by Mary Balogh
He went to London also—of course—because he needed a wealthy bride, though the very idea was becoming more and more distasteful to him. He had not enjoyed his dealings with Miss Heyden when he had known that his only real motive for considering marriage with her was the fortune she would bring with her. He had felt . . . almost dirty, though there had been no deception involved. She had been the one to approach him, after all, because he needed money and she wanted someone to wed. Good God, they would have hated each other within a fortnight of marrying.
Perhaps. Though perhaps not. He remembered her with a bit of an ache . . .
But he shook off thoughts of her whenever they threatened to intrude and turned his mind to the future—or rather to the present of these few months in London. He did it, however, with very little enthusiasm for the mission he had set himself.
It soon became apparent that the task was going to be far easier than he had anticipated. He met numerous young ladies in the three weeks following his arrival. This was the Season, after all, and he was the Earl of Riverdale, relatively young and single. The fact that he was not also a wealthy man, that he had inherited a dilapidated heap of an ancestral estate, could be no secret, of course. But far from deterring interest, those facts actually seemed to be an encouragement to some. Wealthy families of lower estate, it turned out, were only too willing to pay handsomely for the chance to marry one of their daughters into the aristocracy in return for a boost to their own social stature. That, some people claimed, was what daughters were for.
Alexander hated to be caught up in such crass cynicism. But the Season was not called the great marriage mart for nothing. He found it difficult and a bit humiliating to attend balls and soirees and concerts and other social events when he knew that all many people saw when they looked at him was an eligible aristocrat who must be looking for an equally eligible—and rich—bride. And, dash it all, they were quite right.
Miss Hetty Littlewood was one of many. Alexander danced with her one evening—twice, in fact, though he was not quite sure how the second one happened. Sometimes one could be taken off guard when ambitious mamas were determined enough. She was eighteen years old, fresh out of the schoolroom, blond and pretty with dimples in both cheeks, and of pleasing disposition. She was happy to chatter about the weather and other people and upcoming events of the Season and fashions. She gazed at him with wide, rather blank blue eyes, however, when he tried to speak of books she said she had read, of a play currently being performed on one of the London stages she said she had attended two evenings previously, and the music performed at a recent concert she said she had enjoyed “more than anything,” and some of the galleries she claimed to have visited and “adored.”
That evening was followed the morning after by an invitation to join the Littlewoods and a select group of their friends at Vauxhall three evenings hence. And the same day Mr. Oswald Littlewood, a florid-faced, portly gentleman, had an acquaintance they had in common introduce them at White’s Club and sat down beside Alexander in the reading room and held forth for half an hour upon his credentials, to the obvious annoyance of those who were actually trying to read the papers or even a book in peace. He was the younger son of a baron, but had ended up ten times richer than his elder brother when an uncle who had amassed a king’s ransom in India—make that a nabob’s ransom, Riverdale—died and left him half of everything.
“A good half,” he added illogically. “And the other, lesser half did not go to my brother.” That fact appeared to please him enormously. He chuckled and rubbed his hands together.
The good Lord had apparently blessed him and Mrs. Littlewood, a considerable heiress in her own right, with only the one daughter, the apple of their eye, the joy of their days, the paragon of all daughters, who aimed to desert her doting parents soon, the little puss, by marrying a handsome gentleman of her own choosing.
“And so besotted with her are her mother and I,” the gentleman added after a hearty laugh at what he appeared to believe was a grand joke, “that we will allow her to have her way, Riverdale. Provided he is a gentleman and respectable, of course. And provided he treats her well. We are in the fortunate position of not having to urge her to choose someone rich to support her. Indeed, if she were to choose a poor gentleman and support him, her mother and I would have no objection, provided he recognized his good fortune. Have you met my good wife and our Hetty, Riverdale?”
Unfortunately, Alexander had already returned an acceptance of the Vauxhall invitation. Even more unfortunately, he must allow himself to be courted. He could not afford not to.
And Miss Littlewood and her fond mama and papa were not the only ones—only the most persistent so far.
• • •
Wren spent two and a half busy, happy weeks in Staffordshire. She had no social life, of course, but she did not need one there. She spent her days in the workshops and the offices. She was a familiar figure and felt no self-consciousness, though she always went veiled. She pored over sketches for new products with her manager and designers and engaged them in an often vigorous exchange of views. Those discussions were never either acrimonious or obsequious. There was mutual respect among them all. She went over plans for selling the products and costing projections with the relevant persons and looked over long columns of profits and losses so that she could participate knowledgeably in discussions about finances. She suggested when she was sure of her facts that profits were such that wages could be raised again, and her suggestion was approved.
But one day she sat alone in her office, the door closed so that she could throw back her veil—no one ever entered her room without first knocking. To anyone who did enter, she would look as busy as usual, seated behind her desk as she was, papers spread before her, quill pen in hand.
She was actually drawing up two lists, one headed “Pros,” the other headed “Cons.” The cons list was longer than the other and easier to write.
Cons:
Have never been there before, except with Aunt M when I was ten.
Do not really want to go.
Do not want to see him again.
Am sure he feels the same way.
Would not know where to go or what to do.
Lady O probably did not mean it.
Mrs. W almost certainly did not.
Am perfectly happy here.
Would be just as happy at Withington.
Lots of people there. Too many.
Do not know anyone there except Lady O, Mrs. W, and him.
Do not want to know anyone.
Might run into one of them there. Disaster!
Specifically, might run into her. Unthinkable!
Sleeping dogs are best left lying.
It might seem a bit desperate or pathetic.
Nothing much to put on the pro list. Means there are no real pros.
Pros:
Would exorcise some demons.
Could feel proud of myself.
Was invited.
Would actually like to see St. Paul’s and the National Gallery and other places.
Would be able to visit some shops that display our glassware.
Would prove I am not a coward. (Same as point )
Just because. (Not a reason.)
Would see him again. (Contradicts cons.)
Just because I want to. (Another contradiction. Plus is this the same as 7?)
The idea that after all she should go to London had been gnawing at Wren since she arrived here—no, actually since the day before she left Wiltshire. Just for a few days, a week at most. She would not have to stay at Westcott House. Indeed, she would not have to let Lady Overfield or anyone else know she was coming—or even that she was there. She could stay at a hotel. She had no fear of doing so as a woman on her own. She would have Maude and other servants with her for respectability. She had bee
n busy and happy here, though. Why give that up? She could stay here as long as she liked and then go home to Wiltshire and be busy and happy there for the rest of the summer.
But he had suggested she go to London to stay with his mother, and Lady Overfield had repeated the invitation. The idea had horrified Wren both times. She had said goodbye to the Earl of Riverdale largely because marriage to him would drag her into the social life of the ton, and that was just not going to happen. So why was she even thinking of going? The cons list was almost twice was long as the pros list.
But the idea of going to London anyway had gnawed and nibbled and nudged at her until—horror of horrors—she found herself sorely tempted to go, even if just to show that she could. Show whom, though? Herself? Him? His sister and mother? The world at large?
It all boiled down to a question of courage, she decided at last. And while she really did not want to go and really really did not want to see the Earl of Riverdale again, she also did not want to be a coward in her own eyes. Was it cowardice not to do what one did not want to do anyway? But was she being quite honest? Was it possible that she secretly did wish to see London? And was it remotely possible that she yearned to see him?
Yearned?
Wren grabbed another piece of paper and scrawled a single word almost vengefully across it.
WHY?
But staring at it brought no clear answers. Why indeed was she tempted? Because she had taken a look at herself and did not quite like what she saw? And this had nothing to do with her hideous face. Because Lady Overfield had offered friendship and she had never had a friend? They had actually exchanged a couple of letters each and Wren had found both writing her own and reading the answering ones a great, unexpected delight. Because he had invited her—before she said goodbye? Or was it after? She could not remember.
Because he had kissed her?
Because she could not quite forget him?
She arranged the three pages neatly on top of one another, tapped them on the desktop to even up the edges, then tore them once across and once down, dropped the pieces into the back of the fireplace behind the unlit coals, and decided that she would not go.
There.
It was done. She was not going.
Definitely, irrevocably not. Final decision, never to be revisited.
She felt very much better.
Eight
Alexander was walking along the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park one afternoon a little over three weeks after his arrival in town, Miss Hetty Littlewood on his arm, Mrs. Littlewood beside her.
He had been maneuvered into the walk the evening before while attending a concert with his mother and Elizabeth. They had been sitting with the Radleys—Uncle Richard, his mother’s brother, and Aunt Lilian—and with Susan, their daughter, and Alvin Cole, her husband. Alexander had gone with Alvin during the interval to fetch lemonade for the ladies and had found himself face-to-face with Mrs. Littlewood and her daughter as he turned from the table, one glass in each hand.
“How very good of you, my lord,” the mother had said, fanning her face as she took one of the glasses and gestured for Miss Littlewood to take the other.
And somehow during what remained of the interval Alexander had found himself agreeing that indeed Hyde Park was a delightful place in which to stroll during an afternoon, particularly the banks of the Serpentine. Miss Littlewood had apparently not been there yet, her papa not being fond of walking and Mrs. Littlewood herself always a little wary of stepping out anywhere except the more well-frequented shopping streets without male escort. Alexander had responded like a puppet on a string.
And so here he was.
Miss Littlewood was looking very fetching in a peach-colored walking dress with matching parasol and a straw bonnet. She was small and dainty and smiling. And she was not without conversation since they strolled in a picturesque part of the park on a warm, sunny day, and other people were out in force, and there was much to be commented upon and rhapsodized over. Mrs. Littlewood meanwhile nodded graciously to everyone about her, the tall plumes on her bonnet nodding with her as though, Alexander thought with some discomfort, she were already the mother-in-law of the Earl of Riverdale.
Even more uncomfortable was the thought that perhaps she really would be before the summer was out—or someone like her. Any parent willing and eager to give a vast dowry with a daughter, he had come to understand, wanted a great deal more in return than just a decent marriage for that daughter. He wondered if he was going to be able to do it. But he smiled at his companion and agreed that yes, the little boy approaching along the bank, trailing a boat by a string in the water behind him, was a darling little cherub.
“Oh dear,” she said in sudden distress, tugging slightly on his arm to draw him to a halt. “Oh no.”
A girl, slightly older than the darling cherub, was skipping along the bank in the opposite direction and chose to pass the little boy on the lakeside without noticing the string. She tripped over it, fell sprawling, and scrambled to her feet, eyes blazing, mouth going into action with shrill insults, which included silly oaf and clumsy clod and loutish imbecile. The boy opened up his mouth and howled, pointing pathetically to his boat, which was escaping merrily along the bank, trailing the dropped string.
“Ah, help is at hand,” Alexander said just when he expected to be urged to step up to the rescue. A lady in green had caught up the string and was leaning down between the children and saying something to reduce the girl’s tirade to a petulant murmur and the boy’s anguish to a few injured hiccups as he reclaimed his mastery over his boat. She straightened up as two women, both nurses by the look of them, converged upon the spot from opposite directions and took ownership of their respective charges. “All appears to have been solved.”
“Poor little angel,” Miss Littlewood said, presumably referring to the boy.
“If that girl were mine,” her mother said, “she would be marched home without further ado and shut into her room for the rest of the day on bread and water after having her mouth washed out with soap. Her nurse would be dismissed without a character.”
Alexander scarcely heard either of them. The lady in green, tall, slim, and elegant, had been facing away from him until she half turned in order to resume her walk. She was wearing a pale green bonnet with a matching facial veil. Good God. Could it be? She moved her head fully in their direction just at that moment, stopped abruptly, and then turned right about and hurried off in the other direction—with a familiar stride.
“Pardon me,” he said, drawing his arm free of Miss Littlewood’s without looking at either her or her mother—indeed, for the moment he had forgotten them. “There is an acquaintance I must greet.” And he went after her, outpaced her within very few steps, and set a hand upon her arm. “Miss Heyden?”
She stopped again and turned to face him. The veil had been cleverly made to look light and attractive, but it quite effectively hid her features. “Lord Riverdale,” she said, “what a delightful surprise.” She did not sound either surprised or delighted.
“You came to town after all, then?” he said.
“I had some business here to attend to,” she told him. “Some London shops sell our glassware and I wanted to see them for myself.”
But had she not told him she never came to London and never would? Had that not been at the heart of the whole compatibility issue between them?
“I would love to see those shops myself,” he said. “You must tell me where your glassware is displayed. But more important, where are you staying?” And where was her maid or her footman? She appeared to be entirely alone.
“At a quiet hotel for gentlewomen,” she said. “I arrived in town just an hour or two ago and sought out the park for air and exercise after the long journey. I trust Mrs. Westcott and Lady Overfield are well?”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Lizzie was pleased to receiv
e your letters.” There was a pointed cough from a short distance away and Alexander remembered that he was not alone.
“You are delaying the ladies you are escorting, Lord Riverdale,” she said.
He must return to them. “Will I see you again?” he asked. “Tell me the names of those shops. Will you call upon my mother and sister? They would be delighted to see you. Do you have the address?”
Why was he feeling near panic over the fact that he might not see her again?
The second cough was even more pointed.
“I will call,” she said. “Tomorrow morning. I have the address.”
“I will tell them,” he said. “They will be delighted.” Had he already said that?
“I hope it will not be inconvenient for them,” she said.
“It will not.” He hesitated, but there was no more to be said, and he was already being very bad mannered to the two ladies who were under his escort. He turned away and hurried back to them.
She had not told him the names of any of the shops. She had not named the hotel where she was staying. What if she did not turn up tomorrow?
But did it matter?
“What an extraordinarily tall lady,” Miss Littlewood said, gazing after her.
“It is very unfortunate for her,” Mrs. Littlewood agreed. “And thin too. And not at all pretty, I daresay, if one may draw conclusions from the veil. Her governess really ought to have taught her not to stride along like that, just like a man. I would be very surprised to hear that she is married.” She looked inquiringly at Alexander.
