Wedding Wagers

by Donna Hatch

  Miss Brown greeted Miss Harris, and they fell into happy conversation. Phillip drifted nearer, greeting others as he moved, and stood near Miss Brown, but hopefully not so close that she felt smothered by his presence. She had seemed to warm to him after the accident was resolved and laughed easily enough when he’d run into the lamppost. It gave him hope.

  “Tell me, Miss Harris.” Miss Brown’s voice reached him. “Have you met any interesting gentlemen?”

  “Do call me Cora,” Miss Harris said.

  “Only if you will call me Meredith,” Miss Brown said.

  Meredith. Phillip turned her name over in his mind, imagining gaining her permission to use it.

  “I haven’t met anyone new, Meredith,” Cora Harris said, “but Mr. Morton has been attentive.”

  “Yes, he does seem to be. Have you known him long?”

  “We met a week ago at Lady Hennessy’s ball. He has called upon me nearly every day since.”

  Meredith Brown paused, then asked, “Don’t you think that’s taking it a bit too quickly?”

  Trying not to appear as if he were eavesdropping, Phillip glanced at Miss Brown. She wore a thoughtful, guarded expression he knew well.

  Miss Harris nodded. “I admit I’m surprised. As you can imagine, with a face like mine, I’ve never been considered a great catch. He declared it was love at first sight.”

  Miss Brown made a scoffing noise. “I have little faith in love at first sight. Besides, there is nothing wrong with your face.”

  “You are very kind, but I know the truth. At least my teeth are good, which my mother tells me is better than a flawless complexion or large eyes.”

  “Oh, indeed. I quite envy your teeth.”

  Another kind remark, considering Miss Brown’s teeth were every bit as fine.

  Three more gentlemen arrived, including the one Misses Brown and Harris discussed. Mr. Morton looked around. Spotting Miss Harris, he beamed and headed straight to her, leaving his two companions behind nudging each other and grinning.

  “Welcome,” said an older woman to the group. “I am the head housekeeper at Tarrington House, and I will guide your tour. Follow me, please.”

  She took them to a gallery upstairs and showed and discussed various portraits, landscapes, fine pottery, porcelain, and other curios inside rooms as ornate as the art they showcased—every bit as grand as the Suttenberg family ancestral home where his mother spent most of her time outside of London. The duchess would be impressed with the Tarringtons’ tasteful opulence. Miss Brown made appreciative comments about the art that revealed her interest and knowledge of the subject.

  Regardless of the beauty of art and architecture, Phillip mostly watched Miss Brown. She alternated her attention between the art that clearly drew her interest and the couple that concerned her. As she studied each new piece, her face softened, and her eyes drank in the art as if trying to glean wisdom. When she drew her attention to Miss Harris and Mr. Morton, she took on a focused, suspicious air.

  Phillip leaned close to speak softly into Miss Brown’s ear, but the scent of her perfume scattered his thoughts. Inhaling her softly exotic fragrance, he reached out to touch those little curls next to her ear. He stopped himself. If he hoped to win her trust, moving too fast would have the opposite effect.

  Her breath caught as she no doubt felt his nearness. She turned and shot him a wary look.

  Under his breath, he said, “You’re very concerned about her, aren’t you?”

  She took a step away from him and fluttered her hands. “About whom?”

  “Miss Harris.”

  She glanced at him, her pupils dilated, and took another step away. Ah, so she was not as unaffected by him as she tried to appear.

  In a breathy voice, she replied, “Er, yes. I don’t want her to suffer a broken heart.”

  “Please allow me to offer my assistance. I could make discreet inquiries about Mr. Morton’s character, if that suits you?”

  She considered. “If you wish.”

  He edged away from her and approached the two young men who had come in with Mr. Morton. One of them, Mr. Creasey, if memory served, stood near the edge of the group, his head tilted as he stared at a marble statue of a Greek goddess.

  “Lifelike proportions,” Phillip commented. “The expression of the face and the position of the body are quite remarkable. Out of cold marble, the artist created something almost alive.”

  Mr. Creasey grinned. “If only I could find a girl so pretty.”

  “Pretty isn’t vital. Your friend Mr. Morton seems to have formed an attachment with Miss Harris.”

  Mr. Creasey let out a snort. “A pretty dowry can make up for an ugly face, I suppose.”

  Phillip stiffened at the unflattering way to describe a young lady. Still, he persisted in his goal. “Her dowry is the only thing he likes about her, I presume?”

  A shrug came in reply.

  “As a friend, doesn’t he tell you?”

  “Not really.”

  Which was probably true. Not every male freely discussed his intentions about young ladies with friends the way Phillip did with Michael. “Is he courting anyone else?”

  “Presently? No. He tried to court Miss Vivian Charleston—looks and dowry—but she is toying with two others.”

  A pity. “He dodged a bullet with Miss Charleston,” Phillip stated.

  “Probably. Beautiful, though,” he said wistfully.

  Phillip had no interest in shallow women such as Vivian Charleston. He glanced at Miss Brown raptly listening to the housekeeper speaking about a group of paintings of the fox hunt. Miss Brown murmured something to Miss Harris, and they both giggled behind their fans. One day, Meredith Brown would smile and laugh with him the way she did with others.

  Phillip returned his focus to his objective. “Was there anyone else?”

  “Oh, sure. He always courts girls with big dowries, but they always choose someone else. Unlucky in love, I suppose.”

  Phillip paused. “He only courts girls with large dowries?”

  “He’s a third son with a meager income. What else can he do?”

  “I see your point.” Many gentlemen in his position sought ladies with dowries. It didn’t make them mercenaries. Surely some chose carefully and let their hearts guide them to select a bride. “Has he proposed to anyone but Miss Harris?”

  Mr. Creasy shrugged. “Two or three, I think. Turned him down.”

  Phillip winced. That was a condemning bit of news. “He is unlucky in love.” So as not to appear to be so single-minded about the reason he had struck up a conversation with Mr. Creasey, Phillip asked, “Are you courting anyone?”

  After they chatted about young ladies and parties, Phillip steered the conversation to other interests.

  Eventually, Phillip bade farewell to the informative Mr. Creasey and moved back to Miss Brown’s side. Upon completing the tour, they thanked the housekeeper and returned to their carriage. The rain had stopped, and even a few rays of sunlight shone as they drove to Gunter’s for some ice and then took the ladies home.

  As he handed down the ladies from the landau, Phillip said in a low voice, “I have information that may interest you, Miss Brown. May I take you for a carriage ride tomorrow at the park for the promenade?”

  She searched his eyes, whether to determine what he had learned by his expression or if he did, indeed, have noteworthy news, he could not guess. That mix of vulnerability and guardedness entered her eyes. It was all he could do not to touch her face.

  Finally, inclined her head. “I would be delighted.”

  He bowed and watched her enter the house with her cousin. A split second before she disappeared inside, she glanced back at him. He smiled, making sure his dimple showed. She hurriedly closed the door. Grinning, he returned to the landau.

  “She still doesn’t like you,” Michael grumbled.

  “She’s putting up a fence, but I’m getting to her. You’ll see. She agreed to go driving with me tomorrow.”
>
  “You should toughen up your hands so you can shovel horse manure in my stables without getting blisters. I plan to have a crowd watch, you know.”

  “You’d best fit a saddle to a mule,” Phillip shot back. “You’ll be riding one in Hyde Park.”

  Michael laughed, and Phillip grinned. Wager or no wager, Phillip would win over the lovely and complex Meredith Harris one way or another.

  Chapter Eight

  Meredith paced in the drawing room. She really ought not subject herself to more of Mr. Partridge’s tempting companionship. He seemed so genuine, so kind, but she knew all too well how people’s true character revealed itself later, after it was too late to spare a broken heart and ruined reputation. On the other hand, she must converse with Mr. Partridge at least once more to learn what he had discovered about Miss Harris’s suitor.

  The cowardly side of her begged her to send Annabel to question him, thus sparing Meredith from having to see him again, especially in such close proximity as a carriage.

  Entering, Annabel smiled at Meredith. “You look so pretty, Merry. Just like a spring morning.”

  Meredith ran a hand over her favorite lilac pelisse. “I almost wore the old faded one from yesterday, but I didn’t want to shame Aunt and Uncle by appearing in such a public place as the promenade at Hyde Park in something so shabby. People might think my guardians aren’t providing for me.”

  “That’s wise. I’m surprised you went through with it at the Tarringtons’ yesterday.”

  Aunt Paulette entered the room and stopped short when she saw Meredith. She clasped her hands together. “Praise the Lord; you have finally decided to dress pretty for him.”

  Meredith almost stomped her feet. “I’m not dressing for him, Aunt. I am only going with him today because he has news about Miss Harris’s suitor.”

  Aunt came near and looked her in the eye. “My dear, I understand your hesitation, but I have asked a number of people about him—about his character—and they all assure me he has an excellent reputation. He has never been known to be a libertine or a rake and has no need of dowry. Everyone says he is nearly the paragon his brother is.”

  “No one knew anything bad about Mr. Todd either,” she grumbled.

  “No one knew Mr. Todd. He was a stranger. Phillip Partridge is well known in London.”

  Meredith hesitated. “If he is such a paragon, what is he doing with me?”

  “He fancies you.”

  “How can he fancy someone so far outside his class? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Love doesn’t always make sense.”

  “Love. Ha!” Meredith picked at a loose thread on her glove.

  The front door knocker clanged, and Meredith jumped. She sent a panicked look at Annabel. “He’s here.”

  Her cousin put her hands on both of Meredith’s arms. “It’s only a ride and a conversation. If you choose not to spend another moment with him, that is your right.”

  Aunt added, “You may certainly refuse him, duke’s brother or no.”

  Meredith nodded and swallowed. As long as she kept a tight rein on her heart, she had nothing to fear.

  The butler announced him, and Mr. Partridge entered. A little nervous flutter began in the center of Meredith’s chest. Dressed in a plum tailcoat with a gray and white brocade waistcoat and buff breeches, his boots shining like a mirror, he might have stepped out of a fashion magazine. Most men lacked his perfect proportions of height, leanness, and breadth of shoulders. None came close to matching the manly beauty of his face.

  He removed his beaver hat, revealing his thick, dark hair with that unusual light streak adorning it. Softly, and with almost-believable affection, he smiled, an action that transformed him into the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Then that dimple appeared, and she momentarily lost control of her heart.

  She must not. A highborn gentleman such as Phillip Partridge wanted something from a lowborn lady other than an innocent courtship. She must not forget that. Between his rank, wealth, and stunning good looks, he was accustomed to having whatever he desired.

  When he greeted all of them in turn, she curtsied. “Mr. Partridge.”

  “Miss Brown, how wonderful to see you again. You are as lovely as a picture.”

  She inclined her head. “How kind of you,” she said coolly. At least, she meant it to be cool. Instead, it came out breathy.

  Annabel curtsied in greeting. “Have a care with my cousin.” The angle of her smile revealed a friendly warning. “She is my dearest friend in all the world.”

  The smile left his face, replaced by an earnestness that almost pled to be believed. “I vow it, Miss Stafford.” He turned to Aunt Paulette to include her. “I vow it.”

  Either he had perfected his skills as a deceiver, or he spoke with sincerity. Time would reveal his true intentions. Meanwhile, Meredith would proceed with caution. In fact, if she played her hand right, she might catch him in his own game.

  He escorted her to his carriage outside. A boy wearing the striped waistcoat of a tiger held the reins of two matched bays, almost as alike in coloring as in size, harnessed to a shining curricle.

  Meredith gestured to the horses. “Lovely cattle you have there.”

  He grinned. “Aren’t they beauties? I bought them from Michael Cavenleigh. His family breeds them, you know.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Many of the best stock out of Tattersall’s are from Cavenleigh Stables.” He handed her up, holding her with the right amount of power and gentleness, which might be a sign of his skill as a seducer as well. She would not fall prey to his charms! Still, she could play along; he might reveal his hand sooner. The tiger clambered up to the small seat behind them.

  With a light but firm touch, Mr. Partridge guided his team into the streets at an unhurried pace. Years ago, Annabel and Meredith had theorized that the way a man drove spoke much about his character. If that were true, Mr. Partridge was a cautious, conscientious man with the perfect blend of strength and tenderness. Of course, their theory could be flawed.

  “Have you been friends with Mr. Cavenleigh long?” she asked, just to make conversation.

  “Since Eton. We got into a great deal of mischief together.” He chuckled.

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Surely girls don’t bond over mischief.” He glanced at her and raised a dark brow as if daring her to confess the truth. “Do they?”

  “A combination of mischief, playtime, and soul-baring conversations. We take a balanced approach to forging friendships.”

  “What mischief did you get into?”

  She smiled. “When we were children, my cousin Annabel and I used to swim with the boys.”

  He laughed. “I’m shocked.” But he didn’t look or sound shocked. “Do you still swim?”

  “Yes, but not with boys.”

  He chuckled. “I’m heartily glad to hear that.”

  With his attention focused on the road, she allowed herself to look at him, admiring him from head to toe. No, she refused to like him—or trust him—but any woman would be mad not to appreciate his physical perfection like a piece of art. Had it suddenly grown warm? She fanned herself. It didn’t help.

  They reached Hyde Park and drove under spreading trees. Mr. Partridge glanced at her again, the intense blue-green of his eyes bringing back that little quiver in her chest. He glanced at her pelisse. “That color is pretty on you.”

  “Thank you.” Breathy again, curse her for a simpleton. She must stay focused on her reason for agreeing to go for a drive with him. “You said you had learned something about Cora Harris’s suitor?”

  “Yes. Perhaps.” He frowned. “I’m not certain. Mr. Morton is a younger son of a gentleman, and he is in possession of a respectable income for a bachelor. But like many younger sons, he needs to marry a girl with a decent dowry in order to provide a comfortable living for a family.”

  “So he does need a dowry.”

  “Not much more than other
s of his station. He does not have excessive debts or extravagant tastes.”

  She considered. It was true that any number of young gentlemen had to seek at least a modest dowry. But she’d made her own inquiries and learned Miss Harris’s dowry was sizable enough to attract fortune hunters. Mr. Morton might only be the first.

  “What may or may not be troubling,” he added, “is that in prior Seasons, he proposed to two other young ladies, both with excessively large dowries.”

  “So, he does target dowries.”

  “Possibly. Or he might simply be lucky enough that the ladies who have turned his head happened to possess tempting dowries, but unlucky enough that neither returned his regard.”

  “I wonder if he told Cora Harris. That may be the most important clue.”

  “Perhaps. Or he may be embarrassed to admit he’d been refused.”

  It would be just like a man to defend another man, especially if they both had nefarious intentions.

  He turned onto the famous Rotten Row, the place to see and be seen, and kept pace with others’ carriages in the promenade. Passersby called out greetings. Some cast flirtatious glances and words. As they passed, the beau monde gazed at one another in envy or pride at ensembles, equipages, and horses.

  Liveried servants drove carriages bearing family crests in immaculate splendor. Others guided their own carriages in a cavalcade of grandeur found nowhere else.

  Next to the handsome and stylish Mr. Partridge, Meredith couldn’t help but sit a little taller.

  A stunningly handsome young gentleman rolled by in a curricle. An equally beautiful lady sat next to him, wearing a calculating smile.

  “Lord Amesbury, Miss Charleston,” Mr. Partridge greeted.

  “Partridge.” Lord Amesbury nodded.

  Casting an assessing glance over Meredith, Miss Charleston nodded at them and slid her arm around her companion’s in an openly possessive gesture.

  “How is your mother?” Mr. Partridge said.

  Lord Amesbury paused as a shadow passed over his expression before he quickly schooled it into urbane elegance. “Not much improved.”