Wish List

by Lisa Kleypas

  But she did not want to marry an Englishman.

  “It’s not so bad, once you wade in and find your footing,” Lindley said.

  “Prettily put, Lindley. I can hardly wait,” she said, adjusting her shawl.

  “Lindley, keep your encouragement to yourself if that’s the best you can do,” Dalton said, smiling at her.

  Dalton’s smiles were wasted. She did not want to go.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Perry said, coming close. “You look wonderful. I’m certain that your season will be a smash.”

  “Kindly keep your vulgar euphemisms to yourself, Perry,” Albert said, glowering. “Clarissa will have a successful season because she is a Walingford, has a fine, healthy figure, and lovely, clear eyes. All the Walingfords have done well in their seasons.”

  Albert, the eldest, had used similar language to describe the new hunter he had just purchased, but Clarissa refrained from making that comparison aloud. She felt that the comparison, though unintentional, was too apt for her tranquillity; she was on the block, so to speak, and would be bid upon by gentlemen who would look her over as carefully as a man purchasing a horse. What else was an offer of marriage but a bid to be rejected or accepted or even negotiated until both seller and buyer each felt himself to have made a good bargain? A woman in such an exchange was neither the seller nor the buyer; she was the horse.

  “And your gown is lovely,” Jane added with a gentle smile and a brief hug. Jane, sister to Albert’s wife, was the soul of compassion, a rare commodity in a houseful of older brothers. Clarissa much appreciated her companionship.

  “Yes, what color is that?” Russell asked. “Looks like weak tea with too much milk.”

  “Lovely,” Dalton murmured sarcastically in an undertone just loud enough to be heard by Russell.

  “It’s called Ivory Bisque, if you must know,” Clarissa said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And the decoration around the hem is a thistle design in russet thread. Any other questions or comments about my attire?”

  “Well, now that you mention it… I don’t know why you had to chop off all your hair like that. Makes you look like a boy.”

  “Clarissa looks nothing like a boy!” Jane protested.

  “It’s the fashion, you dolt,” Dalton said. “Leave the club more than once a month and you’ll find out what women are wearing.”

  “Shut up, Russell,” Lindley said, scowling. “You look beautiful, Clarissa. You are beautiful.”

  “Very fashionable,” Perry added.

  “Very feminine,” Jane said, sounding almost warlike for her.

  “I’m quite confident that you’ll have an offer of marriage before Christmas,” Albert said comfortably.

  It was not the sort of compliment she wanted.

  She did not want to marry an Englishman.

  She was solitary in that opinion and desire. Quite solitary. Even Jane did not understand her distaste for the prospect.

  Though even if all understood her reasons, she supposed there was no escape. It was her time and her duty to marry. Certainly Lindley had no desire to marry, and yet he was engaged to Miss Emeline Brookdale, who had agreed to his proposal with the appropriate degree of both eagerness and submission.

  She was no Miss Brookdale. She was neither eager nor submissive; in point of fact, she was the exact opposite, a situation that Albert found beyond tolerable. Her other brothers were more tolerant, but then they were not the eldest and had not his duties and responsibilities; oh, yes, she understood all dispassionately. Yet the fact remained: she did not want to marry an Englishman. Small chance of finding anything else in London.

  “You’ll find someone… acceptable,” Perry offered.

  Acceptable? Perhaps some Scotsman down looking for a wife? That would be more acceptable than having to settle into the rest of her life with an English lord as a husband. As helpful as Perry was trying to be, he was off to a fine military career while she had to tramp about London searching for a husband.

  “Will I?” she asked, looking at Perry and then at them all.

  “Of course you will, Clarissa; don’t be absurd,” Albert said. “You must stop this nonsense about not wanting to be married to an Englishman. You are as English as anyone. Whom else would you marry?”

  “An Irishman,” she answered, her ever-ready answer.

  “An Irishman? When all the owners of land and title in Ireland are English?” Albert said gruffly. “Think logically, Clarissa, and be reasonable. You are here for your season. You will attract many admirers and from them you must choose your husband. It is all quite simple.”

  Yes, it was all quite simple. And there was no avoiding it. Albert, as head of the family, would always have his way in all things.

  The carriage was waiting and they went in, Lindley, Perry, and Jane accompanying her on her first of many parties in London. It was a mild night and all that was needed was her shawl, which was somewhat unfortunate, as she would have liked to burrow her face into the folds of a cloak and have a private sulk. Unfortunately, all within the carriage could read her mood well enough.

  “Albert is quite right, you know. There is no point in pining for Ireland when we hold all the land worth having,” Lindley said.

  “Explain the justice of that to me, Lindley, for how that should be so escapes me,” Clarissa said.

  “I can’t change what is in order to suit you, Clarissa.”

  Lindley said stiffly. “You know the truth of the situation. You also know that there is no one in Ireland of sufficient station to marry.”

  “You will find someone, Clarissa,” Perry said, taking hold of her hand. “You will be the girl of the season and will have your pick.”

  “Yes, my pick of Englishmen,” she grumbled, squeezing his hand in gratitude before she released him.

  “Who holds the land in Ireland, girl? How do you think to regain Ireland if you dismiss the means to grab hold?” Lindley said.

  She bit back a reply, forcing herself to consider. Lindley was surly and stubborn half the time, but he had made a valid point. It was beyond question, no matter how unpleasant the prospect, that she would marry an Englishman. Perhaps an Englishman could be found who had an Irish estate. He would, of necessity, remain in England most of the year, while she could live out her life in Ireland. He could come to visit. Or he could not. She would not demand his presence if only she could reside in Ireland again.

  Ireland was home.

  England, with her destructive policies and disregard for Irish ways, with her planting of British troops on Ireland’s soil, was the enemy. And all England’s men were English: arrogant and cold, proud and cruel. She understood them well by the soldiers sent to subdue the Irish. Albert was correct: she was English by birth, but her blood and her heart belonged to Ireland. What English husband would understand that?

  “Stop scowling, Clarissa,” Lindley admonished. “We have arrived.”

  It was true. The carriage slowed to a stop and the door was opened by a footman. Lindley exited first, followed by Perry, who then turned to offer a hand to Clarissa. She hesitated, against her better judgment. She had few options. In truth, she had none. It was time to marry, and the only dignity left to her was to put a good face upon it and not disgrace herself or her family.

  “‘Tis not so bad, Clarissa, to come out into society. I would be much surprised if you did not enjoy yourself completely,” Jane said by way of encouragement.

  “I cannot disagree if it were only balls and parties and concerts to be enjoyed, but the goal of all the entertainment is to acquire a husband for myself.”

  “You will have your choice, my dear. None shall force a decision upon you,” Jane said softly, taking her hand.

  “You are correct in that, and I take what comfort I can in it,” Clarissa said. She had to marry, but her brothers knew well enough that she would do her own choosing. “Perhaps ‘twill not be so vexing if I can but remember that I do have a choice.”

  “Clarissa,” Lin
dley called, clearly impatient. A choice she surely had, but Lindley was eager for her to make it.

  Without another word to either bolster her courage or delay the inevitable, Clarissa stepped down from the carriage and walked up the steps into the brick town house on Grosvenor Street. Host and house had been amply prepared for a small gathering of twenty-five or so, all friends to greater or lesser degree of the host. Jane was an old friend of their hostess, Lady Morland, and it was to her good grace that Clarissa owed her invitation.

  Good breeding required that she be polite anyway.

  Lindley and Perry disappeared readily enough after being greeted by Lord and Lady Morland, leaving Clarissa and Jane and Lady Morland—or Fanny, as Jane called her—in an intimate conversation of three, two of whom were happily engaged in conversation, one of whom was pretending to be.

  “A lovely gathering,” Jane said to Fanny. “The candlelight looks so well against these walls. When did you repaint?”

  “In the autumn,” Fanny replied. “I found myself dismally bored with the green and chose this tawny gold instead, just for the warmth and light it seemed to offer.”

  “It is wonderful. Very daring,” Jane said.

  “I suppose I should confess, or perhaps it is obvious, that I chose the color after a month of cold rain and heavy cloud. I was yearning for the gleam of sunlight, I daresay.”

  “What nature will not provide, man must supply.” Jane smiled. “Don’t you think it a lovely color, Clarissa?”

  “Yes, it is lovely. So… warm,” Clarissa said. She did not care about the color of the walls.

  The room was full of pleasant-looking people, fully half of them men, and perhaps six of them under thirty, excluding Perry and Lindley. Was she to choose from this random collection? And if so, how was she to go about making her choice? Age was one factor to be considered. She did not want a husband more than twice her age; the tendency would be for him to be rather fatherly, and she did not yearn for that characteristic in a husband.

  “And how is your mother, Fanny? Has her cough abated? I have been most concerned about her.”

  “That is very kind of you, Jane. No, she is still weak and abed much of the day. I think a walk in the gardens would do much to clear her lungs, but the weather is so damp yet that it is not to be.”

  “Perhaps the weather will clear by Christmas,” Jane said.

  “Perhaps. In the interim, Dr. Spenser has prescribed a soothing tonic that has the added benefit of aiding her sleep. I think all will be well in time.”

  “Clarissa, what was it you drank when you suffered last winter from that sharp cough?”

  “It was chamomile added to my tea that brought me some relief,” Clarissa said quietly, forcing her eyes away from the corners of the room and the men who loitered there. It would not do to appear too forward; naturally all knew that she was looking for a husband, but to be blatant in her search would not put her in a good light. It would be a very tedious search if she had to practice such discretion week after week. She did hope to have the whole thing settled by the new year.

  —

  Across the room, loitering in a dimly lit corner, Lindley was aiding her in her search, though she could not know it.

  “Did I not tell you? Such beauty you will rarely find,” Lindley said softly.

  “It is rare as well to find such eagerness on the part of a brother to rid himself of a sister,” Beau answered.

  “I do not rid myself of her, but rather encourage you to become a part of my family. I do not do so lightly,” Lindley said stiffly.

  Beau, known to most as Henry Wakefield, Lord of Montwyn, laughed and said, “Still more starch than sense, Walingford. I was jesting. She is a fine-looking woman, as you said.”

  And she was. Hair of bright auburn, skin pale and smooth as milk, eyes the dark brown of rich chocolate; she was a beauty. Shapely and of a good height, not as petite as the current fashion, but then, he had no desire for a small wife, fearing that carrying his babe and delivering herself of it might kill her. Too many women died so. He was a large-knit man and he wanted a wife he wouldn’t dwarf.

  “She is just come out, so the field may well be yours. If you do not hesitate,” Lindley said.

  “You are eager, aren’t you?” Beau chuckled. “Well, the season is early and I do not fear a more protracted interlude before the rigors of matrimony. Do not mistake me,” Beau said into Lindley’s frown. “I am interested, particularly if her manner matches her look, for she does please the eye, and, of course, her family is impeccable.” He smiled. “I will look and I will woo, if the mood strikes.”

  “Does one require a certain mood to obtain a wife?”

  “No, but the mood for haste is certainly not upon me. I need a wife. Why not the sister of a friend? Yet there is time to enjoy the season and to undertake my introduction to your sister slowly.”

  “You are not the only man in London this season,” Lindley said grimly.

  “Nor is she the only woman. Come.” Beau laughed lightly. “Let us not come to blows over this. I am taken with her. You spoke truly when you described her to me. Let it proceed as it will. By all that I can see, I will offer for her. But I will not be rushed to the altar, no matter how eager or fetching the maid.”

  Lindley kept his tongue firmly between his teeth so that Beau would not so soon know that Clarissa was anything but eager.

  —

  Jane was battling that knowledge at that precise moment.

  “He is a rather handsome gentleman,” Jane said softly into her glass, her observation for Clarissa’s ears only. “A friend of Lindley’s, by the look of it.”

  Clarissa had taken note of him. How could she not? He was a man of above average height, dark of hair, with a fine brow and a well-shaped mouth. His dress was of the highest quality and cut, his hair well-groomed, and his cravat impeccable. It was equally obvious that he knew he cut a fine figure. His pride affected her mood like cold water on a frigid day; there was no warmth in her toward him, as she could detect no warmth in him. He called from her, for all his masculine appeal, only the chill of winter. Though it was difficult to keep her eyes from him.

  “He has a loose button. I cannot abide a slovenly man,” Clarissa said, turning her face away from the sight of him.

  “A loose button?” Jane was incredulous. “At this distance? And surely, if so, his valet is to be blamed and not the man himself.”

  “You are of a generous nature, Jane, a trait I find most welcome, most comforting, but in this instance, when I must choose a husband, I must be exacting in my standards. I will not wed a slattern.”

  “Surely a wife would be of assistance to him. If a slattern he is—and I do not say so, for I think he is a most fine-looking gentleman—then a wife’s gentle counsel would cure such an ill. He but wants feminine care.”

  Clarissa looked over her shoulder at the man. With his looks, she was quite sure that feminine attention was not something he lacked. He was a most… rigorous-looking man.

  “He looks very English,” Clarissa said instead.

  Jane smiled and arranged her shawl over her shoulders. “As do we all, I would say. It will be a fault most difficult to cure.”

  “Impossible, you mean to say,” Clarissa said. “Would that there were a single Irishman in the room. I would happily give myself into his keeping.”

  “And into his small cottage?” Jane said. “You know Lindley spoke only the truth. Who among the native Irish owns a fine Irish estate? To have the life to which you have been born, you must marry a man as English as yourself.”

  Clarissa tried not to bristle at the insult, for she saw it as nothing less. Jane meant well and, as far as she was able, spoke the truth.

  “I do understand your fascination with the Irish,” Jane continued, looking down at her hands, “for during my own come-out, I developed a fondness for an Irishman who spoke tenderly and beautifully to me. I would have married him and even believe he would have asked, if not for my fath
er’s blunt refusal to have any part of him. So you must see, I share your frustration in being urged to marry against one’s heart. But cannot the heart learn to follow where the mind has led?”

  Perhaps. Perhaps the mind could lead the heart. She had a good mind; it should not be terribly difficult to command her heart to follow where reason led. Yet Jane had never married, never followed her own counsel. And perhaps she was warning Clarissa against making the same choice. Was the life of a companion to a distant relation really the life she sought for herself? It was clear Jane did not want it for her.

  Clarissa looked at Jane with eyes full of gratitude at baring her soul in a heartfelt attempt to keep Clarissa from making the same misstep that she had made long years ago. The attempt had succeeded. She would rather marry than remain a spinster, even if that meant marrying an Englishman. Her head would rule her heart; she would become the buyer in this game of matrimony and find herself the husband who best suited her, Englishman though he be.

  But certainly in all of London she could find a man who owned property in Ireland.

  —

  “Any progress?” Dalton asked.

  Beau greeted Dalton with a grunt and a half bow of recognition.

  “I thought to find you well engaged, with perhaps half a dozen women simpering at your elbows by this hour. What have you been up to, to be standing here alone?” Dalton persisted.

  “Alone? I am hardly alone. I have my thoughts, my speculations, my plans to abide with me,” Beau answered.

  “Better than a wife, I daresay. Smart man. Keep marriage as a speculation and all will be well.”

  “Can’t,” Beau said. “Must get myself an heir. Family duty requires it.”

  “Not such an onerous duty, when it comes to that.” Dalton grinned. “Have you found any takers?”

  “I am rather taken with her,” Beau said, looking across the room. “Why didn’t you tell me that you had such a fine-looking sister? Lindley was more than happy to point her out to me.”

  “Lindley would be,” Dalton said. “He’s been made to take the plunge and is grabbing for any and all to get wet with him. I wouldn’t fall for it, were I you.”