"Yes, but the task requires having to deal with some of the society dragons, which are more fearful and unpredictable than most enemies in battle." He smiled at the thought.
"And pretty girls, I wager," Simmons said.
"Those girls all come with a heavy price."
"Are you hungry, Lord Britheney?" Marie asked from the doorway.
"Please, call me Felix."
"Alright," she said without protestations or false swooning.
"But no, thank you, I ate shortly before."
"At the Whaler's Inn if I'm guessing right?" she said.
"Yes," he conceded. Simmons’ wife was not a silly woman. She had guessed right. Perhaps because after the long ride toward Scarborough, the Whaler's Inn looked like a prize worth reaching. He had indeed stopped there.
"Their meals are decent enough." Marie came to stand behind her husband, her hands on his shoulders. They were so easy with each other and her husband looked up at her with fondness. His lieutenant was a different man from the serious one he had known. His eyes were softer, his voice was softer and happiness glowed from him. His eyes followed his wife as she walked to the small kitchenette to pour some milk in a pot, presumably for the little scamps that had run through not so long ago. She hummed as she worked.
While he and Simmons had very little in common in their lives back in England, their shared past made him feel as if he had more in common with this man than anyone else in England.
"How has life treated you since you've returned?" Felix asked. Simmons left the king's service some time before him, long enough to find himself a wife and father children. He couldn't quite recall, but he suspected he had heard at some point about a sweetheart the man had back home. It wasn't something they readily talked about, but Marie must be the one he had mentioned.
"Nothing changes much here," Simmons said. "Other than each day you grow older."
"And the weather," Marie added. "It changes one minute to the next."
Felix wasn't sure exactly what Simmons did for a living now, but he worked at a company that smoked the catches drawn out of the sea.
"When I was gone from our shores, I always wished for the quiet life, and it was before the girls. Now it is only quiet when they sleep." There was fondness in his voice when he spoke, which suggested he wouldn't have it any other way.
"How bored you would be if it was only you and me here, year after year," Marie said.
"Never," Simmons replied. "Lovely peace and quiet."
Peace and quiet were all Felix had at home and it grated.
"No point dwelling on what will never be," Marie said and walked over to peck her husband on the lips before disappearing into the other room again. Again, her husband's eyes followed her. It wasn't hard to see that they were completely infatuated with each other. There was a stillness about Simmons that Felix had never seen before—a calmness as if he had found his true purpose, and it was all wrapped up in Marie.
Was such peace possible to find? Because seeing it, Felix recognized it. He had felt it for a while in belonging to a group with a higher purpose, and then he had lost it—when Simmons had found it again with a pretty village girl.
Finding a pretty, sensible village girl wasn't an option for him. Duty required he marry someone with appropriate lineage, but seeing his friend so happy, he no longer felt he could tie himself for the rest of his life to a woman who simply fulfilled his family obligations. If he wanted to find peace again, he would have to find someone he could love as deeply as Simmons loved his wife.
Chapter 15
"IS IT TRUE THAT THE fortune teller in Vauxhall Garden has predicted that you marry Lord Britheney?" Cassandra Wilkinson asked as Sylvia stood in Petunia Bulbridge's drawing room. For a moment, Sylvia's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"No, of course not." Technically the woman hadn't specifically identified him. "What a load of nonsense. Where did you hear that from?" Surely, not everyone in London knew about this stupid prediction. Who was telling all and sundry about it? Surely it wasn't Britheney. If she saw him as anything, it wasn't as a gossip. Andrew on the other hand could be blabbing his mouth, and she was going to put a stop to it the next time she saw him.
"That woman is notoriously accurate," Cassandra said. "She predicted that strife was coming to the Uxley family just before that fire took a good chunk of their estate."
In her mind, Sylvia tried to concoct a reason for why that would be easy to falsify. "Anyone could interpret strife to be anything."
"But not everyone had their house burn down, did they?"
Damnation, that was hard to argue.
"Anyway, she said little more than that both myself and Ester will marry."
"Well, that's comforting, I suppose."
Was it? Sylvia wasn't entirely sure. It had been nothing but worry and disbelief since the moment she'd received that prediction. And now Andrew and Ester were flirting, which she wasn't entirely sure was a good idea. It was hard to imagine Andrew and Ester being… romantic. On the positive side, however, Andrew marrying Ester would make them sisters for the rest of their lives. That couldn't be bad—especially as Sylvia was seriously contemplating spinsterhood.
"I am contemplating going to see her myself, but I am fairly certain Maximillian will offer for me." Her and Maximillian had shown fondness between them for years. Everyone would be surprised if Maximillian didn't offer to her, but one never knew. His family might have other ideas—seeking a more profitable bride for him. It would be a shame, because it would likely be a love match between those two.
"I am sure he will," Sylvia said with a smile, hoping her confidence was justified. Cassandra would be devastated otherwise. And if it weren't the case, Maximillian should let her know at the earliest opportunity so she could pay more attention to other suitors.
Across the room, she heard Ester laugh. Well, the mournful sorrow over Marcus' lack of attention seemed to be lifting. Hopefully she was finally getting over him and turning her attention elsewhere, but to Andrew? Was that even remotely a good idea. Maybe it was simply her that found it so hard to imagine Andrew as a husband—because she couldn't contemplate him being mature enough to take care of a family. Saying that, he would be quite a good father. He liked children.
Shaking her head, she tried to shake the thoughts from her head. It was too disturbing to think about.
"So who do you think the woman was referring to?" Cassandra asked.
"I have no idea." Unfortunately, only one man fit the description, but she wasn't going to mention that, because it would only cause more gossip. "Apparently he has dark hair."
"Lord Britheney does."
"Yes, but I doubt we are sufficiently well matched in terms of character."
"He does seem quite somber doesn't he?"
"Lady Thornton used harsher words."
"I bet she did," Cassandra said with an exaggerated expression that surprised Sylvia. "She hated the former Lord Britheney—with a passion. They were engaged for a while, but he threw her off. Probably a blessing in disguise, because he was a less than pleasant man, but Lady Thornton never forgave him for the embarrassment. It's astonishing that someone would rather tie themselves to an ogre of a man than face the embarrassment of a broken engagement. I'm sure the Britheney fortune might have something to do with it. Now with the new lord, so many want to get their hands on it," she finished singingly. "Rose Westbrook is just about infatuated with him."
She could have him, Sylvia mentally said. "In that case, it might be a good match."
"Not sure he could tolerate her bubbly nature."
Admittedly, Sylvia's smile had an undercurrent of enmity, because it would amuse her if he ended up with a woman he couldn't tolerate. Odious man.
Technically he wasn't odious. He wasn't charming either. Much to forthright, seeming to seek out people's flaws and shove them in their faces. And to suggest she was trying to manipulate her way into his good graces with some ludicrous story about a fortune teller. We
ll, technically he hadn't said it, but she could see the accusation in his eyes when she spoke with him—which she would hopefully never have to do again.
"I'm not sure he is actively contemplating matrimony," Sylvia said.
"What man does? It is something that overtakes them like a fever." Cassandra certainly had interesting views on marriage. "My mother says a man must be brought to the altar. One cannot wait for him to make up his mind."
Granted, Mrs. Wilkinson had done rather well for herself, so it was hard to argue the point. Seemed a little mercenary, though.
"Mr. Andrew Bellworth," Petunia's butler called as he admitted Andrew.
Not all men could walk into a room full of girls, but Andrew could. Perhaps he simply didn't know better. Surprisingly, it was Ester his gaze sought first instead of hers, when he was technically here to escort her home.
"Hello, Andrew," Cassandra said. "Aren't you looking dapper?"
Maybe she really wasn't seeing Andrew in the light everyone else was. Was he looking dapper? Well, he didn't look terrible. He wasn't a boy anymore.
"Apologies for being late," he said.
"I managed to keep myself entertained."
"There was an unfortunate incident."
"Oh?" both Cassandra and Sylvia said.
"Alex fell down a bank."
Cassandra gasped.
"Is he alright?" Sylvia asked, worry creasing her face. No doubt he was drunk. Typically he was, having completely lost direction after his father's death. Alex had always been easy-going and playful, but he took his father's death quite hard.
"Well, he broke his leg."
There was stunned silence for a moment. "Oh, thank God," Sylvia said, her mind racing.
"Sylvia!" Cassandra chided and Sylvia stared at her for a moment.
"I mean that he is alright. Thank God he is alright. I shouldn't finish sentences silently in my head."
"No, certainly not. It sounded like you were pleased he's broken his leg. That's not like you."
"Of course not," Sylvia lied. Well, it wasn't like her, but in this instance, she couldn't be more pleased.
"Absolutely not," Andrew said when Cassandra went to refill her tea. Perhaps the turn of the conversation had made her uncomfortable.
"That is it. I am supposed to marry Alex. Dark hair and walks with a limp."
"He doesn't walk at all right now. And there is no saying he will have a limp. Surgeons are quite good at mending broken bones these days."
"That Vauxhall gypsie said nothing about a permanent limp, simply that he had one, and here is a man who presents himself with a limp shortly after." She had always had a slight softness for Alex, and marrying him wasn't all that unwelcome an idea. "He certainly needs a woman to straighten him out."
Alex did lack some of the social graces. He was never a man who embraced his position in society, and he was a little aloof when it came to the ladies, which had only served to make him more attractive. He had a title and an estate. Granted, not on the scale of Lord Britheney, but he would make a good husband—once reined in a bit.
More importantly, she didn't object to this outcome. Granted Alex had never seen her as anything other than Andrew's sister, but neither had Ester seen Andrew as anything other than her brother. Well, that had changed.
In fact, she came over now. "Hello, Andrew. Have you come to take Sylvia home?"
"Yes. Do you need us to escort you?"
"No, father is sending the carriage shortly, but thank you for the offer."
It was actually quite sickening to watch their blushes and unnatural cordiality. They had never spoken so formally to each other before.
"Good news," Sylvia said. "Alex has broken his leg."
Ester's eyebrows rose. "How is that good news?"
"Well, he has a limp now."
Now her eyes widened. "Yes, he does. Isn't that interesting? A limp and dark hair. Well, there you go. You've always liked him."
"What!?" Andrew said as if it was shocking. "He's a lush."
"Andrew!" It was Sylvia's turn to chide. "That's your friend you are talking about. And I am sure he is a man who will mature."
"I agree. I think he will make quite a good husband—once he settles down somewhat. He's never one of those men that makes you uncomfortable as some do," Ester said with a shudder. "I swear some of them come out of Oxford completely unable to talk to a female."
"I hope I was never like that," Andrew said.
"No, of course not. And you can probably thank Sylvia for it."
That was probably the last thing Andrew wanted to hear.
Chapter 16
WITH ILL EASE, FELIX entered the ballroom at Lady Wenstropp's house. The glittering crowd was gathered, with fine silks, sparkling jewels, and enough champagne to drain parts of France. Young women were dancing, while others stood around and chatted. What was the point of this? He didn't understand. It didn't achieve anything for most of the people here. Granted, he did understand why people seeking a spouse would come, but once you had one, why stand around and chatter about inane things confined completely by the rules of etiquette?
It didn't take him long to see Miss Bellworth in the crowd. She wore a light blue dress and she looked beautiful. Her hair shone in the intricate curls framing her face. Angelic even. Although she wasn't really angelic when he spoke to her—sharp and pointed were better words.
A smile spread across her lips when she saw him, which was unusual. Did this signify a change in strategy on her part—in this skirmish they had developed between them? As he watched, she made her excuses to the group she had been chatting with and approached. Definitely a change in strategy.
A curious nervousness flared up his stomach as she came toward him, not so different as what he got when he was about to face battle. Nowhere near as sharp as when facing imminent death, but it was there all the same.
"Not dancing tonight, Miss Bellworth?" he asked.
"No, I'm not the most enthusiastic dancer, I have to admit." That made two of them. "But you will be very pleased as I inform you that you are completely off the hook."
"Oh? How so? Please enlighten me."
"Another candidate for the prediction has come forth. Much more suitable—and much more likely."
"I didn't realize I was unsuitable, Miss Bellworth. Generally, society regards me as exactly the opposed."
The smile on her lips was generous and warm. No malice or ill will. It was as if she had been relieved of a burden and was now quite happy. "Not unsuitable, of course. Badly matched is perhaps a more accurate term. I am sure you will make someone a wonderful husband, someday. You are simply not to be mine. And I think we both agree this is a wonderful development."
"I thought you said you didn't believe in this prophecy."
"Of course I don't, but I am hedging my bets just in case I am wrong on that account. Who can really tell with the mystical arts?"
"And who is this dark horse that has emerged that fits the profile as I do?"
"My brother's friend, Alexander Raighley."
"So you are to become Mrs. Raighley."
"Technically, I believe the Marchioness of Fonterey, but I don't think Alexander embraces his title as others do." Was that a barb aimed at him? Some could afford to ignore their titles, particularly if large fortunes didn't accompany them, but he was not in that position.
"Well, congratulations are in order."
"Somewhat premature," she said. "It is only a stupid prophecy."
"But you wouldn't mind marrying this man if it turned out to be true. Is he of equal mind?"
"I have no idea. I haven't spoken to him. He has been a friend of my brother for several years."
"Ah, a neat solution then."
"Well, a neat solution makes much more sense than one that is not, doesn't it? The same circle of friends, the same history and understanding."
"And you have this with the Marquess of Monterey?"
"I suppose. We will just have to see if this prophecy
unfolds or not."
Well, she was certainly not striving against the idea of the prophesy meaning this man like she had when she'd believed he was the person the prophecy foretold, but had at no point lamented her lost love for this man either. Clearly she wasn't in love with him, or the prophecy would have meant nothing to her. It was simply that it was a more tolerable outcome. He wasn't sure whether on some level he should be offended.
"All's well that ends well, I suppose," he said. "Although I think women in your position might be active in trying to secure a gentleman if she strongly believes in him."
Miss Bellworth watched him for a moment. "I would do no such thing. Firstly, I do not believe strongly in anything of the sort. Secondly, I am not the kind of girl who would try to 'secure' a gentleman." Clearly she was offended.
"Then you are indeed different from some of the creatures here," he said.
"I highly doubt that. We are not quite as stupid as some would suggest we are."
"Stupid was not what I was suggesting. Calculating would perhaps be a better term."
"You do not have a great opinion of us, do you?"
"Perhaps it is being one of the most eligible men in town that I don't have a great opinion of."
"Well, you can certainly do something about that. Actually," she said, taking his arm as if whispering conspiratorially with him. "Araminth Skogholm, that blond beauty that you see across to the left. Stunningly beautiful, you will agree, and descends from Swedish royalty. Wonderfully sweet girl."
"That one that is being paid attention by the man your friend wishes to marry?" he asked.
"You are surprisingly observant."
"My life has depended on those skills a few times."
"I should very much like to hear your stories sometimes."
"Not stories for drawing rooms, I'm afraid."
"Well, anyway. You're not deeply interested in beautiful actresses, are you?"
"Not more than the average man."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked sharply.
"Are you interviewing me for a position?"
"Well, in a way, yes. Araminth is incredibly sweet-natured."
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