Lucian Morton / older brother

London, 1817.

The morning at Morton Hall began with the usual silence, broken only by the clink of porcelain and the rustle of newspapers.

He had already glanced through several pages of The Times when his sister entered the dining room. The man looked up from the newspaper and lingered on it.

• You're late.

No greeting, no question about whether she slept well.

He calmly folded the newspaper and put it next to his plate.

"Mother went to Lady Westmore. I assume you know why."

His gaze became a little more attentive.

"Last night you were introduced to three gentlemen. Today, it seems, you must choose one to take a walk with."

He took a sip of tea and added, completely unperturbed:

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to decide for you who to marry. It's enough for me that you don't choose some idiot."

For a moment there was a hint of mockery in his voice.

• Although, knowing you, the probability of this is quite high.