by Laura Martin
‘Whom are we to stay with?’
Lord, please let it be with someone sensible!
‘With Beatrice—Mrs Godwin. It seems she enjoyed our company so much at Christmastide that she wishes to invite us to stay with her while she searches for a townhouse to buy. She has rented a delightful place in Piccadilly—she received a generous settlement when Mr Beresford married her stepdaughter, you know. Young Nell and her husband are also in Town.’
Cecily did know. Her dear friend Nell Godwin, Beatrice’s stepdaughter, had fallen hopelessly in love with Mr Beresford over Christmas. To Cecily’s great surprise, they had been married within weeks of meeting each other. At the time, Cecily could not feel easy about it, and had worried that Nell’s haste would turn out to be a mistake. The Hon. Thomas Beresford, while appearing entirely gentlemanlike, had managed to upset Nell on more than one occasion during the Yuletide festivities. Nell had become ill with distress, and only her reconciliation with Mr Beresford had made Nell contented again. Nell’s letters indicated that she and her Tom were now perfectly happy together and had no regrets about their swift marriage.
‘We shall move to Mrs Godwin’s house on the morrow,’ Lady Fanny declared. ‘I know you will supervise the maids and ensure all is packed and ready, Cecily.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Cecily’s mind was already focusing on their move, other considerations being put to one side for now. ‘I shall send for them this instant.’ She tried not to sigh. Another move. Another temporary home. Still, her money worries were lessened. For the present, anyway.
* * *
Jack released a breath. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and poured himself another generous measure of wine. His mind was still reeling from his brother’s unexpected—and entirely unwelcome—news. Rummaging through the correspondence on his desk, he found two letters in Tom’s familiar hand. Without bothering to sit down again, he broke the seals and read them both.
Her name was Godwin. Miss Eleanor Godwin, of Chiddingstone, Kent. Nell, Tom had called her. The name conjured up an image of a buxom farmer’s daughter, with dimples and a fetching apron. Godwin...the surname was vaguely familiar, yet at this moment, Jack could not think why. Miss Eleanor Godwin was not, however, one of the known heiresses on the marriage mart. Those names he half-knew, as he would probably have to select one for his Countess. This being his thirtieth year, he had decided recently that he would begin his own search for a suitable wife this very season.
It was inconceivable that Tom had married, and not, it seemed, for riches. Unless—could this Godwin woman be wealthy, but not of a good family? Despite their agreed need to increase the family fortune, that would almost be worse. Would Tom really do such a disservice to the family name?
So why, then? Why had Tom done this? The worst possibility was that Tom had not been jesting when he had said he had married for love. Love? The very notion was nonsensical. It was madness, pure and simple, and Jack had never taken Tom to be a madman. Or a fool. Jack simply could not countenance it. Tom, believing himself to be ‘in love’, like the cloth-heads he had derided in Almack’s last season, and the season before? How could his brother have succumbed to the same madness, even though he had seen it afflict others? Impossible.
Tom, like Jack, knew—understood completely—that love was not real. Oh, their mama had probably loved them before her death. Jack was willing to accept that warm maternal instincts probably existed. He had only the haziest memories of her—memories that were, to be fair, vaguely positive. However, the fact that she had deserted them by dying at an irresponsibly young age meant that Jack could not in all honesty attest to her having loved them. Somewhere deep inside Jack, the absence from Mama’s abandonment still ached.
Papa, on the other hand, had offered his sons the courtesy of dying fairly recently—the year Jack had achieved his coming of age, in fact. By that stage Papa had enjoyed many years of punishing—and ignoring—both his sons. Much as Jack had hated school, he had always felt a sense of escaping from home at the start of each new term. At least at school the tormentors had not been family members.
The sense of relief when his father had finally had the grace to die—overturning his carriage while taking a bend much too fast—had quickly been replaced by shock at the mass of debts Papa had accumulated. Jack and Tom had vowed to restore the family fortunes by entering the world of commerce and had worked closely together to build what was rapidly becoming a substantial network of businesses.
No, ‘love’ was not something that existed. Tom knew this as well as Jack did. So why the sorry tale of marrying some wench ‘for love’?
Could Miss Godwin truly be a simple country miss with little to recommend her beyond a pretty face and a good figure? If so, Tom would not have shown her more than a passing interest, surely? Such women were ten-a-penny in London each season. Even now, matchmaking mamas would be dragging unpromising virgins to dressmakers and milliners to try and disguise the girls’ limitations and falsely advertise them to potential suitors during the upcoming season. Jack had seen it every year since his coming of age, and it never ceased to amaze him how the most limited of young ladies sometimes managed to find a spouse. A winning smile and a neat ankle was enough, it seemed, to turn previously rational men into idiots.
He and Tom had used to laugh about it, and even on occasion to wager on the progress of some or other Incomparable, trying to predict which enamoured fool would be unlucky enough to win her hand. Being a logical creature, Jack had no time for such nonsense and neither, he had believed, had Tom. Indeed, they had spoken of it, many times. Their pact had been to devote their energies to restoring the family fortunes and they had agreed to not allow themselves to be distracted by ladies—beyond, of course, the fleeting affaires that were commonplace among the ton. Marriage could wait.
Yet here was his brother, with the appearance of sincerity, informing Jack that not only had he married but he had married for love. It simply could not be true. Therefore, there had to be some other reason why Tom had spouted such nonsense.
Throwing the letters down in disgust, Jack paced the floor, his long legs eating up the space. Five strides. Turn. Five more. When Jack had left for France three months ago, Tom had given him no hint of this. So what reason could there be for Tom to have married this Godwin wench, and so quickly?
The anger he was feeling towards his brother was laced with confusion, as he considered again the seeming sincerity with which Tom had declared himself to be enamoured of his wife. Jack’s brow creased. Tom was not as heedless as to throw all away on the basis of a sudden tendre. It was not in his character. Jack pondered this, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. Tom had never before, to his knowledge, thought himself ‘in love’. Like Jack, he was a rational man who had no room for such nonsense. There must be more to this.
He frowned. Might this girl—this Eleanor Godwin—have some hold over him? At this moment he could not think what would induce Tom to marry in haste, hide it from his only relative, then spout nonsense about ‘love’ to justify it. Yet the alternative—that his hitherto sensible brother actually believed himself enamoured of this unknown girl—did not bear thinking about.
He refilled his glass and drank long and deeply. Staring into the fire, his fingers drumming on the desk, all at once inspiration came to him. Perhaps Tom had compromised the chit. Like Jack, Tom had had his fair share of amorous adventures, but they normally focused on women who understood that marriage would not be an option. Could Tom have been so foolish as to have pursued a girl he ought to have avoided? He groaned at the thought of Tom caught seducing some willing wench, and an outraged father forcing them both to the altar. Or, indeed, forcing Tom only, for such cases were, he understood, generally deliberately engineered by the enterprising young lady and her avaricious parents.
Ah, Tom, why did you not come to me?
The answer came to him immediately. Tom would have been
mortified to find himself trapped in such a way, and his pride would probably have prevented him from confiding even in his own brother. Besides, Jack had been out of the country, and for an unusually long period. Generally, Tom and Jack had been inseparable these many years, ever since Tom had joined Jack in Herald’s Hall Boarding School—or Hell’s Hall, as the scholars had dubbed it.
Entrapment. The notion sent a shiver down Jack’s spine. If it were true, then the person or persons responsible would pay. His fingers tightened into a fist. Noticing, he slowly unlocked it, reminding himself to be cautious. If this Godwin family had indeed successfully trapped the Hon. Thomas Beresford into marriage, then they had to have been clever, for Tom was no fool. Not usually, at least.
Searching his memory for any signs of coercion in Tom’s account, he was disturbed to find that there had been none. Tom had had every appearance of sincerity. He toyed again with the possibility that Tom genuinely thought himself to be ‘in love’, then dismissed it almost instantly. He and Tom were of one mind on such matters. So whatever rationale had been behind Tom’s hasty decision to become leg-shackled, Tom was determined to conceal it from his own brother.
Very well. Now, how to remedy the situation? His brow creased. Marriage was so...so permanent. Even if it had been simply a betrothal, Jack would have contrived a way for the girl to cry off—yes, even at considerable expense. If the greedy Godwins had planned to milk him for life, he would have found a way to make the betrothal so intolerable that they would have changed their minds. Paying off a disgruntled betrothed lady would still have been cheaper in the long run than Tom burdening himself with a wife!
Marriage, Jack knew, was a business transaction. It involved the transfer of money, land and property in exchange for security and a good position in society. Jack himself would have to marry—to a well-behaved girl of impeccable bloodlines and substantial wealth. As Earl of Hawkenden, with a good fortune and an appearance that many ladies found pleasing, he understood that once he decided to wed, he would have the pick of that season’s tiresome virgins. The earldom must be passed on to a son, so he would in time require an heir for the considerable wealth he and Tom had been assiduously building.
Tom’s unexpected tidings might alter the case. Jack frowned. Marry he must—but perhaps not yet. If this season had to be spent addressing Tom’s encumbrances, then so be it. Something inside, he recognised, was relieved at the notion that perhaps he could delay playing empty games of courtship for another season, yet the expectation of securing an heir still weighed heavily upon him.
His dalliances to date had been with willing widows and courtesans, and he found the Almack’s virgins to be insipid and uninspiring. Hmm... Never one to shirk his responsibilities, Jack recognised the selfish wish to avoid the parson’s mousetrap for a while longer, although thirty, he had always believed, was the right age for an earl to choose a wife.
He could not hold back a bark of bitter laughter. Here he was, avoiding the notion of matrimony, yet Tom had hastened to the altar without as much as a by-your-leave. The irony was clear. As Earl, he had to wed, but Tom had no need to marry at all.
If Tom’s marriage was real, and unalterable, then some of their carefully earned wealth could be wasted, thrown away on an undeserving chit who would likely cost a small fortune on her upkeep—not to mention the considerable expense of any children that came along.
Unnecessary children. A nephew could, of course, become Jack’s heir, but the notion did not sit comfortably with him. Marry he must, and he would damn well sire his own heir!
Wishing his as yet unborn nieces and nephews to perdition, Jack considered the problem, his quick mind continuing to puzzle over this unexpected turn of events. He and Tom had always been of one mind on serious matters. Marriage, he mused, had certainly not been on Tom’s horizon the last time they had met. Tom had been preparing to travel to a Christmas party—somewhere in Kent, Jack now recalled.
Jack’s three-month journey to visit their various holdings and business interests in France had been fruitful—although it had lasted longer than he had originally anticipated. He had enjoyed a quiet Paris Christmas, far removed from any disturbing reminders of how Christmas ‘should be’. He had no time for such nonsense.
Merton, his man of business, had kept all of the London-based financial threads from tangling, but Tom and Jack now needed to pick up those threads and make decisions on a wide range of matters. In the coming days Jack had intended to spend a great deal of his time with Tom and Merton, working through all of the various strands of the business empire. Tom’s marriage and the resulting quarrel interfered with those plans and necessitated a change in Jack’s priorities.
‘Damnation!’ Setting down his glass, he rang the bell for his valet. Now that he and Tom had disagreed so vigorously, it even made it temporarily more difficult for him to gain an introduction to his unwelcome sister-in-law. Nevertheless, he would manage it. Somehow.
Copyright © 2021 by Catherine Tinley
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ISBN-13: 9780369711076
Falling for His Practical Wife
Copyright © 2021 by Laura Martin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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