by Leenie Brown
Linton nodded. “Yes, I know. Connie said as much.” He paused, his lips pressed together. “I think it best if you were to distance yourself from her for a time. Be seen with others, that sort of thing.”
Again, Henry’s heart sank. “Of course,” he agreed. What else could he do?
Linton rose. “I am happy you understand. It is not you that I am opposed to, it is just that Connie needs to find a match eventually, but she will hide behind whatever she can to put it off.”
Henry nodded and pushed out of his chair.
“I understand she has a list of possible candidates for you,” Linton continued. “All very good prospects.”
“Yes, they seemed very nice when I met them last night.” He had not found one that had interested him to any great extent, but it was a place to start. His estate needed an heir after all, and marrying was the only way to procure one. He followed Linton down the hall and to the library.
“Connie, Crawford is here. Shall I send for Aunt Gwladys or your maid?”
Constance snapped her book closed and stuffed her feet into her slippers quickly. “My maid. I fear Aunt Gwladys would have too many helpful ideas,” she said as she stood and straightened her skirts. She had meant to tuck her feet up under her and settle into the chair comfortably to read. However, her tired eyes would not cooperate, and she had eventually nodded off.
“Very well. I shall have your maid sent to you directly.”
“Thank you,” she called to the back of her brother.
“How are you today, Mr. Crawford?” she asked with what she hoped was a bright smile.
“I am well despite the weather,” he replied.
“It is a rather damp day, is it not?” she asked as she went to the desk to retrieve her list of names. “Much better suited to staying in bed with a good book and a cup of tea than being out and about.”
“Indeed,” he replied, his mind wandering to the image of Constance tucked up in bed. He shook his head — such thoughts would not do. He was not that man any longer. He pulled his list from his pocket. “I think I have listed all of the things I prefer a lady to be,” he said as he joined her in front of the fire.
She put out her hand, and he placed his list in it and then pulled a chair next to hers so that they could both read the lists she held.
“As you can see, I divided it into character qualities and physical attributes. Obviously, the character qualities will be of greater concern.”
“A gentleman does not want a dowdy wife any more than a lady wishes for a stodgy husband,” Constance said with a smile. “As long as we are agreed that a lady’s appearance, though pleasant, is not so important as how she will treat you, your estate, and your children.” Her gaze fell to the pages she held. His children. One of these ladies might just be the one that would call Everingham home and be the mother of Henry’s children. She blew out a breath.
“Are you well?” he asked in concern.
“This is a grave responsibility,” she replied. “I would not wish for my guidance to leave you with an unhappy future.” Even if it would likely leave her with one. Oh, she should have listened to her brother’s warning, she suddenly realized. Just because you do not plan to fall in love or have your heart broken does not mean those things will not happen.
Henry placed a hand on her arm. “You are not forcing me to accept any of your suggestions. My happiness lies firmly in my own possession.”
She gave him a grateful smile. “Then shall we proceed?” Her eyes scanned his list. He had such fine penmanship for a gentleman. It was easily read, neat, and precise with a small flourish here and there. It seemed very fitting, considering his charming personality. “Not a fortune hunter. Someone who wishes to love and be loved. Not a constant talker. Soft and gentle manners. Not brash. Knows her own mind. Would be happy in town equally as much as in the country.” She looked up at him. “You have not listed which accomplishments she should possess. Music? Painting? Dancing?”
He chuckled. “I do like to dance, so I suppose we could include that, but the rest are of very little use in determining the value of a lady. They are but accoutrements to garner attention. ” He looked at the shelf behind her. “Reading. I would prefer a wife who enjoys reading. Ladies who abhor the activity are usually flighty and annoyingly talkative.”
She inclined her head in acceptance of the fact. “Yes, they tend to be less intelligent, too, which is likely not a good quality for a mother or the mistress of an estate. Such tasks require some amount of cleverness.”
She studied the names of the ladies on her list. “Miss Foss can dance well, but I know she is not fond of it. Shall I remove her name?”
“No, just make a notation, if you would. I might need to be flexible in some areas.”
“Very well,” she made a note next to Miss Foss’s name. “Hmm, I think Miss Alberts has no marks against her.” Unfortunately. “And neither do Miss Bellamy or Miss Norwood, but Miss Royce is also not fond of dancing, nor does she attend our book readings or ever enter into a discussion about books or poetry. I cannot say for certain that she does not read, but, well, without being impolite, she is not excessively clever. She is incredibly sweet, just not clever.” She glanced at him. “Do I make a note or cross her off.”
“A note,” he replied. He needed enough ladies to be seen with to keep a possible attachment to any one particular lady from becoming the topic of gossip.
Drat. Her nose wrinkled as she jotted down the information. “You have seen each of these ladies. Are there any that you wish to remove from the list based on appearance?”
All of them. He wished to eliminate all of them. He did not want to be sent out to search for a wife rather than calling on Constance.
“No,” he replied. “They do not meet my ideals, but that does not mean they are not worthy of a chance. A lady’s heart is more important than the colour of her eyes or the turn of her nose.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, I do. I have learned how important a lady’s disposition is. A figure will soften, wrinkles will etch a face, hair will turn white, but a good heart shall remain a good heart.”
Despite her best efforts not to do so, Constance sighed. “That is beautiful,” she whispered. “Some lady will be very lucky to have you.”
“Do you mean it? Do you approve of me?” He held his breath as he awaited her response.
She nodded as she looked at his anxious face. “I do.” She held his gaze for one heartbeat longer and then turned her eyes back to his list. “If I am to make proper suggestions, I should know what sort of appearance you prefer.”
He leaned toward her and covered that section of the paper with his hand, causing her to turn eyes the perfect shade of blue up at him. “You do not need to read this now.”
“But I want to know.” It was not a lie. She was curious to see if any of the five ladies she had listed met his ideals of feminine beauty.
“Then let me tell you.” Being so close to her was intoxicating. He drew a deep breath. “She must smell like roses,” he began with a smile. “And have light eyes.” He stroked a finger gently near the corner of her eye. “A small nose.” He tapped hers and added with a grin, “and it mustn’t be hooked.”
“What of her hair?” Constance flushed at the breathy sound of her voice.
“Brown, not too dark, and not too light.” He slid his fingers along a tendril that hung loose in front of her ear. “Cheeks that glow sweetly just as yours are doing right now.” He lay a hand on her cheek. “A figure that is not as slight as Miss Floss’s or as rounded as Miss Bellamy’s.” His finger touched her lips. “Soft lips that smile easily.” He ran his finger along her bottom lip, his eyes following its path. His head bent towards her. How he wished to kiss those lips! But this was Linton’s sister. He must not steal a kiss — no matter how much he desired it.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, pulling his hand away from her and straightening. “I forgot myself in your loveliness.”
He rose and pulled the list of ladies’ names from her lap. “I shall approach each of these ladies before I return.” He folded the paper. “Two weeks should be plenty of time, I should think.” He bowed. “Thank you, Miss Linton. You have been a great help,” he said and, then, turned and hurried from the room.
Chapter 7
Henry dashed down the steps of the Linton townhouse and barely had the patience to wait for the door to his carriage to be opened for him.
What had he been thinking? Admiring her? Touching her? Almost kissing her? He shook his head and then allowed it to drop into his hands as he leaned his elbows on his knees. Foolish, foolish, foolish!
He could feel the water dripping from the brim of his hat and tossed the offending item to the bench across from him.
How had he thought he could change enough to treat a lady worthy of honour in a fashion in which she deserved to be treated?
He pulled the list of ladies she had made for him from his pocket. None of these ladies deserved to be tied to a man such as he. One moment of temptation — the presence of a beguiling and beautiful woman with the smile and heart of an angel — and he was undone. Hopeless. He was utterly hopeless.
The remainder of the drive to his home was spent in remonstrating himself and pointing out his weaknesses. So effective was his self-deprecation that by the time he had entered his own library, he wished only for a large bottle of fiery liquid — the fierier, the better — to burn from his memory the image of lips parted slightly, wide blue eyes watching him as he spoke, and breasts rising and falling as her breathing slowed and deepened. She was not a lonely wife or a bored widow. She was an innocent ─ a respectable, virtuous lady. He crumpled the list she had given him and tossed it into the fire. It would be better for one and all if he once again locked up his heart and went back to pleasing himself as his uncle taught him.
He filled a glass with something from his cabinet, took a large swallow, poured enough in to replace that swallow, and then went to the writing table. His sister no doubt had some friends who needed a charming fellow to tickle their ears with flattery and who would handsomely reward him for his efforts. He paused for a moment before dipping his pen in ink and applying it to paper. He drained half of what was in his glass in an attempt to rid himself of the imagined disappointment he saw on a fair face. He closed his eyes and shook his head. At least it was no longer Fanny reproving him for doing what he knew he ought not. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he dipped his pen and began to write a letter to his sister, speaking of his boredom and inquiring if there was any function she knew of that might help remedy such a tiresome state. His foray into propriety had been no more than a lark, and not even a very enjoyable one. He drained the last of his glass and signed his name with a flourish. He would send it tomorrow.
Rising, he went to refill his drink and retired with it and the bottle to the chairs before the fire, removing his boots and stripping down to his shirt and breeches before flopping into his favourite chair and proceeding to drink far more than he knew he should, but he did not care. If he could but rid his mind of her face, her smell, her…just her, then he might be able to send that admission of failure to his sister tomorrow.
Tomorrow came in all its painful brilliance as the sun drove the rain away. Henry moaned and scrubbed his face. His stomach roiled, joining his head in rebuking him for his actions. Rising, he stretched his stiff limbs and back. His eyes fell on that letter he had written. He should send it. He should just admit his defeat. But he could not. Not yet. If he sent it now, Mary would be on his doorstep in an hour if not sooner, and he did not wish to see anyone at present. What he wished for now was something to help settle his stomach, a bath, and his bed. There was no need to consign himself to his unhappy fate while feeling as if a coach and six had driven over him. He rubbed his forehead between his eyes and slowly made his way from the library to find someone to get whatever it was that he needed.
The sun had set, and the moon had taken its place when Henry finally stirred a second time. He rose from his bed and padded to the fire to give it a stir. He tugged his robe more closely about him and lifted the clock off the mantle so that he could squint at it through scratchy, blurry eyes to see what time it was. Midnight? He blinked and squinted at the clock once again. Yes, it did say midnight. He held it to his ear. It was ticking as it should be. He gave the mechanism a winding and replaced the clock on the mantle.
His stomach rumbled. It was too late to rouse someone to bring him a plate of food, so he lit his candle and went in search of some cold meat or cheese and bread. And tea, he told himself. Tea was all he was going to drink tonight, even if that persistent vision of a fair face continued to occupy every corner of his mind.
Half an hour later, having searched the kitchen as quietly as he was able and only waking one servant, he was on his way back to his room, tray of food in hand and was about to climb the stairs when that letter seemed to call to him from the library. Deciding he should retrieve it, he turned, placed his tray on a hall table and went in search of that distasteful piece of paper. Then, having retrieved it, he returned to his room to eat and contemplate his future.
As he ate, Henry read and reread his letter to Mary. Each time he got to the end, he shook his head and sighed. This. This empty existence of seeking pleasure was not for what he wished. What he wanted was a wife and a family ─ not as he had experienced ─ a real family with a father who taught his son properly and a wife he loved and loved him in return. How his sister would laugh to hear such talk from him! It was rather maudlin after all. He drank the last of his tea and tossed his letter into the fire.
He had been at this point before ─ faced with temptation and a choice to chose ease over responsibility. He had not chosen wisely that time and what had its reward been? A well-deserved broken heart. That would not happen this time. This time he would choose the correct path.
He picked up his candle and made his way down the stairs once again. This time he traveled to see what invitations might be lying on his desk. There must be at least one which might provide him with the opportunity to meet one of the ladies Constance had placed on that list. He had no intention, however, of falling in love with any of them, but he could not return to Constance before he had done as he said he would.
He would be seen with several other ladies. He would make an attempt to be the perfect gentleman, and perhaps in so doing, he would prove himself worthy of the one lady he heard in his thoughts, saw in his dreams, and doubted he could eradicate from his heart.
~*~*~
“I see Mr. Crawford is accompanied by Miss Foss this evening,” Aunt Gwladys whispered behind her fan to Constance. “That is three of the four ladies from your list with whom we have seen him.” Her eyes searched her niece’s face.
Constance had been less lively than normal over the past week. She had attended soirees and taken a walk or two with her friend Evelyn, but she had done so without so much as a protest. It really was not like her to be led about in society from function to function unless it was something that had to do with poetry or science or some other bookish thing. Not one function over the past week had even hinted at broadening the intellect until tonight’s play. She had not even protested being introduced to gentlemen of her aunt’s choosing, and Aunt Gwladys was beginning to worry about her.
She was not eating as heartily as she was wont to do; she withdrew to her room or the library as often as she could, and her maid had mentioned that many mornings her mistress had risen with red eyes and required resting with a compress before she exited her room.
Constance drew a breath and released it quietly. Two more ladies to go and then Henry would return to her. She blinked against the dampness that rose in her eyes. She must not let anyone know how much she missed him or wished to be seated next to him in his box. Her aunt might understand the constant ache that resided in Constance’s heart, but her brother had threatened Henry, and if Trefor suspected that Henry had caused her to b
e unhappy, he might feel it his duty to follow through on his threat.
“Miss Foss appears to be enjoying herself,” she forced a smile to her lips and attempted to feel it enough that it would shine somewhat in her eyes. “I told Mr. Crawford that his amiable ways would help her to be less reserved.” She turned her eyes back to the box across from them. “He is doing very well.”
She should be happy that she had succeeded in helping him find his footing in society as he had wished. However, she was not. Last evening, at the Henderson’s ball, he had been very popular with the ladies standing at the side watching the dancing. She had heard many of their whispers about his fine form and lightness of foot. More than one had hinted that she would be delighted to have him call on her. And Constance had longed to trip each and every one of them.
“He has not singled out any in particular, however,” her aunt continued, keeping her fan in front of her lips. It was too easy for a conversation to be read by those intent on doing so. “Perhaps in time.”
“Yes,” Constance agreed. “Perhaps.” Eventually, it would happen. She knew it would. If only it could be her. If only he could sit so closely to her again and touch her as he had that day in the library. She was almost certain he had forgotten himself and had not just been toying with her ─ she was almost certain. If only she could see him and speak to him for more than just a greeting, she would know, would she not?
“I see Mr. Upton is here unaccompanied.” Her aunt turned toward Linton. “We could encounter him at the intermission or the end, do you not think?”
“Aunt,” Constance begged. “Not tonight. Just let me enjoy a play without having to be paired with someone.”
Her aunt brushed the request aside. “Nonsense. A brief meeting would not be so dreadful.”
Constance sighed. “Very well. Where shall we conduct this clandestine affair?”
“Clandestine, indeed!” huffed her aunt.
“We will take a walk and find some refreshment,” said Linton. “Nothing unusual to such a thing.”