by Eloisa James
“Extremely unkind of you,” Annabel said. But she was grinning. “Believe me, Josie, if Mayne turns out to be as rich as our guardian, I will be kind to him all day. Why wouldn’t I? The only thing that makes me crotchety is poverty. Well, poverty and Scotland.”
“I miss Scotland and—” But Josie broke off and swallowed.
“You can’t honestly say that you miss Scotland,” Annabel said. “Not that soggy old house and the way it smelled like peat every time it rained. Have you ever seen a counterpane as lovely as this one?” She smoothed the fabric with her hand. “My sheets are as fine as silk itself. I’ve never seen the like in my life. And look—” She gestured upward.
All four sisters obediently stared up at the midnight blue canopy that graced Tess’s four-poster.
“No water blotches!” Annabel pointed out. “The roof doesn’t leak.”
“We don’t know that,” Josie objected. “There’s another floor above us, you know.”
“As there was in the bedchamber I had at home,” Annabel argued. “Not to mention the attic above that. But there wasn’t a room in Papa’s house that didn’t have watermarks on the ceiling, even so. Sometimes I thought the nursery had a regular sieve for a roof. And why Papa never—”
“Don’t say anything mean about Papa!” Josie said. Her lips set in a firm line. “Don’t you dare!”
Annabel reached over and tweaked her little sister’s toe. “All right, you little termagant, I won’t.”
“He’s not here to defend himself,” Josie said, her voice arching high in a way that obviously embarrassed her. “I wish he were here. He would have laughed himself blue in the face over Lady Clarice.”
Imogen smiled faintly. “Hush about my future mother-in-law.” But somehow the ancient jest that she would marry Maitland someday fell flat now that they’d actually seen the man in England, and met his mother, and heard of his engagement from lips other than his.
Tess bit her lower lip and scooted over a few inches so that she was sitting just beside Imogen. They had always known Imogen’s love for Maitland would come to nothing, but it was so hard to tell her so.
She met Annabel’s eyes and saw the same awareness in her eyes. Imogen would never be able to marry young Lord Maitland, with his driven, ambitious mother and his oh-so-dowried fiancée. Not that he showed any particular desire to marry Imogen, if he were free. Other than giving her a few scrawled notes and one kiss, he had never—
Imogen interrupted her thoughts. “He behaved badly at dinner because he is distraught,” she said fiercely. “He doesn’t wish to marry Miss Pythian-Adams, no matter how cultivated she is. I think he is beginning to love me.”
“One would have to suppose that he’s hiding his emotion, if that’s the case,” Josie said, in her usual blunt fashion. “What on earth did Maitland do at supper?”
“He was overcome with emotion and left the table,” Imogen said. Her eyes were teary now. “Obviously his mother has chosen his bride. It’s just like Romeo and Juliet when Lady Capulet was determined Juliet should marry Paris. And Pyramus and Thisby too. Wasn’t Pyramus’s father determined to marry him to someone he abhorred?”
“That must have been before Thisby was eaten by a lion,” Annabel said. “I’m so glad that I’m not the type to be overtaken by passion. I have the greatest wish not to be munched by a wild animal. The whole business of love seems not at all in my style.”
“I wish I were like you,” Imogen said. She stared up at the canopy, her eyes a little teary.
“It’s much more comfortable this way,” Annabel said, patting Imogen’s foot as if to encourage her in the pursuit of logic. “I have no expectation of love and every expectation of making a worthy marriage. I assure you that life is truly relaxing when there is no expectation of heartbreak.”
“I suppose I shall just have to—to resign myself to a loveless life,” Imogen said in a rather choked voice.
They were all silent for a moment. Imogen had been so long possessed by the idea of marrying Draven Maitland that it was hard to imagine her no longer in love. No longer scribbling Imogen Maitland on every piece of discarded foolscap she could find. No longer studying etiquette books so that she would know the proper precedence of all the Maitland relatives.
“I’m sorry that we nurtured the hope,” Tess said, stroking Imogen’s hair. “We shouldn’t have let you dream for so long.”
“I do feel as if I’ve been living in a dream,” Imogen said, her voice a little choked. “Why did he kiss me, that time? Why did he—does he—look at me, in such a fashion? He must know that he cannot excuse himself from his engagement.”
Tess cleared her throat, trying to find a way to answer, but Imogen leaped in before she could formulate a thought.
“And don’t tell me that he merely wanted to dally with me in an improper fashion, because he didn’t! He didn’t! He never once tried unseemly behavior. And yet—and yet, all last winter, and the winter before, when he was in England, he must have known full well that his mother would never allow him to marry a penniless Scot. He could not help but be aware of her—her enthrallment with his future bride!”
“’Twas wrong of him,” Annabel ventured.
“Perhaps he couldn’t help flirting with you,” Josie put in. “Romeo was beside himself with passion, even though his family would never have agreed to the match.”
But Imogen pushed herself higher up against the pillows. “If Draven loved me as much as Romeo loved Juliet, he would declare himself,” she said flatly. “He may be miserable affianced to Miss Pythian-Adams, but he isn’t truly fighting his mother on the issue. He—he let Lady Clarice rattle on and on about Miss Pythian-Adams through the meal. Any fool could tell that she was warning me off. In truth, I think he may have reacted with anger not to his mother’s assault on me but because he was irritated with her for other reasons.”
“True enough,” Tess said, putting her arm around Imogen.
“At first I was happy when he was so rude to his mother,” Imogen continued. “But then I realized that he was just baiting her. He didn’t really mean to defend me, did he?”
“There will be someone else, someday,” Tess said after a moment, rocking her against her shoulder.
“No, there won’t,” Imogen said, wiping tears away with the linen sheet. “There won’t be, not for me. If I don’t marry Draven, I’ll marry no one.”
Imogen hadn’t braided her hair for bed yet, and it tumbled past her shoulders, sleek blue-black as a raven’s feather, her eyes a stormy blue slanting under perfect eyebrows. She was too beautiful and too dear to spend her life grieving over an irresponsible, uncaring boy.
“Then you’ll come and live with me and my fabulously wealthy spouse,” Annabel said, smiling at her. “We’ll spend all our days dressing in silks and dancing all night. Who needs a husband?”
“I’ll marry no one,” Imogen repeated, taking a deep breath. “It’s just the sort of person I am.”
“Then that’s settled,” Annabel said briskly. “I know you all think that I am jesting about the earl, but I am not. Frankly, I’m concerned that Holbrook may be ill prepared to bring us into society. I doubt he has ever been to Almack’s in his life. I would be surprised if our guardian knew the names of a tenth of the society matrons in London. How are we to depend on him to launch us properly on the season?”
There was a moment of silence. For all Tess’s new-found fondness for Rafe, she felt the truth of Annabel’s assessment.
“My maid reports that Mayne is quite unattached,” Annabel continued. “He is clearly a man of taste and breeding. He does not drink to excess. He can bring us into fashion, allowing the rest of you to find appropriate husbands.”
“What of plain Mr. Felton?” Tess asked.
“Not good enough for any of us,” Annabel said. “Just listen to all those things that Lady Clarice said about the importance of titles. I do believe she indicated that not one of us should look below the level of a baron.”
Josie said the very thing that Tess was thinking. “Now who’s the naive one?” she asked jeeringly. “A title will not keep the house warm, or so you said yourself. I’m guessing that plain Mr. Felton is worth more than the duke and the earl put together. Do you know who he has in his stable?” Her voice hushed. “He bought Pantaloon last year. And he has Royal Oak.”
“Pish-posh,” Annabel said. “That’s enough to convince me to pass him by, were he the Golden Ball himself. I’ve no wish to marry a horse-mad man and watch him liquidate his estate to buy a poor, swaybacked mare that couldn’t win the Derby if she tried.”
Josie’s voice was needle-sharp. “I hope that is not an interpretation of Papa’s buying practices, Annabel.”
But Annabel was off to bed. “It’s merely a statement of fact,” she said, pausing at the door. “I want a man who will think about buying me rubies, not about paying a thousand pounds for a horse. And I do believe that the Earl of Mayne is just the man for the purpose.”
“Did you like him, then?” Tess asked curiously, hugging her knees. Sometimes her younger sister seemed so much older and more worldly than she herself was. The earl rather frightened her, to be honest. It was something about how polished he was: polished and large and exquisitely dressed.
But Annabel grinned wickedly, and there wasn’t a shadow in her eyes. “I looked him over quite closely,” she said demurely. “Before and behind. He will do.”
“Annabel!” Tess squealed.
But she was off through the door, and the only thing they heard of her was an echo of laughter.
Chapter
8
Quite late that night
“The man who marries your eldest ward gets Something Wanton? In truth?” Mayne exclaimed.
“There were only four offspring of Patchem in all the British Isles,” Rafe confirmed. “And my lawyer just told me that each of my wards has one of those horses as her dowry. Something Wanton, as the eldest Thoroughbred, is Tess’s dowry. The other three are foals—two fillies and a colt.”
“A horse as a dowry,” Lucius commented. “A peculiar provision. This Brydone must have been an eccentric man.”
“He could have ordered the horses sold, and the proceeds converted to a dowry,” Rafe said. “But the will very clearly states that the horses are the dowry. I can only gather that he wanted his children to marry men who were as mad about horses as he was.”
“There’s nothing to stop a man of poor moral character from marrying one of the girls, and then selling the horse at auction,” Lucius pointed out. “Any of the four would bring at least eight hundred guineas at Tattersall’s. And since Something Wanton almost won the Ascot last year, he’d fetch even more.”
“The lucky man is not allowed to sell his wife’s dowry for a year,” Rafe said, looking back at the documents in his hand. “But, of course, you are right.”
“Something Wanton!” Mayne said. And then, with a broad grin: “Were you gentlemen aware that I am looking for a wife?”
“I will confess that the thought had occurred to me that perhaps I could persuade you or Lucius to marry my eldest ward,” Rafe said. “Teresa—Tess—is a beautiful woman.”
“Exquisite,” Lucius said briefly.
“You and she would be perfect for each other,” Rafe said, looking at Lucius. “She’s remarkably intelligent, and unlikely to serve you up tantrums. And you haven’t, as far as I know, any serious female interest at the moment.”
“This is a most improper conversation,” Lucius observed.
“Oh, don’t be so damned gentlemanly,” Rafe retorted. “If you don’t want to tie the ribbon, just say so.”
“You’re in luck, Rafe,” Mayne said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m considering it. But in truth, what is there to consider? She’s good-looking—not as gorgeous as Annabel of the golden curls, but pretty damn beautiful. My sister is forever nattering at me to find a wife. And here is a perfect wife: beautiful and endowed with a horse.” He swallowed another gulp of brandy. “She’ll need a bit of training in social niceties; those girls don’t seem to have spent overmuch time with a governess, but if she’s that intelligent, she’ll catch on quickly. I’ll do it.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. Mayne had been possessed of a wildness ever since he was rejected by a countess whom he wished to make his mistress. “Do you think to love her?” he said, finding the words queer on his tongue, even as he said them. But he was a guardian now; presumably this was the sort of question guardians asked prospective spouses. Or brothers asked men who wished to marry their sisters.
“Love…that I doubt,” Mayne replied, peering at the wallpaper through the golden film of brandy clinging to his glass. “But there’s no need for love between us. I shall be faithful and if not, discreet, and Tess shall probably be faithful, and if not, discreet. We shall enjoy each other’s company on a regular basis until I am pitched from a horse into a ditch somewhere.”
“Precisely as her father did,” Lucius put in, a warning in his voice.
“Most likely.”
“Or shot by an irritable husband?” Rafe inquired.
“Always a possibility.” That prospect didn’t seem to bother Mayne either.
Rafe stared at him. He didn’t know how to help his old friend, who appeared to spend all his time flitting from the bed of one married woman to another. Mayne never stayed long enough to break a heart: that was all that could be said of his nighttime activities. He was getting an edge, a sharp, twisting tongue, and a dissolute gleam in his eye that Rafe didn’t like.
And had no idea how to solve.
“If you hurt her,” he said, surprising himself yet again, “I’ll do you an injury, Mayne, for all you’re my friend. I know you think I’m a lazy—”
“Lazy?” Mayne interrupted, arching a mocking brow. “No. Just slowed to a genteel stroll by brandy knees.”
“You know what I’m saying.” Rafe turned to Lucius again. “Are you quite certain that you don’t wish to make an offer for Tess’s hand?”
“I would almost venture to guess that you’re showing prejudice against me,” Mayne interrupted, turning his glass again and again in the golden light.
“I am,” Rafe confirmed. “I think that Lucius would make Tess an admirable husband.”
“Stubble it!” Mayne said sharply. “I’ve offered for her, and Lucius doesn’t want her. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Why don’t you start brokering the lovely qualities of whoever’s next in line? Imogen is a raven-haired beauty. You do have three more girls to get off on the market, Rafe. No rest for the weary.”
“Why are they all unmarried?” Lucius asked. “It seems peculiar, given their ages. There’s three of them in their twenties: virtual spinsters, from an English point of view.”
“The Scots are all gelded,” Mayne said. “I loathe the entire country.”
“Perhaps there were deaths in the family that postponed their debut?” Lucius asked, ignoring Mayne. “When did their mother die?”
“My understanding is that their father never had the money to bring them out,” Rafe said. “According to my secretary, Wickham, the estate is in a terrible way. Wickham stayed for a few days helping the new viscount, who’d been living off in Caithness and hadn’t seen the estate in Roxburghshire for years. Apparently it was grim. All unentailed land that might have brought in rents had been sold years ago. The house was a monstrous pile, and falling about their ears. The new viscount was beside himself when he found that the horses were willed to the girls: all the money made on the estate in the past ten years had been poured into Brydone’s stables.”
“Brydone spent all his blunt on horses?” Mayne asked.
“He wasn’t niggardly with the girls. It’s just that there wasn’t anything to give, unless he were to sell one of his horses. From what Tess told me at supper, it seems he was counting on some big purse to bring them to London for a season.”
“And until that moment arrived, his four daughters were left to molder u
nmarried in a tumbledown house?” Lucius asked.
“He undoubtedly didn’t live up to your standards of gentlemanly behavior,” Rafe said, draining his glass. He had a fierce headache coming on. Too much brandy: one of these days he was going to have to give up the drink, for all it made life tolerable. The splitting headache seemed to come on earlier and earlier.
“Any number of men will line up to take the other three off your hands,” Mayne pointed out. “By the time the season opens, they’ll be out of mourning. I got the impression that Maitland is taken with Imogen. He’s got plenty of blunt.”
Rafe shook his head. “The marriage to Miss Pythian-Adams was set up years ago. What’s more, Maitland has run untamed ever since his father died, and lately he’s gone from bad to worse. He’s mad for racing and belts neck-or-nothing all over the countryside at all hours of the day and night. He’ll find himself planted, one of these days.”
“Not a bad way to go,” Mayne said idly.
“Don’t be a fool,” Rafe snapped at him. “If you’re to marry Tess, you’ll have to mend your ways. No more endearing yourself to married ladies and risking your neck.”
“I vow to be a model husband,” Mayne said, and there was such a deep strain of tedium in his voice that Rafe narrowed his eyes.
But Mayne continued. “I’ve given up married women, hadn’t you noticed?”
“No,” Rafe said bluntly.
“Well, I have.” He didn’t look up, just kept flipping a quill over and over in his long fingers. “Lady Godwin—and I never had her—was the last, and that was all of four months ago. So Tess will have me all to herself, such as I am.”
“That’s not a bad bargain,” Rafe said, his deep voice falling into the silence. “For all you seem to be inclined to think it so, Garret.”
Mayne looked up. “You know I loathe my Christian name, dammit.”
“Using it always wakes you up,” Rafe said. “Now you’re awake, I’ll have you ten to a hundred on a game of billiards.”
“I’m off to bed,” Lucius said, stretching.