Free The Golden Season by Connie Brockway Page A

he’d been no longer existed, though he wore the same smile and had the same manner. His calmness had become stoicism and his tranquillity a deep-seated dispassion that had been necessary for him to give the orders he had given, send men where he had sent them, and do what he had done. He never wanted any one of his family to know what he knew, or imagine those things he had seen, or some he had been required to do. And there was no reason they should. He had fought in part to preserve their naïveté, their bombastic, boisterous innocence.
    There had been times when only the thought of his family at Josten Hall, just as he remembered them, posturing and blustering and blessedly, wholesomely oblivious, had kept him from despair. There was no question that he would do all within his power for the family, he thought as he approached Boodle’s discreet front door. Even marrying an heiress. And why not? He longed for those things for which he’d fought: a home, heirs, security, tradition. It was time he wed a woman of wealth and intelligence, one whom he could admire.
    That was his criteria. Had been his criteria until now. Because of a sudden he realized he required—no, not required—he wanted more, he thought as he nodded to the doorman at the entrance to Boodle’s.
    He was no sooner through the door into the foyer when a voice hailed him. “Ned? Captain Ned Lockton?”
    He turned to find a slight fellow a few years his junior making his way down the corridor toward him, his movements constrained by the close fit of his pantaloons and the waist-nipping cut of a coat with exaggerated shoulders. A high collar cinched round with an elaborately tied blue cravat obscured the lower half of his face while sandy curls brushed toward his face did a fair job of obscuring the rest.
    “Good Lord, Borton, is that you?” Ned asked.
    The Honorable George Borton’s family, comfortable country gentry, lived ten miles from Josten Hall. Borton had tagged after him when they were lads until Ned had entered the navy. The last time Ned had seen Borton was two years ago, just after his niece, Mary, had turned down his offer of marriage. Apparently, since then Borton had been developing some town bronze. “How fare you, Borton?”
    “Flourishing, Ned,” Borton said, then noting Ned’s appraisal of his ensemble, said, “Hale.”
    “Delighted to hear it.”
    “No, not me, me tailor, Captain. Paul Hale. Though your tailor looks to have a done a plumb job, too, sir. Never seen shoulder padding set in so well.”
    Ned didn’t bother telling him his coat had no padding. “Thank you.”
    “I didn’t know you were a member here.”
    “Josten has submitted my name for consideration.”
    “Consideration nothing,” Borton proclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m on the election committee. Here!” He waved a hovering footman over. “Take Captain Lockton’s parcel for him and bring us a drink. Port, isn’t it? Port it is.”
    He smiled and clapped Ned on the back again. Let me show you around. Wonderful library we have, and the most comfortable chairs in all of London. And, lest you need reminding, we, too, have a bow window just like White’s.
    “Best of all,” he continued, “we’ve got no women. How’s your niece, Mary? No, don’t tell me. She’s not engaged, is she? ’Course not. Would have heard. Where was I? Oh, yes. No women. We are a kingdom of men, an island set above the cacophony of female voices. Should it be your desire, you wouldn’t have to set eyes on a female for weeks. How is Mary?”
    Ned, who had been without female company for the greater part of his adult life, could not help but smile. “It sounds rather like my last commission.”
    Borton shot him a quick glance and seeing that he was being twitted, smiled. “Forgot that that’s hardly an endorsement for you, eh, Captain? So what would be a recommendation? Good food? Congenial company? The most current publications? Why, Brummell himself is