Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls

      Julian Trentham, Viscount Braybrook, bit his tongue, figuratively speaking, and reminded himself that his stepmother, Serena, considered tact the best way to deal with his wayward half-sister. Telling Lissy she sounded like a second-rate actress in a bad tragedy was not tactful.

      ‘But it isn’t fair, Mama!’ said the Honourable Alicia furiously. ‘Julian only met Harry for five minutes yesterday and—’

      ‘Half an hour,’ said Julian, sitting down on a sofa. ‘Long enough to ascertain that, apart from his post as Sir John’s secretary, he has no prospects.’ He eyed the tabby cat seated on Serena’s lap out of the corner of his eye. The blasted thing was convinced he adored cats. It couldn’t have been more mistaken.

      ‘Five minutes!’ repeated Lissy, ‘and poor Harry is declared unsuitable. Whatever that means!’

      ‘Amongst other things, it means you’d run the fellow aground inside of a month,’ said Julian, unmoved. ‘Have sense, Lissy.’

      The cat stretched, brilliant green eyes fixed on Julian.

      Lissy glared. ‘I would not!’

      Serena chimed in. ‘Lissy dear, I feel quite sure that charming and pleasant as Mr Daventry may—’ She made a grab for the cat, but it was already flowing off her lap. ‘Oh, dear. Now, where was I? Yes, Mr Daventry, I am sure he is not at all well off, so—’

      ‘What does money matter? And anyway, he has an income!’ protested Lissy.

      ‘Two hundred a year?’ Julian suppressed a snort. ‘And, no, money doesn’t matter. Just as long as you learn to manage without it. Otherwise you will find it matters a great deal when the bailiffs take your furniture and the landlord kicks you into the street.’

      ‘Harry has his own house,’ said Lissy. ‘In Bristol. He told me.’

      ‘A man of property, then,’ said Julian. He watched, resigned, as the cat strolled with offensive confidence towards him. His setter bitch, Juno, sprawled at his feet, lifted her head and then lowered it with a doleful sigh.

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t marry Lissy,’ piped up six-year-old Davy from the corner, where he was endeavouring to put together a puzzle map of Europe. ‘I’m going to marry Mama.’

      Somehow Julian preserved a straight face. ‘Excellent notion, old chap,’ he said. ‘Only not unless you want to land in Newgate!’

      Lissy looked as though she might have giggled, had she not been trying so hard to look affronted.

      The cat sprang into his lap and made itself comfortable. Very comfortable; its claws flexed straight through his buckskin breeches.

      ‘Never mind, dear,’ said Lady Braybrook to her youngest son. ‘You won’t want to marry me when you are old enough anyway.’

      ‘No, indeed,’ said Julian. ‘After all, Lissy no longer wishes to marry me. Do you, Liss?’

      ‘I never did!’ exploded Lissy.

      ‘You proposed to me when you were about five,’ said Julian, reminiscently. ‘It was most affecting.’ He turned to Davy. ‘Why don’t you trot off to the kitchens and see if Ellie has something for you to eat?’

      Davy leapt to his feet, scattering Europe to the corners of the drawing room, and decamped before his mother could veto this excellent idea on the grounds of education or indigestion.

      As soon as the door shut behind him, Lissy burst out again. ‘It isn’t fair, Julian! Why should you have any say in it?’

      ‘Probably because I am your guardian,’ he said. ‘For my sins,’ he added. ‘Calm down, Lissy. You’re too young to be thinking of marriage.’

      ‘I