VICTORIA
ALEXANDER
Love
with the
Proper Husband
Dedication
This book is dedicated with gratitude and affection to Chuck and the boys: Terry, Joe, Tom, Jim, Dan, and Marcus, who inspire me and make me laugh and give me the tiniest glimpse into the totally incomprehensible minds of men. Thanks, guys!
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
“And so, ladies, I propose we do something beyond simply…
Chapter 1
No good ever came of a summons from a solicitor.
Chapter 2
“Don’t know why you didn’t have the blasted man come…
Chapter 3
“Lord Pennington?”
Chapter 4
It was exceedingly odd to stand in the grand parlor…
Chapter 5
“What you need is a plan of action,” Reggie said…
Chapter 6
“It sounds so…inconvenient and awkward,” Gwen said under her…
Chapter 7
“You look lovely, my dear.” Lady Pennington beamed at her…
Chapter 8
“What am I supposed to do now, Reggie?” Marcus’s low…
Chapter 9
Gwen wasn’t entirely sure what she should be doing at…
Chapter 10
“You did that very well.” Gwen rested her chin on…
Chapter 11
Gwen gazed at her reflection in the tall pier mirror…
Chapter 12
“So, what am I to do?” Gwen nervously prowled the…
Chapter 13
“You can see most of the estate from here.” Marcus…
Chapter 14
“You learned something in London, didn’t you? About Gwen and…
Chapter 15
There really isn’t anything to worry about.
Chapter 16
“We wish to speak to you.”
Chapter 17
Happiness was certainly not at all overrated.
Chapter 18
“Godfrey!”
Chapter 19
“I still don’t understand why you insist on leaving tonight.”
Epilogue
“Odd time of year to have a party, don’t you…
About the Author
Avon Romances by Victoria Alexander
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Spring 1820
The delight in male children is strictly in fulfilling one’s responsibility and having them in the first place because, unfortunately, at some point they become men.
The Duchess of Roxborough
“And so, ladies, I propose we do something beyond simply complaining and hoping for the best.” The Duchess of Roxborough cast her brightest smile around the gathering of ladies in the parlor at Effington House.
Helena, the Countess of Pennington, sipped thoughtfully at her tea and glanced around the fashionably decorated parlor to see the reaction of the dozen or so other women present. They were all friends, or at least acquaintances. Indeed, she’d known most since her come-out season, which happened far too many years ago now to note without a visible shudder of dismay. Beyond that, each and every lady there had a son or daughter of marriageable age. And at one point or another, Helena had heard each and every one despair of ever getting said child to agree to a suitable match.
“I’m a bit confused, Your Grace.” Marian, Viscountess Berkley, drew her brows together.
Marian had been a bit confused for as long as anyone had known her but was so delightfully pleasant, no one particularly minded. In truth, when she was very young and very blond and very flirtatious, Helena quite suspected Marian had actively perfected her state of innocent confusion to the level of art.
“Your son and daughter are both married,” Marian said. “I don’t quite understand why you should propose this—what did you call it again?”
“The Ladies’ Society for the Betterment of the Future of Britain.” The duchess’s voice rang in the room, and Helena was certain she saw Her Grace’s chest visibly swell with pride.
A murmur of approval washed through the crowd. And why not? It was indeed a grand name. And far better than anything with the words meddling or interfering or, heaven forbid, matchmaking in it.
“And I propose this, Lady Berkley, precisely because I no longer have to worry about my children making suitable matches, but I am, as we all should be, concerned about future generations. Indeed, it could well be considered our patriotic duty. Besides, there are a number of young people throughout my family who are making no particular effort to marry. I find it quite distressing. In addition”—she flashed a wicked grin—“I think it will be great fun.”
The ladies laughed and nodded their approval.
“I am simply suggesting we take our children’s destinies in hand and do all within our power, with the help of one another, to find suitable matches for them, whether they wish it or not.”
“It’s past time my son wed,” a lady somewhere behind Helena murmured.
Lady Heaton pursed her lips. “One more season and my daughter will be firmly on the shelf. And I shall be stuck with her forever.”
“Probably because she greatly resembles her mother,” Marian said under her breath to Helena.
“Shhh,” Helena whispered, stifling a grin and her agreement.
“We are a clever lot,” the duchess continued, “and we certainly have the skills among us to assist one another, should it be necessary, with various and assorted ideas—”
“Plots, schemes—” someone said.
“Plans, tactics—” another added.
Voices raised with excitement. “Strategies, intrigues!”
“Exactly.” The duchess beamed. “It may be that, in certain cases—I think of them as projects—members of the society need do little more than lend moral support to one another. In other, more complicated projects, it might be necessary to actively take matters in hand to assist each other.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting those of us with daughters trap some gentleman into a situation by which the only honorable solution is marriage?” Lady Dawson said with a note of horror in her voice.
“Of course not, although I for one would at least consider such a suggestion under the appropriate circumstances.” The duchess paused thoughtfully. “And how old is your daughter now?”
“Nearly two and twenty, Your Grace.” Lady Dawson smiled weakly.
“As old as that,” the duchess murmured.
On one hand, the duchess’s proposal was outrageous: turning their children into the projects of a society determined to see them wed. Still, Helena knew full well the marriages of a fair number of the women present had been arranged by their families, and most of those had turned out well. Indeed, it was rather a pity that such things had fallen out of favor. In some respects the duchess’s society would simply be arranging matters in a tried-and-true method. Upholding a time-honored tradition, as it were. Honoring the heritage of their country. Why, who could possibly argue with that?
“I needn’t mention, should we decide to go forward with this, secrecy is of the utmost importance.” Her Grace’s tone was firm. “This simply will not work if any of the children become aware they are the target of an organized effort.” She shook her head. “They can be quite stubborn when they suspect interference on the part of a mother. I believe they get it from their fathers.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
Helena already had an idea of sorts that would serve well to get her son to at last accept his familial obliga
tions and marry. It had begun as an odd, chance thought but had dwelt in the back of her mind, becoming more solid each time she turned her attention to it. She simply hadn’t the courage to carry it through. Now, however, with, at the very least, the moral encouragement of the society behind her…
“Your Grace.” Helena rose to her feet. “I think the Ladies’ Society for the Betterment of the Future of Britain is an outstanding proposal, and I should like to do my part.” She squared her shoulders. “Therefore, I am more than willing to offer my son as the society’s first project.”
“Excellent, Lady Pennington.” The duchess favored her with a brilliant smile. “I daresay you won’t be sorry. Now, do you have any prospects in mind for him?”
“I not only have prospects.” Helena grinned. “I have a plan.”
Chapter 1
Men are untrustworthy, disloyal swine who care for nothing save their own pleasures and the perpetuation of their line.
Gwendolyn Townsend
No good ever came of a summons from a solicitor.
Gwendolyn Townsend stiffened her already ramrod straight posture and ignored the urge to pick at the worn cuff of her pelisse. She was the daughter of a viscount, and regardless of her current circumstances, she would not be intimidated by a mere solicitor. Furthermore, she was not at all pleased to be kept waiting. She ignored as well the fact that, in spite of her lineage, she was nothing more than a governess at the moment and an unsuccessful one at that.
No good ever came of a summons from a solicitor.
It was harder to ignore the long-forgotten warning that had surfaced in her mind with a vengeance and refused to let her be. It had echoed in the back of her thoughts ever since the letter from her late father’s man of affairs, Mr. Whiting, had at long last reached her in New York. And why shouldn’t it? She’d heard the servants at Madame Chaussan’s Academy for Young Ladies say it often enough through most of the first sixteen years of her life, and indeed, hadn’t it always proved true?
The last time Gwen had had anything whatsoever to do with a solicitor had been five years ago when Mr. Whiting’s nephew, taking up his uncle’s business, had informed her she was penniless. She still recalled that moment—the discomfort of the young man, a scant few years older than she, at his announcement, and the sympathy in his brown eyes. She remembered the look in his eyes as clearly as she remembered his words.
“Miss Townsend, forgive me for keeping you waiting.” A gentleman of distinguished appearance stepped into the room and crossed to her chair. Gwen knew his name, but they’d never had occasion to meet before now. He extended his hand, and she accepted it cautiously. “Your appearance is something of a surprise. I did not expect you for several days yet.”
“I thought it best to return to England at once.”
“Of course.” He withdrew his hand and nodded toward the door. “You remember my nephew, Albert?”
Only now did she note the younger man standing by the open door, a decidedly apologetic expression on his face. There was no sympathy in his eyes today but an odd look nonetheless.
“Of course.” She smiled politely and waited. If there was one thing, and indeed there might well be only one thing, she had learned through seven positions of employment, it was how to give the appearance of patience.
Mr. Whiting took his place behind his desk and nodded dismissively at his nephew. Albert started toward the door, then abruptly turned back. “Miss Townsend, please accept my most heartfelt apologies.”
At once she recognized the look in his eye as guilt.
He stepped closer. “This is entirely my fault, and I cannot tell you how truly horrible I have felt since the error was first discovered. I have been most concerned about your—”
“That’s quite enough, Albert,” Whiting said firmly.
Error? Gwen’s gaze slid from Albert to his uncle and back.
“What error?” she said slowly.
“It was a mistake.” Albert shook his head. “Quite inexcusable, and I shall never forgive—”
Mistake?
“Albert.” Whiting’s voice cut through the room.
Albert ignored him. “Miss Townsend, please understand I consider myself at your service from this moment forward. Should you need anything whatsoever, up to and including the benefits that can only be derived from marriage, I should be honored to offer my—”
“Albert,” Whiting snapped. “I will take care of this. I’m certain you have other duties to attend to.”
Albert hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, Uncle.” He squared his shoulders and met her gaze. “Again, Miss Townsend, my apologies.”
He left without another word. Gwen stared after him. A hundred myriad thoughts swirled through her mind, but not one made any sense.
Whiting cleared his throat. “Miss Townsend, I—”
“What mistake?” Her gaze snapped to his.
Whiting paused as if considering his words. He was distinctly ill-at-ease, and for the first time since her father’s death, a glimmer of what might have been hope surfaced within her.
When she’d received Whiting’s letter she’d been curious, of course: it was accompanied by an already paid passage back to England. But he’d said nothing more than that there was a matter of importance regarding her family that required her immediate return. She’d been only too glad to bid her employers and their annoying offspring goodbye and had sailed on the first ship home.
“Mr. Whiting?”
She’d assumed Whiting’s summons had to do with the signing of papers regarding her father’s estate or the transfer of ownership of his property, matters she’d assumed as well had been settled long ago. Still, whatever it was, it was significant enough, in Whiting’s eyes, to provide her with a way back to England, and that was all she really cared about.
Now, looking at the solicitor’s obvious discomfort, coupled with his nephew’s abject apology and strange proposal of marriage, Gwen realized the “matter of importance” was far more significant than she’d imagined.
“Miss Townsend.” Whiting folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “My nephew should never have informed you of the state of your finances in the manner in which he did. Nor should he have said anything whatsoever so soon after your father’s demise.”
Gwen’s heart sank.
“It was most thoughtless of him and—”
“Mr. Whiting, as much as I appreciate your sincere, albeit long overdue apology on the behalf of your nephew, it scarcely necessitated having me transported across an ocean. Even so, I am most grateful for the passage home. I can only imagine you provided it as a way to ease your conscience regarding the abrupt nature of the disclosure of my financial status on the day following my father’s death. Still, it is exceedingly kind of you.
“I would offer to reimburse you but such an offer would be pointless as my finances are little better today than they were five years ago. In addition, I have absolutely no difficulty in accepting both your apology and your funding of my return to England. You may tell Albert I appreciate his offer of marriage as well. Now.” She rose to her feet. “Unless there is something more—”
Whiting stood. “If you please, Miss Townsend, I beg your indulgence. There is a great deal more. However, this is extremely awkward and most difficult. In many ways I feel as if my nephew and I have, well, very nearly ruined your life.”
“Ruined my life? That’s scarcely possible.” She met his gaze squarely. “You, of all people, are well aware of the status of my father’s estate. His title, his home, and his land were entailed and as such were the legacy of his only living male relative—a distant cousin I have never met. As I was not born male”—she bit back the tide of bitterness that swelled in her at the words—“I could not inherit his home, my home. This is a fact, Mr. Whiting. One I have known always. Your nephew’s pronouncement came as no surprise, even if his timing and his exact words were not as politic as they might have been.”
For the first time since en
tering his office she smiled, if a bit ruefully. “Circumstances of nature and the legalities of men ruined my life, although I daresay I scarcely feel entirely ruined. I have my name and my reputation, and I shall find some way to support myself.”
“Yes, well”—Whiting’s voice was gruff—“that may not be necessary.”
“No?”
“Please.” He gestured at her chair, and she retook her seat.
Whiting settled back in his chair and drew a deep breath. “When my nephew informed you of your financial circumstances, he was not as experienced in such matters as he is now—”
She waved his words away. “Another apology is not necessary.”
“Do allow me to proceed, Miss Townsend, this is not another apology.” He huffed. “What I am trying to say is that Albert’s inexperience five years ago led him to make certain assumptions based on what he knew of your father’s affairs. He was correct, but only insofar as those issues he was versed in. He was not aware, as I was, that your father had made certain provisions for your future.”
“Provisions?” She held her breath. “What kind of provisions?”
“He did not leave you with nothing.”
For a moment, the world tilted about her. Her perfect posture failed, and she collapsed back in her chair feeling much like a sail suddenly bereft of wind.
“Are you all right, Miss Townsend?” Whiting leaped to his feet and started around the desk toward her.
He did not leave you with nothing.
“Quite.” She shook her head to clear it and waved him away. “Do go on.”
“Very well.” Whiting studied her carefully, then returned to his seat. He glanced at the papers on his desk. “Upon the birth of each of his daughters, your father set up accounts to provide you both with incomes in the event that you were unwed upon his death. When your sister married against his wishes, he abolished her account.”
“Of course,” Gwen murmured.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought of her sister. Louisa was thirteen years her senior and had fallen in love with a daring, dashing, adventurer when Gwen was very young. Louisa had married against her father’s wishes and left with her husband to travel the world, severing all ties with her family. At least that was Gwen’s understanding from what little she’d heard through the years. She’d wondered on occasion about this sister of hers that she barely remembered. Where she was and what she was doing. And if she ever thought of the younger sister she’d never really known.
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