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Rules of Engagement
The Reasons For Marriage
Stephanie Laurens
The Wedding Party
Kasey Michaels
Unlaced
Delilah Marvelle
The Reasons For Marriage
Stephanie Laurens
About the Author
STEPHANIE LAURENS lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books, visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com. Stephanie also chats with her readers on Facebook (https:// www.facebook.com/authorstephanielaurens).
CHAPTER ONE
THE DOOR OF THE Duke of Eversleigh’s library clicked shut. From his chair behind the huge mahogany desk, Jason Montgomery, fifth Duke of Eversleigh, eyed the oak panels with marked disfavour.
“Impossible!” he muttered, the word heavy with contemptuous disdain laced with an odd reluctance. As the sound of his cousin Hector’s retreating footsteps dwindled, Jason’s gaze left the door, travelling across the laden bookcases to the large canvas mounted on a nearby wall.
Expression bleak, he studied the features of the young man depicted there, the impudent, devil-may-care smile and mischievous grey eyes topped by wind-tousled dark brown hair. Broad shoulders were clad in the scarlet of regimentals, a lance stood to one side, all evidence of the subject’s occupation. A muscle twitched at the corner of Jason’s mouth. He quelled it, his austere, chiselled features hardening into a mask of chilly reserve.
The door opened to admit a gentleman, elegantly garbed and smiling amiably. He paused with his hand on the knob and raised a brow enquiringly.
“I saw your cousin depart. Are you safe?”
With the confidence of one sure of his welcome, Frederick Marshall did not wait for an answer but, shutting the door, strolled towards the desk between the long windows.
His Grace of Eversleigh let out an explosive sigh. “Damn it, Frederick, this is no laughing matter! Hector Montgomery is a man-milliner! It would be the height of irresponsibility for me to allow him to step into the ducal shoes. Even I can’t stomach the thought—and I wouldn’t be here to see it.”
Pushing back his chair, Jason swung to face his friend as he sank into an armchair nearby. “More to the point,” he continued, stretching his long legs before him, a somewhat grim smile twisting his lips, “tempting though the idea might be, if I introduced cher Hector to the family as my heir, there’d be a riot—a mutiny in the Montgomery ranks. Knowing my aunts, they would press for incarceration until such time as I capitulated and wed.”
“I dare say your aunts would be delighted to know you see the problem—and its solution—so clearly.”
At that, Jason’s piercing gaze focused on his friend’s face. “Just whose side are you on, Frederick?”
Frederick smiled. “Need you ask? But there’s no sense in ducking the facts. Now Ricky’s gone, you’ll have to wed. And the sooner you make up your mind to it, the less likely it will be that your aunts, dear ladies, think to take a hand themselves—don’t you think?”
Having delivered himself of this eminently sound piece of advice, Frederick sat back and watched his friend digest it. Sunshine shone through the windows at Jason’s back, burnishing the famous chestnut locks cut short in the prevailing mode. Broad shoulders did justice to one of Schultz’s more severe designs, executed in grey superfine, worn over tightly fitting pantaloons. The waistcoat Frederick espied beneath the grey coat, a subtle thing in shades of deeper grey and muted lavender, elicited a twinge of envy. There was one man in all of England who could effortlessly make Frederick Marshall feel less than elegant and that man was seated behind the desk, sunk in unaccustomed gloom.
Both bachelors, their association was bound by many common interests, but in all their endeavours it was Jason who excelled. A consummate sportsman, a noted whip, a hardened gamester and acknowledged rake, dangerous with pistols—and even more dangerous with women. Unused to acknowledging any authority beyond his own whims, the fifth Duke of Eversleigh had lived a hedonistic existence that few, in this hedonistic age, could match.
Which, of course, made the solution to his present predicament that much harder to swallow.
Seeing Jason’s gaze, pensive yet stubborn, rise to the portrait of his younger brother, known to all as Ricky, Frederick stifled a sigh. Few understood how close the brothers had been, despite the nine years’ difference in age. At twenty-nine, Ricky had possessed a boundless charm which had cloaked the wilful streak he shared with Jason—the same wilful streak that had sent him in the glory of his Guards’ captaincy to Waterloo, there to die at Hougoumont. The dispatches had heaped praise on all the fated Guardsmen who had defended the vital fort so valiantly, yet no amount of praise had eased the grief, all the more deep for being so private, that Jason had borne.
For a time the Montgomery clan had held off, aware, as others were not, of the brothers’ affection. However, as they were also privy to the understanding that had been forged years before—that Ricky, much less cynical, much less hard than Jason, would take on the responsibility of providing for the next generation, leaving his older brother free to continue his life unfettered by the bonds of matrimony, it was not to be expected that the family’s interest in Jason’s affairs would remain permanently deflected. Consequently, when Jason had re-emerged, taking up his usual pursuits with a vigour which, Frederick shrewdly suspected, had been fuelled by a need to bury the recent past, his aunts became restive. When their arrogantly errant nephew continued to give no hint of turning his attention to what they perceived as a now pressing duty, they had, collectively, deemed it time to take a hand.
Tipped off by one of Jason’s redoubtable aunts, Lady Agatha Colebatch, Frederick had deemed it wise to prod Jason’s mind to deal with the matter before his aunts made his hackles rise. It was at his urging that Jason had finally consented to meet with his heir, a cousin many times removed.
The silence was broken by a frustrated snort.
“Damn you, Ricky,” Jason grumbled, his gaze on his brother’s portrait. “How dare you go to hell in your own way and leave me to face this hell on earth?”
Detecting the resigned undertones in his friend’s complaint, Frederick chuckled. “Hell on earth?”
Abruptly straightening and swinging back to his desk, Jason raised his brows. “Can you think of a better description for the sanctified institution of marriage?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Frederick waved a hand. “No reason it has to be as bad as all that.”
Jason’s grey gaze transfixed him. “You being such an expert on the matter?”
“Hardly me—but I should think you could figure as such.”
“Me?” Jason looked his amazement.
“Well, all your recent mistresses have been married, haven’t they?”
Frederick’s air of innocence deceived Jason not one whit. Nevertheless, his lips twitched and the frown which had marred his strikingly handsome countenance lifted. “Your misogyny defeats you, my friend. The women I bed are prime reasons for my distrust of the venerable bonds of matrimony. Such women are perfect examples of what I should not wish for in a wife.”
“Precisely,” agreed Frederick. “So at least you have that much insight.” He looked up to discover Jason regarding him intently, a suspicious glint in his silver-grey eyes.
“Frederick, dear chap, you aren’t by any chance possessed of an ulterior motive in this matter, are you? Perchance my aunts have whispered dire threats in your ear?”
To his confusion, Frederick blushed uncomfortably. “Damn you, Jason, get those devilish eyes off me. If you must know, Lady Agatha did speak to me, but you know she’s always been inclined to take your side. She merely pointed out that her sisters were already considering candidates and if I wished to avert a major explosion I’d do well to bring the matter to your mind.”
Jason grimaced. “Well, consider it done. But having accomplished so much, you can damn well help me through the rest of it. Who the devil am I to marry?”
The question hung in the calm of the library while both men considered the possible answers.
“What about the Taunton chit? She’s surely pretty enough to take your fancy.”
Jason frowned. “The one with reams of blonde ringlets?” When Frederick nodded, Jason shook his head decisively. “She twitters.”
“Hemming’s girl then—a fortune there, and word is out that they’re hanging out for a title. You’d only have to say the word and she’d be yours.”
“She and her three sisters and whining mother to boot? No, I thank you. Think again.”
And so it went, on through the ranks of the year’s débutantes and their still unwed older sisters.
Eventually, Frederick was close to admitting defeat. Sipping the wine Jason had poured to fortify them through the mind-numbing process, he tried a different tack. “Perhaps,” he said, slanting a somewhat peevish glance at his host, “given your highly specific requirements, we would do better to clarify just what it is you require in a wife and then try to find a suitable candidate?”
Savouring the excellent Madeira he had recently acquired, Jason’s eyes narrowed. “What I want in a wife?” he echoed.
For a full minute, silence held sway, broken only by the discreet tick of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Slowly, Jason set down his long-stemmed glass, running his fingers down the figured stem in an unconscious caress. “My wife,” he stated, his voice sure and strong, “must be a virtuous woman, capable of running the Abbey and this house in a manner commensurate with the dignity of the Montgomerys.”
Wordlessly, Frederick nodded. Eversleigh Abbey was the Montgomery family seat, a sprawling mansion in Dorset. Running the huge house, and playing hostess at the immense family gatherings occasionally held there, would stretch the talents of the most well-educated miss.
“She would need to be at least presentable—I draw the line at any underbred antidote being the Duchess of Eversleigh.”
Reflecting that Jason’s aunts, high-sticklers every one, would certainly echo that sentiment, Frederick waited for more.
Jason’s gaze had dropped to his long fingers, still moving sensuously up and down the glass stem. “And, naturally, she would have to be prepared to provide me with heirs without undue fuss over the matter.” His expression hardened. “Any woman who expects me to make a cake of myself over her will hardly suit.”
Frederick had no doubts about that.
After a moment’s consideration, Jason quietly added, “Furthermore, she would need to be prepared to remain principally at the Abbey, unless I specifically request her presence here in town.”
At that cold declaration, Frederick blinked. “But … do you mean after the Season has ended?”
“No. I mean at all times.”
“You mean to incarcerate her in the Abbey? Even while you enjoy yourself in town?” When Jason merely nodded, Frederick felt moved to expostulate. “Really, Jason! A mite draconian, surely?”
Jason smiled, a slow, predatory smile that did not reach his eyes. “You forget, Frederick. I have, as you noted earlier, extensive experience of the bored wives of the ton. Whatever else, rest assured my wife will never join their ranks.”
“Ah.” Faced with such a statement, Frederick had nothing to do but retreat. “So what else do you require in your bride?”
Leaning back in his chair, Jason crossed his ankles and fell to studying the high gloss on his Hessians. “She would have to be well-born—the family would accept nothing less. Luckily, a dowry makes no odds—I doubt I’d notice, after all. Connections, however, are a must.”
“Given what you have to offer, that should hardly pose a problem.” Frederick drained his glass. “All the haut ton with daughters to establish will beat a path to your door once they realize your intent.”
“No doubt,” Jason returned ascerbically. “That, if you must know, is the vision that spurs me to take your advice and act now—before the hordes descend. The idea of being forced to run the gamut of all the dim-witted debs fills me with horror.”
“Well, that’s a point you haven’t mentioned.” When Jason lifted his brows, Frederick clarified. “Dim-witted. You never could bear fools lightly, so you had better add that to your list.”
“Lord, yes,” Jason sighed, letting his head fall back against the padded leather. “If she’s to avoid being strangled the morning after we are wed, my prospective bride would do well to have rather more wit than the common run.” After a moment, he mused, “You know, I rather wonder if this paragon—my prospective bride—exists in this world.”
Frederick pursed his lips. “Your requirements are a mite stringent, but I’m sure, somewhere, there must be a woman who can fill your position.”
“Ah,” said Jason, amusement beginning to glimmer in his grey eyes. “Now we come to the difficult part. Where?”
Frederick racked his brain for an answer. “A more mature woman, perhaps? But one with the right background.” He caught Jason’s eyes and frowned. “Dash it, it’s you who must wed. Perhaps I should remind you of Miss Ekhart, the young lady your aunt Hardcastle pushed under your nose last time she was in town?”
“Heaven forbid!” Jason schooled his features to a suitably intimidated expression. “Say on, dear Frederick. Where resides my paragon?”
The clock ticked on. Finally, frowning direfully, Frederick flung up a hand. “Hell and the devil! There must be some suitable women about?”
Jason met his frustration with bland resignation. “I can safely say I’ve never found one. That aside, however, I agree that, assuming there is indeed at least one woman who could fill my bill, it behoves me to hunt her out, wherever she may be. The question is, where to start?”
With no real idea, Frederick kept mum.
His gaze abstracted, his mind turning over his problem, Jason’s long fingers deserted his empty glass to idly play with a stack of invitations, the more conservative gilt-edged notelets vying with delicate pastel envelopes, a six-inch-high stack, awaiting his attention. Abruptly realising what he had in his hand, Jason straightened in his chair, the better to examine the ton’s offerings.
“Morecambes, Lady Hillthorpe’s rout.” He paused to check the back of one envelope. “Sussex Devenishes. The usual lot.” One by one, the invitations dropped from his fingers on to the leather-framed blotter. “D’Arcys, Pen-brights. Lady Allington has forgiven me, I see.”
Frederick frowned. “What did she have to forgive you for?”
“Don’t ask. Minchinghams, Carstairs.” Abruptly, Jason halted. “Now this is one I haven’t seen in a while—the Lesters.” Laying aside the other invitations, he reached for a letter-knife.
“Jack and Harry?”
Unfolding the single sheet of parchment, Jason scanned the lines within and nodded. “Just so. A request for the pleasure, et cetera, et cetera, at a week-long succession of entertainments—for which one can read bacchanal—at Lester Hall.”
“I suspect I’ve got one, too.” Frederick uncurled his elegant form from the depths of the armchair. “Thought I recognised the Lester crest but didn’t stop to open it.” Glass in hand, he picked up Jason’s glass and crossed to place both on the sideboard. Turning, he beheld an expression of consideration on His Grace of Eversleigh’s countenance.
Jason’s gaze lifted to his face. “Do you plan to attend?”
Frederick grimaced. “Not exactly my style. That last time was distinctly too licentious for my taste.”
A smile of complete understanding suffused Jason’s features. “You should not let your misogyny spoil your enjoyment of life, my friend.”
Frederick snorted. “Permit me to inform His Grace of Eversleigh that His Grace enjoys himself far too much.”
Jason chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right. But they haven’t opened Lester Hall for some years now, have they? That last effort was at Jack’s hunting box.”
“Old Lester’s been under the weather, so I’d heard.” Frederick dropped into his armchair. “They all thought his time had come, but Gerald was in Manton’s last week and gave me to understand the old man had pulled clear.”
“Hmm. Seems he’s sufficiently recovered to have no objection to his sons opening his house for him.” Jason reread the brief missive, then shrugged. “Doubtful that I’d find a candidate suitable to take to wife there.”
“Highly unlikely.” Frederick shuddered and closed his eyes. “I can still recall the peculiar scent of that woman in purple who pursued me so doggedly at their last affair.”
Smiling, Jason made to lay aside the note. Instead, his hand halted halfway to the pile of discarded invitations, then slowly returned until the missive was once more before him. Staring at the note, he frowned.
“What is it?”
“The sister.” Jason’s frown deepened. “There was a sister. Younger than Jack or Harry, but, if I recall aright, older than Gerald.”
Frederick frowned, too. “That’s right,” he eventually conceded. “Haven’t sighted her since the last time we were at Lester Hall—which must be all of six years ago. Slip of a thing, if I’m thinking of the right one. Tended to hug the shadows.”
Jason’s brows rose. “Hardly surprising given the usual tone of entertainments at Lester Hall. I don’t believe I’ve ever met her.”
When he made no further remark, Frederick turned to stare at him, eyes widening as he took in Jason’s pensive expression. “You aren’t thinking …?”
“Why not?” Jason looked up. “Jack Lester’s sister might suit me very well.”
“Jack and Harry as brothers-in-law? Good God! The Montgomerys will never be the same.”
“The Montgomerys are liable to be only too thankful to see me wed regardless.” Jason tapped the crisp parchment with a manicured fingernail. “Aside from anything else, at least the Lester men won’t expect me to turn myself into a monk if I marry their sister.”
Frederick shifted. “Perhaps she’s already married.”
“Perhaps,” Jason conceded. “But somehow I think not. I rather suspect it is she who runs Lester Hall.”
“Oh? Why so?”
“Because,” Jason said, reaching over to drop the invitation into Frederick’s hand, “some woman penned this invitation. Not an older woman, and not a schoolgirl but yet a lady bred. And, as we know, neither Jack, Harry nor Gerald has yet been caught in parson’s mousetrap. So what other young lady would reside at Lester Hall?”
Reluctantly, Frederick acknowledged the likely truth of his friend’s deduction. “So you plan to go down?”
“I rather think I will,” Jason mused. “However,” he added, “I intend to consult the oracle before we commit ourselves.”
“Oracle?” asked Frederick, then, rather more forcefully. “We?”
“The oracle that masquerades as my aunt Agatha,” Jason replied. “She’s sure to know if the Lester chit is unwed and suitable—she knows damned near everything else in this world.” He turned to study Frederick, grey eyes glinting steel. “And as for the ‘we’, my friend, having thrust my duty upon me, you can hardly deny me your support in this, my greatest travail.”
Frederick squirmed. “Dash it, Jason—you hardly need me to hold your hand. You’ve had more experience in successfully hunting women than any man I know.”
“True,” declared His Grace of Eversleigh, unperturbed. “But this is different. I’ve had women aplenty—this time, I want a wife.”
“WELL, EVERSLEIGH?” Straight as a poker, Lady Agatha Colebatch sat like an empress giving audience from the middle of her chaise. An intimidating turban of deepest purple crowned aristocratic features beset by fashionable boredom, although her beaked nose fairly quivered with curiosity. Extending one hand, she watched with impatience as her nephew strolled languidly forward to take it, bowing gracefully before her. “I assume this visit signifies that you have come to a better understanding of your responsibilities and have decided to seek a bride?”
Jason’s brows rose haughtily. Instead of answering the abrupt query, he took advantage of his aunt’s waved offer of a seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a chair.
Watching this performance through narrowed eyes, Lady Agatha possessed her soul with what patience she could. From experience she knew studying Eversleigh’s expression would yield nothing; the strong, patrician features were impassive, his light grey eyes shuttered. He was dressed for a morning about town, his tautly muscled frame displayed to advantage in a coat of Bath superfine, his long legs immaculately clad in ivory inexpressibles which disappeared into the tops of glossy tasselled Hessians.
“As it happens, Aunt, you are right.”
Lady Agatha inclined her turbaned head regally. “Have you any particular female in mind?”
“I do.” Jason paused to enjoy the ripple of astonishment that passed over his aunt’s features. “The lady at present at the top of my list is one of the Lesters, of Lester Hall in Berkshire. However, I’m unsure if she remains unwed.”
Dazed, Lady Agatha blinked. “I take it you are referring to Lenore Lester. To my knowledge, she has not married.”
When his aunt preserved a stunned silence, Jason prompted, “In your opinion, is Miss Lester suitable as the next Duchess of Eversleigh?”
Unable to resist, Lady Agatha blurted out the question sure to be on every lady’s lips once this titbit got about. “What of Lady Hetherington?”
Instantly, she regretted the impulse. The very air about her seemed to freeze as her nephew brought his steely grey gaze to bear.
Politely, Jason raised his brows. “Who?”
Irritated by the very real intimidation she felt, Lady Agatha refused to retreat. “You know very well whom I mean, sir.”
For a long moment, Jason held her challenging stare. Quite why his transient liaisons with well-born women evoked such interest in the breasts of righteous females he had never fathomed. However, he felt no real qualms in admitting to what was, after all, now little more than historical fact. Aurelia Hetherington had provided a momentary diversion, a fleeting passion that had rapidly been quenched. “If you must know, I’ve finished with la belle Hetherington.”
“Indeed!” Lady Agatha stored that gem in her capacious memory.
“However,” Jason added, his tone pointed, “I fail to see what that has to say to Lenore Lester’s suitability as my duchess.”
Lady Agatha blinked. “Er … quite.” Faced with her nephew’s penetrating gaze, she rapidly marshalled her facts. “Her breeding, of course, is beyond question. The connection to the Rutlands, let alone the Havershams and Ranelaghs, would make it a most favourable match. Her dowry might leave something to be desired, but I suspect you’d know more of that than I.”
Jason nodded. “That, however, is not a major consideration.”
“Quite,” agreed her ladyship, wondering if, perhaps, Lenore Lester could indeed be a real possibility.
“And the lady herself?”
Lady Agatha spread her hands. “As you must be aware, she manages that great barn of a hall. Lester’s sister is there, of course, but Lenore’s always been mistress of the house. Lester himself is ageing. Never was an easygoing soul, but Lenore seems to cope very well.”
“Why hasn’t she married?”
Lady Agatha snorted. “Never been presented, for one thing. She must have been all of twelve when her mother died. Took over the household from then—no time to come to London and dance the nights away …”
Jason’s gaze sharpened. “So she’s … unused to the amusements of town?”
Reluctantly, Lady Agatha nodded. “Has to be. Stands to reason.”
“Hold old is she?”
Lady Agatha pursed her lips. “Twenty-four.”
“And she’s presentable?”
The question shook Lady Agatha to attention. “But …” she began, then frowned. “Haven’t you met her?”
His eyes on hers, Jason shook his head. “But you have, haven’t you?”
Under the concerted scrutiny of those perceptive silver eyes, Lady Agatha’s eyes glazed as memories of the last time she had met Lenore re-formed in her mind. “Good bone-structure,” she began weakly. “Should bear well. Good complexion, fair hair, green eyes, I think. Tallish, slim.” Nervous of saying too much, she shrugged and glanced at Jason. “What more do you need to know?”
“Is she possessed of a reasonable understanding?”
“Yes—oh, yes, I’m quite certain about that.” Lady Agatha drew a steadying breath and shut her lips.
Jason’s sharp eyes had noted his aunt’s unease. “Yet you entertain reservations concerning Miss Lester?”
Startled, Lady Agatha grimaced. “Not reservations. But if my opinion is to be of any real value, it would help if I knew why you have cast your eye in her direction.”
Briefly, unemotionally, Jason recounted his reasons for marriage, his requirements of a bride. Concluding his recitation, he gave his aunt a moment to marshall her thoughts before saying, “So, dear aunt, we come to the crux. Will she do?”
After a fractional hesitation, Lady Agatha nodded decisively. “I know of no reason why not.”
“Good.” Jason stood. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must depart.”
“Yes, of course.” Lady Agatha promptly held out her hand, too relieved to have escaped further inquisition to risk more questions of her own. She needed time away from her nephew’s far-sighted gaze to assess the true significance of his unexpected choice. “Dare say I’ll see you at the Marshams’ tonight.”
Straightening from his bow, Jason allowed his brows to rise. “I think not.” Seeing the question in his aunt’s eyes, he smiled. “I expect to leave for the Abbey on the morrow. I’ll travel directly to Lester Hall from there.”
A silent “oh” formed on Lady Agatha’s lips.
With a final benevolent nod, Jason strolled from the room.
Lady Agatha watched him go, her fertile brain seething with possibilities. That Jason should marry so cold-bloodedly surprised her not at all; that he should seek to marry Lenore Lester seemed incredible.
“I SAY, Miss Lester. Ready for a jolly week,what?”
Her smile serene, Lenore Lester bestowed her hand on Lord Quentin, a roué of middle age and less than inventive address. Like a general, she stood on the grand staircase in the entrance hall of her home and directed her troops. As her brothers’ guests appeared out of the fine June afternoon, bowling up to the door in their phaetons and curricles, she received them with a gracious welcome before passing them on to her minions to guide to their chambers. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope the weather remains fine. So dampening, to have to cope with drizzle.”
Disconcerted, his lordship nodded. “Er … just so.”
Lenore turned to offer a welcoming word to Mrs. Cronwell, a blowsy blonde who had arrived immediately behind his lordship, before releasing the pair into her butler’s care. “The chambers in the west wing, Smithers.”
As the sound of their footsteps and the shush of Mrs. Cronwell’s stiff skirts died away, Lenore glanced down at the list in her hand. Although this was the first of her brothers’ parties at which she had acted as hostess, she was accustomed to the role, having carried it with aplomb for some five years, ever since her aunt Harriet, her nominal chaperon, had been afflicted by deafness. Admittedly, it was usually her own and her aunt’s friends, a most select circle of acquaintances, as refined as they were reliable, that she welcomed to the rambling rooms of Lester Hall. Nevertheless, Lenore foresaw no difficulty in keeping her hands on the reins of her brothers’ more boisterous affair. Adjusting her gold-rimmed spectacles, she captured the pencil that hung in an ornate holder from a ribbon looped about her neck and marked off Lord Quentin and Mrs. Cronwell. Most of the guests were known to her, having visited the house before. The majority of those expected had arrived; only five gentlemen had yet to appear.
Lenore looked up, across the length of the black-and-white-tiled hall. The huge oak doors were propped wide to reveal the paved portico before them, steps disappearing to left and right leading down to the gravelled drive.
The clop of approaching hooves was followed by the scrunch of gravel.
Smoothing back a few wisps of gold that had escaped her tight bun, Lenore tweaked out the heavy olive-green-twill pinafore she wore over her high-necked, long-sleeved gown.
A deep male voice rumbled through the open doorway, carried on the light breeze.
