“Miss Dorothy Stainton?” he drawled. If Mrs. Polkinghorne were so desperate to be rid of the girl, there must be something terribly wrong with her. A squint, spots, or worse.
“Yes. With the five thousand pounds she will inherit, she would make you a most suitable wife.”
“As would any of your daughters or the younger girl—Miss Grace Stainton,” he suggested, fastening his hooded gaze on his hostess. “The youngest Stainton is accounted to be the beauty in the family—or so I was given to understand by those who have seen her.”
“My oldest niece is quite attractive, I assure you.” Mrs. Polkinghorne sat up straighter, her eyes hardening. “And I have plans for the youngest—my dear little Grace.”
Plans, indeed. Mrs. Polkinghorne had obviously been chagrined when their elderly aunt had left money only to the girls, leaving her son without his fair share. Perhaps she hoped to correct the situation by marrying Grace to her darling Stephen, thereby gaining five thousand for him.
Which made Marcus want to rescue Grace even more from such a fate. He’d met Stephen several times, and while the boy wasn’t bad looking, Marcus had been genuinely impressed by the boy’s determination to excel at bootlicking, brown-nosing, and other such vocations. No doubt, he would one day become an excellent politician, as long as there were sufficient noble boots to lick and toadying to be done.
Perhaps Marcus’s opinion was too harsh, and the boy would grow out of his unpleasant ways. Or grow ever worse.
“And your daughters are too young,” he said thoughtfully. Not that he wished to marry any of Mrs. Polkinghorne’s offspring, any more than he wished to marry the unseen Miss Stainton.
The Polkinghorne name might be an excellent one, but he cherished no desire to be related to Mrs. Polkinghorne or her dour husband.
“Yes—Cecilia will come out next year, but her father…” Mrs. Polkinghorne shut her mouth, pressing her lips into a thin line. Clearly her plans had not been discussed with her husband, and she had no intention of letting Marcus in on them, either. “No, it must be Dorothy. She is the eldest, and she is quite an agreeable girl.”
“And if she does not agree?”
Mrs. Polkinghorne laughed. “She will, I assure you. She will never get a better offer. And if you do not find her acceptable, perhaps Grace…” She shook her head, her hands plucking at the soft folds of her silken skirts. “Dorothy is older, and Grace is closer in age to my… No, I am sure you will be quite pleased with Dorothy. She is an attractive, healthy girl and will suit you admirably.”
Suit my purposes like a brood mare, to be bought and bred to obtain an heir? Disgusting though the thought was, the hard truth was that one day, he would have to do just that: marry and beget an heir. There was too much dependent—too many people dependent—upon the continuation of the Chenneour line to ignore his responsibilities forever, though he’d hoped to wait until he was well into his thirties to do so.
“There are a great many ladies with fine dowries who might also suit me admirably,” he pointed out, expertly needling her just when she believed she was about to grasp the prize.
“But it is nearing the end of the Season. Most—the acceptable, well-dowered ones, at least—have already entered into marriage contracts.” She smoothed back a gray-blond curl from her narrow forehead. “And I do not see how I am to repay you, if we cannot come to some agreement.”
“Surely, Mr. Polkinghorne—”
“There is no need to bring him into it. Will you not consider it? It would suit both of us so well.”
“It may not suit Miss Stainton at all well.”
Mrs. Polkinghorne waved a hand airily. “She is a sensible girl and will be very pleased, I’m sure. Her sister, after all, is to be married to a mere baron—and an impoverished one, at that. If Dorothy accepts, she will marry an earl! She cannot hope for a better offer.”
“She might still have other hopes,” he murmured under his breath. Sighing, he placed his cup and saucer on the low table in front of him. In truth, he might be doing Miss Stainton a service to marry her and take her away from her aunt’s house. He might even suggest that her younger sister slip out of the clutches of Mrs. Polkinghorne and her son, as well. The girl could provide Miss Dorothy Stainton with company and give Miss Grace the opportunity and time to marry as she wished. And Mrs. Polkinghorne had already indicated—no matter how indelicately—that marriage would certainly be a step toward shouldering his own responsibilities. He had to marry eventually.
It might as well be Miss Stainton. And there were advantages. Marrying her would allow him to avoid next Season’s batch of simpering debutantes, all eager to catch the attention of a marriageable peer of the realm, regardless of age, appearance, or foul reputation.
His father’s voice echoed in his memory, “Love is for the lower orders, Marcus. Forget it. Do your duty and all will be well.” Fine advice from a man who gave the appearance of being very much in love with his own wife—a woman he’d known for years and married as soon as her parents permitted the union.
Such happy alliances were rare, however, regardless of social class.
“Very well.” He stood and smoothed the lapels of his deep blue jacket. “If Miss Stainton agrees, then I can do no less. You will have to notify your husband, however. Our lawyers must draw up the appropriate contracts, and as you indicated, he is acting as the executor of your great-aunt’s will.”
Mrs. Polkinghorne sprang to her feet, her hands clasped together and beaming with pleasure. “Indeed—oh, he shall be so pleased to see our dear Dorothy settled so well, my lord.”
“I’m sure he will,” Marcus replied dryly. When he opened the door, the hallway was empty. Whoever had stood there was gone. “I bid you good afternoon.”
“Oh, yes! Good afternoon!” Mrs. Polkinghorne echoed gleefully as she followed him to the front door.
In her excitement, she opened the door herself and ushered him out, babbling pleasantries and waving until he disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Four
Marry!? Dorothy pressed a hand against her chest, trying to control her panic as she raced upstairs to the room she shared with her sister. She should have tried to look into the drawing room instead of just listening at the door.
He sounded so cold—inhuman. How could she marry him? Just because he was an earl? Such lofty titles meant nothing to her. She didn’t even know him. If she passed him on the street, she wouldn’t even recognize him!
But better her than Grace—that much she’d already resolved.
And five thousand pounds? They were heiresses and didn’t even know it! Why hadn’t Uncle Cyril told them?
Martha would certainly be pleased, though. Soon to be married and now gifted with a fortune…
And Grace… Why, with five thousand, she could return to Kendle and marry Mr. Blyth, after all. That would mean two of the three sisters would marry their heart’s desire, just leaving Dorothy…
Her stomach sank as her thoughts whirled back around to her first resolution. If she refused to marry the earl, her aunt might force Grace to do so. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Grace would be miserable.
Thoughts churning, Dorothy pushed open the door to her bedroom and walked inside. Her forehead and nose slammed into the open wardrobe door with a sudden burst of pain.
“Ow! Grace! You left the wardrobe open, again!” She stopped and rubbed her forehead with one hand and pushed the offending door closed with the other. A bruise was already forming—she could just feel it.
After several weeks living here, she ought to be used to the location of the wardrobe and the fact that Grace almost always left the door open. Unfortunately, Dorothy had been too distracted and, for a moment, thought she was in her old room at their home in Kendle.
When she glared across the room, preparing to scold her younger sister, she realized that the room was empty. Then she remembered that Grace had agreed to walk to Hyde Park with the younger Polkinghorne girls, Jane and Katherine. Th
eir young cousins had improved somewhat since their last visit, and Grace seemed happy enough to flit about London with them, shopping on Bond Street and walking in various parks to eye the town beaus and remark on the exquisite gowns of the other ladies.
If Dorothy knew her sister, the three of them would be gone for at least an hour.
Which was all for the best as it gave Dorothy time to consider what she had overheard. Her hands twisted together as she walked to the bedroom window and glanced down at the bustling street below. She wasn’t sure how she felt about anything, anymore. The teeming streets, noise, and strange aromas of London both repelled and attracted her—she hadn’t even grown accustomed to the city, and here she was, trying to decide how she should respond to her aunt’s arrangements for her to marry an earl.
An earl!
She’d never dared to imagine marrying a peer of the realm, even after Martha had surprised them all by receiving an offer from a baron. Dorothy always thought she would find a nice, ordinary man, someone not too rich and not too poor, and settle down to a quiet life in the country. Of late, she envied her sister, Martha, more and more. Somehow, Martha had managed to find love with a childhood friend and stay in familiar, comfortable surroundings, while Dorothy and Grace had to move to the bustling city.
London was exciting and different, but it did not feel like home, even when Mrs. Polkinghorne was obviously making the effort to welcome them. Not to mention finding them eligible men to marry. She’d even found Dorothy an earl, of all things. Any normal girl would be positively swooning in ecstasy over the notion.
In contrast, here was Dorothy, fretting and irritated that her future should be settled so expeditiously after only a few weeks. The London Season was winding down, and no doubt the earl—what was his name? Lord Arundell? He was probably the catch of the Season. Most people would say she was simply being selfish and ungrateful.
Of course, he might also be stout, balding, and as toothless as an old toad, for all she knew. Although she hadn’t heard the entire conversation, she’d gotten the impression that he needed to marry, so perhaps he was quite old as well and in a hurry to beget heirs.
That unpleasant thought made her stomach clench and rumble again. She twisted her hands together, watching an old carriage rattle past in the street below without really seeing it.
Perhaps she could return to Kendle—no, Ashford, now—and throw herself on her sister’s mercy. Martha would certainly welcome her. They had always been close, and Martha was due to marry Lord Ashbourne soon. By the time Dorothy arrived, Martha might already be married and settled comfortably.
A snort of exasperation with herself escaped her. She rubbed the sore spot on her forehead again. She was being ridiculous. She could not intrude on Martha so soon. Why, she hadn’t even married, yet. And what about Grace?
Hadn’t Aunt Mary said something about an inheritance due to them? Another solution occurred to Dorothy. She and Grace might be able to return to Kendle and rent a little cottage. In time, Grace and Mr. Blyth might even marry.
Leaving me quite alone. Thoughts cascaded through her mind, faster and faster, whirling like the fall leaves in a gust of frigid autumn wind. Mr. Polkinghorne would no doubt wish to control their inheritance until they were settled to his satisfaction, at which point he could hand the reins of management over to their husbands. It was the way of the world, and made the pleasure of widows who managed to gain control of their fortunes and destiny after the death of their husbands all the more understandable.
Dorothy wouldn’t mind being a merry widow, although the obedient wife period before the merry part seemed a little unfortunate.
Maybe if Lord Arundell truly were the elderly bachelor she feared, he would clutch his chest and drop dead to the church floor upon conclusion of the wedding ceremony. She smiled and rested her forehead against a cool pane of window glass.
That was rather a bloodthirsty thought, but a lady could dream, couldn’t she?
She was still fretting over increasingly outlandish notions when her sister returned, only a half hour before supper and in a hurry to dress. On impulse, Dorothy kept her news to herself.
After all, it might not even come to fruition, she decided. Marriage contracts were tricky things, and her uncle was inclined to wring every advantage possible out of any situation. He might irritate the earl enough to make him cry off from the whole thing.
This prospect seemed even more probable when first one week and then another passed without any visit from the earl or announcement from either Uncle Cyril or Aunt Mary. Some of the tension that had settled as a dull ache between Dorothy’s shoulder blades eased.
She’d been worried over nothing, it seemed.
Life settled into a pleasant routine. Dorothy joined her sister, along with Jane and Katherine, on several of their outings, and they often persuaded Stephen to escort them in the family’s landau to the new London Bridge to see the progress on its construction. The new bridge was due to open in just a few weeks, early in August, and it already looked quite done to Dorothy.
Stephen was not loath to join them as he seemed to have developed a partiality for Grace. He was forever following her around, offering to fetch this or that item or to escort her to any destination in London and giving her extravagant compliments. Much to Dorothy’s surprise, Grace tolerated it very well, although once or twice she’d rolled her eyes during one of Stephen’s more prolonged discourses extolling her incomparable beauty in the loftiest terms.
As for her, Dorothy had to force herself to display even a pretense of happiness in his company. There was something so unctuous, so patently false about him, that she often wondered what he truly felt. Once or twice when she’d caught his gaze upon her, she could have sworn he disliked her heartily from his narrowed eyes and compressed mouth. Nonetheless, he kept up a pretense of agreeableness as he dogged Grace’s footsteps.
And while Dorothy was the first to admit that Grace was the beauty of the family, she was hardly Helen of Troy and Venus rolled into one as Stephen claimed. Nor was she the precise image of Praxiteles’s statue of Aphrodite of Knidos, modeled on the courtesan Phryne and later lost to history, as he exclaimed extravagantly—and somewhat suggestively, Dorothy thought, since the original sculpture was reputed to be of a nude female figure.
He may have thought the reference showed him to be a well-educated intellectual, but in reality, he just sounded more sycophantic and ludicrous than ever when he said it.
At least Jane and Katherine had improved with time and appeared pleased to have Grace to introduce to the sights of London and escape from the endless piles of sewing that normally occupied their time.
Life seemed to be settling into a more-or-less pleasant routine when Aunt Mary cleared her throat and looked around the supper table one evening.
“Before we ladies leave the men to their port—” She flushed when she caught sight of her husband’s lowered brows and frowning face. “Um, important discussions of the day’s business, of course.” She beamed at him.
Uncle Cyril huffed and turned his attention back to the last bit of apple dumpling in his bowl.
“In any event, you will all be pleased to learn that we will be hosting a supper party on Wednesday next, and we are to be honored by the presence of Lord Arundell!” Aunt Mary flashed a smile at Dorothy before patting the corners of her mouth with her serviette.
Covering her mouth with her linen serviette, Cecilia snickered and leaned her shoulder against Dorothy. “The evil earl! If he’s coming to eat with us mere mortals, I can only suppose we are his last resort for any sort of a social life after everything he’s done.”
“What he’s done?” Dorothy stiffened and gave her cousin a small shove to get her to stop pressing her weight against her before Dorothy fell entirely out of her chair. “What do you mean? What has he done?”
Cecilia only giggled and straightened as her mother rose to her feet.
“Girls,” Aunt Mary said. “Let us retire to the d
rawing room. Your father wishes to entertain our supper guest with music, so we must review the music we have available to find a few appropriate pieces.”
Groaning in harmony, Jane and Katherine exchanged glances as they threw their serviettes down on the table and got to their feet. Grace just smiled sweetly. She—like Dorothy—was hopeless as a musician and obviously expected to be excluded from the horrors of a public performance.
“Do you girls play the pianoforte?” Aunt Mary asked as she shepherded them to the drawing room on the first floor.
“No. Not at all,” Dorothy replied firmly.
Aunt Mary frowned at her as they trooped obediently into the dainty yellow and green drawing room and took seats around the marble fireplace. “Have you no accomplishments at all?”
“Dorothy embroiders quite well,” Grace replied, a saucy twinkle in her blue eyes. “And she does wonderfully dramatic readings from Byron—why I believe she even memorized Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage last summer, did you not, Dorothy?”
Jane and Katherine giggled behind their hands.
Sighing, Dorothy shook her head. “It has been so long that I fear I can no longer remember it. And since Uncle Timothy now has father’s library, including his volume of Byron’s poetry, it is impossible for me to contribute, much as I would like to do so.”
Squirming on the sofa, Jane reached over and squeezed Grace’s arm. Wide-eyed and with patently false innocence, she declared, “Oh, but I have Byron’s complete works, Cousin Dorothy! So you need not be excluded, after all.”
Dorothy stared at her with undisguised loathing as Jane covered her mouth with one hand and giggled. In an appalling act of betrayal, Grace snorted with laughter.
“How perfect!” Aunt Mary looked at Dorothy, smiling with approval. “Then we shall have Cecilia play the pianoforte while you, dear Dorothy, recite something from Byron.”
When Dorothy opened her mouth to protest, Aunt Mary leaned forward to clasp her wrist and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Lord Arundell shall be very pleased, I am sure, to hear whatever poetry you wish to recite—it need not be Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage if you cannot recall it.” She sat back with an air of satisfied decisiveness, clasping her hands in her lap. “And your uncle cannot object to that! It is not frivolous—which he always finds objectionable. Why, it is quite intellectual, is it not?”
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