A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  “I have made my choice,” Sarah said, peering at her reflection in the mirror beside the parlor door, “and his lordship is sensible enough to agree with me. I am not nervous.”

  Neither was she pale, tired, or anything else unattractive, thanks to constant vigilance and a determination to be ready for the moment when her intended presented himself. She was not wearing blue, but like Papa’s advice to save back the good silver, that was probably for the best.

  Mama gave Sarah’s bodice an upward tug. “You are not nervous, and you apparently aren’t burdened by an excess of humility either. Perhaps his lordship is stopping by to offer his regrets for our soiree. Perhaps his brother has encountered difficulties, and Casriel will be leaving Town. You are not the only pretty heiress in Mayfair, my girl, and Casriel is far from smitten with you.”

  “He’s smitten with my settlements, and I’m smitten with his title. That’s how these matters are handled.”

  Mama glanced at herself in the mirror. Her dress was positively drab and her hair styled in a simple bun. Sarah loved her mother, but in the name of all that was stylish, was a bit of rice powder or a few ringlets too much to ask?

  “I’ll greet his lordship in the formal parlor,” Mama said. “Come along in a few minutes, and then I’ll find a reason to leave you and the earl alone for a short while. Be sure the door remains open, Sarah Jane, or Casriel might well revise his opinion of your settlements.”

  An impecunious earl with marriage on his mind waited one floor below, and still Mama must lecture.

  “Yes, Mama, and I won’t interrupt his speech about tender sentiments and dearest hopes. I do intend to be a good countess, you know—a good wife.”

  Mama’s lips compressed into a line that did nothing to enhance her unfortunately plain visage. “That’s the least you’ll owe him if he offers for you.” She left with her usual quiet air of martyrdom.

  Sarah waited the count of ten, then gave her bodice a stout downward wiggle.

  Grey had waited three days, waited for a note from Addy, waited for his resolve to fail, waited for a miracle that would never happen. He’d sent an acceptance to the Quinlan soiree, and despair had moved aside only far enough to be joined by desperation.

  He needed to marry well and soon. If he did not set his feet on that course now, Addy’s sacrifice would be wasted, for he’d never again find the determination to come to Town and search for a bride. He’d spend the rest of his life exactly as his father had, wandering the Dorset hills, ignoring financial realities, and exhausting himself in fruitless rural pursuits while his family slid toward ruin.

  Grey rapped on the door of the Quinlan town house when every particle of his being wanted to call on Beatitude instead. Not for another afternoon in bed, but simply to assure himself she was bearing up. To hear her voice, to see her, to bow over her gloved hand.

  “My lord.” A suitably distinguished, balding butler stepped back from the open door and bowed. “May I take your hat?”

  Grey did not want to surrender his hat, his walking stick, or his freedom, but he turned over the first two articles and steeled himself to part with the third.

  “Is the family at home?” Please, say no.

  “If you’d accompany me to the green salon, I will inquire, my lord.” The old fellow toddled down the corridor, and Grey trailed dutifully behind. In midafternoon, most of Mayfair was at home, and Grey hadn’t expected the Quinlans would be any different. He’d called early enough that driving Miss Quinlan in the park at the fashionable hour would have been a possibility, if only Sycamore hadn’t absconded with the carriage team.

  Thank heavens for Sycamore’s impulses.

  The Quinlan town house was decorated in painfully good taste. No excess of art, no superfluous gilding, no ostentation of any kind was visible, which in itself commented on the family’s ambitions. Dorning Hall, by contrast, featured an ancient fowling piece with a nine-foot barrel mounted over the front door, a relic of the eighth earl’s travels in Scotland.

  The marble floor in the Hall’s foyer had been scored in one corner where, as boys, Ash and Valerian had carved a treasure map for Oak to find. An enormous fern stood over the damage, and every footman knew why the plant sat off-center, two feet from the nearest window.

  The Quinlan dwelling was a folly, a caricature of its intended purpose, and Grey would be calling here often.

  The green parlor was more of the same, with exquisite oriental-themed silk wallpaper sporting peacocks, flowered vines, and butterflies. Grey could never in his wildest imaginings have afforded such décor, though his countess would probably demand—and her father would pay for—even finer appointments than this.

  Dorning Hall would become a showplace, and that pink marble in the foyer would be replaced with a pristine black and white parquet pattern in the latest fashion.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  “The ladies are happy to receive you, my lord.”

  The butler had known they would be, else he would have offered a guest refreshment. Grey was led down another perfectly appointed corridor and wondered if this was how sheep felt when they were herded toward the shearing shed. Resigned, resentful, determined to endure the coming indignities.

  He gave himself a mental kick at that thought, for such sentiments hardly flattered Miss Quinlan, who deserved a husband’s regard no matter that she saw him merely as a title.

  The formal parlor faced the street, and the gold draperies had been drawn all the way back. Here, the Quinlans had overshot the mark of good taste. The pier glass over the sideboard was framed in gilding worthy of a palace. The porcelain in the curio cabinet was crowded too closely together. Where a vase of roses might have sat on the piano, a bouquet at least three feet tall featuring orchids and ferns stood instead.

  Grey did not judge the family for trying too hard. He was trying hard as well.

  “Mrs. Quinlan, Miss Quinlan.” He gave them his best bows, they curtseyed, and while Mrs. Quinlan’s smile was genuinely friendly, Sarah was sparkling at him. She’d worn gold earbobs during the day, as well as a thin gold necklace that ended in a locket nestled right above her cleavage.

  All three were blunders, did she but know it—the earbobs, the necklace dangling just so, the display of cleavage by day that would have been considered daringly fashionable in the evening.

  “This is quite an honor,” Sarah said, touching pale fingers to the locket. “Mama, do send for a tray so we might entice his lordship to stay for the requisite two cups. He prefers gunpowder, if I recall.”

  Grey would prefer a double helping of brandy.

  “I am not particular regarding my tea. One pays calls for the company to be enjoyed.” He’d offered that line on occasion previously and passed it to his brothers to smooth over a moment when the tea disappointed. What or who, exactly, was disappointing him now?

  “Shall we be seated?” Mrs. Quinlan said. “Sarah and I were putting the finishing touches on our plans for the upcoming soiree. My daughter could likely manage the whole affair herself, but what would that leave for me to do?”

  Mother and daughter beamed at each other. Grey took a seat in a wing chair.

  “Are you enjoying London, Mrs. Quinlan? Even in springtime, I find the air in much of the city less than salubrious compared to Dorset.” Even this overly beautiful parlor bore a faint scent of cooking odors and coal smoke.

  Sarah settled on the end of the sofa closest to Grey’s chair, leaning forward slightly as if to remind him to stare at her locket. Mrs. Quinlan took the center of the sofa and didn’t rustle about, arranging her skirts as if to say, Notice me! Attend me!

  “I do miss Cheshire,” Mrs. Quinlan said. “London is very busy, though for bad air, Manchester must take top honors.”

  “Mama,” Sarah muttered, her smile slipping. “His lordship won’t be impressed by complaints about a city he’s never seen.”

  “I have been to Manchester, as it happens,” Grey said. “The air might be unfortunate, bu
t the city is undeniably a center of industry. Much is accomplished there, and the realm richer for it. Progress always seems to come at a cost, though.”

  As did happiness.

  “How is your family, my lord?” Sarah asked, a complete non sequitur that suggested she was nervous.

  Good. Grey’s nerves were less than settled, though Lady Antonia’s words came back to him, about having wealth he’d failed to appreciate.

  “I am very fortunate in my family. Four of my brothers are at Dorning Hall, making it easier for me to enjoy myself in London. My sisters are taken up with raising my nieces and nephews, all of whom provoke an uncle into doting and dandling. Have you family in the north?”

  “None worth mentioning,” Sarah said. “I am the sole offshoot of this branch of the Quinlan family tree.”

  The sole heiress, in other words.

  Mrs. Quinlan sat up straighter. “I have a sister in Leeds, married to a vicar. Mr. Quinlan is without other family and thus is given to doting on our Sarah. I’d best see what’s keeping the tea tray.”

  Leaving Grey alone with all of Miss Quinlan’s sparkling ambition. He was abruptly in need of a fast horse pointed toward Dorset, for this was a precipitous step on a path he’d hoped to tread slowly.

  Mrs. Quinlan left the door open, which did nothing to stop Sarah from leaning yet closer and patting Grey’s knee.

  “We can be honest with one another, my lord,” she said. “You are here to start the courting dance. I am amenable to your suit.”

  Grey should have been relieved. He instead crossed his legs. “You are very confident of your conclusions, miss. Perhaps I am here to assess whether to start the courting dance.” He leavened that comment with a smile. Miss Quinlan was young, she was nervous, and with her forthrightness, she was only trying to spare him effort and time.

  “Assess all you like,” she said, sitting back and squaring her shoulders. This had the effect of stretching her bodice over her bosom. Grey enjoyed feminine pulchritude as much as the next man, but he did not enjoy a woman reducing herself to the status of breeding stock. He rose and pretended to study a painting of a hermit’s grotto positioned near the piano.

  “I have assessed you as well,” she said. “You aren’t bad looking, you have an old and respected title, Papa can address your family’s impoverishment, and I’m young enough to provide you an heir and a spare, and perhaps—I am ignorant of certain realities, you know—a daughter or two. We’ll have to see about that.”

  She slanted him a look that was doubtless intended to be flirtatious.

  Grey moved on to peruse the overstuffed curio cabinet. German, French, and English porcelain had all been jumbled together, shepherdesses and angels, sheep and empty vases crammed next to one another.

  “As it happens, Miss Quinlan, my countess—assuming I choose to marry anybody—will not be burdened with securing the succession. I have a plethora of male relations, both brothers and cousins. I’d trust any one of them to raise a future earl, for they are all gentlemen.”

  Grey was being honest. For no inducement, under no circumstances, could he foresee becoming intimate with the young lady regarding him quizzically from the sofa.

  “You seek a white marriage, my lord?”

  “I might well, though of course I’d expect a cordial union regardless of the details. Let us turn the topic to you, Miss Quinlan. How are you finding your first Season?”

  Ambitious or not, she was unable to resist the lure of that question. Raptures and effusions were still pouring forth when Mrs. Quinlan returned, a footman pushing a tea cart in her wake.

  Grey stayed for the requisite two cups, trying to label the emotions this encounter engendered. A sliver of reluctant amusement threaded through everything else. Miss Quinlan thought herself quite sophisticated and cunning, but if she became Grey’s countess, part of his responsibility would be preserving her from myriad social blunders.

  She truly would be marrying him for his manners, whether she appreciated that or not.

  But amusement was a thin skein amid a tangle of darker feelings. Sarah Quinlan was the worst possible spouse he could choose. Tansy Pletcher had honestly liked him and desired him, and had, in fact, disdained his title.

  Lady Antonia had offered him ferocious honesty, a gift usually exchanged only between friends.

  Even Drusilla Arbuckle had grasped that she was entitled to certain expectations of a husband and set Grey aside when he’d disappointed those expectations.

  And yet, Sarah Quinlan had money. Damned, impossible, bloody money.

  “Ladies,” Grey said, rising, “I thank you for a pleasant visit, and I’ll look forward to seeing you both at the soiree.”

  He dreaded the very thought.

  “You need not wait until then,” Sarah said, popping to her feet so vigorously, her bosom jiggled. “As it happens, I have nobody to drive me in the park this afternoon.”

  Her mother’s wince was impossible to miss. “Perhaps his lordship has plans, Sarah. We must not presume.”

  “Who’s presuming?” Sarah asked, fingering her locket. “I merely state an oversight on my part. You are welcome to ride with Mama and me, my lord. Our new vis-à-vis is quite the crack.”

  “Language, Sarah,” Mrs. Quinlan murmured.

  Grey ought to accept. He ought to just get the shearing over with, ought to go quietly to his fate. That course was even tempting, in a grim, hopeless sort of way.

  But Sarah Quinlan would be an awkward fit as a countess. She’d need much guidance and support from her husband and his family if she was to become an earl’s bride without polite society making her an object of contempt and ridicule.

  If he was considering marrying her—and he was—then he owed it to her to establish his authority regarding social matters before she appointed herself an expert in that regard too. She did not want Grey in any personal sense, but she wanted social standing and a countess’s consequence. Her papa’s money was a liability when considered from the perspective of what she truly desired.

  “Your mother has the right of it,” Grey said. “I am unfortunately unable to oblige as an escort this afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to ride in the park with me early Monday morning?”

  Nobody stayed out late on Sunday. Even an Incomparable ought to be well rested on Monday morning.

  “You do have a new habit,” Mrs. Quinlan said. “The pretty blue one, remember?”

  “You are right, Mama. Very well. Out of appreciation for my modiste’s latest creation, I will accept your offer, my lord. I shall meet you at the gates on Park Lane at sunrise on Monday.”

  She stuck out her hand, which Grey bowed over, though he had every confidence that no blue riding habit yet existed. Miss Quinlan wore a fair amount of blue, now that he thought about it, a less than ideal choice for a woman with green eyes.

  “I will look forward to our ride, and if rain should befall us, we can try again on Tuesday.”

  “I will hope for fine weather,” Miss Quinlan said, touching her locket again. “I’ll hope for it very earnestly.”

  While Grey would pray for rain.

  Grey had been right. A dry cough had presaged Aunt Freddy’s final decline, and Addy was torn between the need for her truest ally to find peace, and outrage that Aunt should be taken from her now.

  “You can stop offering me tea,” Aunt said from her bed. “Tea has never been as much of a comfort as brandy. Fine stuff, brandy. I took the Corsican into dislike not so much because he waged war over hill and dale—we English seem to need our wars, provided they aren’t on home soil—but because his antics made brandy so lucrative for the coastal trade.”

  This speech, the longest Freddy had made all evening, ended in a spate of gentle coughing.

  “Would you like a sip of brandy, Aunt?”

  They were alone in the bedchamber Addy had set up as a sickroom. Night had fallen, and the house was quiet.

  “Please, and don’t you be slipping any of the poppy into my drink, B
eatitude. A few aches are an old woman’s right. That is such a lovely harp.”

  Aunt’s staff kept the collection at her home covered in Holland cloths for the most part, but Aunt had asked that the latest addition, the one Casriel had restored, accompany her to Addy’s house.

  “Casriel knew what he was about, apparently,” Addy said, pouring a scant measure of brandy from the decanter on the vanity. “The instrument is beautiful.”

  She slipped an arm around Aunt’s shoulders and held the glass so Aunt could touch her lips to the brandy. This too caused a few coughs.

  Aunt lay back amid the pillows stacked at her back. “You stock good brandy. Is that to have on hand when Casriel comes around?”

  “I doubt he’ll come around again.” Addy set the glass on the bedside table and took up Aunt’s knitting. The shawl would soon be finished, though the pattern had changed down the midline thanks to Addy’s forgetfulness.

  “Who will play my beautiful harp, Beatitude? I would truly like to hear it again before I die.”

  Addy didn’t bother protesting. Aunt had not eaten to speak of for several days, hadn’t left her bed except with Addy’s assistance. She was fading as gracefully as a woman could, while Addy knitted and grieved and longed for the sound of Grey Dorning’s voice.

  “I could try to pluck out a few airs,” Addy said.

  “I want music, my girl. Beautiful, lush, magical—” She coughed, turning her head to the side, too weak apparently even to hold a handkerchief.

  Not now, Addy silently wailed. Please don’t leave me now. “You must save your strength, Aunt. No more lectures. I can have the kitchen send up a tea tray with some biscuits.”

  Not for dear Aunt Freddy, but for Addy to have something to do, something to fuss over. Addy rose from the chair she’d had Thiel set beside the bed and went to the corridor. Thiel sat across from the door, his livery for once less than pristine.

  “Is anybody awake in the kitchen, Thiel?”

  He rose and straightened his coat. “Somebody is awake in the parlor, my lady. When you changed into your nightclothes, Mrs. Beauchamp asked me to fetch Lord Casriel. He’s been waiting for the past hour. Said not to disturb you unless Mrs. Beauchamp asked for him again.”