The Lady Most Likely...

by Julia Quinn

  But for whatever reason, she did not “take.”

  Maybe she wasn’t ravishingly pretty, but he did not think she was plain. Her teeth might be a bit prominent, but that was all, really. And her eyes were quite lovely, the same color as his, actually—a clear, crisp gray. He’d certainly received compliments on his eyes. Why the hell didn’t Octavia?

  The men of London were a pack of idiots. It was the only explanation Alec could think of.

  “Do you know who will be in attendance?” Octavia asked him. They were in his carriage, nearly to the end of the long drive that led to Finchley Manor.

  “Briarly, of course,” Alec said, peering out the window. He’d never been to Finchley despite his long-standing friendship with Hugh. “The marchioness is his sister.”

  Octavia nodded. “Yes, but I can hardly set my cap for him. He’s practically my brother.”

  Alec nodded absently. “I’m sure Carolyn has assembled quite a guest list. She’s very thoughtful about these things.”

  Octavia sighed. “It’s just that—Oh no!”

  “What is it?”

  She let out a beleaguered breath. “Look,” she said, jerking her head toward the window.

  Alec looked out but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just another carriage at the entrance to the house, depositing its owners—a young woman and her parents, from the looks of it.

  “You don’t see her?”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Gwendolyn Passmore,” she groaned. “This is the worst news imaginable.”

  “What’s wrong with Gwendolyn Passmore?”

  “Alec, no one will even so much as look at me if she is in the room.”

  Alec had been introduced to Gwendolyn Passmore once or twice, and he had to admit, she was rather amazingly beautiful. Still, Octavia was his sister, and so he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I can think of a thousand reasons why a gentleman would rather spend time with you.”

  “Oh, really,” she said. “A thousand. Do tell.”

  He groaned inside. Sisters and sarcasm were a lethal combination. “You have much more personality,” he said.

  She looked stricken.

  “What did I say?”

  “That I have ‘personality’?” she nearly cried. “Don’t you know that’s what gentlemen always say about the ugly girls?”

  “I never said you were ugly!”

  “You didn’t have to,” she sniffed.

  He stared at her for a moment, then said, “I just want to verify that there is no correct statement I could make at this point, yes?”

  She gave him a grudging nod.

  This, Alec thought, was why he was not married. Clearly, a man could manage dealings with only one female at a time. He couldn’t even consider taking a bride until he had his sister off his hands.

  He shook his head, then put his hand on the door handle. They had come to a stop, and he was eager to hop down and stretch his legs.

  “Don’t!” Octavia said, yanking his hand back.

  “What is it now?”

  “Wait until she goes inside.”

  He looked outside. “Miss Passmore?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked outside again. “Is she that bad?”

  “I don’t want to walk in beside her.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Octavia.”

  “I shall look like a pudgy little hen next to her.”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  “And,” Octavia added with great emphasis, “she’s very standoffish. If I had been declared the pearl of the season, I would be a great deal more friendly to the other young ladies.”

  Alec took a breath. He didn’t want his sister to feel uncomfortable, but this was ridiculous. And uncomfortable. For him. He’d been in the bloody carriage for four hours. He wanted to stretch his legs. “I will count to ten,” he said. “If she is not inside by then, I am getting out.”

  “Please, Alec. For me?”

  Luckily for both of them, Miss Passmore entered the house when Alec reached nine, and he did not have to force the issue. But still, he could not walk with anything approaching his normal speed. Octavia clamped her hand on his elbow with what had to be superhuman strength, then positively bolted her feet to the ground.

  “Now what?”

  “Give her time,” she ground out.

  “You would prefer to stand out here like a lack-wit than cross paths with Gwendolyn Passmore?”

  From Octavia’s expression, the answer was clearly yes, but she must have had some pride because she allowed him to nudge them forward at the same pace he’d used when he’d given Candida away at her wedding the previous year.

  “I am beginning to realize,” Alex murmured, “why people always hope for sons. It has nothing to do with producing an heir.”

  “That was unkind,” Octavia said, not sounding the least bit insulted.

  “Females are a prodigious amount of work.”

  “I’m told that we’re worth it.”

  This time Alec halted in his tracks. “Who told you that?”

  Octavia opened her mouth to speak, but before she could make a sound, he said, “What the devil has Candida been telling you?”

  “We haven’t a mother, you know,” Octavia said primly. “Someone must explain to me how things are done.”

  Alec felt his whole world drop by two inches. Or maybe it was just his belly. He felt ill. Exhausted. “She was supposed to wait until you married,” he grumbled.

  “Sisters don’t have secrets,” Octavia said gaily, and then she sailed inside with a wide smile on her face. Alec was impressed. She gave no sign of her recent distress.

  Lady Finchley was waiting in the foyer, greeting her guests with a basket of scones.

  “Carolyn,” Alec said, giving her a polite bow and a sly smile. “You look positively pastoral.”

  “Don’t I?” She held up the basket as if displaying a costume. “Everyone has been in town for so long, I thought it only right to be as rustic as I could. We are here to celebrate fresh clean air and morning dew and all that, aren’t we?”

  “Do I have to awaken in time to enjoy the dew?”

  “Absolutely not,” Carolyn assured him.

  “Then I agree completely.”

  She gave him a smile that was really half smirk. “You need a wife.”

  “You are not the first to say so.”

  Her brows rose, and then in flash she dismissed him with a wave, turning to his sister with a grand smile. “Octavia Darlington,” she said, with enough delight that one would think they hadn’t seen each other just one week prior. “How nice to see you!”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Octavia said, bobbing a polite curtsy.

  Carolyn leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial voice, although it was difficult to understand why as Alec was the only other person nearby, and he could hear perfectly well. “I have invited many eligible young gentlemen,” she said to Octavia. “You, my dear, are going to have a splendid time.”

  She turned back to Alec, one of her brows arching in question. “I’m told you were in London for the season, but I hardly saw you.”

  “He pawned me off on Great-Aunt Darlington more often than not,” Octavia said with a grin.

  “Well, don’t tell Hugh,” Carolyn said to Alec. “I told him you took Octavia everywhere.” To Octavia, she added, “I needed to make him feel guilty about something. I do hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Octavia said, clearly pleased to have been included in Carolyn’s subterfuge.

  “Now then,” Carolyn said, clearly ready to move on, “where is Great-Aunt Darlington?”

  “She was delayed in London,” Octavia explained. “Her bimonthly meeting of the Society of Bird Collectors was the day we left. She’ll be along this evening.”

  “She collects birds?”

  “You should ask her about it sometime,” Alec said.

  “Don’t,” Octavia put in, flashing him an aggravated look. “Not unl
ess you really want to hear about it.”

  “I confess to a curiosity …”

  “She stuffs them,” Alec said.

  “She does not,” Octavia exclaimed. She looked at Carolyn. “He is a nuisance. A blight on society.”

  Carolyn laughed. “Brothers often are. I tell you, I don’t know what to do with Hugh these days.”

  “Is he here yet?” Alec asked. He hadn’t seen his good friend in months.

  “In the stables,” Carolyn said.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes, then slid back into her role as hostess. “Winters will show you to your rooms. Octavia, I’ve put you with Great-Aunt Darlington. The room is exceedingly pink. I hope you don’t mind. Alec, you’re off near Hugh.” She gave a little wave of her hand as if to indicate some specific portion of the massive house.

  “I believe I’ll go find Hugh,” Alec said. He looked over at Octavia. “You’ll be fine without me?”

  Octavia looked peeved that he would embarrass her with such a question in front of Carolyn. “Of course.”

  “There is already a small group of young ladies gathered in the west salon,” Carolyn said. “Gossip abounds.”

  Octavia grinned. “Then I shall proceed there directly.”

  “And I shall make my escape,” Alec said, wondering if there existed any greater nightmare than a pack of young ladies in one room, engulfed in a cloud of gossip. Luckily for him, he would not have to find out. He headed back outside, striding across the drive toward the stables. It would be good to see Hugh again. They had been fast friends at Eton, then at university, but after that, their meetings had been sporadic. Alec was more often than not in town, and Hugh was, more often than often, wherever his horses were. Which wasn’t usually in town.

  Alec hummed to himself as he approached the massive stables. The smell of hay and manure wafted toward him on the breeze, and he smiled, even as eau de sweaty horse mixed itself into the scent. He liked riding just as well as the next man, and he’d certainly run in his fair share of races and hunts, but he’d never quite understood the passion for horseflesh that gripped Hugh. Still, he liked that Hugh liked it. He wouldn’t be the same if he weren’t so cowheadedly obsessed with his cattle.

  “Hugh!” Alec called out, pushing open the door. He heard a whinny from a rear stall, followed by an expletive. Followed by another whinny, which he assumed was the horse’s version of an expletive.

  “Hugh?” he called again.

  A head popped out from the stall. “Darlington,” Hugh said. “Good to see you.”

  “And you.” Alec didn’t bother to correct him about the name. He rather liked that Hugh still called him Darlington. There was something lovely and familiar about it, as if they were boys again, their only responsibilities to their tutors and their friends. He walked closer and peered in. “Is this the stallion that has half of London aflutter?”

  “The intelligent half,” Hugh answered.

  “Robespierre?”

  “Richelieu.”

  “Of course,” Alec murmured.

  Hugh got back to work, which was—well, quite honestly Alec wasn’t sure what he was doing, but the horse didn’t seem to like it. Alec took a step back. He’d seen men kicked by horses before. He did not aspire to the experience.

  “What are you doing here?” Hugh asked, not looking up.

  “You invited me.”

  “Eh?”

  “Your sister. By extension, you.”

  At that his friend raised his head and gave him a frank stare. “Will our sisters ever not be, by extension, us?”

  “I don’t think so,” Alec said regretfully.

  Hugh pressed his fingers to his temples, an action Alec would not have endorsed, considering the state of his gloves. Still, the poor man did look as if he was battling a ferocious headache. “One more,” Hugh said. “One more to get married off, then I’m done.”

  Alec thought of Octavia, off gossiping with her brethren. “We shall have a party, you and I.”

  “Do you ever think of taking a bride?” Hugh asked.

  Alec blinked at the surprising turn of the conversation. It was damned odd. Men didn’t talk about marriage. Not the way women did. “Er … No?”

  “You’ll have to eventually, won’t you?”

  “Well, yes.” But not yet. What the devil had got into him?

  Hugh let out a sigh. Or maybe a groan. “I’ve been thinking of taking one on myself.”

  “A wife?” Alec asked, just to clarify. Taking one on seemed an odd way to phrase it.

  Hugh nodded, then jumped back when the horse let out an aggressive snort. “It’s time.”

  Was it possible that Hugh needed to find an heiress? He’d not heard of difficulties in the Briarly family finances, but that did not mean they did not exist. Hugh was a private man, and he did not go to town; his estates could be falling apart without anyone knowing a thing about it.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell me about?” Alec asked carefully. Something wasn’t quite right about Hugh. He was far too serious. Not that he’d ever been unserious, but this was different. He looked guarded. Worried.

  Hugh never worried about anything that wasn’t equine.

  “Everything’s fine,” Hugh said with a grunt. “It’s just that I have responsibilities.” He looked up. “As do you.”

  It didn’t exactly sound as if Hugh was scolding him, but it felt like it, all the same. Alec paused, lest he reply in a manner he might later regret.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Hugh said, giving him a lopsided smirk. “Where does your title go if you don’t reproduce? You don’t have a brother.”

  “First cousin,” Alec said, a bit peeved that Hugh could defuse his irritation with so reasonable an argument.

  “Do you really want that? Mine goes to Simon Carstairs.”

  Alec blinked. He knew Carstairs. He wished he didn’t. “You’re related?”

  Hugh nodded grimly. “Third cousin.”

  Alec considered this. “Your family really does have difficulty producing boys.”

  “It’s a problem.”

  “Very well, you should marry. Quickly.”

  “My sisters call him Slinky Simon.”

  Alec chuckled.

  “It’s only funny if he’s not your cousin.”

  “It’s funny because it’s true.”

  Hugh did not look amused. “I had them make me a list.”

  Alec stopped chuckling. “What?”

  “A list. Of women. I had my sisters make me a list of possible brides. I can’t be expected to figure this out on my own.”

  “The rest of us generally do.”

  Hugh gave him a powerfully irritated glare. “I’m busy.” He waved an arm toward the stallion, which, Alec had to admit, had calmed down remarkably during the conversation. Whatever it was that Hugh was doing to the beast, it was working.

  “Very well.” And then Alec had a provident thought. “D’you want my sister?”

  “Octavia!” Hugh gaped at him. “Isn’t she twelve?”

  “She’s nineteen.”

  “I can’t marry her. I’d keep picturing her as twelve.”

  “She doesn’t look twelve any longer, Hugh.”

  Hugh shuddered, looking vaguely ill. “All the same. I can’t do it.”

  “Damn.” There went a perfectly good husband prospect.

  “I’m thinking about Gwendolyn Passmore.”

  Alec looked up and let off an exhausted groan. “Double damn.”

  “What’s wrong with Miss Passmore? I’m told she’s lovely.”

  “You haven’t met her?”

  “When would I have met her?” Hugh asked with a shrug.

  Alec shook his head. He adored Hugh, but honestly, he was sometimes so far removed from normal British life it was scary. “She’s beautiful,” he said. “Insanely so.”

  Hugh cocked his head to the side and tilted the corners of his mouth as if to say, “
That’ll do.”

  “Octavia hates her,” Alec went on.

  “She’s probably jealous.”

  “Of course she’s jealous. She admits it freely. But she also says she’s haughty.”

  “Miss Passmore?”

  Alec gave a nod.

  “Damn.” Hugh released a pent-up breath. “I can’t tolerate a snobby female. Ah, well, I suppose I’ll give her a go, anyway. Ought to judge for myself.”

  Give her a go. Alec wasn’t so sure Hugh understood the difference between winning a female and taming a horse. “Who else is on the list?” he asked.

  Hugh blinked. “Do you know, I can’t remember.”

  Alec smiled. There was Hugh for you. “I wish you well with Miss Passmore, then.”

  But Hugh was already back to Richelieu, whispering something as he rubbed an ointment into his flank.

  A really, incredibly, viciously foul-smelling ointment.

  Alec shook his head as he left the stables. He hoped Miss Passmore liked horses.

  Chapter 3

  Dinner was at eight, Gwen was informed, with guests meeting for drinks and conversation during the hour prior. Gwen had pleaded fatigue and begged her mother to allow her to arrive at the drawing room at ten minutes to eight. Her mother had agreed, but Gwen suspected this had less to do with her arguments and quite a lot more with her mother’s dreams of a dazzling grand entrance.

  In truth, Gwen was just trying to limit the time she’d be forced to mingle with the other guests. Supper she wouldn’t mind. Conversation at the dining table was rarely unbearable. One wasn’t standing about, thinking that one’s feet were hurting or worrying that one might perspire through one’s corset. At the table, everyone was stuck firmly in place, which meant that no one was looking over someone else’s shoulder, wondering if there was a different crowd to join, with better people.

  And if it still turned out to be wretched, at least the soup would probably be good.

  “I am famished,” Gwen said, as she and her mother made their way down the elegant front staircase of Finchley Manor.

  “Don’t eat too much tonight, dear,” Lady Stillwell murmured. “You know you have a delicate stomach.”

  Gwen was trying to figure how best to reply to that, since her stomach wasn’t the least bit delicate, but they’d reached the entrance to the drawing room, and her mother had moved on to a whispered, “Stand up straight, my dear.”