by Abby Gaines
“Please play with us, Papa,” Louisa asked, with plaintive sweetness.
Dominic swung her into his arms, a tenderness in his eyes that made Serena’s heart jump. This was more like it.
“If you insist.” His agreement told Serena just how worried he’d been last night. “But I warn you—” he set Louisa back on the floor and ruffled her hair “—I shall win.”
“Not with those big hands you won’t,” Serena said. Gracious! What was she thinking of, commenting on his hands? Besides, strong though they looked, the tapering of his fingers suggested he might not be entirely graceless.
Not at all.
“Miss Somerton, are you too warm?” he quizzed her.
Serena pressed her palms to her cheeks. Heat. Pull yourself together, my girl. “I’m quite comfortable,” she said.
The children were surprised but delighted when their father entered the nursery.
Only Charlotte didn’t show her pleasure—like her papa, her natural state was one of wary distance. Serena had learned that Charlotte would never risk a display of affection unless she was certain it would be returned. When the others ran to greet Dominic, she carried the spillikins over to Serena.
Dominic frowned in her direction, but didn’t comment. Nor did he greet her. “Where are we playing?” he asked. He looked as if he already regretted the impulse to indulge Louisa.
“On the floor, of course,” William said.
“I feared as much.” Dominic eased himself down onto the pale pink-patterned carpet.
“Charlotte, could you do the drop?” Serena asked.
Charlotte held the sharpened sticks in her fist an inch or two off the floor, then dropped them. Immediately, all the children focused intently on the lay of the sticks, trying to identify the easy pickings. Dominic traded an amused glance with Serena.
“Who starts?” he asked.
“Me!” William said. Then, at his father’s querying look, he said in a more subdued tone, “I mean, I do, Papa, since I won our last game of dominoes.”
He picked up an easy first stick, one that had rolled away from the others. He used the tip to separate two more from the pile before disturbing one of the neighboring sticks.
“My turn,” Charlotte whooped.
“Ladies don’t shout, Charlotte,” her father reminded her.
The girl’s face reddened. During her turn, she failed to retrieve any sticks before knocking one out of place. Her father grimaced—in sympathy, but she took it as criticism.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “William bumped me.”
Serena gave her a sharp look, a reminder that sulks were not permitted. Charlotte’s chin jutted—again, so like her father—but she said no more.
Though Dominic proved to have a surprising aptitude for the game, despite his large fingers, he was no match for the practiced nimbleness of the children. Thomas won quickly.
They played another game, this time won by Hetty, then Thomas won again. Charlotte was looking crosser and crosser, and Dominic didn’t look too happy, either. Somehow, Serena wasn’t quite sure why, the mood in the nursery turned cool. When Dominic declared he needed to get back to work, no one but Louisa begged him to stay. This time, he had no difficulty refusing her request.
Serena got to her feet. “I will check on your aunt. Children, I suggest you read quietly. Nurse will be up with your luncheon soon.”
She hurried out of the nursery in Dominic’s wake. “Mr. Granville?”
“What is it?” He seemed intent on rushing downstairs; he slowed to let her catch up, but didn’t pause in his stride.
“Please.” Serena was forced to stay him with a hand on his arm. As soon as he stopped, she let go. “Thank you for joining the children in their game. They love to spend time with you.”
He nodded with scant patience. Then he said, “Charlotte clearly didn’t love it. Is she always so sullen?”
Shouldn’t he know the answer to that?
“She takes offense too easily,” Serena said. “She’s the sweetest thing when people show kindness to her first.” She hesitated. “Is that why you seemed to be vexed?”
He bristled. “I wasn’t vexed.”
“Your mood cooled,” she said. “It dampened the children’s spirits.”
His expression grew stony. “Then perhaps it’s a good thing I don’t play spillikins more often.”
She burst out laughing. “Really, Dominic, you sound just like Charlotte in one of her sulks.”
The flare of his eyes made her aware she’d called him by his Christian name. Should she apologize? No, better not to concede a weakness right now.
To her surprise, he smiled ruefully. “Perhaps that’s where she gets her moods.”
“So if not Charlotte, did something else cause your misgivings?” she asked.
“You’re not going to let me just walk away, are you?” he said, exasperated. “I don’t like to criticize my children—” no, he preferred to stay away from them “—but if you must know, I was disappointed in Thomas and Hetty. Winning the games so fast and not letting the younger ones enjoy some triumph.”
Serena beamed. “Is that all?”
“That’s no cause for good cheer,” he said. “I consider sportsmanship very important.”
“So do your children,” she promised. “Usually Tom and Hetty would deliberately fluff a few rounds to let the younger ones win. Today, they were both too anxious to impress you.”
He looked doubtful.
“Truly,” she assured him. “Your children are generous in spirit, all of them. Their stepmother will be a fortunate woman—you will marry someone kind, won’t you?” she added impulsively.
He stared at her.
“Of course you will,” she muttered. “I apologize.”
“Miss Somerton,” he said, “your interest in whom I intend to marry has gone beyond the curious and into the nosy.”
“I just want—”
“I don’t doubt you mean well.” Which they’d both agreed was a thoroughly obnoxious habit, so she couldn’t derive any comfort from that, and he knew it. “But I will choose my wife without further comment from you. Is that understood?”
“I was just— The children—”
“If you continue to interfere, you will be removed from this household. My sister will have to find a new companion.”
He was bluffing, surely! But he appeared entirely serious.
“Is that understood?” he asked again.
Though he stood close to her, his coldness put distance between them. Serena swallowed. He’d told her at dinner to keep her opinions to herself. But then, late last night, he’d talked so openly, she’d thought...
Obviously not.
It would serve him right if he ended up married to a shrew who nagged him from dawn to dusk—except that wouldn’t be fair on the children.
“I understand,” she said, with an attempt to match his iciness.
Evidently, she failed; his eyes lit with a flash of humor that was far from cold. But he merely said, “Good.”
She watched as Dominic walked down the stairs and into the library.
Yes, she understood, but she would not obey.
Dominic Granville might not look for happiness for himself, but she would do everything in her power to make sure his children had their share.
The more she thought about Dominic’s criteria for choosing a wife, those qualities he’d mentioned as they nursed Louisa last night, the more she found them disturbingly vague. Mrs. Gordon didn’t sound objectionable, but neither had Dominic considered how she would fare with his children. Though to see them as an amorphous clump of “five children” was to do them a disservice. Each was different from the other. Did he even know that?
Charlotte could easily be deemed surly; he’d said so himself. He needed a wife who understood that Charlotte’s prickly nature was an invitation to show kindness, a sort of test as to whether people liked her, without comparing her to her whip-smart older sis
ter, Hetty, or the adorable little Louisa. Then there was William, who’d started off so shy, but was gradually finding confidence. Embarrassed about his fear of the dark, but fearless beyond his years when it came to horses. The twins were both so strong-minded, they needed to believe in something before they would do it—would Dominic respect that?
A man who considered the things he didn’t know to be irrelevant was doomed to make mistakes.
Dominic’s choice of wife was too important for mistakes. This was a second chance, whether he saw it that way or not, and Serena wouldn’t let him squander it.
I will assess this Mrs. Gordon, and if I don’t think she’s right, I’ll make sure Dominic doesn’t propose to her.
She had no idea how she could stop Dominic proposing marriage to an unsuitable bride. She only knew that she would do it.
Chapter Five
The Granville carriage slowed as it entered Melton Mowbray. In this busy village, it seemed everyone crossed the road without looking. At least, that had been the dire warning from Carver, the coachman, as he’d helped Marianne and then Serena into the carriage at Woodbridge Hall.
Which explained why he proceeded at not much more than walking pace until they pulled up outside Mrs. Fletcher’s establishment. Carver opened the door and let down the steps. Serena disembarked first.
“Could you make sure there’s no one coming?” Marianne begged. “I don’t want to be any redder than necessary when I talk to Mrs. Fletcher.” The more people she was forced to speak with, the deeper her color.
Serena stepped down, careful to avoid a puddle left by yesterday’s storm, and scanned the street. No one coming, from either the left or the right. “You’re safe,” she reported.
But just as Marianne emerged, a gentleman appeared around the back of the carriage. He must have just crossed the road—without looking, judging by the disapproval on Carver’s face. Since the gentleman was unlikely to be visiting Mrs. Fletcher, his destination must be the stationer’s shop next door.
Marianne hadn’t seen him. “I’ve warned Dominic to be prepared for a large bill,” she said chattily. “It’s so long since I’ve bought any new dresses, I need at least—” She broke off the moment she registered the presence of a stranger. Ducking her head, she froze, as if that might render her invisible.
But the gentleman had stopped, arrested, it seemed, by their conversation. He bowed in their direction.
Go away, Serena thought.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. “Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn’t help overhearing...are you, by any chance, Miss Granville?”
He addressed the question to Serena. She must indeed look more like the lady of the house, with Marianne huddled behind her like the most downtrodden companion.
“I’m Serena Somerton,” she said. “Companion to Miss Granville.” She indicated Marianne.
Marianne raised her face, as scarlet as Serena could ever remember seeing her.
The gentleman blinked, but his face didn’t betray any awkwardness. “Forgive me, Miss Granville,” he said, “you must think me terribly rude, accosting you in the street. I’m Geoffrey Beaumont, a guest at Farley Hall.”
Marianne licked her lips. “Sir—Sir Charles’s nephew.” She shook the hand he offered. “Good afternoon.”
“I heard the mention of your brother’s name and couldn’t resist the opportunity to introduce myself,” he said, still apologizing. He had blue eyes that smiled, Serena noticed, and his well-cut coat and impeccable boots enhanced what was already a pleasing appearance. “I’m very much looking forward to dining at Woodbridge Hall next week.”
“As are we,” Marianne murmured. “I mean, looking forward to you joining us...not looking forward to dining there ourselves, since we do that every night....” She trailed off into inarticulateness.
Serena stared at her. She’d never heard Marianne volunteer so much conversation.
Mr. Beaumont laughed in appreciation of her wit. “Now that I’ve met you, I’m looking forward to it even more.”
Marianne’s color deepened, if that was possible. “Our cook does have a wonderful reputation in the neighborhood.”
Her modest reply inspired a warm smile from the gentleman. “Good news, indeed. Ladies, I won’t detain you any longer.”
He shook Serena’s hand again, then Marianne’s.
“Good day, Miss Granville.” He half bowed over her hand.
“Good day,” Marianne said faintly.
He seemed to become aware that he still held her hand. Looking slightly sheepish, he relinquished it. As a gentleman should, he waited until Serena had pushed open Mrs. Fletcher’s door, causing the bell to ring, before resuming his walk.
Serena and Marianne didn’t have a chance to talk during their appointment with the dressmaker. Poor Marianne stayed an unfortunate shade of red throughout Mrs. Fletcher’s measuring and pinning, and was correspondingly quiet.
When at last they were back in the carriage, Marianne having ordered four dresses, and Serena two plus an alteration to her gray dress, Marianne tipped her head back against the seat. She pulled her fan from her reticule and began fanning herself.
“Your new neighbor seems very charming.” Serena uttered the comment she’d been holding in since they arrived.
“He was wonderful,” Marianne agreed.
Which was a more effusive word than Serena would have used.
“And quite the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Marianne added.
Serena blinked. Gracious! Still, she supposed Marianne could hardly be expected to consider her own brother the handsomest man she’d seen. “He was nice looking,” she agreed. “He seemed rather taken by your wit, Marianne.”
Her friend’s color had been fading slowly as they drove; now, it flared again. “Don’t be absurd.” But Serena heard the longing in her voice.
She thought carefully about Mr. Beaumont’s behavior before saying more, since the last thing she wanted was to raise false hopes. “I really do think he liked you,” she said. “Not everyone is preoccupied with appearances.” Besides, if one ignored her condition, Marianne had a classic beauty few could match.
“You are not,” Marianne agreed. “But Mr. Beaumont came down from London, and I can tell you from my one season there, everyone in the ton is obsessed with looks.” The carriage rounded a bend in the road, causing Marianne to reach for the strap next to her.
“I didn’t know you had a London season,” Serena said.
Marianne shuddered. “I try not to think about it. I was eighteen, Mama was still alive.” Her father had died some ten years ago, Serena knew, and her mother had been carried off four years later. “She insisted I be presented at Court and go through one season. It was mortifying, from start to finish.”
“Did anyone offer for you?” Serena asked.
Marianne delivered another surprise. “Two gentlemen. They were both fortune hunters. That’s the kind of man who wants to marry a woman like me.” She attempted a joke. “I’ve realized the only knight in shining armor in my life will be the one on my chessboard.”
Serena squeezed her hand. “Are you certain the men were fortune hunters?”
“Dominic investigated their circumstances, then chased them off by threatening to withhold my dowry.” She tipped her head back against the seat again. “I suppose I’m glad.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to marry a fortune hunter, surely?” Serena asked.
“I suppose not...but I would like to have children one day. For that to happen, I would probably have to marry for something other than love.”
“You sound as bad as Dominic,” Serena said.
“Unlike my brother, I would prefer to marry for love. But I don’t meet many men—by choice, I know—and Dominic tends to be overprotective when I do. He forgets I’m twenty-five, no longer an eighteen-year-old romantic.”
“If Mr. Beaumont is Sir Charles’s heir, he will have a fortune of his own,” Serena said. “He’s under no obligation
to find a wealthy bride.”
Marianne looked briefly intrigued. Then she sighed. “The fact is, Serena, he’s a man of beautiful manners, and I will be hostess at dinner next week. Naturally he was charming. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
“You can’t be sure. If you were better acquainted with him... I know!” An idea struck Serena. “You could host a house party at Woodbridge Hall. It’s usual to invite neighbors in most days to boost the numbers for your activities—I attended several parties in Piper’s Mead that way. You’d see Mr. Beaumont nearly every day for at least a week.”
“I can’t think of anything worse than a house party,” Marianne said. “I’m so relieved Dominic has chosen Mrs. Gordon without the need for anything so deplorable.” She smiled ruefully. “Serena, trust me when I tell you Mr. Beaumont has no interest in me. I have more experience than you in matters of the heart.”
It was on the tip of Serena’s tongue to confide her own history to Marianne, so that her friend would understand that she knew a genuine attraction when she saw it. Only the thought that Marianne might mention it to Dominic prevented her.
“I believe one day you will meet a man who loves you for yourself,” she said obstinately. “Just as I hope I will, too. Even if it takes a miracle for both of us.”
* * *
The dinner guests were invited for six o’clock on Wednesday. This was Leicestershire, not London, so they kept “unfashionable” country hours.
Dominic checked his cuffs—still pristine—then looked at his watch. Ten to six. The drawing room seemed bare without a fire at night, but the evening was warmish and the heat would have played havoc with Marianne’s complexion, so he’d instructed Molson not to light one. He strolled to the window to inspect the skies. The moon was at its fullest tonight; there should be no carriage accidents on the way home.
Despite the uncomfortable reality that the dinner party was a bride interview, Dominic was looking forward to the evening. For Marianne’s sake, they almost never entertained. And he seldom went to London; since Marianne had no desire to act as his hostess, opening up Granville House for the Season seemed too much effort. These were practical decisions, but they made for a life that was sometimes too quiet.
