“It is a desirable thing, ma’am,” he said, “to know whose word you can trust and whose you cannot.”
“And I am supposed to trust yours?” she asked him. “I am supposed to take your word for it that my cousin is a rogue? I am supposed to disregard everything he says? I have no reason to trust you or to distrust him. I will make my own observations, my lord, and draw my own conclusions.”
“I believe,” he said, “our breakfast awaits, ma’am. Shall we walk back to the house?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “Oh, goodness, I have no gloves.” She touched her head. “And no hat. Whatever must you think of me?”
Wisely, perhaps, he refrained from telling her.
So he had no sense of humor, did he?
Good Lord, he thought as they walked side by side in silence, was one supposed to be cracking jokes at every turn and laughing like a hyena even if no one else did?
Or was one supposed to ooze false charm as Con did?
8
ELLIOTT stayed for three more days before he returned home to Finchley Park. And it was during those days that he began to consider seriously the idea of marrying Miss Margaret Huxtable.
The sisters, even though they were more refined than he had at first feared, were desperately in need of some town bronze and some connections suitable to their new status. They needed it all now, this year, this Season. And the Season would be beginning in earnest as soon as Easter was over.
As it was, they were all very countrified and naive and an easy prey to practiced charmers like Con Huxtable.
Con left Warren Hall the day after the averted fight. He had mentioned leaving the evening before, insisting when there was a chorus of protests from his cousins that he really did have important business to attend to elsewhere. He left without fanfare, early in the morning before anyone was up.
Elliott was greatly relieved. But he did not trust Con to stay away. The Huxtables needed to be taken away instead, at least temporarily, to be educated in the ways of the ton.
Elliott observed them all during the days following Con’s departure. And he was pleased with what he saw of Miss Huxtable. She was learning fast—from her consultations with the housekeeper and the cook—how to run such a large household. She was taking her duties seriously.
She was an intelligent and sensible woman.
She was also, of course, almost incredibly beautiful. With some grooming, which she would quickly acquire in town, she would be nothing short of stunning.
It was a dispassionate observation. He felt no stirring of desire for her. But then he had never expected to feel any such thing for his chosen bride. One married for reasons other than passion.
Marriage to Miss Huxtable would be convenient in a number of ways. And there was no point in paying any attention to the slight depression he felt at the prospect. Just the thought of marriage itself was depressing. It was also unfortunately necessary and could be delayed no longer.
He was still not sure when he left Warren Hall that he would make the offer, but he was seriously considering it.
Young Merton had concentrated more of his attention on his position once the distraction of Con’s presence had been removed—though he was clearly disappointed to lose someone he admired a great deal. He and Samson took well to each other, and Samson was just the man to teach his young master much of what he needed to know. Elliott had talked with the boy about the necessity of hiring a tutor to teach him the rest—of hiring two tutors, in fact, one to teach him to be an aristocrat, the other to instruct him in the academics he would need in order to go to university. The boy had been somewhat taken aback by the suggestion that he continue with that plan, but Elliott had pointed out to him that a true gentleman was also an educated gentleman. Miss Huxtable had agreed with him, and Merton had succumbed.
Elliott was not displeased with the boy.
George Bowen had been sent on to London to interview suitable candidates for tutor, as well as one for the position of valet. Merton had protested that he did not need a personal servant since he had always looked after his own needs. But it was one of the first lessons he must learn. An earl must look the part when he went into society, in deportment and manner as well as in dress, and who better to see that he did than an experienced valet?
Finally Elliott felt it possible to leave Warren Hall, at least for a few days. He wanted to go home. He also wanted to give full consideration to what he had rejected out of hand a mere couple of weeks ago when George had first suggested it. But he thought he would probably decide to offer for Miss Huxtable.
There was really only one consideration that might give him serious pause. If he married her, he would be acquiring Mrs. Dew as a sister-in-law.
It was a depressing thought.
It was enough to cause him to live in a permanent bad temper.
The woman had smiled sunnily at him for three days, as if she thought him something of a joke.
It felt good to be home at last.
His youngest sister was the first person he saw when he arrived. She was on her way out of the house, dressed dashingly for riding. She smiled warmly and turned her cheek for his kiss.
“Well?” she asked him. “What is he like?”
“I am delighted to see you too, Cece,” he said dryly. “You mean Merton? He is cheerful and bright and seventeen years old.”
“And handsome?” she asked. “What color is his hair?”
“Blond,” he said.
“I prefer men with dark hair,” she told him. “But no matter. Is he tall? And slim?”
“Is he an Adonis in fact?” he asked her. “You will have to decide for yourself. Mama will doubtless take you over there soon. His sisters are there with him.”
She brightened still further. “Are any of them my age?” she asked.
“I believe the youngest must be close,” he said. “A year or two older, probably.”
“And is she pretty?” she asked.
“Yes, very,” he told her. “But so are you. And now you have had your compliment from me and can go on your way. You are not going to be riding alone, I hope?”
“No, of course not!” she said, pulling a face. “One of the grooms will ride with me. I am going to join the Campbells. They asked me yesterday and Mama said I might go provided it did not rain.”
“Where is Mama?” he asked.
“In her rooms,” she said.
A few minutes later he sank gratefully into a soft up-holstered chair in his mother’s private boudoir and accepted a cup of coffee from her hands.
“You really ought to have let me know that you were bringing Merton’s three sisters as well as him, Elliott,” she said in response to the brief report he had delivered as soon as he had hugged her and asked after her health. “Cecily and I would have gone to call on them yesterday or the day before.”
“I judged that they needed some time to adjust to their new surroundings and circumstances, Mama,” he said. “Throckbridge is a very small village quite off the beaten track. They lived there in near poverty in a small cottage. The youngest sister was teaching at the village school.”
“And the widow?” she asked.
“She was living at Rundle Park, home of a baronet, her father-in-law,” he said. “But it is not large, and Sir Humphrey Dew is a foolish, garrulous man, albeit good-natured and harmless. I doubt he has ever been farther than ten miles from home.”
“They are all going to need to be brought up to scratch, then,” she said.
“They are.” He sighed. “I hoped to bring just Merton himself for now. The sisters could have followed later—preferably much later.”
“But they are his sisters,” she said, getting to her feet to pour him another cup. “And he is just a boy.”
“Thank you, Mama,” he said, taking his cup from her hands. “How peaceful it is in here.”
He wished she did not have another daughter to bring out this year. It would save him from having to...
/>
But he was going to have to marry someone this year.
“They are a noisy family?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.” He sighed again. “It is just that I felt so—”
“Responsible?” she suggested. “You have done ever since you inherited that obligation, Elliott. Is the boy intelligent? Serious-minded? Willing to learn?”
“Definitely intelligent,” he said, “though with something of a restless nature, I believe. He has wings and desperately wishes to use them without having much idea of how it might best be done.”
“He is, then, a typical young man,” she said with a smile.
“I suppose so,” he said. “But he shows an interest in his land and its workings and in the prospect of taking on all the responsibilities of being a peer of the realm when he reaches his majority. He has agreed to continue with his plans to attend Oxford this autumn. He certainly has charm. I believe the servants at Warren Hall already adore him—not excluding Samson.”
“Then your time and efforts will not be wasted,” she said. “And the ladies? Are they hopelessly rustic? Vulgar? Dull-minded?”
“None of those things.” He drained his cup, sighed with contentment as he stretched out his booted feet before him, and set it down at his elbow. “I believe they will go on well enough. But, Mama, they are going to need to be taken to town this spring and outfitted properly and introduced to all the right people and presented to society and ... Well, I just do not know how it is to be done. I cannot do it—not for the sisters, at least.”
“Certainly not,” she agreed.
“And you cannot do it,” he said. “You have Cecily to bring out this year.”
He looked at her half hopefully.
“I do,” she agreed.
“I did think perhaps Aunt Fanny or Aunt Roberta—” he began.
“Oh, Elliott.” She interrupted him. “You cannot be serious.”
“No,” he said. “I suppose not. And Grandmama is far too elderly. George says I ought to marry and have my
wife sponsor them.”
She brightened noticeably but then frowned.
“You told me after Christmas,” she said, “that you intend to marry this year, before you turn thirty. I am delighted, of course, but I do hope you are not intending to choose coldly with your reason and forget that you also have a heart.”
“And yet,” he said, “marriages that are carefully planned and arranged often turn out more happily than love matches, Mama.”
He wished he had not said that as soon as the words were out. His mother’s marriage had been very carefully arranged. But though she had been young and beautiful—and was still handsome in middle age—it had not been a happy match. His father had remained firmly attached to the mistress and family that had preceded her and her own.
She smiled into her cup but did not look up at him.
“George suggested that I marry Miss Huxtable,” he told her, watching her closely.
His mother had been lifting her cup to her lips, but her hand paused in midair.
“The eldest sister?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“A rustic girl who has been living in a rural cottage?” She frowned at him and set her cup back in the saucer. “And someone you scarcely know? How old is she?”
“Probably in her middle twenties,” he said. “She is sensible and refined of manner despite her humble upbringing in a country vicarage—and she is the great-granddaughter and sister of an earl, Mama.”
“George said.” She looked fixedly at him. “But what do you say, Elliott?”
He shrugged. “It is time I married and set up my nursery,” he said. “I am quite resigned to being a married man before the year is out and a father as soon as possible after that. I have no preference for any particular bride. Miss Huxtable is, I suppose, as eligible as anyone.”
His mother sat back in her chair and said nothing for a while.
“Jessica and Averil both married advantageously,” she said. “But just as important, Elliott, they both had an affection for their husbands even before they married them. It is what I will hope for with Cecily either this year or next. It is what I have always hoped for with you too.”
“This is a discussion we have had before.” He smiled at her. “I am not a romantic, Mama. I hope to marry someone with whom I can enjoy some comfort and companionship and even affection down the years. But most of all I hope to marry sensibly.”
“And is Miss Huxtable a sensible choice?” she asked him.
“I trust so,” he said.
“Is she beautiful?” his mother asked.
“Extremely,” he said.
She set down her cup and saucer on the table beside her.
“It is high time Cecily and I took the carriage over to Warren Hall,” she said, “to pay our respects to the new Earl of Merton and his sisters. They must think it remiss of us not to have done so already. Is Constantine still there?”
“He left three days ago.” His jaw tightened.
“Cecily will be disappointed,” she said. “She adores him. I daresay the new Earl of Merton will be inducement enough to persuade her to accompany me, though. She has asked a thousand questions about him, none of which I have been able to answer. I will take a look at Miss Huxtable. Are you quite determined to have her?”
“The more I think of it, the more I am in favor of the idea,” he said.
“And will she have you?” his mother asked.
He could not see why not. Miss Huxtable was single and perilously close to being an old maid. He could understand why she had not married before now, though with her looks she must have had offers even in a back-water like Throckbridge. But she had made that promise to her father, and she had kept it. There was no further need to remain with her family now, though. Her two sisters were past girlhood, and Merton would have them for company—and his guardian and eldest sister for neighbors.
Nothing, in fact, could be more convenient—for any of them.
“I believe so,” he said.
His mother leaned forward and touched his hand.
“I shall go and see Miss Huxtable for myself,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I would appreciate your opinion, Mama.”
“My opinion,” she said, “ought not to matter, Elliott. If she is the woman of your choice, you ought to be willing to defy the devil himself if necessary in order to wed her.”
She raised her eyebrows as if expecting him to declare an undying passion for Miss Huxtable. He covered her hand with his own and patted it before getting to his feet.
Viscountess Lyngate called at Warren Hall with her daughter the next day.
There was very little warning of their coming.
Stephen came into the library from the steward’s office, where he had been ensconced with Mr. Samson, to inform his sisters that Viscount Lyngate’s carriage was approaching up the driveway. But there was nothing very remarkable in that. He had said when he left yesterday that he would return frequently. And his business would be with Stephen.
Margaret was examining the housekeeper’s books, which Mrs. Forsythe had sent up at her request. Vanessa, having finished writing a letter to Lady Dew and her sisters-in-law, was examining all the leather-bound books on the shelves and thinking that this room was a little like heaven.
And then Katherine came flying up from the stables to announce the approach of the carriage and the viscount himself, who was on horseback.
“Whoever can be in the carriage, then?” Margaret asked in some alarm, closing the book on the desk in front of her and running her hands over her hair.
“Oh, my,” Katherine said, looking down at her disheveled self—she had just been having a lesson with one of the grooms. “His mother, do you think?”
She dashed off again, presumably to wash her hands and face and make herself more presentable.
Margaret and Vanessa had n
o such opportunity. They could hear the carriage already drawing to a halt before the doors beyond the window, and then they could hear voices in the hall. Stephen stepped out to greet the new arrivals. And they were indeed the viscountess and her daughter. Viscount Lyngate brought them into the library almost immediately and presented them.
They looked very grand indeed to Vanessa. Their dresses and pelisses and bonnets were obviously in the very height of fashion. She felt instantly transformed into a country mouse and looked reproachfully at the viscount, who might have sent a warning. She was still wearing the apron she had put on over her gray dress as protection against any dust on the bookshelves. Margaret’s hair, like her own, was caught up in the simplest of knots and had not been brushed for hours.
First Came Marriage Page 12
