“While I mean no disrespect for your daughter, Your Grace,” she continued into their confused expressions, “I have other plans for my son.”
“Excuse me, Madam,” the Duke of Wellingson said. “May I ask why you are making decisions for your son?”
Caroline knew this was a sticky moment. Wesley was by rights a Duke, not an heir, not an underage youth. He could legally make his own decisions, and he needed not her approval at all. Her desire in asking the Wellingsons to her home was to encourage them to discourage their daughter from aspiring to marry her son.
“I have spent my life advising my husband,” she said slowly, her napkin in her hand. “Now I wish to serve my son in the same capacity. As his advisor.”
“And you are advising him, I am presuming,” the Duke went on, his eyes firmly on hers, “that my daughter is not good enough?”
Caroline tittered. “Of course not, Your Grace. I admire and love your daughter. Such a proper young lady, I am quite certain she will make a very advantageous marriage. However, that marriage must not be to my son.”
She sensed the Duke’s growing irritation with her, but refused to back down. She knew what was best for Wesley, and the best was not that simpering, yellow-haired bluestocking who dared air her opinions where they might be heard by anyone within range.
“May I inquire,” he asked, his brows lowering over his eyes in a way Caroline did not care for, “as to just who is far better suited to marry him than Lady Sophia?”
Again, Caroline recognized the very soft ground she treaded upon, as well as his ire. By refusing to marry Wesley to the only heir of a prestigious and powerful Duke, and wanting him to marry the third child, second daughter, of an Earl, she knew she risked much censure from society.
She drew a deep breath, her heart pounding. “I would rather see Wesley marry Lady Alicia Keaton, the daughter of the Earl of Swinton.”
By their astonished expressions, Caroline felt she had just made a terrible mistake.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the Duke answered her slowly. “I am also to understand the Lady Alicia is currently being wooed by the Earl of Montrose. Like His Grace and my daughter, Lord Montrose is deeply in love with Lady Alicia.”
Caroline waved her hand negligently. “Love should never enter the negotiations of marriage, Your Grace. It matters not what these young people feel toward one another. I agreed long ago to wed my son to Lady Alicia, and I must respect that agreement. I will refuse to condone any marriage save that of Wesley to Lady Alicia.”
Now she really knew she had made a really grave mistake. A tremor of fear invaded her blood, and she swallowed, hoping the Wellingson’s had not seen it.
Surely they have respect enough for my position in society that they will agree with me as to what is best for Wesley.
The Duke’s passive expression turned dark with anger. “The Duke, your son, is not under your authority, Madam. Nor is my daughter. If His Grace seeks to formally ask me for my daughter’s hand in marriage, I will grant my blessing. I will not see my daughter’s happiness vanquished by whatever it is you are holding against her. I find it insulting that you did not invite her to this luncheon, nor is His Grace present. I question your motives here, and I am presuming, Madam, that you are going behind his back in this. Are you also prepared to demand Lord Montrose renege on his quest to marry Lady Alicia?”
Caroline frantically realized that her plan to convince the Wellingson’s to refuse her son’s suit had gone drastically wrong. “If I must,” she replied, trying to force her voice to remain firm. “Wesley must marry Lady Alicia.”
The Duke stood up, and gestured for his Duchess to do the same. “Good luck in your endeavors, Madam. But my wife and I will not be a party to them. Good day to you.”
With that, their dessert uneaten, the Duke and Duchess of Wellingson, powerful names in high society, stormed from her dining room. Fear etched its way down her spine and set up camp in her stomach. Caroline had just made an enemy of a gentleman who held the ear of the Prince Regent himself.
While she did not exactly fear Wesley or his rage, she knew that word of what she had tried to do would make its way to him swifter than a horse could gallop. He would be angry, she knew, for she had seen him with Sophia on the night of the ball. She had also seen Lord Montrose with Lady Alicia, and if the two young nobles united against her—
Caroline chose not to think of that.
I can control Wesley. He adores me, and he will do what I say. In the end, he will be convinced that marrying that silly bluestocking will be the end of his reputation. Then he will work with me to end that disastrous romance betwixt Montrose and Lady Alicia.
Feeling her triumph at hand, Caroline floated from her dining room to her solar, where she planned to pen letters announcing the engagement of Wesley to Lady Alicia. Writing letters always made her feel better.
Chapter 21
Sophia arrived home, happily before her parents did, and immediately went to her chambers to change out of her damp gown, and have Erin brush out her hair before pinning it up again into an attractive coil atop her head. Long golden ringlets trailed down her slender neck to her shoulders, and she gazed at the blush in her cheeks she could not make go away even with cool, wet cloths pressed to her cheeks.
Trepidation warred with anticipation as she awaited her parents to return, far too anxious to read even her beloved Emma from Jane Austen. Staring out the windows that looked out onto the drive, she rested her cheek against the cold glass.
A male’s throat clearing from behind her made her spin around in shock and surprise. Williams stood there, his disapproval clear in his cantankerous and crabby countenance. While he never smiled in all her years walking this earth, he certainly had no difficulty in frowning heavily.
“May I be of service, My Lady?” he intoned, slightly haughty.
“Uh, no, thank you. I was just—I will be in the drawing room. In case my parents want to know where I am.”
Making a hasty retreat, Sophia skittered to the drawing room for safety, and breathed deeply when Williams did not follow her. She sat in an armchair near the fire, wishing for a book while she waited, then knew that even if she had one she could not possibly read it in her current agitation.
A footman brought her hot tea with milk and sugar without her asking. Grateful, she watched the fire licking the logs on the hearth, and hoped her parents would return soon with good news.
However, they news they brought, when they arrived, was far from good.
Freshly changed from their damp clothes, wet due to the persistent drizzle, the Duke entered the drawing room without her mother. Sophia stood to curtsey, worried about where her mother was.
“Your mother is fine,” her father said, “she retired to her rooms until dinner.”
“Her joints again?”
“Indeed, yes.”
The Duke sank into his usual chair as the footman poured him a brandy. For long moments Sophia held her breath as her father gazed into the fire. Never a temperamental gentleman, always even tempered, logical, and unemotional in most things, her father seldom gave way to anything else.
This day, however, to Sophia, it appeared as though her father was angry.
“Papa,” she asked, her hands clenched in her lap, her voice hesitant. “Are you upset with me?”
The Duke’s eyes swiveled to her and widened in surprise. “With you, no, my dear. I am upset, however, with the current state of affairs in the Bersard household.”
Confused, Sophia unclenched her hands long enough to take a drink from her teacup, only to find it had cooled to the point it tasted nasty. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, trying not to grimace.
Her father drew a deep breath. “The Dowager Duchess is adamant that the Duke marry Lady Alicia Keaton. Why, I have no idea. You are a far better match in rank, breeding, and wealth than the second daughter of an Earl.”
“She cannot,” Sophia burst out without thinking. “Wesley can manage hi
s own affairs without answering to her.”
“Precisely, my dear, which is partially why I am angry. She snubbed you, my daughter, over a young lady who is actively being pursued by another gentleman. This is making little sense to me.”
“Could it be that the Dowager Duchess simply dislikes me?” Sophia ventured. “Although I have done nothing to offend her or gain her mistrust.”
“I do not know,” her father answered, staring into the fire and taking a long drink of his brandy. “However, if the Duke wishes to marry you, he may come here and formally make his request for your hand.”
Joy, happiness, and a host of other emotions swarmed over Sophia. “May I send a letter inviting him to dinner, Papa?” she asked, her words tumbling from her mouth over one another.
The Duke glanced at his pocket watch. “I suppose there is time enough to invite him, if you send a letter immediately.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Sophia sprang from her chair. “I will write
to him this very moment, and pray that he is available.”
“I look forward to seeing him again, and can use this opportunity to discuss other matters that have come to my mind lately.”
Dashing from the drawing room, Sophia all but ran upstairs to her rooms, and threw open the door. She startled Erin in her task of brushing out and drying Sophia’s damp clothes from their excursion to the bookstore and her meeting with Wesley.
Sitting down at her writing desk, Sophia’s haste gave her usual careful handwriting a strange slant, but she hoped Wesley would understand.
My dearest Wesley,
I hope and pray this missive finds you safe and well this afternoon. I am writing to request your presence at dinner this evening at the home of my parents, the Duke and Duchess of Wellingson. If you have no prior engagements, I wish you to accept this as a less than formal invitation.
I am looking forward to your acceptance of this hasty offer, and your presence.
Yours in love,
Lady Sophia Appleton
Folding the paper, she wrote Wesley’s name and address upon it, pressed her seal in hot wax, and then dashed back down the stairs to the main level of the house. When she could not immediately find Williams to instruct him to send it via a footman, Sophia found a servant with nothing urgently occupying his hands.
The footman bowed to her.
“Please take this to the Duke of Bersard right away,” she instructed him. “It must be within his hands as soon as possible.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
He bowed and departed through the front door into the dreary rainfall and grey clouds, leaving Sophia to count every passing second with excited anticipation until Wesley arrived.
Going up the stairs to the library, she decided to while away the time by rereading Emma, and fantasizing about Wesley arriving within a few hours, and how he would present his formal request to her father to marry her.
How will he word it? Will he then drop to one knee, take my hand, and in front of my parents ask him permission to marry me? Oh, that would be so romantic! Just like it happens in the romances and courtships I read about.
The hours passed, and Sophia’s eager anticipation grew. She constantly sent a servant to inquire as to a response from Wesley, and always was told, Not yet, My Lady.
Perhaps in his own excitement, he decided not to return a formal acceptance, and will simply arrive at the appointed hour.
Her happiness unabated, Sophia returned to her rooms to wash and change into formal dinner attire. She dressed carefully in clothes that set off not just her hair and eyes, but also accented her slender waist.
Erin tucked the last curl into place as Sophia hoped the constant blush in her cheeks could not be construed that she had used any sort of scandalous rouge on her face to make herself more beautiful.
“I will be seeing him soon, Erin,” Sophia told her maid, rising from her dressing table. “We will be formally engaged within the hour.”
Erin smiled. “I am so happy for you, m’lady.”
Forcing herself to saunter down the stairs with the proper decorum of an aristocrat, Sophia eagerly watched for any sign of Wesley’s presence.
No doubt he is already in the dining room.
A footman opened the door for her, and she ambled in, her happy smile already in place.
It slowly faded as she saw only her father and mother seated at the vast mahogany table, their expressions as puzzled as hers.
Wesley had not come.
David, Lord Montrose was impeccably garbed in his finest formal, perfectly tailored evening dress that consisted of his black jacket, cream breeches, snowy white muslin shirt, grey waistcoat, all put together with a pale blue silk cravat. His tall black hat, also made of the finest silk, sat upon his carefully brushed hair.
His closed carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Swinton townhouse at the precise hour of dinner. He waited with growing impatience while his footman opened the umbrella to protect David from the fine, persistent drizzle he never could seem to escape when he least needed to appear in disarray.
Keeping his master dry, the footman followed close behind him as David strode rapidly up the steps and tapped on the door with the head of his walking stick. He glanced around at the dark street where few people wanted to be out in the cold damp, and only a few carriages drawn by two- and four-horse teams rolled past.
The door was opened by the Swinton butler, a stiff man who could be the twin brother to his own butler, Charles, in manner and age.
David presented his calling card. “The Earl of Montrose, and I am expected at dinner.”
“Yes, indeed, My Lord,” the butler replied with a bow and swung the door wide.
David shed his outer, heavy coat and his hat and surrendered them as well as his walking stick to the servant hovering nearby. In the looking glass hung on the wall over a small table, David inspected his reflection to make certain his hat had not mussed his hair.
Satisfied as to his appearance, David followed the butler to the dining room, grateful for the warmth of the house after the dreary dampness of the outside. Swinging the doors wide, the butler announced, “His Lordship, the Earl of Montrose.”
David walked inside, his ready smile for Lady Alicia widening as he caught sight of her. She sat at the table, but stood as he entered, her own happy and excited grin returning his. Then he turned to the tall, balding gentleman, also in formal full dress, who stepped forward to greet him.
“My Lord Montrose,” the gentleman said, extending his hand to shake. “I am Joseph Keaton, the Earl of Swinton.”
“A very fine pleasure to meet you,” David replied, shaking his hand warmly.
“May I introduce my Countess, Lady Heather Swinton?”
David met the cold, hard eyes of Lady Alicia’s mother, a lady who vaguely looked like her daughter in the plump cheeks and brown eyes, but had none of Lady Alicia’s sparkle and charming vitality.
“How do you do, My Lady?” David asked politely, maintaining his smile even though it now felt feigned to him.
“Very well, thank you.”
“And you have already met my daughter, Lady Alicia,” the Earl of Swinton went on.
Wanting to greet her with his arms around her and a deep, wet kiss, David controlled himself and gave her his most endearing smile. “How lovely to see you again, My Lady.”
Lady Alicia curtseyed. “And you, My Lord.”
The Earl of Swinton gestured toward another lady at the table, a younger version of Lady Alicia, who held little of the attractiveness of the lady he wished to wed. “This is my other daughter, Lady Celeste.”
The young lady smiled at him and also curtseyed, and David guessed her to be perhaps sixteen years old. “You have beautiful daughters, My Lord,” David said, including Lady Alicia’s sister in his admiring grin.
“Thank you, My Lord,” Swinton replied. “I am very proud of all my children. Please have a seat right here.”
David accepted the chair at Swin
ton’s right hand and directly across from the Countess. She had not yet warmed to him, and lifted her glass to sip from it while watching him shrewdly.
What have I possibly done to have earned her dislike of me? Why, I had not even met her before now, and there is nothing in my breeding or reputation that should merit this conduct from her.
Lady Alicia was seated next to him, and her closeness, her faint scent, along with her sweet smile just for him, made him feel nearly giddy with love. David could sit and look at her all evening long, and feel content.
How fortunate a gentleman am I to have achieved the love of such an exquisite creature as my Lady Alicia.
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