Free Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes Page B

supposed to be protective of the little ones, and most women were.
    “You are a guest in my home, a friend to my younger brother—who has few enough friends—and you mean well,” Bellefonte said. His tone implied a list of transgressions recited at the local magistrate’s parlor session. “I’m not scolding you.”
    Bellefonte made a quarter turn so he faced Tremaine without giving up proximity to the fire’s heat.
    “Relieved to hear it,” Tremaine replied. “Shall we discuss your sheep, then? I might be a guest, though I’m a guest who would not be under your roof but for a desire to purchase those sheep.”
    Lest any thoroughly domesticated earls develop aspirations in other directions.
    Bellefonte rubbed a hand over the hip closest to the fire. “Right, my sheep. We’ll get to those. Why aren’t you married, St. Michael? Beckman said you proposed to Miss Polonaise Hunt earlier this winter.”
    The list of reasons to thrash Beckman Haddonfield was growing by the hour.
    “Miss Hunt turned me down,” Tremaine said. Polly was now the Marchioness of Hesketh—also head over ears in love with her grouchy, taciturn, tenderhearted marquess. “A near miss, from my perspective.”
    And from the lady’s, no doubt. Tremaine hadn’t dared solicit Lord Hesketh’s opinion, lest the marquess’s sentiments be conveyed at thirty paces.
    “You’re amenable to marriage in the general case?” Bellefonte asked.
    “We were discussing your merino sheep, Bellefonte. The herd appears in good condition, but if you continue inbreeding, you’ll soon have a greater incidence of ill health, smaller specimens, and stillbirths.”
    Bellefonte rested an elbow on the mantel, which he could do easily because of his excessive height.
    “So you’ll use my sheep for outcrosses, then? Improve the wool in the local strains, improve the health of the merino offspring?”
    “That would make sense.” As would selling some of the pure individuals in France, the United States, or other countries. Sheep were hardy enough to tolerate sea voyages well, under decent conditions.
    “And yet you do not commit to that course,” Bellefonte mused. “Others are interested in these sheep, though I’ve only recently become aware of that.”
    Tremaine remained seated at the desk and busied himself pouring the sand off his letter, capping the ink, and tossing the parings from the quill pen into the dustbin. Bellefonte was a good negotiator, but if he was as cash poor as most of the aristocracy, he was in a bad bargaining position.
    “Others might be interested in your sheep, my lord, but others are not here. Others probably lack the coin I can bring to bear on the situation, and others won’t maximize the value of those sheep as I can.”
    “Others will marry my sisters.”
    Or maybe Bellefonte was a brilliant negotiator.
    “Bellefonte, allow me to instruct you about sheep,” Tremaine said, “for I blush to inform you I am an expert on the species. Sheep move about on four legs. They grow wool, they bleat. They tend to dwell in herds, and according to some, the breeding rams have an objectionable aroma.
    “Sisters, by contrast, typically move about on two legs,” Tremaine continued, approaching the hearth. “They may laugh, speak, or whine. They ordinarily do not bleat. They take great pride in their hair—which has little resemblance to wool—tend to pleasant scents, and go exactly where they please, when they please. They do not dwell in placid herds, chewing their cud until the shepherd directs them to another pasture. I am interested in the sheep, and only the sheep.”
    “You want the sheep; I want my sisters happily and safely married. Beckman has spoken highly of you.”
    For which Tremaine really must pummel dear Beckman when next they met. Perhaps Hesketh was due a few blows as well, for the aristocracy kept close tabs on each other, and the marquess might have had a hand in any scheme that saw Tremaine marched up the church