But he was lonely, damn it. And the thing was that he had only recently admitted it to himself—only during the past week, in fact, amid all the happy bustle of preparations for the final Survivor wedding. He had even asked himself in some alarm if he resented Percy for winning Imogen’s heart and hand, for being able to make her laugh again and glow. He had asked himself if perhaps he loved her himself. Well, yes, he did, he had concluded after some frank consideration. There was absolutely no doubt about it—just as there was no doubt that his love for her was not that kind of love. He loved her exactly as he loved Vincent and Hugo and the rest of them—deeply but purely platonically.
During the last few days he had toyed with the idea of hiring a mistress again. He had done so occasionally down the years. A few times he had even indulged in discreet affairs with ladies of his own class—all widows for whom he had felt nothing but liking and respect.
He did not want a mistress.
Last night he had lain awake, staring up at the shadowed canopy above his bed, unable to coax his mind to relax and his body to sleep. It had been one of those nights during which, for no discernible reason, sleep eluded him, and the notion had popped into his head, seemingly from nowhere, that perhaps he ought to marry. Not for love or issue—he was too old for either romance or fatherhood. Not that he was physically too old for the latter, but he did not want a child, or children, at Penderris again. Besides, he would have to marry a young woman if he wanted to populate his nursery, and the thought of marrying someone half his age held no appeal. It might for many men, but he was not one of them. He could admire the young beauties who crowded fashionable ballrooms during the Season each spring, but he felt not the slightest desire to bed any of them.
What had occurred to his mind last night was that marriage might bring him companionship, possibly a real friendship. Perhaps even someone in the nature of a soul mate. And, yes, someone to lie beside him in bed at night to soothe his loneliness and provide the regular pleasures of sex.
He had been celibate a little too long for comfort.
Two horses were clopping along the other side of the square, he could see, led by a groom on horseback. Both horses bore sidesaddles. The door of the Rees-Parry house directly opposite opened, and the two young daughters of the house stepped out and were helped into the saddle by the groom. Both girls wore smart riding habits. The faint sounds of feminine laughter and high spirits carried across the square and through the closed window of the library. They rode off in evident high spirits, the groom following a respectful distance behind them.
Youth could be delightful to behold, but he felt no yearning to be a part of it.
The idea that had come to him last night had not been purely hypothetical. It had come complete with the image of a particular woman, though why her he could not explain to himself. He scarcely knew her, after all, and had not seen her for more than a year. But there she had been, quite vivid in his mind’s eye while he had been thinking that maybe he ought to consider marrying again. Marrying her. It had seemed to him that she would be the perfect—the only—choice.
He had dozed off eventually and woken early to take breakfast with his cousins before seeing them on their way. Only now had he remembered those bizarre nighttime yearnings. Surely he must have been at least half asleep and half dreaming. It would be madness to tie himself down with a wife again, especially one who was a virtual stranger. What if she did not suit him after all? What if he did not suit her? An unhappy marriage would be worse than the loneliness and emptiness that sometimes conspired to drag down his spirits.
But now the same thoughts were back. Why the devil had he not gone riding? Or to White’s Club? He could have had his coffee there and occupied himself with the congenial conversation of male acquaintances or distracted himself with a perusal of the morning papers.
Would she have him if he asked? Was it conceited of him to believe that she would indeed? Why, after all, would she refuse him unless perhaps she was deterred by the fact that she did not love him? But she was no longer a young woman, her head stuffed with romantic dreams. She was probably as indifferent to romance as he was himself. He had much to offer any woman, even apart from the obvious inducements of a lofty title and fortune. He had a steady character to offer as well as friendship and . . . Well, he had marriage to offer. She had never been married.
Would he merely be making an idiot of himself, though, if he married again now when he was well into middle age? But why? Men his age and older were marrying all the time. And it was not as though he had his sights fixed upon some sweet young thing fresh out of the schoolroom. That would be pathetic. He would be seeking comfort with a mature woman who would perhaps welcome a similar comfort into her own life.
It was absurd to think that he was too old. Or that she was. Surely everyone was entitled to some companionship, some contentment in life even when youth was a thing of the past. He was not seriously considering doing it, though, was he?
A tap on the library door preceded the appearance in the room of a youngish man carrying a bundle of letters.
“Ethan.” George nodded to his secretary. “Anything of burning interest or vast moment?”
“No more than the usual, Your Grace,” Ethan Briggs said as he divided the pile in two and set each down on the desk. “Business and social.” He indicated each pile in turn, as he usually did.
“Bills?” George jutted his chin in the direction of the business pile.
“One from Hoby’s for a pair of riding boots,” his secretary said, “and various wedding expenses.”