It led Alex to wonder whether Miss Hayes might not have been exaggerating when she’d told him that the squire fiercely guarded Miss Talbot’s reputation. As one course led to the next, Alex began to get the impression that Squire Talbot wasn’t in the habit of doing anything fiercely. He was, it seemed, little more than a country farmer. A man more interested in the workings of his estate than in his daughter’s matrimonial prospects.

“You must come back tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “I’ll take you round the home farm. We have the finest pigs in Surrey.”

“Really, Papa,” Miss Talbot protested. “Mr. Archer isn’t interested in pigs, of all things.”

“But I am,” Alex replied. “Keenly interested. I should be grateful for a tour.”

Squire Talbot looked down the table at George. “And you, Wright?”

George held out his wineglass for a footman to refill it. It was his fourth refill thus far, and he was starting to show the effects of it. His cheeks were ruddy, his manner less formal. “Can’t say I’ve ever been interested in farming. I prefer city life to a country village. Far more civilized, to my mind.”

“Rubbish,” the squire said. “There’s nothing more civilized than orderly crops, healthy livestock, and modern machinery. Prosperous farms like Edgington Park are the backbone of England. Your father understands that well enough. He’s often complimented my methods of—”

“I beg you, Papa,” Miss Talbot interrupted. “No more talk of farming. Not when our guests have only lately returned from the continent. I’d far rather hear about Paris than pigs.”

Squire Talbot gave his daughter an indulgent glance. “Quite right, my dear. Plenty of time to talk about farming tomorrow, when I take Mr. Archer out on the estate.”

Miss Talbot was true to her word. She kept the conversation to fashionable topics, presiding over the remainder of their meal with all the aplomb of a society doyenne. And when they’d finished the final course, drunk their after-dinner coffee, and indulged in another round of soulful duets in the music room, it was she, and not her father, who walked them out to the drive and bid them adieu.

“Call on me again soon,” she said as Alex and George climbed into the vicar’s carriage. “When Miss Hayes is back from London.”

The carriage rolled away, the coachman clucking to the horses.

Alex settled back into the shadowy corner of his seat, arms folded.

“My father will be home,” George said with a hiccup. “Shouldn’t have drunk so much wine.”

“Does your father disapprove of drinking?”

“He disapproves of anything that brings a man pleasure.” Another hiccup. “Must be why he wants me to marry. Knows I’ll be miserable. Even if…”

“Even if what?”

George scrubbed at his face. “I wouldn’t marry her. Couldn’t.”

“Miss Talbot?”

“Miss Hayes,” George said, slurring his speech. “Laura.”