Free Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] by What the Bride Wore

something that isn’t Yorkshire wool to wear.”
    Grant stiffened at the insult, mild though it was. “This is the best damn wool—”
    “Yes, yes. Finest in all the land. It’s all I wear since you took over. But you can’t dance in it. Not while it’s still hot outside and not while it hangs on you like a sad sack. You’ve lost weight, my friend. Been working yourself to the bone, I know, but you need to loosen the purse strings. Get yourself a decent outfit for a ball.”
    Pretty widows like pretty gents.
    Grant snorted, knowing it was true. “Well, since I don’t need to save my pennies to buy back the land, it appears I must use it to dress the dandy.”
    “You never lacked for style before.”
    “I’ll dress to dazzle. Promise.” Once, that would have made him smile in delight. Once, he’d taken great pride in his clothing. But that had been years ago. Meanwhile, Robert grunted an acknowledgment, his mind obviously somewhere else.
    “Good man. Now I’ve got some questions about the mill. I’m still half owner, you know, and you’ve made rather free with the changes.”
    “They made good sense and are paying off handsomely.”
    Robert waved for paper and pen. “Very well then, Mr. Grant ,” he said, emphasizing the name Grant used to manage the mill. “Prove to me that you’re not the biggest idiot alive.”
    “With pleasure,” he said. Then he grabbed the pen and began to sketch on the paper. The numbers would come later. First he had to draw the cloth-making process with pictures and arrows and all manner of designs. Thankfully, Robert listened with serious attention, and eventually, he nodded with approval. It was quite a heady moment for Grant, more potent than any brandy had ever been. More potent than winning a pony at rats or crickets.
    Too bad he would have to give up his newfound sense. In order to win a dowry, he’d have to go back to the frivolous ne’er do well he’d always been. The man the ladies adored, even though he had no substance to his life. But that was what happened to a man forced to court his fortune rather than earn it. He just hoped this Josephine wasn’t a total disaster. But how wonderful could she be? After five seasons and no husband?
    It didn’t matter. He’d sworn to get the Crowle land back, and she was the means. She could have a harelip and the breath of a goat. He’d still kiss her on the day they said, “I do.”
    And it would all begin at Redhill’s ball.
    Fun again. Huzzah! crowed his madness. But sleep with the widow first, then court the girl.

Six
    Grant did his best not to tug at his newly tied cravat. Once they had felt as natural as breathing, but it had been five years since he’d worn one arranged so elegantly. These days he often went without the thing all together.
    He looked at himself in the mirror, for once seeing the changes the last five years had wrought. His baby face was lean now, almost haggard. The muscles that had once filled out his clothing were still there, but no fat softened his body. He’d lost inches everywhere, except for his height, which was above average for a man. The whole effect could be considered dashing for a scarecrow. Provided he remembered how to flirt with a wallflower—how to find that twinkle in his eyes the girls had once swooned over.
    Was it even there anymore? Wasn’t that a product of a bland insouciance about life? The idea that because he was titled, things would always work out? That the creditors would not come banging on his door to drag him to debtor’s prison?
    Of course, that had never been him completely. If he were honest—and he’d tried for five years to be brutally honest with himself—the specter of the end had always haunted him. Juggling debts—and controlling his father—had been an exhausting process, especially as he’d maintained the air of a Titled Tom about Town. Winning had been about survival, not fun. And losing had always cut deeper because he had to pretend it