“They’re taking care of it now, although I was told my usual chamber is currently occupied by your ward.” Her slender upper lip gently curled.

Though she was seventy-five, she looked more than a decade younger—she still had some dark hair mixed in with the gray, and the lines that etched her face were few and gentle, most of them occurring around her mouth, likely owing to the way she pursed her lips. Which she was doing presently.

“Shall I have her removed to another chamber?” In his mind, he was already shuffling her to Miss Lancaster’s room and transferring Miss Lancaster to Mrs. Tucket’s room.

The dowager waved her hand. “Don’t bother. I don’t think I’ll be here more than a week.” That was a relatively short stay since the journey took two days each way, and that assumed decent traveling weather.

Tobias sat near her. “I’m quite surprised to see you here.”

“As you were supposed to be. I kept waiting for an invitation to your wedding, but when one did not arrive, I decided to come see what the devil is going on.”

A horrible sinking feeling settled in Tobias’s gut. “Why did you think I was getting married?”

“Because your father’s last letter to me said you would be doing so at the start of the Season.”

“Is that all he said?” Tobias wondered if she knew about his father’s marriage requirement.

Her still-dark brows arched. “Yes, why?”

“No reason. I’m pleased to see you, Grandmother.” And shocked. She rarely came to town, and he was flattered she’d want to come check on him. Even if it was strange.

She hadn’t even come to London when her son had become gravely ill. But it had been December, the absolute worst time to travel. Instead of visiting, she’d sent a letter every day, and in return, his father had his secretary draft a response every three days. Because he was a jackass like that.

“How are things with your ward? Is she amenable? Attractive? Betrothed yet?”

“Not really, yes, and no.” His honesty about Fiona surprised him. “Marriage is not high on her list of priorities.”

“What balderdash. Isn’t she nearly on the shelf?”

“She’ll be twenty-two next week.”

“Then yes, she’s almost past the point of marriageability.”

“Why? How is it that I am twenty-eight, and no one says I’m ineligible for marriage?”

His grandmother stared at him, her blue-gray eyes the color of frost. “You can’t really be that obtuse. You’re an earl. And a wealthy one at that.”

“What I mean is, why is she—or any other young lady—suddenly unmarriageable? It’s not as if they’ve done something to lower their worth.” He hated the way that sounded, once again equating them with a product.

“Haven’t they? If they haven’t found a husband in the first year or perhaps two of being out, there must be a deficit. I suppose your ward can be excused.” Her lip curled again. “Because she hasn’t had a Season yet.”