by Jade Lee
“Excellent.” Ash clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we’ll see whom the lady wants. I’d thought there’d be no contest between your wealth and my lack thereof. Our titles are relatively equal, thank Heaven, but I see now that it won’t be about money. Lord knows she’s got plenty of it.”
“What will it be about?”
“That’s simple. Who’s the better man?”
* * *
Mari smiled at Lady Eleanor, pleased to have a willing ear to share her tale of grievance. “It all began at Lady Farbridge’s ball six years ago. It was my first Season, and my sister Josephine and I were so excited to go. You know how it is with young girls. Everything is so special. It was only my third ball, and I was still dazzled. Jo was hardly any better, though she’d been out longer than I.”
“I missed that entire Season,” Eleanor mused. “I was traveling with my father, and we couldn’t be back in time.”
Mari nodded. “I suppose it was a Season like every other, so you didn’t miss much. But I was young and had never done anything so thrilling.” Funny how, in all her private reliving, she’d never thought of how little she’d understood about anything. Everything had seemed so important. The number of people at the balls, the ladies in their gowns, the dandies in their lace, and the Corinthians in their shiny boots. She’d been devastated to be suddenly cast out from it.
“Well?” Eleanor prompted. “What happened?”
“I was wearing a gown I adored. Pale lavender with tiny seed pearls along the bodice and in my hair. Understated but elegant.”
“I quite approve.”
Of course she would. Eleanor’s style had always been refined.
“My sister, of course, had to have color. She wore a modest gown but of a bold russet color. Almost orange.”
“I’ve never met your sister. Did it suit her coloring?”
“Close enough, though the ruffles were not her style at all.”
The two women shuddered.
“We began to talk as one does before the dancing. Our cards weren’t full by any means.”
“You are Welsh,” Eleanor hedged.
“And new money. I know. To my mind, it was perfect. Everything perfect.”
Eleanor leaned forward. “Get to the important part.”
“I wanted some punch. It was dreadfully hot in the room. Sally and I—she’s Mrs. Clarkin now—headed for the bowl, but it was such a crush that we were constantly stopping. And that’s when I heard it. Lord Whitly was speaking to Mr. Fitzhugh.”
Eleanor’s face pinched. “He’s a bounder, that Fitzhugh. Fortune hunter is the kindest thing I can say about him.”
Mari looked down at her hands. “Yes, and a terrible gossip, which of course made everything worse.”
“What were they saying?”
“I stopped, you see, because I heard them say my name. Mr. Fitzhugh was asking advice. He intended to have a go—his words—at my sister or me and wanted to know who was the better catch.”
Eleanor sighed. “Both of you were far too good for him.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that. Whitly’s answer destroyed me.” She took a deep breath. “He asked whyever would Fitzhugh want either one of us? The elder was wild and the younger wayward.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened, and her lips formed a perfect O of surprise. “So that is how you came by your names.”
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “From that moment on, everything we did, from the most innocent flirtation to the cut and color of our gowns was scrutinized and used as proof of our inappropriateness.”
“Oh dear. I hadn’t realized that was Lord Whitly’s doing.”
“Jo tried to be restrained, but it isn’t in her nature. She’s very high-spirited. She soon learned that no matter how dull she appeared, no matter what she did, the name followed her. She laughed too loudly; she gestured too broadly. Heavens, she was even criticized for the way she sipped her tea.”
“But she’s happily married now, yes?”
“Yes, thank Heaven, but it was only after five Seasons.” Horrible, difficult Seasons. And then all the time in between listening to her father bemoan their lack of accomplishment. As if any of it was their fault.
“And you?” Eleanor prompted. “How has it been for you?”
Mari sighed. “You know how it’s been. Miserable. Do you know why my gowns are a single color? I can never wear two colors or even a pattern.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I wore a lovely yellow gown with a dark blue shawl once and was called flighty and clearly wayward.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I know, and yet the label persists. If I sing anything but the slowest dirge, it’s proof that my upbringing has been too lenient.”
“Heavens, is that why you never sing?”
Mari nodded. “Or dance much. Or do anything but wait hand and foot on the dowagers. I have been the model of propriety—I daily want to scream—all because one night Lord Whitly called me wayward. The blighter!”
“Well, to be fair, I doubt Whitly knew you would be plagued by that moniker.”
Mari clenched her hands in her lap. “I don’t care. He was speaking to a notorious gossip and knew his words would be repeated.”
Eleanor patted the couch near her hand. “I think you overestimate how much a gentleman thinks about anything.”
Mari huffed out a breath. “That’s all the more damning. One careless word to Fitzhugh, and I have spent six years wearing dull dresses and serving tepid lemonade to dowagers.”
Eleanor waited a moment, clearly thinking about her story. In the end, she pulled her hands back into her lap and gave Mari a wan smile. “You have been the soul of propriety, and that is why I agreed to help you.”
That and the generous sum of money from Mari’s father. Mari didn’t know the exact details of the arrangement, but she knew that Lady Eleanor had begun aiding a few very select ladies in their matchmaking efforts. This year was her turn.
So everything was established for a perfect Season. After six years of complete dullness, no one called her wayward anymore. She’d worn a patterned gown two nights ago with no ill effects. It had been yellow with tiny white dots. Hardly visible, which was why she’d allowed it, plus a very daring lace trim. And she’d gotten away with it! Then out of the blue, Whitly returned and confronted her in Hyde Park. Suddenly, she was a topic of conversation again. The label would more than resurface; it would gain new life, and she would be back to beige again. And sitting along the wall at every event, without a single suitor.
“Oh, I shall kill him!” she fumed as she set aside her tea. She couldn’t drink it anyway. She was sick to death of it, when she truly, desperately wished for a stiff drink of claret. Or better yet, brandy. And that was another thing she hadn’t had for six years, all thanks to Lord Whitly.
“Don’t fret,” Eleanor soothed. “This isn’t nearly as disastrous as you might think. It’s a harmless diversion.”
“Other ladies can have harmless diversions. Thanks to Lord Whitly, the Wayward Welsh can’t do any of it without being spurned.”
“Well, yes, that is a concern. Mr. Camden did seem rather put out by the wager.”
Her best matrimonial possibility already running because of Lord Whitly. “It’s not fair! I haven’t done anything wrong. Why is it so hard for me to find a husband?” The need to be married grew stronger every day, like an itch she could not scratch. She wanted to plant roots, to have a home of her own with children and responsibilities. Unmarried women were not allowed such things, and she hated it.
Lady Eleanor sighed, lifted her tea, and sipped it with perfect serenity. Or pretended to, because when she set the cup down, the liquid hadn’t lowered. Then the lady looked long and hard at Mari. And she kept looking, so Mari ended up smoothing down
her hair. Had some of the strands gone wayward again?
The woman must have understood her thoughts, because Eleanor smiled and picked up her tea again. “No, no, don’t go doubting your looks. You are in fine fettle, best I’ve seen from you in a while.”
“I am incensed.”
“Yes, and it gives a lovely color to your cheeks.”
Mari sighed. “I shall just have to win that wager.”
“Well, of course, I’m sure that’s important too, but I was thinking of Mr. Camden. Are you sure he’s who you want? As a husband, I mean. He is rather, um, steadfast in his niceties.”
By which she meant he was a bore prone to priggishness.
“He’s smart and wealthy enough that I don’t fear he’s a fortune hunter.”
“That’s true,” Eleanor allowed.
“We can converse, he and I.”
“Truly? About what?”
“Mostly about his investments and the state of the country. Political things.” Though primarily, he talked while she asked questions. He loved it when she asked questions so he could answer them with all the pomp of an Oxford don.
“I hadn’t realized he was political,” Eleanor mused.
“He isn’t really, but I think he’d like to be. He’s taking a chance with a Wayward Wife, so to speak.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Yes, I can see that would be awkward for a political man.”
“He told me exactly that. He hoped my wayward ways were behind me. And when I explained—quite vehemently, I might add—that it was all Lord Whitly’s fault, he was quite kind.”
“Really?” Eleanor didn’t sound as though she believed it.
“He can be very sympathetic. He understands how Society works and admires my restraint all these years.”
Eleanor’s expression brightened. “I certainly admire it. I thought it was your natural inclination.”
“It is, a little.” A very little. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve done it. Mr. Camden admired it, and now Whitly’s ruined it.”
Eleanor didn’t speak, just sat there smoothing an invisible ripple in her skirt and thinking. Mari could only pray she came up with something brilliant that would end the rumors altogether and make Whitly pay for his perfidy.
Then finally the woman spoke, her voice tempered, as was her wont. “So you have your heart set on Mr. Camden?”
“My heart? Good God, no. He simply fits my requirements.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. “Requirements?”
“I was afraid my father never showed them to you. He’s uncomfortable with what he calls a woman’s mercenary side, though truthfully, I’m only doing what he taught me.”
“I am all agog. What did he teach you?”
“To outline clearly one’s desires, and then act to achieve them. I shall show you. I keep it with me and look at it every day.” She fished the well-worn paper out of her reticule. “It’s my requirements for a husband, and as you can see, Mr. Camden fits all of them.”
The lady looked at the page, her expression blank. Eleanor was the very definition of feminine serenity, and it wasn’t until this very moment that Mari realized how completely irritating that was. She had no clue what the woman was thinking. Which meant Mari soon started babbling.
“The first is obvious. No fortune hunters. With my dowry, they’ve been thick about me, and I cannot stand a one of them.”
“Of course not,” Eleanor said with a sniff.
“The second is relatively clear, too. He has to be a man of acceptable moral character. Note the word ‘acceptable.’ I’m not looking for a cleric. I’m not so naive as to think a man can’t enjoy gambling, drinking, or anything else in moderation.”
Lady Eleanor arched a brow. “Are you aware of some of the vices you are allowing?”
Mari frowned. “Well, Mother has told me that most men of influence have a mistress. It’s practically a requirement.”
Her companion nodded slowly. “I think I understand. You want a man of moderate temperament.”
“Exactly. No showy displays, no shocking vices.” And a man who had made his fortune gambling or racing, as Lord Whitly claimed, was out of the question. “The third requirement is harder to define. You see, I don’t need any money. My dowry alone could keep a modest man comfortable for the rest of our lives, but I wish for more. I want a man who will be important in London Society. I want to help him become important.”
“So you want a title.”
“No,” Mari said with a smile. This was where she thought herself very forward thinking indeed. “I know Papa is mad for a title, but so many peers are ninnies. They want my dowry so they can continue to gamble and wench. I want a man who wants something beyond his next meal.”
“So that is why you haven’t wed so far.” Lady Eleanor set the list down, her expression vaguely troubled. “And that is why you look to Mr. Camden.”
“He has a bright financial future.”
Eleanor nodded. “I see your problem, then. You are looking for the rarest creature of all: a man of influence who travels through the ton and who has no obvious vices. My dear, that is no one but a clergyman, and yet you state clearly in the next item, no clergy. If I may ask, why do you object so strongly to the religious?”
“Because their wives have to be even more circumspect than I’ve been. If I thought these last six years have been a trial, imagine constantly having to be the epitome of moral rectitude. It would be maddening.”
Eleanor gifted Mari with one of her rare true smiles. “We are of the same mind, you and I. And now that I know you will be content without a title, then I see no impediment in getting you to the altar by Season’s end.”
Well, that was a relief.
“Except, of course, for the obvious one.”
Mari nodded. “Lord Whitly.”
“I was going to say any temptation to willfulness on your part. I see now that your natural inclination is not nearly as restrained as I’d been led to believe.”
“It is only because Lord Whitly has interfered.”
“Well, that is as may be, but you must restrain yourself. One impetuous wager can be survived. Especially as Lady Castlereigh and the others have approved it. But any more such nonsense, and even I will not be able to redeem you.”
Mari took a deep breath. So her path was clear. She was to be circumspect in all things no matter how much Lord Whitly provoked her.
“You may count on me.” She refolded her list. It might be a list about a man’s requirements, but in truth, it was all about her. About the woman she would have to be to attract a man like that. She returned it to her reticule, next to her folded list of possible husbands. Many of the top tier were crossed off as unattainable or unsuitable. Mr. Camden was the highest available to her now, and he was number twenty-seven.
Meanwhile, Lady Eleanor clasped her hands together and started to rise. “Do you intend to go to Lady Barnes’s ball tonight, Mrs. Winter’s musicale, or the theater?”
“The theater tonight, and Lady Carlyle’s ball tomorrow.”
“Very well. I shall see you tomorrow then, as I’m to the musicale.”
Mari scrambled to follow. “But…but what are we to do about Lord Whitly?”
“Ignore him. You have the approval of myself and the patronesses of Almack’s. If you cannot turn that to your advantage, then you are not as clever as I thought.”
Mari stared at her a moment, then blurted out her thoughts. “But you are here to help me.” In fact, Papa had paid her to help.
“And I am. I am giving you my approval. The rest is up to you.” Then she gave her a beatific smile. “Don’t fret so much. I think your gowns are perfectly sound.”
Then she departed. Horace must have been listening, because he opened the parlor door with perfect timing. Mari stood silently, w
atching as Eleanor donned her outer wraps and walked away.
Mari never said a word. She most certainly didn’t scream or rail that the woman had been paid to give better advice. That she’d been less than useless in offering sympathy. And most of all, that Mari absolutely, positively did not want to wear perfectly sound gowns!
Which meant there was only one thing left to do. One simple and perfect choice. She was going to teach that dratted bird to say “happy day,” and then she was going to stand over Lord Whitly and gloat. Yes, she was going to savor every second that man was on his knee before her, and she wouldn’t let him up until Easter!
Four
“Happy day, you dratted bird.”
Peter and Lady Illston’s butler paused outside the back parlor door. It wasn’t good form to laugh while in the company of someone else’s butler. Indeed, it wasn’t good form for the butler to be chuckling under his breath either, but the two men exchanged amused glances and then—good man—the butler bowed and withdrew.
That left Peter free to open the door quietly to the parlor in which Miss Powel was trying to tempt the parakeet with a piece of apple.
“Come on, Greenie, I have a bit of apple for you. Happy day. Happy day. Happy day.”
The bird tried to reach for the apple, but she pulled it away, thereby demonstrating that she knew nothing at all about training birds. Specific treats should be tied to the phrase. Therefore, the creature ought to be stuffed on apple right now as she kept repeating “Happy day.”
He began to think he would likely win this wager. Which made it unfortunate that he had little interest in their wager one way or the other. He’d come here for an entirely different purpose.
Still, that didn’t stop him from appreciating how her body twitched with her frustration. She was an animated woman with a nice bum, neatly outlined as she leaned over the table and tried to entice the creature. Given that he was built on a large scale, he liked a woman with curves.
Mari was a woman of middling height, perfect complexion, and bright amber eyes. Her breasts were lush, her hips tempting, and her lips were on the proper side of sinfully dark. But mostly, she was alive in his mind in a way that no other woman ever approached. And right now, she was dropping into a nearby chair, clearly at odds with the world.
