“Perhaps I shall dust off my own beliefs. I’ll admit to being caught up in London life these past years and not paid the proper amount of attention to faith matters that used to interest me.”
“Aunt, I have an idea. Starting this Sunday, I will call for you in my carriage and take you along with me to church. And barring other plans, we can lunch together and discuss the sermon.”
She agreed to the plan, and since she’d been such a sympathetic ear thus far, he decided to wade into a discussion of his marital inclinations. He had to tell someone, and Aunt Lucy was a good listener.
“I hied up to London because of my need to find a wife. Not any milk and water miss will do. I want a like-minded bride who shares my faith. Are you aware of any suitable young ladies?”
“Funny, I heard a curious tale the other day. But, I only give half an ear to servant’s gossip. Let me think.” Aunt Lucy paused and cast her eyes up to the ceiling as if the information were written there. “Seems some merchant, can’t rightly recollect the name, but he’s one of those who rival Golden Ball, has a daughter he’s trying to puff off to a title. Something rings a bell in my memory that her family did a lot of churchgoing before the mother died suddenly a while back. She may be of like mind to you. What about her? You are titled now, and it sounds like you might fit the bill.”
“Aunt, I hardly want to be wed for my title, and I don’t need this man’s money, whoever he is. Besides, you don’t even have her name.”
“Yes, of course. Silly of me to mention that tattered little piece of gossip. Take your pick of one of the young ladies in this year’s crop of debutantes. If I get word of any girl with a religious bent, I shall report to you immediately.”
“Your optimism is kind, Aunt, but I am not a great catch. I’ll do what I can.”
Mark departed his aunt’s company after another hug and a promise to call soon. He headed back to his club, eager for some rest—not for the cards, innuendo, and drink, which he would have pursued in the not-so-distant past. The desire and craving for alcohol’s effects were removed. A dissipated life held no attraction anymore, and he possessed freedom as never before.
He entered the comfortable men’s domain of the first-floor lounge at the club. He nodded to the footman who held out a newspaper to him. He took the paper over to an armchair and sat. The afternoon sun from the window behind his chair provided adequate natural light to read by.
At first, he was the only one in the lounge. Then two other members entered and began an innocent-sounding conversation after they flopped down several chairs over from where he was obscured by the open newspaper.
“I say—any news about Winstead? Is he out of dun territory yet?” one voice queried.
“There’s been no announcement yet. I’d say the Southwood fortune is not as easy pickings as many thought. The betting lists are mounting.”
“What ho, gents? Are you bringing matrimonial tittle-tattle into these hallowed halls?” Mark lowered his newspaper to join the conversation. Southwood’s the last name of my angelic young lady rescuer. After meeting Miss Southwood at the vicarage, Miss Cleaver told him so much more—enough to fix the name in his mind. Mark gave a chummy smile and approached the two men who were distant relatives and long-time acquaintances.
Lord Denis Ambruster and Sir Giles Walsh greeted Mark.
“So, you’re back in London, Lord Russell. Surprised you’re back so soon after you departed to ascend to your title.” Fond of stating the obvious, Armbruster stroked his mustache.
These two older men were inveterate gossips, and Mark hoped they were reliable sources.
The three men reseated themselves in closer proximity to each other. Mark proceeded to feed them some pieces of news, mainly estate talk. After a suitable amount of time passed this way, he worked the conversation back around to what he had heard. To hear the Southwood name here filled him with curiosity.
“Do I hear Winstead is hovering about a young lady?” Mark vaguely recalled the man’s name, but his true interest lay only in what they had to say about the young lady. Asking the two gossipy gentlemen didn’t raise eyebrows. After all, a prime piece of tittle-tattle ran a fast course, and they all traveled in the same circles. Mark sat back to listen to whatever they’d share.
“Harrumph. Yes, he has seemingly landed on his feet in the honeypot. He’s the odds-on favorite to marry the Southwood fortune...er, I mean daughter.”
“Really, Giles? When is the happy day?”
“Can’t say an announcement has come out to that effect. But all word is that he is close to coming to the point. He must repair his fences, because his sire, rest his soul, ran the family fortunes down to nothing, and none of the current debutantes, or more likely their fathers, will drop the handkerchief for him. His looks and title might have done it for him another year, but this season’s crop of young ladies did not produce the needed blunt for him.”
Sir Giles Walsh stopped speaking and rummaged in his pockets. He produced a pipe and began to prepare a bowl.
Lord Armbruster continued the tale in a deep, carrying voice. “After the first two balls, Winstead saw how the wind was blowing. Not a chit leaning his direction. So when word got out about the merchant who sought to marry his daughter into the aristocracy...” Armbruster waggled his eyebrows.
Enough. He hated for Miss Southwood to be the subject of gossip.
“I’m late for an appointment. Must run. But good to see you again.” Mark rose, bowed, and then departed the club.
He needed to think. As he walked away, he thought over the gossip and compared it to what his aunt told him. The story revolved around his lovely rescuer, the young lady who found him in the ditch and ran for help. One and the same Miss Southwood. The very one who’d briefly nursed him and about whom Miss Cleaver told delightful stories which served to pique his interest.
His mind cast back to those golden hours at the vicarage. He remembered pleasurably the pretty girl hovering over him as he went in and out of consciousness. He whispered the name of the vision of loveliness he daydreamed of on his sickbed at the vicarage and ever since. “Melissa.” The name held such refreshment.
Surely the gossip of her father seeking an aristocrat to marry her qualified as something to investigate. No coincidence in hearing of this specific and promising-sounding wife prospect twice. First from his aunt, and then also at the club.
Neither the fortune nor even the great beauty enticed Mark as much as the fine character and purity woven into Miss Cleaver’s stories. Miss Southwood sounded like a young woman with a passion for the faith matching his—the sort of wife he wanted now he recognized the need for a helpmeet.
As head of an estate with dozens of livelihoods dependent on him, he needed a wife. Since he’d been converted, he read the Bible every day. By the time he’d reached the second chapter of Genesis, he’d come across a passage which explained how God gave Adam a helper. Yes, a ‘suitable helper.’ That’s what I need.
His rapid thoughts coalesced into a plan of action.
15
Mark rapped on the door, using the heavy knocker on the thick oak portal of the Southwood’s townhouse. He straightened his cravat one last time, and then handed his visiting card to the starchy butler who answered. After an examination of the card, the butler adjusted his facial expression from one of simmering suspicion to one which exuded the unlikely combination of haughty pride and meekness.
“Right this way, m’lord.” The butler took Mark’s hat, gloves, and cane. Then he inclined his head, indicating he should sit. He moved down the hall at a measured pace, rapped on a distant door, and entered.
Soon, the butler returned and ushered Mark into the ornate library that doubled as Mr. Southwood’s at-home office. Well-polished oak, gleaming brass, and spotless leaded-glass windows established a wealthy glow to the room.
The two men faced each other, and Mark got the impression his measure was being taken. Southwood might or might not have any idea of why he was here. Oh, well, Mark h
ad naught to hide.
After a handshake, they sat, and Southwood leaned back in his chair behind his massive desk, and Mark perched on a chair on the other side of the wide desktop. Southwood folded his hands across his ample front.
Mark didn’t expect Southwood to be gentle with him—there was no need. Mark supposed he was only one of quite a few candidates for both the daughter and the accompanying fortune. Society’s buzz said Southwood was confident that Winstead would succeed in his courtship.
Mark thought the man pleasant enough, but better not to underestimate such an expert businessman. A sense of supplication swept over him, and he found he didn’t mind humility in this case since the goal was sweet.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Lord Russell. Why are you here?” The man smiled and leaned forward. Mark understood himself to be in the presence of a busy man. “I’m sparing you a few minutes between appointments. Perhaps your call will be a moment’s relief from my life of monotonous business doings, which grind on day after day and pile up more and more gold in my accounts.”
“I’ll be happy to get right down to matters, Mr. Southwood.” Mark steeled himself against the embarrassment wriggling up from the soles of his feet. “Word has come my way, since I arrived in town yesterday, that you are arranging a titled match for your daughter. I would like to be considered.”
“I suspected this to be your reason for the call.” With a firm, but kind tone, he put down Mark’s hopes. “Gratified, I’m sure, Russell. But my business sense didn’t fail me in this endeavor. The nobleman chosen for the opportunity to court my daughter has proved to be a prime goer with an announcement for the papers soon. So, you are approximately,” Southwood paused, making a show of referring to a calendar, “two months late. I will keep your name on file. We have nothing more to say to each other.”
Rising, and then bowing in silence, Mark turned and left the room ready to grab his things and get out. That was embarrassing. And abrupt.
The snooty butler? Nowhere. He hurried down the hall, anxious to retrieve his hat, cane, and gloves, and be gone. Disappointment and frustration welled within, and he would take a brisk walk to shake off the hopes so ruthlessly dashed. But movement caught his eye through an open door on his right. It was a woman, sitting near a window.
Light poured in the window and outlined the breathtaking sight—an exquisite young lady. As though drawn by an invisible cord, he stood in the doorway. According to the strictures of noble etiquette, he shouldn’t enter the room, but he could stand here a moment, with propriety served by the open door.
Miss Southwood. Glorious, slim neck held in a beautiful posture, her classic profile angled down over her embroidery piece. The light coming in the window backlit her face.
The noble, perfect nose, the brow that spoke without words of the intelligence within, and the crown of glinty gold hair made his hands itch to touch it. All these components rivaled each other for prominence, and he reveled in the presence of a beauty of historical proportions.
~*~
Melissa started and dropped her needlework. She scrabbled for it and clutched it in a clump to her chest. She stared back at the masculine creature standing just inside the doorway.
The man’s fine looks were striking, yet familiar. But it was more the suddenness of a youngish man appearing before her that stunned her. His presence made her heart beat faster, and all he did was stand there.
With Lord Winstead a foregone conclusion, thus it came as a complete surprise to her she would encounter another young man, especially one who looked familiar. The strong shafts of sunlight glared, blotting out detail.
“Who...are you?” She stammered a bit, lacking her usual composure. And why was he here? She wanted to ask but held her tongue.
The man in the doorway stood over six feet tall and looked muscular. The white inexpressibles he wore hugged his thighs until disappearing into his shining Hessian boots. His subdued black tailcoat, snowy shirt, and cravat were immaculate.
As he took several steps into the room, she could see him clearly now. It was Lord Russell. His sea-blue eyes, high-planed cheekbones and lightly-tanned skin were a pleasure to behold. Crowned by a head of light brown sun-kissed wavy hair that obeyed the dictates of fashion as if it fell obediently on its own into the stylish mode of the times. She wanted to drink in the sight of him all day.
“Miss Southwood, don’t be afraid. I came here to meet with your father on, ahem, a business matter and passed the door. I spotted you and had to take this chance to pay my compliments.”
~*~
Mark made his bow from about six feet away from the young lady. She would have no way to make sense of how and why he had appeared in her drawing room. He didn’t want to scare her.
The palpable sweetness of her presence floored him. This was the girl of his dreams. He could see that now. During his recuperation at the vicarage, she’d tended him while he slipped in and out of consciousness. He daydreamed about this young lady. Miss Cleaver told stories about this particular girl. At the time, he’d no idea she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, nor that her father was after an aristocratic suitor—if only he’d been aware sooner.
Mark scrambled to improvise conversation and hoped she wasn’t about to send him on his way. “Do you remember me? I’m Lord Russell, the unfortunate victim you found in the ditch near Russelton.”
“Of course, I remember you.” Demure, she neatened her knitting. “Don’t you remember me calling on you with Mr. Cleaver?”
“How could I forget? Daffodils, I believe. Isn’t it amazing, your Miss Cleaver and I residing in the same burg?” Am I babbling? “I am referring to the proximity of my estate to Miss Cleaver’s retirement haven at her brother’s vicarage.”
“Yes, quite amazing. I certainly did recognize you, sir, just not immediately—the sun was glaring. Please meet my companion, Miss Dean.” Miss Southwood indicated, with a graceful gesture, the pale older woman who sat tatting, hitherto unseen, in a deep wing chair near the fireplace. He nodded and perched on the chair next to Miss Southwood.
He clung to each moment in her presence, the threat of dismissal hanging over him like a guillotine. Even though Mr. Southwood consigned him to the curb, he didn’t want Miss Southwood to send him away.
“You mustn’t stay long, but please do tell me, how are the Cleavers?”
His mind was rattled from nearness to Miss Southwood. He managed an answer, “When I left them, they were both in fine fettle. They’re good people. Not everyone would have taken on the burden of nursing me back to health. On top of all that, they shared the gospel with me.”
Her fingertips flew up to her cheeks. “How wonderful! They are precious friends.”
Mutual faith gave Mark’s surprise visit a much friendlier base than if he’d only the Russelton connection and the mutual acquaintance to build on.
The clatter of dropped needles broke the moment. Agitated, Miss Dean glanced at the clock, and then back at the chatty couple. “Fifteen minutes has elapsed, young people, and the extreme impropriety of this unsanctioned impromptu visit is striking.” Miss Dean’s face turned even paler. “Miss, what if your father comes and finds him here?”
Mark took the cue. He picked up Miss Southwood’s hand as he rose. He bowed over it, as a wave of some minty, refreshing scent wafted up. He breathed deep and said his farewell. “Miss Southwood, the pleasure of meeting you again has put me in high alt, this time in good health. I never expected the honor of meeting you once more. You have my heartfelt gratitude for the care you gave me when I was injured. My felicitations are yours, and if I may ever be of service, please make use of this.” He released her hand and stepped back, and deftly extracted a card from his vest pocket.
She stood, took his calling card, and gave a small curtsy. “Farewell, Lord Russell. Thank you for stopping to say hello. It’s been pleasant.”
It was good-bye. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave her cheery and sweet presence. But he smiled his amiabl
e best and bowed his way out of the room, no one else the wiser to his extended visit. As he exited the house, he marveled at the lightness of his steps and his heart.
~*~
Melissa held the card in her hand, studied it, and whispered, trying out the sound of his name on her lips.
Lord Russell.
The brief, unusual visit over, Miss Dean moved to a chair closer to Melissa’s, and they both went back to their needlework.
“Miss Dean, it is good you were here. What would I have done? I shudder to think of the embarrassment of perhaps having to call a footman.”
“Why did he say ‘recuperating’?” The companion spoke barely above a whisper.
“He had an accident near the vicarage where I was staying on a visit to the country. My hosts and I tended him whilst he was in and out of consciousness.”
“I see.” The companion lapsed into silence.
“How agreeable Lord Russell seems, no?”
“Yes, an agreeable gentleman, if I do venture my opinion. Not that I presume to judge my betters.” She pursed her lips. Miss Dean strived to keep to her place, even though Melissa treated her as an equal.
Melissa sighed. She wished she could tell the whole tale to Miss Dean, but it was probably better for her to forget about Lord Russell, else she’d forget about the man courting her.
The two women were subdued into silence. Melissa hummed a little melody reflecting her raised spirits. Would Papa relent and let her choose a suitor?
16
As with any young lady after a meeting with such a handsome, charming, and well-mannered man, Melissa found sleep elusive until the wee hours. But when she awoke the next day, it was with a new sense of resolve and purpose. She would meet with her father and hoped to convince him to be reasonable.
Melissa dressed with care. Her pink sprigged muslin with its scrumptious apple-green silk ribbon sash was a favorite. She tied on a pink ribbon to hold back her hair and donned pink velvet slippers. She selected pearl jewelry, hoping to appear more mature in her father’s eyes. A pirouette in front of the mirror, and she was ready to face her father.
A Match for Melissa Page 9