The Lady By His Side(4)

At least, that had been his intention, but the pervasive silence of the house—the lack of anyone with whom he might discuss the situation—had impinged and nudged his mind back to his personal project, the one he’d so readily set aside in favor of assisting Drake.

Finding the right wife was no easy task, not for a gentleman—a nobleman—like him or, for that matter, Drake. Sebastian knew Drake was steadfastly avoiding the issue and would for as long as he could—just as his father had. Sebastian, on the other hand, had realized that such a tack was not going to work for him; he had too many female relatives. Various members of that sorority had already started dropping hints. He had, he judged, at most another year—another Season—before they came after him in a concerted way, determined to assist him in doing his duty and ensuring the succession of one of the primary dukedoms in the country.

To date, his mother had held off—and in doing so had kept all the others at bay—but he’d recently turned thirty-one. His father had married at thirty-three. In Sebastian’s estimation, his mother’s forbearance would almost certainly not extend beyond his next birthday.

He’d decided he needed to attend to the matter himself—within the next year—before his female relatives attempted to take charge.

But finding the right lady to make his marchioness, ultimately his duchess, was proving far more difficult than he’d imagined. Possibly because, until the past few days, he hadn’t made any effort to define what qualities that role required. Three very brief excursions into the ballrooms had underscored the conclusion that any of the bright young things—the recent crops of debutantes who circulated in hopeful droves at ton events—would drive him to drink within a week.

He needed someone more mature, someone of his own class with whom he could actually converse. Someone with whom he could share a ducal life.

In that day and age, a ducal life brought with it significant responsibility—politically, socially, and as a landowner and investor. It was a life of assured luxury, but unless one worked at it, satisfaction would not be forthcoming.

He needed a wife who could stand by his side—who had the backbone, talents, and skills to do so.

That much, he now understood. But as to where he might find such a lady, he had absolutely no idea.

Brooding on the matter did no good. Taking a long swallow of brandy, he’d set the vexed issue aside and turned his mind to the more immediate prospect of Drake’s mission.

He’d focused on Antonia, calling up all he could remember of her. It was something of a shock to realize that, although he’d known her since birth—hers, as he was two years older—and they’d spent long summers and numerous other holidays running wild as part of the large group of Cynster children of which he’d been the undisputed leader, while he could remember those carefree days—remember her quite clearly as an eager participant in almost any lark—he knew very little of the lady she’d grown to be.

He’d last seen her only months before, in May at his cousin Marcus’s wedding in Scotland. He’d recognized her instantly; it wasn’t that he hadn’t met her over the years, but rather that he hadn’t spent any time with her—private time in which he might have learned what she thought about things, how she felt, how she reacted…what sort of lady she’d grown into. All his meetings with her over the past decade had been the same as at Marcus’s wedding—in the middle of a large group of his relatives who were as much her friends as his.

Curious, now he thought of it, that on the surface, he knew her well, yet he knew so little about the woman she now was. Too little to feel confident of managing or manipulating her. In order to deal with her, he would either have to learn fast or rely on his persuasive skills.

With that in mind, he’d honed his approach, his arguments. He rehearsed them as he strolled down Green Street, then climbed the steps of Number 17 and plied the knocker.

The butler recognized him. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Withers. I need to speak with Lady Antonia.” Sebastian arched a languid brow. “I assume she’s at home.” At that hour in that season, Antonia was unlikely to be anywhere else.

“Indeed, my lord.” Withers stepped back and bowed. “If you will step inside, I will inquire.”

Sebastian walked into the elegant front hall.

Withers shut the door and reached for Sebastian’s cane. “The earl is out at the moment, my lord, but the countess and Lady Antonia have come downstairs.”

Sebastian cooled his heels in the front hall while Withers retreated to the rear of the house, then returned to escort him to the back parlor—the room the family used—indicating that the countess, at least, had correctly deduced that this was not a formal morning call.