Miss Marling stiffened in every line of her small figure. “It’s no such thing! He may not be a brilliant match, or have a title, but all the men I have met who are brilliant matches are just like you, and would make the most horrid husbands.”
“You may as well let me know the worst,” said my lord. “If you think it would annoy Aunt Fanny, I’ll do what I can for you.”
She clasped both hands on his arm. “Dear, dear Dominic! I knew you would! It is Frederick Comyn.”
“And who,” said the Marquis, “might he be?”
“He comes from Gloucestershire — or is it Somerset? Well, it doesn’t signify — and his papa is SirMalcolm Comyn, and it is all perfectly respectable, as dear Aunt Léonie would say, for they have always lived there, and there is an estate, though not very large, I believe, and Frederick is the eldest son, and he was at Cambridge, and this is his first stay in town, and Lord Carlisle is his sponsor, so you see it is not a mésalliance at all.”
“I don’t,” said his lordship. “You may as well give up the notion, my dear. They’ll never let you throw yourself away on this nobody.”
“Dominic,” said Miss Marling with dangerous quiet.
My lord looked lazily down at her.
“I just want you to know that my mind is made up,” she said, giving him back look for look. “So that it is no use to talk to me like that.”
“Very well,” said my lord.