by Lisa Kleypas
Basilton’s mustachio twitched in something of a grin. Puffing out his chest, he hooked a thumb between the buttons of his waistcoat and thrummed his fingers over the copper-colored silk. “We’ve had our share of exceptional musicians in our family. I’m pleased to add Hortencia to the list. Say, are musical abilities factored into your formula?”
North had waited years to gain Basilton’s interest. This was the first real indication that the Marriage Formula might gain him a Fellowship. “They do, yes. The formula is designed to focus on the important factors of monetary assets, including property as well as dowries; lineage; and interests.”
The moment he said lineage, North heard a snort of derision from Baron Cantham, who stood within a separate circle, which seemingly had their ears carefully tuned to this circle. North ignored the reaction, knowing that a number of his guests were purists when it came to noble blood.
Oddly enough, North had a place in his formula for men like Cantham. The sole purpose of the result was to benefit all parties involved—a pure and basic exchange of marital goods of monies, property, and lineage security. Adding in the interest portion of the formula had been an afterthought to appease his aunt.
“How does it work?” Ivy asked, turning to North and casting a perturbed glance over his shoulder to Cantham.
North felt a lump of guilt swell in his throat. Because—while there was a place for men who cared only for matters of lineage—the equation as it stood now never would have produced a match for Ivy.
It had never been intended for the names in the red ledger. There was simply too little data to analyze.
“It’s a matter of filling out a card where each individual would rank their preferences,” he began. “From there, it becomes a matter of calculation. That is when the Marriage Formula truly takes form. The resulting answer corresponds to another party’s similar result. It’s actually quite—”
North intended to finish his oration with the word simple. However, when he paused to clear his throat and gauge the reaction of those around him, he heard Ivy whisper, “Brilliant.”
And he was not the only one who’d heard. Her declaration earned a few turns of the head. Her eyes went wide. “Do go on, Your Grace.”
“I won’t allow it. I must hear more of Miss Sutherland’s opinion,” Wolford said cheekily when he and Thayne found their way into the group. Wolford angled himself in such a way to effectively separate North from Ivy. “Surely, most members of your sex would not agree with the brilliance of my cousin’s formula. Other young women rant endlessly on the merits of a gentleman’s charm, character, and money. Only the last of the three can be determined on a card.”
North glanced at Basilton long enough to see his speculative frown, then North turned a glare on Wolford. Unfortunately, he only received the back of his head.
“A wise young woman is not fooled by charm, my lord,” Ivy said to Wolford. “My own mother has said that what might first charm you in a ballroom can become tedious after more than twenty years of marriage.”
Edith snickered and tapped Lady Cosgrove with her fan as they shared a nod. Basilton chuckled, the sound more like a wheezing cough. And North felt that pressure again in the center of his chest, expanding more and more.
“In addition,” Ivy went on, seemingly oblivious to the eager attention she’d gained, “if a gentleman has a dishonest character, then who is to say that he would not be dishonest in filling out a character question on his card?”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Juliet Granworth joined their ever-increasing group and settled a hand on Ivy’s shoulder, as if in support. “There is no judgment of a gentleman’s character better than witnessing it firsthand.”
“The same could be said of women,” Thayne said as he set another empty glass on the nearest table. Uncharacteristically, he’d been drinking more than his share, and North wondered if it had to do with Juliet Granworth’s presence. After all, few could forget the once-famous kissing scandal that had involved Juliet and Max shortly before she’d married another man.
“Though with Vale’s formula,” Thayne continued, his voice rising, “at least there is a better chance of marrying for what truly matters in the end.”
“And what truly matters is character.” Juliet squared her shoulders.
Thayne laughed without humor and gestured with a sweep of his hand to encompass the flattering gold silk gown she wore. “Or perhaps ascertaining character is merely an excuse to indulge in a Season, to wear new gowns each year, and to promenade through ballrooms in order to collect scores of fawning admirers.”
“As usual, you are making assumptions on my character. I see the years have not changed you,” she said quietly. Then her gaze turned cold and remote, and she turned her head, as if she could not bear to look at him.
Instantly, Wolford—charmer that he was—offered a wry laugh and clutched Thayne’s shoulder. “I daresay it is easy to guess which pair would never find a match, formula or not.”
“Without a doubt,” Thayne grumbled in agreement.
Basilton appeared oblivious to the exchange and turned fully to North. “To prove your formula, do you plan to use it to find a bride for yourself, Vale?”
The group—in addition to a few of those mingling along the outskirts—fell silent. They were eager for his answer. All except for Ivy, it seemed.
Without even a glance in his direction, she slipped away, disappearing into the music room. The urge to follow her ran rampant through him. His legs jerked in preparation, his left foot lifting off the floor. North had to force himself to think of the consequences. Force himself to ground his foot firmly to the floor.
Drawing in a breath, North returned his focus to the question at hand. He knew that if he chose to marry Basilton’s daughter, a Fellowship would likely follow. Call him old-fashioned, but North would rather succeed on his own merit. “Of course I will use my own formula. When the time comes.”
Chapter Six
“EVERY GIRL MUST take a turn and stir the pudding,” Miss Pendergast said. The spinster chaperone clapped her petite hands with maniacal enthusiasm, rousing Ivy from a trance. The kitchens of Castle Vale were bursting with debutantes this afternoon. Yesterday, Miss Pendergast had spoken of a tradition that any unwed maid who stirred the Christmas pudding would find her true love in the new year. As an alternative, Ivy suggested that they could all take part in the tradition and then deliver the puddings to the duke’s tenants. Miss Leeds had been quick to offer her agreement.
The only problem was, Ivy had had no idea that making a pudding would be so difficult. The eggs, milk, and treacle were not mixing well with the suet. Adding the flour turned into a disaster of lumps. She must not have stirred fast enough. Looking over her shoulder at Lilah, her pudding partner, she sheepishly shrugged. “Perhaps whoever receives our pudding will believe that the lumps are currants.”
“I just hope the person owns a pig to feed it to,” Lilah said with a laugh. Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, they would set off for the village in order to deliver them to the duke’s tenants, along with a fat pheasant or goose, whichever the gentlemen were able to kill today while on another hunt.
Staring down at the soupy mess in the bowl, Ivy was glad that Lilah hadn’t pinned all of her marital hopes on the magic of the pudding. Obviously it hadn’t worked to gain Miss Pendergast a husband. Then again, perhaps Miss Pendergast had been in love once, only to have been spurned most cruelly. Such a trial was difficult to overcome, Ivy knew. Likely it was terrifying even to think of falling in love again. And Ivy feared it was happening to her.
She couldn’t stop thinking about North . . . or Northcliff. Worse, she’d taken to wearing the frog pin each day, but tucked in the folds of her chemise, close to her skin. Close to her heart.
“Ivy, you are going to spill the pudding,” Lilah warned in her ear. “We do not want ours to come up short.”
“I’m sure Miss Sutherland doesn’t think such traditions matter, since she favors a math
ematical equation over a chance of marrying for love,” Miss Leeds sneered from across the oak plank table. Those around her wore similar expressions.
Ivy had not earned much favor with the debutantes in the past two days since the duke had explained his formula. Her support of his idea had not been well received. As for the duke, however, the gentlemen had inundated him with questions. In fact, the constant flow of interested parties had left no room for her to stand within his circle, as she had the previous night. Knowing how much his formula meant to him, Ivy was pleased for his sake. Anyone could see it in the passionate way he expressed himself.
“I do not see why His Grace’s formula cannot coexist with tradition. Nothing within it states that parties are forbidden. And wouldn’t it be nice to know that your dance partner was a potential perfect match? It would allow you to see him in a wholly new light.” At her words, some of the debutantes showed interest, offering tentative nods and curious murmurs to their pudding partners. However, a number—bearing frowns and crossed arms—still firmly demanded their Seasons, their parties, and, most importantly, their new trousseaux.
“One has to wonder how lineage is even a factor when nobility runs so thin in . . . certain people.” Miss Leeds sounded very much like her father, Baron Cantham.
Ivy’s hand curled around her spoon. She desperately wanted to hurl a clump of suet and flour at Miss Leeds’s head. “None of us know the specifics of the equation, but the result is for the benefit of us all.”
“All? What does it matter to you, Miss Sutherland? From what I understand, you have no interest in marrying.”
“Not that it is any concern of yours, Miss Leeds,” Lilah said, her shoulders as stiff as a stair tread, “but she is here to support my endeavors.”
“Don’t you see?” Miss Pendergast said gently. “Miss Sutherland’s circumstances might very well have been changed if the formula had been in existence before she was past the marrying age.”
While the chaperone’s intentions were kindly meant, Ivy suddenly felt a weight settle over her breast. It was as if someone had stacked all the pudding crocks on her at once. She could hardly breathe. And, to her horror, the sting of tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Deep down she knew that even if the formula had existed when Jasper had been alive, he still wouldn’t have married her. More than that, she feared that the formula wouldn’t have found anyone for her to marry.
Hastily, she turned around under the pretense of gathering a bowl of dried plums and currants for the pudding, then dabbed the moisture from the corners of her eyes. Unfortunately, her actions did not go unobserved. For in that same moment, she saw the duke standing in the doorway, his gaze missing nothing.
NORTH WATCHED IVY quickly lower her hand and brush her damp fingertip over her apron. She offered something of a smile before she dipped into a curtsy.
“Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure,” Miss Pendergast said, following suit. As did the rest of the room.
He felt unaccountably annoyed at the lot of them—all except Ivy, of course—and for what he’d overheard. Unfortunately, it wasn’t true. His formula would not have found Ivy a match of any sort. Part of him was glad of it—glad she was here and not making Christmas pudding in another man’s home—glad even though it made him a selfish monster.
Selfish or not, he still wanted to comfort her. Wanted to pull her into his embrace. Wanted to kiss those damp lashes and then her mouth. Ever since leaving the ascending room the other night, he’d regretted not kissing Ivy. He’d squandered an opportunity that he might never have again.
Not able to do that, however, he stepped past Ivy. Surreptitiously, he held his folded handkerchief behind his back where only she could see. Her fingers brushed his as she slipped it out of his grasp and whispered a soft thank you for his ears alone.
He cleared his throat. “Ladies. I heard tale that dozens of puddings were being made and will soon find their ways into the homes of my tenants. For that, I wanted to offer my appreciation to each of you.”
A collection of smiles and tittering commenced, most of the debutantes expressing their desires to only be of service, Your Grace. At least he assumed that was what Miss Basilton had murmured, gaze fixed to the table while she blushed.
Seeing her reminded him of his conversation with Lord Basilton earlier this morning. Because of the formula, Lord Basilton and his daughter—the only female born into a family with seven sons—were now gravitating toward Baron Nettle, a widower with four daughters and desperate need of a well-dowried bride who was young enough to produce a son and heir.
In addition, Lord Pomeroy’s eldest son was turning his attention toward Miss Bloomfield, who recently inherited a goodly sum from a late grandmother.
North knew that gossip and the natural progression of information might have eventually led Basilton and Pomeroy on this same path. However, once North had worked out the formula with the few guests who’d filled out cards, he was able to make the process much simpler. Now, his Fellowship was closer than ever.
Everything was going according to plan. So then why wasn’t he thrilled?
Perhaps it was because his formula was working too well. He had proof of its validity, which meant that he had been right all along. It also meant that he’d earned this on his own merit. Most men would find comfort in that. A week ago, he would have been one of those men. Now everything that was supposed to be good and right suddenly felt wrong.
“We are all looking forward to this evening’s play, Your Grace,” Miss Leeds said, squinting at him in an attempt to bat her lashes. “You’ve provided us with such a wealth of entertainment during this party that it saddens me to know it must end.”
North found himself nodding in agreement, but his thoughts were of Ivy leaving in a matter of days. “Castle Vale will be empty without each of you. I daresay Mrs. Thorogood will be saddened to have fewer visitors to her kitchens as well.”
Standing with her hands on her hips and shaking her head at the disastrous mess upon her worktable, the cook in question raised an eyebrow at him and huffed.
“Oh dear me,” Miss Pendergast exclaimed, “I imagine it’s well past time for these young ladies to rest before dinner. Not to mention, time to allow the cook to boil our puddings. We are ever so grateful, Mrs. Thorogood.”
Grumbling, the cook picked up the first pudding and walked through a narrow hall that led to the main kitchen with the ovens and stoves.
Gradually, the girls filed out, one by one, each pausing to curtsy, blush, giggle, or bat her eyes—with the exception of Miss Leeds, who did all four. He also overheard Ivy telling her friend that she would follow as soon as she added the currants and dried plums. Her friend hesitated, yet at the same time Miss Leeds intervened.
“Miss Appleton, since we have both been invited to tea with the dowager duchess, we should walk together.” She sidled up to Ivy’s friend and linked arms with her before maneuvering to stand before North. “Will you be coming to Her Grace’s sitting room as well, sir? We would be eager for your escort.”
North recalled his aunt inviting him to this tea. Now, however, he believed he would rather linger in the kitchens. “Alas, I must forgo the pleasure of your company, as I have business with Mrs. Thorogood.”
Miss Leeds offered another curtsy-blush-giggle-bat, then pulled Miss Appleton away before she could finish her curtsy. Mrs. Thorogood trudged in for another pudding before disappearing again.
As he moved toward Ivy, she frowned in puzzlement. “I thought you wanted to speak with your cook.”
Likely, he could think of something to tell Mrs. Thorogood, but the truth was, the only reason he’d come down to the kitchens was to see Ivy. “It can wait.”
“Oh, then you must be waiting for this,” Ivy said and reached under her sash to hold out his handkerchief. “Thank you. I don’t know what came over me a moment ago. It must have been all the flour dust.”
As guilt trampled through him, he said nothing but merely closed his fingers over
hers. He held her hand in his for a moment, feeling the combination of her soft skin and a smudge of wet pudding. It took everything within him to resist lifting her hand to his lips and tasting her. Briefly, he wondered if their entire acquaintance would only be the sum of a few errant touches. He wanted so much more.
They stood in silence—all except for the constant clunking of pots and pans, the chatter and shuffling of a dozen kitchen maids and sculleries in the adjacent room.
When he heard the clack of Mrs. Thorogood’s sturdy shoes, he reluctantly released Ivy’s hand but put his thumb to his lips to taste the remains of the pudding. It was sweet and creamy, rather like her flesh. “Mmm . . . I’m certain this particular pudding is the most delicious of all.”
While the cook came and went, Ivy’s gaze dipped to his mouth and lingered. She wet her lips as if she, too, wanted a taste, but not of the pudding. North shifted nearer until he could feel the brush of her skirts against the fine buckskin of his riding breeches.
“You are too kind,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. Then she shook her head and turned back to her bowl. “This pudding is the worst of the lot. I don’t know what I did wrong. Lilah and I added all the same ingredients that the others did.”
For the first time, North looked down at the runny brown liquid sluicing down the sides of the bowl as she vigorously stirred. The strange part was that the end of the spoon had a clumpy white mass stuck to it, which left the mixture interspersed with lumps. “Well, perhaps after it is boiled . . .”
She gave a wry laugh. “It will need to be boiled until Twelfth Night.”
“Then I will have something to look forward to,” he said honestly before a solemn truth struck him. He would not have until Twelfth Night with her. The day she would depart was fast approaching.
There was a commotion in the other kitchen, the crash of crockery and Mrs. Thorogood’s grousing at the maids. All of which meant that he had a fraction of time alone with Ivy.
“I suddenly feel that now is not the most opportune time to ask the cook about my lumpy pudding.” Ivy glanced at the doorway. “Besides, I really should be off . . .”
