A Match for Mother

by Mona Gedney, Kathryn Kirkwood, Regina Scott

“Of course it was not your fault, Reggie. Don’t be a goose,” replied Lady Lovington, hugging him back and then patting his cheek maternally. “It was quite my own decision, and I apologize to you for frightening you.”

  She looked at Colonel Anderson, her gaze direct. “And I apologize to you, sir, for letting you know my plans only through a note. I handled everything very thoughtlessly.” Before he could respond, Lucinda said, “Your handsome colonel has something to tell you, Mercy. I believe there has been another change in your wedding plans—but perhaps you’ll be able to keep him in the family.”

  Colonel Anderson again turned a fiery red, as did Elizabeth. The others stared at them, open-mouthed.

  “Miss Rochester takes too much upon herself,” said Colonel Anderson stiffly. “She misinterpreted something that she saw—”

  “He was kissing her,” explained Lucinda briefly to Mercy. “I saw it with my own eyes. And she was returning the kiss.”

  “Oh, Mama!” exclaimed Elizabeth, horrified by the betrayal of which she had been guilty. She rushed to Lady Lovington and buried her face in her shoulder. “I am so very sorry! I did not intend to fall in love with the colonel!”

  “In love!” exclaimed the object of her affections, looking at her warmly. “Do you mean that, my dear?”

  Elizabeth raised a tear-stained face from her mother’s shoulders. “Yes—I mean, no—no, of course not! You and my mother are being married! I would do nothing to interfere with your happiness.”

  “I should say, dear heart, that our marriage doesn’t sound destined for happiness if you and the colonel are in love,” replied Lady Lovington, smiling at her.

  “Are you, sir?” demanded Reginald, outraged by the lack of decorum. “Are you in love with my sister?”

  Colonel Anderson nodded, smiling at Elizabeth and holding out his arms to her.

  Elizabeth looked at her mother questioningly and Lady Lovington gave her a little push toward the colonel. She hurried around and sat lightly on the edge of his bed, her head on his shoulder.

  “And you assuredly plan to marry Elizabeth after this outrageous behavior,” said Reginald stiffly.

  “Of course I will marry her—if she will have me,” replied Colonel Anderson.

  “If you’re certain, Mama, that I’m not breaking your heart—” she began, looking across the room at Lady Lovington, who shook her head.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “The colonel would be an excellent choice for you, my dear.”

  “Then, yes,” sighed Elizabeth, happy at last. “Yes, of course I will marry you, Malcolm.”

  “And now,” snapped Lucinda, her bright eyes darting to Lady Lovington and Mr. Grant, “they’re not the only ones in the room smelling of April and May. Go ahead, Mercy. I’ve never known you to be afraid of telling the truth—once you know it—even if it brought the walls tumbling down on you.”

  “Well, Elizabeth dear, since you are happy—and since you have no wish to marry Jack—”

  “Then I can ask you properly, ma’am,” interrupted Mr. Grant, sinking down upon one knee. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  “Becoming your wife?” repeated Reginald in astonishment. “Have you all lost your minds?”

  He turned to his mother. “We don’t know everything we need to know about this man before you marry him, Mama! Why, he has admitted himself that he is a gambler and a wastrel.”

  “Even so,” said Lady Lovington, smiling at Jack Grant, “I am going to marry him.”

  “If it is any comfort to you,” said Jack to Reginald, “I said that I am a gambler because I invested my small savings in the cargo of a ship sailing to the Orient, and the colonel and my friends informed me that I was wasting the ready with both hands.”

  “And were you?” asked Reginald.

  Jack shook his head. “Although I am no nabob, I can keep my wife in comfort—if she doesn’t mind the idea of having a husband in trade.”

  Mercy turned to him and walked into his open arms, smiling. “A husband who is in trade and who lives in the Barbados,” she said, and kissed him tenderly.

  Outside, a small chip of golden moon shone gently over the scene, and she was sure that she could hear the distant lapping of bright waves on white, sandy shores.

  LADY RADCLIFFE’S RUSE

  Kathryn Kirkwood

  For Bob Menadier—thanks for the breeches!

  ONE

  “I beg your pardon, my dear.”

  “Think nothing of it, Lord Pomroy.” Lady Claire Radcliffe drew back as far as the figures of the country dance would allow in an attempt to achieve a safe distance between Lord Pomroy’s feet and her new dancing slippers. Through quick footwork and lucky chance, she had managed to narrowly avoid his missteps thus far, but the dance had not yet ended. Lord Pomroy was by far the clumsiest dancer she had ever had the dubious pleasure of partnering and she had spent the past several minutes avoiding the stomping of his wayward heels.

  There were several more apologies from Lord Pomroy before the music concluded and Claire sighed with relief as she glanced down at her feet. The integrity of her slippers had been preserved. For an elderly widower, Lord Pomroy was amazingly vigorous, stamping through the dance with no regard for its figures or its rhythms.

  “I do believe the waltz is next.” Lord Pomroy took her arm in a proprietary fashion and smiled down at her. “I have always been partial to the waltz. May I have the pleasure, Lady Radcliffe?”

  Claire kept the polite smile on her face as she shook her head. The waltz would force her into even closer proximity to the very feet that had threatened her new slippers in the first place. “I fear it would be most unwise, Lord Pomroy. Two successive dances with the same partner should surely cause speculation as to my propriety.”

  “Yes, yes. I quite forgot.” Lord Pomroy nodded quickly. “Not used to these silly rules, you see. Been in the country too long, I dare say. But you must guard your reputation, of course. Perhaps later in the evening?”

  Claire merely smiled again, avoiding a direct answer, and as they began to make their way round the edge of the floor, she gazed with longing at the chair she had vacated to dance with him. It seemed dreadfully far away, and the crush of guests in the ballroom did much to impede their forward progress. Perhaps, if the music began again before she reached the sanctuary of her chair, she would be spared the necessity of further dancing—at least for the duration of the waltz.

  It was exactly as Claire wished, for she did not reach her chair until the lilting strains of music had commenced. She sank down gratefully, thanking Lord Pomroy quite nicely for his attentions, and sent him on his way.

  “Your daughter looks lovely tonight.” The elderly matron in the next chair, a cousin of their hostess, leaned close for a private word. “Such a dear girl. You must be very proud. And she seems intent on assuring a steady stream of partners for you.”

  “Yes, Lady Jenkins. She does.” Claire smiled, but she felt more like frowning. Her daughter, Willow, a vision of loveliness in a shade of golden silk that rivaled the beauty of the sun itself, was in the process of engaging yet another older and eligible gentleman in animated converse.

  “It is most generous of her. Most newly engaged young misses would not give a thought to their mothers’ happiness. It is clear that your dear Willow wishes for you to share in her good fortune.”

  Claire nodded, not trusting herself to speak. If Willow did not cease and desist in her infernal matchmaking, she should ring a peal over her head the instant they gained the privacy of their rented town house.

  As she watched Willow smile and chat politely, Claire’s pride in her daughter’s accomplishments replaced her momentary fit of pique. Willow had been judged an Incomparable the instant they had set foot in London. With her laughing brown eyes, shining tresses just a shade darker than auburn, pleasing features, and perfect figure, she had enjoyed a popularity that the other young hopefuls had only dreamed of achieving. Rather than turning her head, this immens
e popularity had spurred Willow to befriend several other young misses who had not been so fortunate, bringing them into her circle of admirers and assuring them the favorable notice that they might not have otherwise achieved.

  To Claire’s immense relief, Willow had wasted no time on the pinks of the ton. These dandies with their foppish mannerisms and their modish clothing had held no allure for her. Instead, she had sought the company of more thoughtful and earnest young gentlemen, and Claire was the first to admit that her daughter had made a superb match. Just last week, Willow had accepted a declaration from the Marquis of Northrop’s eldest son, Lord Ralston. At twenty-one years of age, Philip had assumed his maternal grandfather’s title of viscount. Educated at Eton and then at Oxford, Lord Ralston had effected many improvements on his estate. Claire had been most gratified to hear her high-spirited and vivacious daughter discussing the further changes that they should make together. Willow had even gone so far as to enter Lackington’s Bookstore in Finsbury Square to request several volumes on the new agricultural methods, and she had approached Claire to ask her advice in setting up a school for the children of their tenants.

  One had only to gaze at the proud sparkle in Claire’s green eyes to be certain that she regarded her daughter with fondness. Indeed, Claire thought Willow to be perfection itself, if not for one small fault. Somehow, Willow had latched onto the notion that Claire must remarry; she had spared no effort in arranging a suitable parade of suitors for her mother.

  A weary sigh escaped Claire’s lips as Willow’s companion turned and she recognized his features. He was Lord Dankworth, a dour widower in his fifties who had recently reentered the Marriage Mart. Lord Dankworth was rumored to possess a poor sense of humor and a shocking lack of conversation, and Claire had no doubt that his wife had been driven to her grave by sheer boredom. Lord Dankworth did own a fine estate to the north and several of the older widows had set their caps for him, but if Willow had any notion that her mother should find such a gentleman in the least bit attractive, she was sadly mistaken!

  Both Willow and Lord Dankworth glanced over at Claire. He raised his quizzing glass to inspect her features more closely, and his thin lips curved upward in a slight smile. Claire immediately averted her eyes and did her utmost to pretend that she had not noticed the gentleman’s interest.

  Under the spell of Lord Dankworth’s scrutiny, Claire felt the heat rise to her face. Perhaps it was her new gown that had caused Lord Dankworth to smile. She had foolishly allowed her daughter to choose it, since it was to be worn tonight, at Willow’s engagement ball. Rather than the gray or lavender hue that Claire had deemed appropriate for her age and status, Willow had insisted that the gown be fashioned of emerald green silk, a shade that exactly matched the color of Claire’s eyes and set off her blond hair to perfection. Willow had even gone so far as to hide Claire’s lace fichu, guessing quite accurately that Claire should try to tuck it in the stylishly low décolleté.

  Claire sighed deeply, wondering what new arguments she could devise to convince Willow that she had no intention of marrying again. The truth of the matter was that Claire fully enjoyed her unencumbered status. Once Willow had married, she intended to travel and pursue her interest in unusual artifacts, but this excuse should carry no weight with her daughter. Willow was firmly convinced that a lady could not possibly be content unless she were wed.

  Over the past several weeks, Claire had done her utmost to convince Willow to cease her matchmaking efforts. Their last discussion of the matter had taken place only this evening, while they had awaited Lord Ralston’s arrival. Claire and Willow had been sitting on chairs in the Drawing Room of their rented town house in Half Moon Street, taking care not to wrinkle their skirts.

  Their converse had begun innocently enough, when Willow had complimented her mother’s appearance. But then she had announced that she had found a likely match for her dear Mama, a wealthy widower whose appearance was not unattractive and who should be certain to provide Claire with a most generous allowance.

  “I have no desire to seek a wealthy husband, Willow.” Claire had sighed deeply. Though they had gone over this ground several times in the past, it bore repeating. “The widow’s portion your dear father left for me is more than adequate for my needs.”

  Willow had rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “That is nonsense, Mama. I have no doubt that dear Papa did the best that he could, but only yesterday I observed you gazing with longing at a lovely pearl bandeau in Newman’s. I know that you desired to purchase it. Do not deny this, dear Mama. But you did not do so.”

  “The price was far too dear, Willow, and I did not need the bandeau. You must realize that there is a great difference between desire and need.”

  “That is precisely my point!” Willow had given a triumphant smile. “If you were to marry this particular gentleman, you should not have to consider the difference. You could have a dozen pearl bandeaus, for he should be happy to buy them for you.”

  Claire had sighed once again. Willow was well aware of the limitations of her purse. Instead of continuing on this course, Claire had attempted another. “I have been a widow for twelve long years, and I have become accustomed to making my own decisions. Most gentlemen should not desire such an independent wife.”

  “That thought is hopelessly Gothic, dear Mama.” Willow had waved this argument aside. “The times have changed and gentlemen now desire more independence in a wife. She is no longer his chattel, existing for the sole purpose of bearing his heirs and keeping his home in order. A modern husband respects his wife’s opinion and relies upon her intelligence to assist him in running his estates.”

  Realizing that she had lost ground, Claire had taken another approach. She had asserted that it should be unfair to the current group of debutantes if she actively sought another husband. These young misses had not yet experienced the joys of love and marriage while Claire had already enjoyed five years of wedded bliss with Willow’s dear father.

  “Ridiculous.” Willow had pronounced, dismissing this argument as well. “I would not expect you to desire a union with a young gentleman who has but recently reached his majority. We must concentrate our efforts on the group of older and well-established widowers who find themselves desirous of taking a second wife.”

  Switching directions once again, Claire had presented what she had assumed was the perfect argument. “But it is quite impossible for me to marry again, my darling. My heart is still fully engaged by the fond memories I shall always hold for your dear father.”

  “Yes. I am certain that is quite true.” Willow had remained silent for several moments, and Claire had begun to hope that she had finally put a stop to her daughter’s matchmaking attempts. But once again Willow had effectively parried the thrust of her mother’s objection. “Perhaps you doubt that an equally worthy gentleman exists. From what you have told me of my father, I admit that locating such a paragon shall be most difficult, but it cannot be impossible. You must take heart, dear Mama. I am determined to find your perfect match.”

  “But I do not wish for you to find him!” Claire had winced, knowing that she had only caused her daughter to become more resolute. “And even if you do, you cannot be certain that he will desire to marry me. You must remember that I am well past the first bloom of youth. Most gentleman, older or no, should prefer to choose a younger and more attractive bride.”

  Willow had stared at her mother in shock and then she had burst into peals of laughter. “You are completely in error, dear Mama. You forget that you are a lovely young widow, not an old relict. All you need do is gaze into the glass and you shall see that you have lost none of your beauty. Why, when Philip first set eyes on you, he assumed you to be my sister!”

  Claire had found herself unable to dispute this point. Several younger gentlemen had actively sought her favor, laboring under the same misconception, for it was most unusual for a lady of Claire’s years to have a grown daughter. She had married Baron Radcliffe, a contemporary of h
er father’s, at an age when most girls were still in the schoolroom. He had come to offer for her shortly after her parents had perished in a carriage accident, and Claire had accepted him most gratefully. In the five years that they had spent as husband and wife, Claire had not regretted her hasty decision for a single instant. She had loved her older husband with all her heart and mourned him still.

  “I do not intend to remarry, darling.” Claire had stated that fact most resolutely. “I am certain that your actions have been solely prompted by your desire to see me happily settled, but I shall be most displeased if you continue in your efforts on my behalf.”

  Willow had just opened her mouth, no doubt to make a further objection, when they had heard the sounds of Philip’s arrival. Claire had silently given thanks for this timely intervention and turned to her daughter with a smile. “We shall not speak of this further, Willow. My decision is firm. And now let us go to greet your dear fiancé and depart for Lady Bollinger’s mansion at once. The hour grows late and I am certain that you wish to arrive promptly at your engagement ball.”

  Assuming that the subject had been settled to her satisfaction, Claire had set off with her daughter and Lord Ralston. But now, barely an hour into the festivities that Philip’s aunt had so kindly arranged, Willow was once again indulging in her matchmaking.

  Reaching up to pat an errant blond curl into place, Claire glanced around the beautifully decorated ballroom. Lady Bollinger had spared no expense in preparing for this affair. Lengthy garlands of flowers in riotous bloom had been cleverly attached to the chandeliers and they draped across the ceiling to provide a colorful bower under which to dance. The heady perfume of the flowers intermingled, giving the air a most delightful scent, and the French doors that overlooked the gardens had been opened to the warm night breezes. Hundreds of candles, glittering brightly, provided a lovely illumination, and an excellent orchestra had been hired for their pleasure.