by Regina Scott
She wasn’t sure how long it had been when he released her. The grin on his face brightened the room.
“Special license, eh?” he asked. “Can knights request one of those?”
“From the Archbishop,” Charlotte said. She reached up and caressed a lock of hair off his forehead.
He caught her hand, held it in his own. “I love you, Charlotte. I have for some time, but I never thought you’d consider me. I may not be able to give you the jewels and fine carriages you deserve, but I will be the best husband a lady could want.”
“And I plan on being the best wife a knight could ask,” Charlotte said. “But we won’t be poor, Matthew. My mother left me an inheritance.”
His scowl threatened. “I won’t take your money.”
“You will if you love me,” she countered. “I want to contribute to our home too. And Ivy and Daisy will need dowries. And when Tuny is older, we’ll need to bring her out properly.”
Matthew’s scowl disappeared, and he pulled her close once more. “What would I do without you?”
“Kneel to a knight when you have no need to kneel to anyone,” Charlotte said, warm in his arms. “Now, let’s go tell the girls. I have a feeling they’re expecting good news, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint my new sisters.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
She should find another client.
Meredith sat on the sofa in her withdrawing room, stroking Fortune’s coat and smiling to herself. Charlotte was upstairs packing her things, having brought the news that she was engaged to be married to Sir Matthew. They planned to wed in the next few days. How delightful.
Her smile slipped. Yes, delightful for Charlotte, but for the first time, Meredith was at a loss. Mr. Cowls had offered no other insights as to gently reared ladies who found themselves in need of a position. Nor had she met any likely candidates herself. Her last few clients had simply walked through the door.
Fortune stiffened a moment before the knock sounded downstairs.
Meredith laughed. “Perfect timing, perhaps?”
Mr. Cowls led up Lord Kendall.
Meredith hid her surprise as the slender lord inclined his head in greeting. “My lord, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
He flipped up the tails on his dove grey morning coat and seated himself on the chair across from her. “I had two reasons for calling. One was to make amends to your pet.”
Meredith glanced down at Fortune, whose tail swished lazily back and forth against the sofa. Her copper-colored eyes were half closed, as if his lordship’s company already bored her.
“Fortune is discriminating in her opinions,” Meredith allowed. “I cannot imagine why she would take you in dislike.” She raised her head to eye him.
He shifted on the chair as if the very idea made him uncomfortable. “I have been told animals can sense temperament. I have perhaps been more melancholy in the last year, though I try to hide it.”
Fortune did not care for half-truths, Meredith had found. Perhaps she had felt something hesitant about the marquess that indicated his lie.
“My condolences, my lord,” she told him. “Lady Kendall was far too young to leave us.”
His sad smile agreed with her.
“And how is your daughter?” she asked.
He did not brighten. Indeed, she felt as if the room was darkening. “I am told she struggles to thrive. Which brings me to my second reason for calling.”
“Oh?” Meredith prompted, curious despite herself.
He touched one corner of his mustache, as if the topic he meant to pursue was of only minor interest. “You found unconventional brides for Carrolton, Worthington, the Duke of Wey, and, I’m told, Sir Harold Orwell. I find myself in need of a similar sort of bride.”
Meredith eyed him. His face was noncommittal, his smile pleasant. Where was the anticipation, the eagerness any bride might hope to see in her groom?
“You are a marquess of good family with a sound fortune,” she pointed out. “Your options would seem endless.”
He grimaced. “Some ladies of the ton might expect more than I am capable of giving. They might also believe it inconvenient to mother another woman’s child.”
“Ah,” Meredith said. “What you want is a nanny.”
“I have a nanny,” he clipped out. “The second in the last seven months. Neither was able to give Sophia the devotion she needs to grow. I will not lose her.”
She had thought him dispassionate. She had been wrong. His despair welled up inside him, spilled past the neat mustache, the unassuming smile. His loss weighed upon him, and he feared for his child. He needed her help perhaps more than any client who had graced her door.
As if she agreed, Fortune rose and leaped to his lap to lay her head against his chest.
Brows rising in obvious surprise, he ran his gloved hand gently along her back. “Well, at least I achieved one of my objectives.”
“And I fear I cannot help you with the other,” Meredith said, not without a touch of sadness herself. “I place gentlewomen in need of positions, my lord. It is merely a coincidence that they have gone on to marry within the house.”
Fortune leaned away to look up at him, for all the world as if grinning.
A smile tugged at his mouth as he gazed down at her. “Coincidence. I see.” He looked up at Meredith. “May I ask you to give the matter some thought? Perhaps you can find some lady who would be willing to take the position of mother to my child.”
Meredith shook her head. “A nanny is a position. A wife is not. What you want, sir, is a wife.”
“And so do I.”
Meredith blinked at Julian standing in the doorway. His arms were akimbo, widening the shoulders of his navy coat. His eyes were narrowed on the marquess seated across from her.
Lord Kendall swiveled to see who had spoken.
“Forgive the interruption,” Julian said, striding into the room with a nod to the marquess. “Mr. Cowls did not tell me Miss Thorn was entertaining, and I didn’t see a carriage outside.”
“I left my carriage down the way,” Lord Kendall explained.
Why? Was he ashamed of what he was doing? The marquess certainly held his feelings deep, and only Fortune had realized the polite smile was merely a façade.
The marquess set Fortune down and climbed to his feet. “I have taken enough of your time, Miss Thorn. I do hope you will consider my request.”
Once more all polish and no emotion. She wanted so much to help him, but she could not, in good conscience, place a lady as a “wife” in name only. She had never appreciated marriages of convenience.
“I will send word if I think of a lady who meets your requirements, my lord,” Meredith said.
Fortune walked him out. Julian stepped aside to let them pass, then came to sit beside Meredith on the sofa.
“Looking for a wife, eh?” he asked. “Have I been misplaced?”
“Never,” Meredith assured him. “Thank you for rescuing me. I wasn’t sure what else to say to the fellow. He seems to have taken me for a matchmaker.”
Julian smiled. “Perhaps it’s time you realized you and Fortune are matchmakers. Four positions, four brides.”
“Five,” Meredith said. “Charlotte Worthington is to marry Sir Matthew.”
Julian whistled. “Now, that’s a match.”
“I think they will be good for each other,” Meredith said with justifiable pride.
“And you are good for me,” Julian said. “Might I hope you feel the same way?”
Meredith laughed. “Certainly sir. I think Fortune and I have been the making of you.”
He didn’t smile at her tease, gaze determined. “You have. Ever since Eton, I have done all I could to advance. Once I thought it was to establish myself, so we could marry.”
“I remember,” Meredith said, the old hurt crawling over her again. “You were so certain we must wait until you could better afford a wife. And then we were parted.”
“And then we were parted.�
�� He took her hand. “You understand now that I searched for you but had no way of knowing what had become of you. The few times you were in London with Lady Winhaven, I was working. But even without you at my side, the need to advance didn’t ease. I have curried favor with the most prestigious houses, done things that shame me now. I told myself it would be worth the trouble if I earned the respect I craved. I was wrong.”
He had always been able to put her at a loss for words. Meredith lay her free hand over his. “You had no need to strive so hard. You won my respect, the respect of your friends, ages ago.”
“I have come to see that,” he said, gaze on their joined hands. “But more than that, Meredith, I have come to realize there is one person whose opinion truly matters. Yours.”
Meredith trembled. “You know I love you, Julian. I have since I was a girl.”
“And I love you, my darling Meredith.” He released her to slip off the sofa and onto one knee, gaze holding hers. “That’s why I must speak. Ten years ago, you asked me what you could do to elicit a proposal. I have regretted my answer ever since. So, I ask you: what can I do now to convince you to be my bride?”
She had waited so long, doubted so often. The answer was easy.
“Nothing,” she said. “I need no convincing. I would be delighted to marry you, Julian.”
He rose and pulled her up and into his arms. As his head bent to hers, her heart started beating faster. Then something brushed her skirts: Fortune, returned from escorting Lord Kendall.
Julian must have felt the movement too, for he stepped back and looked down. “Ah, I see my mistake. Fortune, may I have the honor of marrying your mistress?”
Fortune curled around his legs, purring. Then she bumped the back of his calves as if urging him closer to Meredith.
With a laugh, he pulled Meredith close and kissed her.
This was joy, this was love. This was what they had both longed for all these years. Finally, finally, he had returned to her, and she would never let him go again.
Perhaps Fortune truly was a matchmaker at heart.
Who would her pet find for the marquess?
~~~~~~
Dear Reader
Thank you for choosing Charlotte and Matthew’s story. They were perfect for each other, but it took a while for each to settle their pasts and realize it. If you missed their introduction to the Fortune’s Brides series, look for Never Vie for a Viscount.
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Turn the page for a sneak peek of the sixth book in the series, Never Marry a Marquess, in which Ivy Bateman becomes the prime candidate for Lord Kendall’s next wife. Can the sweet, gentle Ivy prove to the weary widower that love, and a good cinnamon bun, truly can heal all wounds?
Blessings!
Regina Scott
Sneak Peek: Never Marry a Marquess, Book 6 in the Fortune’s Brides Series by Regina Scott
London, England, July 1812
Would she ever become accustomed to Society?
Sitting in the hired coach, Ivy Bateman smoothed down the satin skirts of her evening gown, the color reminding her of clotted cream. Since her brother Matthew had been elevated to a hereditary knighthood for saving the prince’s life, her life had changed. Where once she had spent her days keeping his house and caring for her younger sisters, now she entertained fine ladies over tea and promenaded in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. In the evenings, she used to read a thrilling adventure novel by the fire before taking her weary body off to bed to dream. Now she sometimes didn’t reach her bed before the sun rose. And she found herself dreaming of things she was not meant to have.
“Stay by my side at the soiree,” Miss Thorn advised from across the coach. “I will ensure we only converse with gentlemen Charlotte or your brother have already approved.”
Ivy’s younger sister, Daisy, shifted beside her, her pale pink gown whispering against the padded leather seat. “That’s no fun. What if a charming prince asks for an introduction? I’m expected to turn my back on him?”
“Alas, princes, charming or otherwise, are in short supply, even for the earl and countess.” Miss Thorn adjusted her long silk gloves. “And any fellow who approaches without an introduction cannot be a gentleman.”
Daisy slumped, then perked up again. “But if you were to introduce him to us, that would be permissible? We can’t help that Charlotte and Matthew are out of town.”
Their brother and his bride were off on their honeymoon to the Lakes District. A shame Ivy couldn’t have gone along, if only to escape the hubbub that was London as the Season wound to a close. But Matthew and Charlotte deserved time to themselves. Miss Thorn, who had introduced Charlotte into the Bateman household as an etiquette teacher, had offered to serve as chaperone in Charlotte’s absence so Ivy and Daisy could continue the social whirl.
Miss Thorn probably didn’t worry that her hair was piled up properly or her gown was too simple. The lavender silk with its rows of pleats at the hem was the exact shade of her eyes. Not a curl of her raven hair escaped the pearl-studded combs that held it in place. Still, the employment agency owner looked odd without her cat Fortune in her arms.
“I expect to know a number of the attendees,” Miss Thorn allowed, and Daisy brightened, until she continued. “Most will be at least a decade older than you and happily married. But if I spot a likely gentleman, I will be sure to draw his attention. Just see that you ask him to call so that Fortune may give her blessing.”
Fortune had an uncanny way of knowing whether a person was worthwhile. And to think she approved of Ivy.
The cat had been less approving of her sister, and Ivy couldn’t help wondering if Daisy’s impetuous nature wasn’t to blame.
Now her sister puffed out a sigh. “Old people shouldn’t be allowed to host events.”
Ivy put a hand on her arm. “A decade older than sixteen is not so very aged. Besides, you know Lady Carrolton will host a lovely soiree in her new home. Remember her ball?”
“Yes,” Daisy said. “But she’s just a countess, and a French one at that. Matthew is friends with the prince. We should be moving in higher circles.”
“This is quite high enough for me,” Ivy assured her.
Daisy turned her gaze out the window.
Ivy caught herself smoothing her skirts again and forced her gloved hands to stop. She might feel uncomfortable in such glittering company as the earl and his wife, but Daisy only wanted more. At times, she reminded Ivy of their stepmother.
She must fight any connection there. Mrs. Bateman was easily the most grasping, the cruelest woman Ivy had ever met. Last they had heard, she had taken up with a wealthy Irishman and headed across the sea to his country. Ivy could only hope they never saw her again.
Miss Thorn gathered her fan. “Here we are now. Stay beside me, girls. We wouldn’t want to be separated in the crush.”
“You wouldn’t want us to be separated,” Daisy muttered.
Oh no. Ivy had been both mother and sister since she was twelve. She was not about to let Daisy slip away. She linked arms with her sister as soon as they alighted.
At times, she marveled at the differences between them. Ivy was tall and curvy. Daisy was a pocket Venus, the same curves poured into a much shorter stature. Ivy’s hair was a sunny blond like their mother’s, Daisy’s a thick dark brown like their brother’s and father’s. The one thing they shared was a pair of walnut-colored eyes, but while Ivy tended to look at the world in wonder, Daisy viewed it in calculation.
But they both stared up at the house they were about to enter.
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br /> The Earl of Carrolton had owned a London townhouse not far from Miss Thorn’s on Clarendon Square. To honor his bride, he’d recently purchased and had renovated a larger house set off the square with its own gardens. Now the cream-colored stones glowed in the light of lanterns hung from the trees, and every window gleamed with candlelight.
“Beeswax,” Daisy hissed to Ivy as they entered the marble-tiled hall and were directed up a set of sweeping stairs to the gallery. “You won’t find an earl using tallow.”
Indeed, no cost had been spared in decorating the house. The walls of the long gallery were covered in watered silk the radiant blue of the sky at sunrise, and oil paintings in gilded frames hung from the high ceilings. The teal and amber carpet sank under Ivy’s satin slippers. She knew by the feel. She certainly couldn’t see much of it, as the room was filled with London’s finest, elbow to elbow, clustered in groups. Jewels flashed as ladies turned to greet friends. Laughter rode on the tide of conversation.
Daisy was craning her neck as Miss Thorn navigated them through the crowd. “I don’t see Sir William.” She had run into the rascal of a baronet more than once this Season and counted him a favorite. “But there are one or two fellows who might do.”
“You may have them all,” Ivy told her, stopping to allow Miss Thorn to speak to an old friend.
After they had been introduced and the two women were chatting, Daisy nudged Ivy. “Waiting for Lord Kendall, are we?”
The floor seemed to dip beneath Ivy’s feet. “Of course not. We don’t even know whether he’ll be in attendance.”
Daisy shook her head. “You can’t fool me, Ivy Bateman. You want to be a marquessa.”
“Marchioness,” Ivy corrected her, and her sister grinned.
Ivy didn’t waste her breath arguing. Daisy was certain Ivy was smitten with the Marquess of Kendall. What lady wouldn’t be? He was tall and elegantly formed, and he held himself as if he well knew his own worth. That sable hair curled back from a brow that spoke of intellect. His neat beard and mustache framed a mouth that offered compassion, suggested kindness. With a family as old as the Conquest and a fortune as deep as a well, he could easily have any lady he chose.