by Claudia Dain
It must be a horrid thing to be required to fuss over a sister, seeing that her good name remained good, that she married a proper gentleman, and that she didn’t shame her family in any way remotely obvious. Terrible burden. He was quite relieved not to have to bear it.
Still, as a man, he supposed he ought to feel some sense of responsibility. Not to the women, naturally, but to the men. That was logical. Completely.
He really should tell someone, someone who would care, who did have the unwelcome responsibility of maintaining and enforcing a sister’s good name.
Raithby, nodding absently, listening to only every fourth word or so of what the Marquis of Penrith was saying, which as Penrith was talking about how worried he was concerning the safety of his sister and mother, who were traveling in Italy, was quite effortless to ignore as well as being quite ironic, looked about the room for a man he might confide in.
He spotted George Prestwick near the doorway to the red reception room. George Prestwick, the man who had got the idea of sisters in his head in the first place.
Again, ironic.
The Duke of Edenham wanted to marry again. He had suspected he wanted to marry again before seeing Miss Jane Elliot. Seeing Miss Elliot had forced the conclusion and provided him with the focus for his quest. She was beautiful. A mild description for what she was. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. There was something about her beauty, some noble quality to it, some classical aspect to the arrangement of her features that called to him as a Greek siren of old.
He would marry her.
She was an American, true, but her uncle was a duke and her upbringing gave no hint of having been shoddy.
There was the fact that she had not reacted in any way to him. He was not accustomed to that. Women either reacted to him a bit nervously, the tragedy of having buried three wives clouding their judgment, or they fawned over him.
He enjoyed neither response, yet, as it was the norm, he had become acclimated to it.
Miss Jane Elliot had not seemed impressed by him in the slightest, though as she was an American, he had wondered at the accuracy of his observations. Sophia Dalby put a nail in his uncertainty. According to Sophia, Jane did not find him appealing. No, nor intriguing, and definitely not desirable. In fact, upon silently reviewing Sophia’s list of his attributes, as well as reviewing the manner in which she listed them, he found he could not think of any reason for Jane Elliot to want to marry him that did not involve his being a duke of England.
Which was flatly preposterous.
“I am not old,” Edenham said a bit stiffly.
“Darling,” Sophia said with a smile, “hardly that. I did not say you were old, only that you are far older than Miss Elliot. She is, I would guess, not much above twenty. And you are, what? Forty?”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m just thirty-eight. Not even two months ago. I’m hardly doddering.”
He said it grimly. He could hear it in his voice. Sophia would shred him to bits if he did not pull his composure about him and display a more vigorous resolve.
Thirty-eight was not old. He was in his utter and complete prime.
“And naturally, you look marvelous,” she said. “It is only that, to be precise, my observation was that you are quite a bit older than she, not that you were in any way not absolute perfection as a man. Which you are. And which you know perfectly well, Edenham. I can’t think but that it’s an abysmal habit to fall into, that of arranging for people to compliment you at every turn.”
Edenham barked out a laugh. “You, of all people, say that to me?”
It was a well-known fact, indeed nearly a legend, that Sophia Dalby arranged for compliments, and gifts, nearly upon the hour. Not that anyone faulted her for it. She was very good at it and quite deserving of whatever she received. She made certain everyone knew that as well.
“I’m the ideal person to say, darling. I understand the urge so completely.” Sophia smiled unrepentantly at him, which resulted in his smiling at her in return. She was very like that, the sort of woman one simply had to laugh with.
It was why he enjoyed her friendship so fully. Most people, and nearly all women, found him somewhat distant, or at least he was treated distantly, if not fearfully. Sophia did not fear him, far from it. She tweaked his beard mercilessly.
Which, now that he put it to mind, might be exactly what she was doing now regarding his intention to marry Jane Elliot.
Of course. That was it. That made more sense than a lovely girl from a slightly backward nation not being perfectly and immediately available to him, especially as he was a duke, not in spite of it.
Damn Sophia for having a bit of fun when he was at his most earnest.
“Sophia, I will compliment you upon the hour for the remainder of the Season if you can aid me in arranging things with Miss Elliot.”
“Darling, I do think you do me an injustice. I’m quite certain I could induce you to compliment me upon the hour without the addition of Miss Elliot to the mix. But, seriously, Edenham, you are jesting, certainly. Why should you want to marry Miss Elliot?”
She was forcing him to put it into words. It would sound ludicrous when spoken, he knew that. Yet, if that was the price for her aid, and he knew without hesitation that if Sophia lent her weight to the issue all would fall in his favor, he would pay it promptly. She was, after all, on quite intimate terms with Molly Hyde and clearly had a warm connection with the Elliots of America. Who else was there to consider when arranging a marriage? He’d done it three times. He knew how the game played out, the important players in the arrangement and how a competent marriage contract was constructed. If anyone in Society knew how to make a marriage, it was he. He had more than enough experience at it, hadn’t he?
“She’s exquisitely beautiful,” he said simply.
“She is that,” Sophia said, smiling pleasantly. “You have noticed, I must assume, that there are other beautiful women in Town?”
“Not as beautiful as she,” he said. It was nothing but the truth. He had seen her, had felt the bolt of love pierce his heart, and determined to marry her within the instant. One look at her remarkable face, and he had known it.
“She is exquisite,” Sophia agreed. “You find it no hindrance that she is an American?”
“As the Duke of Hyde is her uncle, I do not,” Edenham said, which was nothing but the truth and perfectly reasonable. “She is well connected to a fine family. I should think that Hyde would be most pleased by a connection to my house.”
“Oh, certainly,” Sophia said, nodding, waving her fan over the lower portion of her face. Hiding a smile? There was certainly nothing amusing about their exchange. One was never quite certain of such things when dealing with Sophia; she had a most exaggerated sense of the humorous. Usually, he found that a delightful quality. It was most displaced now, however. “Yet what of her brothers, whom you’ve just met, and her parents, whom you have not? Do you think they will be equally as desirous of a connection to a duke of the realm?”
“I should think so. They appeared to be reasonable, capable men, if a bit churlish on occasion.”
“And what would that occasion have been, Edenham?” Sophia prompted, her fan moving more vigorously.
Damned annoying bit of female nonsense. Women and their blasted fans. Attempt a serious discussion with one and their fans positively leapt about their persons. “Darling?” Sophia prompted.
Edenham thought back to his first sight of Jane Elliot, to his fall into bottomless love, to his determination to marry her, and then to his actual meeting of her. And her brothers. He had not been paying much attention to the conversation, truth be told, his heart and mind settling so quickly upon Jane that he could not hold to the conversation for more than the few bits and pieces that wormed their way past the chorus in his head that sang of his love for her and his urgent need to marry her.
There had, he was entirely certain, been a great deal of controv
ersy over whether Jane should either stay or go. That was one of the points he wanted Sophia to manage, though it looked nearly managed now. There had also been, he was somewhat certain, a slight discomfort, perhaps even something so strong as distrust, emanating from the Elliot men and aimed fairly precisely at . . . at . . . why, at Edenham and Ruan, now that he puzzled it out.
“I shan’t believe it,” Edenham said abruptly, the penny having dropped. “They are firmly and not unhappily related to Hyde!”
“Are they? You assume very much, I think,” Sophia said, finally moving that damned fan away from her face.
“They are American, darling. Very firmly and not unhappily American.”
“When she marries me, she shall be as British as I am.
As British as you are, Sophia. You were from America once. You are British now.”
Sophia looked up at him, her dark eyes sparkling speculatively. “That is likely your greatest problem, Edenham. Have you not considered that the Elliots may not want their sister to become an English duchess? As to that, why do you believe Miss Elliot would?”
“Because,” he sputtered, “she, that is, a woman, all women want to be . . .”
“A duchess?” Sophia finished for him. “I think you might find that Miss Elliot views such matters through a different lens. In your pursuit of her, I do encourage you to try and remember that. This will likely not be a courtship that resembles the pattern of your previous wives. It will call for some creativity and flexibility on your part. Are you up to it, Edenham? Can you adapt your skills enough to catch what I am certain will be a very elusive Miss Jane Elliot?”
“Most assuredly,” he said. Was there any doubt of it?
None. He was a duke of England. He could manage an inexperienced miss from the former colony of New York.
And her surly brothers, as well. Though perhaps not all three at once. Not without Sophia to aid him. “You will aid me?”
“Darling Edenham, I will do everything in my power to see that you achieve everything you deserve.”
He was immediately comforted. And then, upon turning the words over again in his mind, was slightly more suspicious than comforted. Still, Sophia was his best avenue to marriage with Jane Elliot, and if the avenue was dark and bumpy, he was prepared for a few jolts. He was a duke.
What was the worst that could happen?
Five
George Prestwick, as had very many people in the room, witnessed the Duke of Edenham fall into a near stupor upon meeting Miss Elliot. As she was a remarkably beautiful woman, it was no mystery as to why Edenham had plunged. The question was, what was Edenham going to do about it?
That question had been answered almost before being fully born. Edenham had nearly dragged Sophia Dalby into a corner and engaged her in a most earnest conversation for nearly a quarter hour.
The current question, and one did have to keep one’s wits fully about one as things were progressing at a furious rate, so furious in fact that no one had found the opportunity to place a single wager yet, was whether Edenham would marry Jane Elliot or simply seduce her. As her brothers were very much present, and not the sort of brothers one discounted in questions of this sort, the situation became very much more complicated.
It was as George was considering with whom to place his wager and what precisely his wager should be, marriage or seduction, that the Lords Raithby and Penrith joined him.
Raithby, whom George knew only very slightly, was the Earl of Quinton’s heir, and one of those horse-mad gentlemen who rarely left the paddocks for the reception rooms of Mayfair. That he was in attendance at the wedding feast of Hyde’s heir was likely due entirely to the fact that the Earl of Quinton was in attendance today as well. Quinton, quite a quiet man, though of a forceful nature, was not likely to have looked kindly on his son missing something as important as that.
Raithby was lean, tallish, possessed of blue eyes and dark hair, and sported a scar upon his left cheekbone that was reputedly the mark of a quirt delivered by some fellow in a horse race. Raithby had been riding a bay mare. Raithby had won. This anecdote, illustrating both Raithby’s prowess and devotion to the race, as well as the origin of the scar, was well known and oft repeated in White’s coffee room. George had heard it three times in a single month, in fact.
The Marquis of Penrith, slightly older than Raithby, was often to be found in the reception rooms of Mayfair, and in their ballrooms and dining rooms and stair halls as well. Penrith was golden-haired and green-eyed and quite a convivial fellow. He was so convivial, in fact, that most of the mamas of the ton would not allow their daughters anywhere near him. It was something about his voice, apparently, some husky vibration that very nearly sent proper young girls running into his arms, where they were quickly removed of their propriety. Or that was the rumor.
George was not so well connected that he had witnessed anything of that sort for himself. But he shouldn’t mind to, as long as the girl wasn’t his sister. As Penelope had been married just this morning, he found he could relax in ways he hadn’t done for a full year, if not more. Penelope, as much as he loved her, was . . . challenging.
“Prestwick,” Raithby said by way of greeting.
“Raithby. Penrith,” George responded.
Penrith looked at him curiously. Raithby looked around the room for a bit, cleared his throat, looked him in the eye, and then dropped his gaze in the vicinity of his second waistcoat button. Most unusual.
“About your sister,” Raithby said softly, “good bit of work today, isn’t it?”
“It is,” George said, though he did wonder at the phras-ing of Raithby’s congratulatory message.
Raithby nodded, still staring at George’s waistcoat button.
“Hyde must be delighted,” Penrith said. “Though I have not seen him. Have you, Prestwick?”
“At the ceremony, but not since,” George said. “I do think him a most private man, rather like Iveston in that, I daresay.”
“Yes, one seldom sees Hyde out beyond his responsibilities in the Lords and the occasional evening spent at White’s,” Penrith said, “and even then, one seldom hears him speak much. Lord Iveston appears very like him.”
Raithby simply nodded at all of this, his gaze having moved up a single button. George supposed that, eventually, Raithby might work his way up to staring him in the eyes.
“According to Pen,” George said, “Lord Iveston has very much to say, if he is interested enough in the conversation.
I must say that I’ve found him to be a very agreeable sort.”
“And speaking of sisters,” Raithby said, which was not precisely what they had been speaking of, but as George and Penrith were also agreeable, they waited politely for Raithby to drag the conversation onto the topic of sisters,
“I . . . you may remember that I do not have one.”
“I’m so sorry,” George said, grinning. “Is it that you want one? I suppose the earl may still have it in him to pro-vide you with one, Raithby. Buck up. Hope springs eternal and all that.”
Penrith chuckled and ducked his head, his green eyes studying Raithby’s face. “A bit late in the game to start wishing for a sister now, isn’t it? I should think that, if you want a woman about, there are more pleasant ways to see it done.”
Raithby did not look at all pleased, but neither did he look offended. He simply took an audible breath and said,
“Yes, mock me if it pleases you, but I’m about trying to do something damned near noble and I should like at least a bit of tolerance shown me. I have no sister. I have none of the worries that go with having one, which, if you will remember our conversation that singular evening at Lady Lanreath’s soiree, you impressed upon me with scalding morbidity.”
“Oh, not that,” George said. “Please tell me I was not morbid. I do think I must have managed it better than that.”
“You did not,” Penrith said airily, “though no one blames you in the slightest, Prestw
ick, as it was your sister and Iveston’s cravat was a scandal.”
“And again we are back to sisters, of which I have none, yet I find that I have acquired a certain sensitivity that is not at all welcome, let me assure you, and feel I must take the part of a brother, or at least a man, in the current situation,” Raithby said in a rush of pent-up emotion.
“The current situation?” George prodded.
“That of Edenham and Miss Elliot, I should think,”
Penrith offered.
Raithby nodded, his blue eyes gleaming. “I think there must be something afoot and while it does not affect me in the slightest degree, I do think that, well, perhaps we men ought to hold together and blunt things if at all possible.
She is a sister, after all.”
“Miss Elliot,” George prompted.
“Precisely,” Raithby said.
“And you propose . . . ?” George inquired, his eyebrows raised.
“That we inform her brothers of what’s happening. Or going to happen,” Raithby said.
“Or might not happen at all,” George said.
“Don’t be absurd, Prestwick,” Penrith said on a snort of derision. “Edenham has been chatting up Sophia Dalby for nearly half an hour. They’re practically at the baptism of their first child.”
“Not Sophia and Edenham’s,” George said.
“I know you’re not blind, Prestwick,” Penrith said. “’Tis Miss Elliot who has Edenham jumping out of his cravat.”
“Not cravats again,” George moaned softly.
“You would prefer boots?” Penrith said, laughing.
“Ridiculous,” Raithby muttered. “It is not at all necessary to remove one’s boots. Do be serious, I beg you. This is awkward enough. I feel very much like a boy telling tales to the headmaster.”