A Suitable Groom

by Liz Fielding

  ‘How d’you do, Miss Grant?’ he said, taking her hand and shaking it solemnly.

  ‘How d’you do, Mr Kavanagh?’ she replied, with equal gravity. The steward arrived with a large tray. Two boiled eggs, brown toast and China tea for her. A pair of kippers, white toast and coffee for him. ‘Please, do read your newspaper,’ Veronica invited while the steward laid out the food. ‘I shan’t mind a bit. You probably hate conversation over breakfast. Most men seem to.’

  He found himself wondering whom she shared her breakfast with. Then rather wishing he hadn’t.

  Besides, she shouldn’t make unfounded judgements about him. He was not antisocial over breakfast. When Dora and Poppy stayed over at Marlowe Court, with or without their partners, he was more than happy to talk. Well, usually he was happy to talk. Not today. Today he was furious with the pair of them.

  Miss Grant, however, mistook his silence for assent. ‘I’ve disturbed the smooth start to your working day,’ she continued apologetically. ‘I do hope you won’t be short-tempered with your secretary because of me.’

  ‘I can assure you, Miss Grant, that the smooth running of my day was severely disturbed long before I boarded this train. And, since I’m not going to my office, my secretary is quite safe. But then, she’s far too important to my well-being to be used as a verbal punchbag.’ Her eyes lingered momentarily on his business suit, but she didn’t enquire where he was going, or why. Instead, she began to lightly tap the shell of her egg. Fergus found her lack of curiosity profoundly irritating. Women were supposed to be terminally inquisitive, weren’t they? He buttered his toast and forked up a mouthful of fish. ‘Today,’ he said before he could stop himself, ‘I have to see my tailor.’

  That wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t have to visit his tailor today. Any time next week would have done, but it had made as good an excuse as any for fleeing his own house in the middle of his sister’s wedding preparations. Not that Dora had looked as if she had believed him. But then, Dora was irritated at having her plans frustrated.

  ‘Your tailor?’ Veronica Grant didn’t look as if she believed it, either. ‘Oh. I thought there might be some crisis with the takeover.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Are you an interested stockholder by any chance?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ she said, not in the least intimidated by the sudden fierceness of his answer. ‘Just interested.’

  Her smile almost knocked him back in the seat. He would have suspected that she was flirting with him, except that people didn’t flirt with total strangers on the eight-fifteen train into London. At least, not in his experience.

  Maybe it was time he widened his experience. He got a charge when one of his horses won a race, but it didn’t match this.

  He tried a smile of his own. It wasn’t at all difficult. His irritation had quickly evaporated in the company of this intriguing woman. ‘To be honest, the visit to my tailor is an excuse,’ he confided—since she didn’t believe him, he might as well make a virtue out of owning up. ‘My real reason for going up to town is to escape the mayhem of wedding preparations. I can assure you that a takeover is a piece of cake compared to the effort that seems to be involved in organising something as simple as a marriage ceremony.’

  ‘You’re getting married?’ That shook her. She covered it with another of those smiles, but she hadn’t planned on that. Well, that was all right. Wedding bells didn’t form any part of his plans, despite his sisters’ plots.

  ‘Me? Heaven forbid.’ Just so that she knew he wasn’t in the marriage market. ‘And in the unlikely event that I should ever be rash enough to take a plunge into that shark-infested pool, Miss Grant, I shall do it with the minimum of fuss. There will be no balloons, flowers or bridesmaids. I will not have a marquee erected on my lawn, or invite four hundred people to break my gardener’s heart, trampling through his borders.’

  Veronica Grant took a spoonful of egg. Why on earth was her hand shaking? She simply wanted to borrow the man for the day, not marry him. Marriage played no part in her future plans. ‘The lady you decide to marry might have other ideas,’ she pointed out, before eating it.

  ‘Then the lady will have to make up her mind whether she wants a fancy wedding or a husband. I have two sisters, Miss Grant. One has already gone through the above performance. The second is about to do so. No man should be expected to go through it a third time.’

  ‘They do say three’s a charm.’

  ‘Do they?’ Fergus was not about to let that pass unchallenged. ‘Then they—whoever they are—are talking through the back of their collective heads.’

  ‘I see.’ The lady was trying to hide a smile.

  ‘It’s not funny, Miss Grant.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. In fact, I endorse your sentiments wholeheartedly.’ But the smile didn’t leave her eyes. It was irresistible. He just couldn’t help smiling back. ‘So you’re taking refuge in your gentleman’s club?’

  He was that transparent? ‘The temptation to stay there until the whole thing is over is almost overwhelming; unfortunately, I have to give away the bride. But at least it’s given me an excuse to come up to town.’

  Veronica Grant’s smooth high forehead puckered in the smallest of frowns. Then she said, ‘Oh, the tailor.’

  ‘Apparently I need a new morning suit for the occasion.’ And when Dora made up her mind about something, there was no point in fighting it. It was a thought to send a shiver of apprehension down his spine. ‘I had a call yesterday to say that it’s ready.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I need a new morning suit … That sounded so unbelievably pompous, he thought. No one needed a new morning suit. ‘Actually, the one I inherited from my father fits like an old friend, and would have done perfectly well, but it’s black,’ he explained. ‘Dora said it made me look like a funeral director.’

  Somewhat unexpectedly, Veronica Grant laughed. It was a real laugh, and caused several people to turn in their direction. Then she shook her head. ‘Weddings are hell, aren’t they?’

  ‘This one will be,’ he said with feeling. And not just because it was turning his house and his life upside down. Then he remembered the hatbox. ‘Is that the reason for the hat? Are you on your way to a wedding?’

  ‘For my sins.’ She concentrated on pouring her tea as the train raced through a cutting. ‘My cousin is getting married. She’s twenty-two and she hooked a viscount at the first attempt.’

  ‘Oh.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  She flashed him a look from beneath her lashes. ‘That sounds terribly bitchy, doesn’t it?’ He didn’t reply. He didn’t see Miss Grant as the bitchy type, but it was quite possible that she’d been trying to hook a viscount too, and she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘I’m not jealous of Fliss, Mr Kavanagh. She’s a lovely girl, and deserves a wonderful life with the man of her dreams … ’

  ‘But?’

  She gave an expressive little shrug. ‘But my mother will be. Jealous. She’ll give me long, hurtful looks. She’ll sigh a lot. She’ll murmur about “biological clocks” ticking away and her desperate longing to hold her first grandchild before she moves on to that everlasting cocktail party in the sky.’ Veronica illustrated this with small, theatrical gestures and expressions that summoned up her mother’s reaction to perfection, and Fergus found himself grinning. He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘I take it that her demise is not imminent?’

  ‘No. She’s fifty-five, but refuses to admit to more than forty-nine and gets away with it every time. But that won’t stop her having a …’ She waved her spoon as she searched for an appropriate word. ‘Do you suppose that there is a collective noun for prospective sons-in-law?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. A proposal?’ he suggested, after a moment’s thought.

  ‘A proposal?’ She considered it, and then smiled appreciatively. ‘A proposal of sons-in-law. I like that.’ It was rather like someone switching on the lights when she smiled, Fergus decided. And not just any lig
hts. More like one of those enormous Venetian crystal chandeliers. Or the Christmas lights in Regent Street. Or Blackpool Illuminations. Quite possibly all three. ‘Well, there you have it,’ she continued. ‘I used to love family weddings, but these days they are something of a trial. My mother knows I won’t be able to escape her “proposal” of prospective sons-in-law; she’ll have them lined up for me like stallions at stud, each one vetted for financial acuity, with a family tree of oak-like proportions and the ability to put the magic word, “Lady” before my name.’ She regarded him across the breakfast table. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ she said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FERGUS, if he’d ever given the matter any thought, might have concluded that most women would be glad to have all the hard work done for them. But, then again, perhaps not. Who wanted a partner that some well-meaning relative had decided was ‘suitable’? He, more than anyone, had reason to be sympathetic.

  ‘Is that important?’ he asked. ‘The “Lady” bit?’

  ‘It is to her. I was once engaged to an earl; she’s never forgiven me for not making it to the altar.’

  ‘An earl?’

  ‘An earl with an estate in Gloucestershire, a house in Eaton Square and a castle in Scotland.’ She paused. ‘Of course, it was only a little castle.’

  ‘Is that why you changed your mind?’ he asked. ‘Because the castle was little?’

  ‘No. I fortunately discovered in time that I wasn’t countess material. I didn’t want to give up my career, you see. That’s the test, wouldn’t you say? How much you’re prepared to give up for someone.’

  ‘I believe so. But would you have had to give it up? Your career?’

  ‘I told you. I wasn’t cut out to be a countess.’

  Which didn’t actually answer his question, he noted. ‘You gave up the castle for your career?’

  ‘Without hesitation,’ she agreed.

  Despite her cool manner, she was finding the conversation difficult. But he persevered. ‘Then it’s the idea of marriage that’s repellent, rather than your mother’s choice of suitable grooms?’

  ‘I’ve no particular objection to marriage as an institution, Mr Kavanagh. I can see that the right wife to organise his domestic life must be a wonderful asset for any man.’ His sisters would undoubtedly agree with her. ‘Unfortunately, I’m far too busy organising my own life to undertake the task for anyone else. I know my own limitations and I’m just not wife material.’ She paused. ‘I just don’t have the necessary qualifications.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could take a course in it. City and Guilds?’ he asked. ‘Or Royal Society of Arts examinations? Do they run a course for prospective husbands?’

  ‘Maybe they should.’ Her smile was a touch strained. ‘I do always find myself asking, if all these thirty-something bachelors are so perfect, why hasn’t someone snapped them up long ago?’

  ‘It’s an interesting question, Miss Grant,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Maybe, like the best wines, they need a little extra time to mature.’

  The touch of irony was not lost on her, and for just a moment he thought he detected the faintest blush colour her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear. That was tactless of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Probably,’ he agreed easily. ‘But illuminating. Tell me, is your opinion based on personal experience or simple prejudice?’

  She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. ‘I refuse to say another word on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I was rather enjoying the conversation.’ And to reassure her, he went on, ‘I have to admit my own pitiful excuse for not coming up to scratch is simply that I’ve been far too busy.’

  Her brows shot up. ‘Doing what?’ Then there was that hint of a blush again. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t ask.’

  ‘Working, raising my sisters. I was dumped in at the deep end when my parents died a year after I graduated.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ And the quick compassion in her eyes told him that she wasn’t simply being polite. ‘My own father died when I was at university. I still miss him. So does my mother. They were, I think, the most perfectly happy couple—always together.’

  ‘Mine too. And they died together, too. I don’t think either one of them would have been capable of living without the other.’ It was the kind of love that seemed to strike every member of his family sooner or later. He wasn’t sure whether he welcomed the idea of it happening to him or dreaded it, and in a sudden flash of insight he wondered if maybe, after all, that was why he had so assiduously avoided all the marriage lures thrown in his path during the years. Then he realised that Veronica Grant was waiting for him to continue. ‘Unfortunately my father had no interest in business, or anything very much except my mother. Kavanagh Industries was in comfortable decline, everyone too cosy to institute the painful process of bringing it up to date; the family estate was in much the same situation, and I had two considerably younger sisters to distract me should I ever find myself with five minutes to spare.’ Not that he hadn’t had his moments. But he’d never allowed things to progress to anything deeper, more involving. Never even been tempted.

  There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Veronica said, ‘Work can take over.’

  ‘And teenage angst is not conducive to romance,’ he continued with relief. ‘Either Poppy or Dora always seemed to have some crisis …’ And they had always come first. While he had been talking, he had been toying with his breakfast. Now he straightened and looked at her. ‘Why are you still on the marriage market, Miss Grant?’

  Having bared his own soul for her curiosity, he decided it was perfectly reasonable to expect her to do the same for his, and she did not appear to object. Yet she regarded him levelly for a moment, as if wondering whether he was really interested, or simply passing the time. ‘I’m not on the marriage market, Mr Kavanagh. I told you, I’m not wife material.’

  ‘You’ve never even come close since the earl?’

  ‘Have you?’ she demanded.

  Fergus sat back. ‘I apologise. It was impertinent of me to ask.’

  She seemed to take a moment, gather herself. ‘No, Mr Kavanagh, I’m sorry for snapping. You see, most people don’t dare bring up the subject.’ She took a bite of her toast. ‘I’m considered rather formidable,’ she confided. ‘Except, of course, by my mother, who is formidable with a capital F. She believes that marriage is the only suitable occupation for a lady.’

  ‘She’s a bit old-fashioned?’

  ‘Positively prehistoric.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have just sent your regrets to your cousin, along with your best wishes,’ he suggested. An option not open to him. ‘Attendance isn’t compulsory if you’re not one of the major players.’

  ‘On the contrary, in my family we expect a full turn-out for dress occasions. Weddings, christenings, special anniversaries—’

  ‘Funerals?’

  ‘Those too.

  ‘And I’m very fond of Fliss. I couldn’t miss her big day. Besides, if I didn’t go, people would think I was sulking.’

  ‘Because of the biological clock ticking away in your ear?’

  There was a pause, brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. ‘I don’t think my biological clock ever got wound up,’ she said.

  Fergus regarded her thoughtfully. ‘So why does it matter what people think?’ She didn’t strike him as a woman who lived in awe of either her mother or other’s opinions, but she gave the smallest of sighs.

  ‘It doesn’t, to me. But to my mother …’ She lifted her shoulders a fraction. ‘And I do love her, even when she’s being absolutely impossible.’

  He could understand that. He loved Poppy and Dora, and they were impossible most of the time.

  ‘You said it: weddings are hell.’ He forked up a little of one of the kippers. ‘Couldn’t you take along an escort as protective colouring?’ he suggested, after a moment. Dora had put ‘and partner’ on invitations to people whose relationships were informal or uncertain.
‘There must be someone you know, work with, perhaps, you could have asked along?’

  ‘I thought about it, but I couldn’t find anyone who would do.’ She glanced up. ‘Women have to be so careful when they’re in business. It’s so easy for motives to be … misunderstood. Besides, all the nicest men I know are married.’ She concentrated on her egg for a while and he, too, gave his breakfast his undivided attention. Well, almost undivided attention. Veronica Grant was not a presence it would ever be possible to totally ignore. ‘I actually did consider hiring someone,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘Hiring someone? Are wedding guest agencies listed in the Yellow Pages?’ If so, he might be tempted to use their services himself.

  ‘No, but escort agencies are.’ She saw his expression and shook her head. ‘Not that kind of escort agency. There’s one which provides well-groomed men who are guaranteed to know which fork to use and not to flirt with your best friend.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘The fork or the flirting?’ she enquired.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Absolutely vital if you want to provoke envy. A friend of mine hired an escort when she had been invited to a rather grand party at which she knew her ex-husband would be appearing with his new trophy wife. She said it was worth the fee just to see his jaw drop when she waltzed in with this dishy man who was at least five years her junior. He could dance, too. The escort. A skill her ex had never been able to master. The trophy wife actually flirted with him.’

  ‘A perfect result, then.’

  ‘A-plus,’ she agreed. ‘And at the end of the evening it was a quick shake of the hand, a cheque in an envelope and goodnight. No strings. No complications.’

  ‘It’s an interesting idea.’

  ‘I have to admit that I was sorely tempted. They have an Italian count on their books whom I thought might be rather fun.’