Yes, she would speak to Great-Aunt Cornelia this afternoon about suitable options for a husband. She needed to escape the tall, dark-haired Scotsman and any wicked dreams he gave her.
Brodie had only been home for half an hour when Rafe’s butler, Mr. Chase, informed him that he had a visitor.
“A visitor?” Brodie stood in his bedchamber, tugging on his cuffs, while his valet, a young man named Alan, adjusted his coat at the shoulders. Unused to having a man dress him, Brodie was still adjusting to the close relationship between a man and his valet.
After his older brother, Brock, had married Rafe’s sister, Joanna, she had brought a large income into the Kincade family and had insisted that Brodie and Aiden also benefit from the joyful union by having valets hired for them. Alan was quiet and pleasant enough . . . for an Englishman.
“Yes, Mr. Kincade. He says his name is Mr. Jackson Hunt.” The butler passed Brodie an elegant calling card.
“Hunt . . .” The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t recall where he’d met the man. “I suppose I ought to see him.”
“Very good, sir. I shall have him shown to the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Chase,” Brodie called over his shoulder as he turned halfway to let Alan brush dust off his jacket. He had changed after his walk with Rafe. He wasn’t used to lounging about so much and had asked Rafe to show him more of the city. As a Scot, he loved the land and liked to be familiar with any terrain he was on, especially while in English territory.
“All done, sir,” Alan said. Brodie nodded his thanks, and then he proceeded to the drawing room.
His visitor, Jackson Hunt, was a tall man in his fifties. He stood by the fireplace and took in the measure of Brodie as he entered the room. Hunt offered a polite and hopeful smile that Brodie didn’t quite understand, given that he didn’t know the man and to the best of his knowledge he had no business with the fellow.
“Mr. Hunt?” Brodie nodded in greeting. “You’ll have to excuse me. I canna recall the circumstances of our meeting.”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Kincade, as we have not met before today.” Hunt bowed to Brodie. “I apologize for the unannounced visit, given that we have no previous acquaintance, but I hope my business here today will be viewed favorably by you.”
“And what is that?” Brodie inquired.
“My daughter, Miss Hunt, met you last evening at the assembly rooms and speaks highly of you. I came here as a messenger on a mission. I am a wealthy man, you see, and while I know the peers have their own way of doing things, I hope I may speak frankly with you.”
“I wish you would.” Brodie wasn’t at all following what the man was saying.
“My daughter wishes to marry you. I am here on her behalf to inquire if you would like to court her with marriage in mind. I can promise her dowry would be an income of ten thousand a year.”
Hunt delivered this with a gentle excitement that astounded Brodie, as though throwing large sums of money and daughters at a man was an everyday occurrence.
“What?” Brodie stared at the other man. “I don’t even know your daughter, sir.”
“But you do—she met you last evening. She’s small, with flaxen hair and bright-blue eyes.” Jackson mimed how short the girl in question was.
Brodie’s half-drunk memory returned. The wee blonde who’d introduced herself and tried to exchange a vow of marriage for a kiss. He could barely recall her face.
“Ah . . . I ken who you speak of now. We met but briefly,” he informed Mr. Hunt.
“Yes, well, she was very taken with you, and I hope that you and I can come to some sort of arrangement. If you were to marry her, it would be quite a large sum of money I would be willing to part with to make my child happy.”
“I ken the bond of a father to his child, Mr. Hunt, but I barely know the lass, and I have no intention of marrying her or anyone at this time.”
“I can pay you handsomely,” Hunt insisted. “Name your price.”
Brodie sighed. “Mr. Hunt, a man bought like a stallion to stud isna a good man for your daughter. I dinna want to upset the lass, but I dinna ken her, or love her.”
“But she’s a clever, humorous creature,” Mr. Hunt insisted. “I’m sure you could learn to love her. She even caught the eye of the king himself in London two months ago.”
Brodie had no doubt of that. Based on the vague details he remembered from the previous evening, she was more than pretty, but looks were not all that mattered to a man. Still, Brodie had no intention of marrying anyone. He was not the eldest son, nor the sole heir in the line of succession to the earldom. If Brock were to die without an heir, Aiden could easily carry on the title without Brodie ever having to have any children. He would be more than happy to let the title skip him and go straight to Aiden.
Brodie had no desire to pass on any of himself in the world, not when he feared his father’s blood would be carried on as well. The last Earl of Kincade had been a heavy-handed, angry man whose greed had cost the lives of noble Scots more than a decade ago, and cost his father his soul. It was Brodie’s deepest fear that any child born to him would inherit that blackhearted greed. He would leave such matters to his brothers, who were far better men than he was—Brock with his steadiness and infinite control, and Aiden with his endless compassion, especially for the wee beasties from the forest. Brodie had no such qualities. He would always be the wildest of the Kincade brood.
“Is there nothing I can offer you to change your mind, Mr. Kincade?” Mr. Hunt persisted.
“I’m sure your daughter is a fine lass, but I’m afraid there isna a thing you could offer, Mr. Hunt. It would be best to convince the lass to turn her heart elsewhere.”
Mr. Hunt’s look of dejection surprised Brodie. The man truly did hope to secure a marriage for his daughter, and he wasn’t just looking for a business transaction of some sort. It was obvious the man must dote upon her.
A fortunate lass, he thought.
Mr. Hunt soon recovered himself. “I am sorry to have troubled you, sir. I should take my leave.” He collected his hat and departed.
Brodie left the drawing room and watched as the footman showed Hunt to the door.
Rafe came down the stairs from the upper rooms. “Who was that?”
“Mr. Hunt,” Brodie replied.
“And who the bloody hell is that?” Rafe removed his jacket and waited for Brodie to follow him into the billiard room, where he set up a game.
“He’s the father of the wee lass who so boldly came up to us last night.”
“Oh?” Rafe laughed. “What did he want? Did she demand marriage?”
“As a matter of fact, she did.” Brodie chuckled as Rafe’s teasing turned into a stunned silence.
“The devil you say!” Rafe finally said. “All you did was speak with the chit.”
“Aye, but apparently she fancies me. Her father just tried to buy me.”
“Buy you?” Rafe’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, how much does a handsome Scot go for these days?”
“Ten thousand pounds a year, apparently, with room for negotiation.” Brodie grinned and collected a pool cue from Rafe.