The door to his office creaked open. The butler, Mr. Morris, did a terrible job of trying to sneak across the creaky oak floorboards. Nicholas put down his pen and looked Morris’ way. The butler froze, as though he were a little boy caught in the pantry by cook. Which Nicholas had been many, many times, so he recognized that expression.

“Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to intrude. I know you have plenty of work to do.”

Morris was almost the same age as what his father would have been had he not passed away two years prior but he was a portly man. It meant sneaking was near impossible. His belly threatened to pop the buttons on his waistcoat and he was forever dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. Some days Nicholas wanted to insist he retire and relax but the man had worked in Uxbridge Manor for most of his life and refused to even consider such a thing. What would I do with myself if I retired? Morris always asked.

Nicholas could think of many things he’d rather be doing than working but it seemed Morris didn’t feel the same.

“It’s fine.” Nicholas motioned to the tray. “Put it on the table over there.”

He indicated the side table near the fireplace. His eyes were beginning to hurt and his back ached from having been in the office most of the day, answering letters and checking the estate accounts. A cup of tea and something to eat would be a welcome break.

He glanced out of the tall window. At least the weather wasn’t nice. There was nothing worse than being stuck inside while the sun was shining.

Morris placed down the tray and picked up the stack of letters on the side of the tray. He brought them over to the desk and put them on the side. Nicholas scowled. More letters. The last thing he needed. Being a titled lord wasn’t all fun.

Nicholas unbound the string tying them all together and spread them out while Morris poured the tea. There was a set with the same writing, one—four altogether by the looks of it. There was something familiar about the writing but he could not think what.

“Have a break, my lord. You work too hard.”

Opting to ignore the letters, he shook his head and smiled. “There are many who would say otherwise.”

“There are many who do not know you well enough.”

Somehow, he had gained himself a reputation for being, well, in pursuit of pleasure. And not necessarily the usual pleasures. The truth was, his love of fast horses and anything adventurous had tainted him since inheriting his title. Not that he cared. His tenants were content and the estate was prosperous under his hand. Even if the ton did not think he was able to balance his duties, he had full confidence he could manage quite well.

He stood and winced as a muscle in his back pulled. “One was not designed to sit in a chair all day, Morris,” he said when the butler gave him a curious look.

“No, corroding to you, one was designed to sit on a horse all day, my lord.”

“Now that would be a pleasure indeed. Much better than letters and accounts.” He took the cup of tea and remained standing. The idea of sitting down once more made his body ache all over again.

It was true, though, he had always been active, ever since he could run really. Once he’d discovered horse riding, there was no stopping him.

There was nothing better than the thrill of galloping across the land faster than anyone else. He was, he concluded, not the sort of man to sit around and drink whisky in Boodle’s or spend hours at the poker table. He could gain far more of a thrill from the outdoors.

“You do not need to remain, Morris. I am quite capable of drinking tea alone.” He gave the butler a look as the man lingered in the office, making a show of tidying things here and there.

“I just wanted to ensure you took a break.”

“You are not my nursemaid. Besides, Frederick is popping over shortly to spar with me.”

A shudder ran through the butler’s large body. “Why you must insist on using real blades, I do not know. One day you shall have your arm chopped off and then where shall we all be?”

“Morris, you are not my mother. Anyway, I’d expect you to understand better. If one cannot have a little excitement in one’s life, then what is the point?”

Morris’ expression turned stiff. “To work hard, of course.”

“You’re beginning to sound like those ladies at Almack’s who think me wholly irresponsible.”

“I do not sound like a lady, my lord,” he protested, his cheeks turning red.

Nicholas grinned. Morris was far too easy to toy with. “Besides, you know how to have fun do you not, Morris? I know you have bested many of the servants at whist recently. Made a pretty penny too.”

“I…” He released a frustrated puff of air. “I…well, yes, but—”

“You like to gamble, I like to fence. It’s as simple as that.”

“My lord could fence with blunted swords, though. There is nothing dangerous about a game of whist.”

“I’m sure your pocketbook disagrees.”

A glint entered Morris’ eyes. “My pocketbook always agrees with me winning whist.”

Morris’ good luck and skill with cards was well known by the staff at Uxbridge. Why they continued trying to best him, he did not know.

“Well, I have never lost a sparring match and I do not intend for that to change.”

“One does not need to lose to be injured,” Morris told him primly. “You have no heirs as yet, my lord, it is—”

Nicholas lifted a hand. “I’m well aware I have no heirs, Morris. I endeavor to work on that in the near future.”

“If I were you, my lord, I’d work on it right now.”

“Are you giving me romantic advice?” Nicholas peered at the butler whose cheeks reddened. Morris had known him for so long that they had few secrets so it was not unusual for him to nag but it was rare they talked about his romantic life. Not that he really had one.

Not since Lavinia.

Lavinia who was likely listening to bagpipes and eating sheep’s stomachs as they spoke. Well, good luck to her. What English woman in their right mind would marry a Scotsman over an English lord?

He grunted to himself.

“Sorry, my lord?” Morris asked.

“Never mind.”

“No wife would tolerate you fighting with real blades, you know.”

“Then she would be no wife of mine.” Nicholas finished his tea, snatched up a cake, and sat in front of his desk. Perhaps if he pretended to work, Morris would let this conversation be. He didn’t much like being reminded of Lavinia and his failure to woo her. A failure that had been talked about for far too long by many members of society. He was sick of it.

“You are determined to frighten every eligible woman away, are you not, my lord?” Morris pressed.

Nicholas motioned a hand around the room. “I see no eligible women for me to frighten away here.”

Morris’ lips twitched. “You know very well what I mean. Since Miss Chadwick—I mean Mrs. Campbell married, you have been getting more and more reckless. You will not prove to her that she missed out if you get your arm chopped off.”

“I have no intention of proving anything. I’ve practically forgotten the woman.”

Morris gave him a knowing look. Damn the man. Could he not put the whole mess aside and move on?

“I have,” he insisted and turned back to his desk. “Tea was lovely, thank you, Morris. Now I had better delve into those letters.”

A bell rang through the house as he reached for the stack.

“That would be Mr. Selby, my lord. Here to fence.”

“Excellent. And do not fear, there shall be no severing of limbs, I promise.”

Morris gave a heavy sigh and left the room to answer the door. Nicholas peered at the cake in his hand and put it aside. His appetite had gone. All because of Lavinia. She was still causing him frustration, even though she was hundreds of miles away in cold old Scotland.

Perhaps he had been keeping women at bay. He’d avoided attending too many events in London recently. The gossip surrounding him did not help, but neither did having everyone’s daughter shoved into his face as a possible bride. None could compare to the beautiful, sweet Lavinia he had concluded.

Morris was right, however. He needed an heir at some point. Unlike many, he had no male cousins or uncles to pass things onto. He had hoped Lavinia was going to be the one to give him sons but as soon as that blasted Scotsman arrived in Hampshire, Nicholas had no chance. What was it about Scotsmen and their rough accents and eating of sheep’s stomachs that so appealed to women anyway?

He rose to go and greet Frederick. Nothing like a bit of sparring to make him forget Lavinia.