts were in London—well, she was not going to leave such an important task as selecting the next Viscountess Motton to her sisters.
It would be damn nice if they’d all leave that task to him, however.
He leaned back in his chair and chuckled. God, the look on Williams’s face the other day when he’d announced the aunts—minus Aunt Winifred—in this very room. Well, it must have mirrored his. Horror, that’s what he’d felt when he’d seen them all standing behind his butler. He was certain Williams had tried to park the ladies in one of the parlors, but the aunts clearly were having none of that. They’d probably surmised—perhaps rightly—that their loving nephew would have bolted out the back.
Aunt Gertrude, the oldest at seventy-six, hadn’t waited for the poor fellow to get her name out. “Good Lord, man,” she’d said, pushing past him, “I had your master’s puke all over my shoulder when he was only days old. I don’t think you need to announce me.”
Cordelia,