The Marriage List

by Dorothy McFalls

  He smiled, flashing his teeth in a wholly unnecessarily aggressive move. The nerve of him, handing her not only a frosty set-down but also displaying a most egregious snarl. May sucked in a breath and opened her mouth to return sharp words of her own, only her words wouldn’t be couched in feigned politeness.

  But alas, she needed to charm the man—not prick his nerves. With a sweet smile that was anything but real, May obediently perched on the edge of the sofa he’d indicated. Iona crowded next to her. Like a nervous bird, her friend shivered, which did nothing to bolster her own wearying nerves.

  “Please fetch a pot of tea,” Viscount Evers said quietly to the butler. Curiously, Wynter responded to the request with a nod and a playful wink.

  What in heavens was going on? Never had May felt more like she’d stumbled into a den of lions. Perhaps the rules of propriety, deeming it unseemly for a woman to visit a bachelor in his home, were based on some very real danger. She felt her smile strain.

  “Gentlemen, I sincerely appreciate your taking the time to receive us after we’ve practically stormed the gates.”

  “Practically?” The viscount’s raven eyebrows jutted up again. The one word nearly exploded with sarcasm.

  “Well, yes. I do apologize for my behavior. Lady Iona is only here because I wouldn’t allow her to change my mind about seeing you, and she insisted I not make this visit alone.” May swallowed her pride and kept her painful grin firmly in place. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of disturbing you in this manner if there was any other way . . . ”

  His expression glowed with interest. He leaned against his desk and cocked his head. The fabric of his buff-colored superfine suit coat strained across his chest’s wide expanse.

  Oh my, she really shouldn’t notice such things. She could be certain he wasn’t noticing anything alluring about her person.

  No man ever had.

  She was worse than plain. Uncle Sires had judged her an ugly duckling with no hope of ever blooming into a swan. Aunt Winnie had protested the charge, but given May’s ruddy hair, olive-tinged complexion, and rather stout shape, the dear woman didn’t have much material to work with. She has a heart of gold, Winnie had finally concluded.

  And no chance for attracting a husband. Uncle Sires’ biting words had been spoken six years ago when May was barely eighteen and had excitedly inquired about her come-out. They still held power over her today. A heated blush rose up her neck.

  She’d no right to look longingly upon a man as handsome as the Viscount Evers. No right at all. For all she knew, his stomach was churning from being forced to gaze upon a full-grown duck as unappealing as her.

  His lightly arched brows furrowed and his glare grew impossibly hard. “If there was any other way . . . ?” he asked.

  The question caught May off guard. What was he asking? Any other way, what? A growing blush stung her cheeks as she realized her overlong stare had interrupted her own explanation, mid-thought. His question must have merely been an attempt to prod her into talking and to bring her to the point.

  “My aunt and I rent number twelve Sydney Place,” she said.

  His expression was as empty as a clear sky.

  “You own the property,” she prompted.

  “Do I?”

  For a moment May had a nervous feeling that she’d made a terrible mistake, that she’d intruded into the wrong man’s home. “Mr. Bannor is your man-of-affairs, is he not?” she asked with a crisp tone.

  “He is. He handles my assortment of properties and investments.” Something dark and quite wicked crossed his brows. “Has Bannor offended you in some way, Miss Sheffers?”

  May could not describe the relief that surged through her veins. “Indeed he has, my lord.”

  She peeled the writ of eviction from the silk reticule that matched her gown and held it out for him to take. “He has sent this. Luckily, I opened the letter before my aunt Winnie had a chance to read it. She’s in poor health. Her heart. It was her ailing health that brought us to Bath from London, I’ll have you know. A shock such as this would only worsen her condition.”

  “Indeed?” he drawled.

  He took a moment then to read Bannor’s letter. May held her breath as she counted the slow passage of seconds.

  “The writ claims you and your aunt have failed to pay rent for the past three months,” he said after more than two minutes of breathless silence. May was convinced she’d turned blue. “Is this true?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Evers cut her off with a staying hand. “This is a matter for Bannor, miss. I have no interest in squabbles of this sort. I don’t interfere with my man-of-affair’s occupation.” His tone nearly coated the room with frost.

  “Perhaps we could but listen to the women, Evers?” Wynter said, his gentle smile powerful enough to sway even the most stubborn of goats. “Surely, the task we were completing could only benefit from the experience?”

  The viscount cast his friend a sidelong look. “No.” He took several stiff steps, closing the distance between him and May. “We shall change the subject.”

  The long-nosed butler interrupted then with a tea tray. Steam rose from the finely hand-painted blue pot. An intricate scene depicting several maidens crossing an oriental bridge came to life on the porcelain. May couldn’t help but wonder at the small fortune the viscount must have paid for the tea service as she silently poured the tea into the cups.

  She took a long sip, a bounty of flavors filling her mouth. Her aunt’s watery brew tasted like dirty hot water in comparison.

  “A change of topics, then?” Wynter prompted after taking a sip of his tea as well. Mischief sparkled in his eyes.

  May strangled the teacup’s handle with a small measure of alarm. Perhaps the men were planning to make sport of the two foolish maidens like a scene out of a children’s fable after all.

  “I would rather—” she started.

  At that very moment Viscount Evers blurted, “How old are you, Miss Sheffers?” He looked serious, too serious.

  “Four-and-twenty. Now if you would please but listen.”

  “Is that on the shelf?” Evers turned and asked Wynter.

  At least Wynter had the honor to drop his mouth open with embarrassment. “I don’t believe so,” he said, wincing. “Not quite.”

  “And horses, Miss Sheffers, what are your thoughts on them?”

  The question was utter nonsense. Had the viscount’s war injuries addled his mind? “I-I don’t know, my lord. I’ve lived my entire life in London and don’t know much about the creatures. They are rather large . . . imposing, I suppose.”

  He merely shrugged. “And you Lady Iona? How old are you?”

  Iona, bless her, tilted her chin up like a true lady. “I am one-and-twenty, my lord, and by no means on the shelf. Neither is Miss Sheffers. My own mamma didn’t marry until she was five-and-twenty, having to wait for my papa to come to his good senses.”

  Wynter tossed back his head and laughed boldly. “Very good, my lady.”

  The behavior of the two men, as if they shared a private jest at hers and Iona’s expense, went beyond improper. Their idea of humor was just too much to bear. May felt at a loss. What should she do? Salvaging this confrontation with the viscount was clearly beyond hope. She sprang to her feet. Coming to his home was a mistake. A blot on her normally logical mind.

  “My lords,”—she swept the room with her most menacing glare—“since you are unwilling to listen to my plight and help a gentlewoman in need, I believe I have no choice but to bring this farce to an end. Good day.”

  She snatched up Iona by the wrist and bolted from the room.

  “It was truly a pleasure,” Iona had the grace to call as they rushed out into the drizzly rains without the protection of their cloaks and worse . . . without having accomplished
anything beyond making complete and utter fools of themselves.

  “A pleasure, you say? Viscount Evers can take his cursed home with all its cursed expensive hand-painted fineries and go straight to the devil for all I care!”

  Chapter 2

  “Did Miss Sheffers just wish you to the devil?”

  Wynter’s wide gaze and gaping mouth went beyond shocked. The man appeared utterly flabbergasted, a look Radford had never associated with his even-keeled friend.

  “I believe she did.” A smile creased the corners of Radford’s lips. He eased down onto the sofa the women had vacated. Three half filled round teacups stared up at him from the side table next to him. The fourth little cup in the set, missing. “I believe she also pilfered from my fine china.”

  Miss Margaret Sheffers.

  Before an hour ago, he hadn’t the slightest clue that the lady existed, let alone that she resided on one of his properties. She was the kind of woman he generally overlooked. Gently shabby, small, with not one extraordinary feature to attract a man save for a pair of unusually vivid violet eyes—before today he’d guess such a woman would make a fine lady’s companion or governess, fading into the draperies. She was of so little import her initial burst into the room had his gaze shifting to the alluring Lady Iona, not her. So just how did such a woman manage to leave him with his heart throbbing in his chest?

  “The marriage list we’ve just completed,” Radford said and thrust out his hand. “I believe you stuffed it in your pocket.”

  Wynter eyed Radford for several moments before pulling the crumpled piece of foolscap from his pants pocket and dropping it into Radford’s palm. “What in blazes was that all about, Evers?” The note of anger was unmistakable . . . and completely a surprise.

  “What was what?” Radford asked somewhat absently. He struggled to his feet so he could pace like a normal man while he reviewed the list of qualities he’d demand in a wife.

  “Your damned behavior, is what. I’ve never witnessed a ruder display. Is this how you plan to woo a wife? If you do, you had better start preparing for a long bachelorhood.”

  “I just wished to ascertain their qualifications.” No vagaries on his list, nothing left to chance.

  “Qualifications, Evers? This isn’t Tattersal’s where you can pry open their mouths and peek inside. You have to use your charm. Before you bought that bloody commission, all you had to do was wink and every damned woman in sight would swoon.”

  “That man no longer exists. For one thing, I am no longer a prime pick. Look at me! I’m a cripple, naught but half a man.”

  Wynter sighed, long and loud. “It’s your acid tongue, not your injury that scares women.”

  Radford continued to pace, feeling his limp grow more pronounced. The pain in his foot returned with a vengeance.

  How was it that for the past half-hour he’d been free of the searing pain? Something about pricking the anger of a plain, utterly forgettable faded bloom had completely erased the state of his injured body from his mind.

  “Perhaps a wife is exactly what I need.”

  “Bloody funny way of going about finding one.” Wynter helped himself to a second serving of claret. He held up the decanter, offering to pour a glass for Radford.

  Still pacing with his jerky movement of half dragging his lame leg, Radford waved Wynter away. “Not now,” he grumbled. He needed to think. To plan.

  Just as on the Peninsula, everything lived and died by the force of strategy. No matter what Wynter said about the necessity of charming a woman, Radford knew there was more to this chase for a wife than that. He’d seen the fleeting glances the society ladies sent his way, their sidelong looks literally twitching with a blend of fear and pity.

  Miss Sheffers’ mystically deep violet eyes had sparked with anger, not pity.

  Long gone were the days where every lady he met would stare up at his healthy physique with moon-eyed affection.

  She hadn’t been moon-eyed, but she’d appeared indifferent to his condition.

  “Never mind my offending the woman, Wynter. She didn’t meet even one marriageable criteria.” Radford shook out the foolscap.

  “Didn’t she?”

  Radford began to read from the list. “Number one, age. She needs to be young enough to be pliable, readily molded into my image of the perfect wife and viscountess for my estate. No younger than eighteen—I have absolutely no wish to bed a child—no older than one-and-twenty. Need I go on?”

  “I see no problem as of yet,” Wynter said with a shrug.

  “Number two, appearance. She should be fair of complexion, like an angel smiling down from the heavens—I believe the poet in you added that last part. Her body should be sturdy, full enough to fill a man’s hands, and possess wide hips—”

  “Within reason,” Wynter interjected.

  “—To safely produce a brood of sons.” Miss Sheffers’ compact body, like a coiled spring, no doubt fit the second part of the description. The muslin gown hinted at the curves hidden underneath. But, alas, her unusual olive skin tone, angular features, and bright violet eyes gave her the look of part elf, part gypsy. A combination well suited for fairy tales and fantasies, but not the refined position of viscountess. “Again, need I continue?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Wynter made himself comfortable in the overstuffed chair by the fire, enjoying the claret as well as the dissection of this woman’s shortcomings a little too much. Radford ground his jaw.

  “Number three, disposition.” His voice rose along with his aggravation. “Above all things, she should possess a gentle disposition. Behave properly. Be agreeable in all things.”

  “To be fair, Evers, circumstances had forced her to act as she had. I’d say she handled herself very well, considering . . . ” The reproach deepening the blue of Wynter’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Very well, we’ll skip that one for now. Not that it matters.” Radford drew a steadying breath. “Number four, family. Born to a respectable family of suitable rank and possessing a sizable dowry.” He cast a pointed look across the room, daring Wynter to argue in support of Miss Sheffers’ family, convinced her family name passed his friend’s ears as meaninglessly as it had his own.

  Wynter shrugged. “As for the dowry, I don’t dare speculate. One can never assume the financial stability of another when so many live high on credit. But her family name stands on its own merit.”

  “Exactly.” Radford stopped his pacing, uncertain. What did his friend mean, stands on its own merit? No matter. The last qualification was perhaps the most crucial, the one point he would never bend. “Number five, horses. She must”—the word underlined, twice—“possess a full knowledge and genuine affection of horses. I am planning to continue my breeding program whether or not I am able to ride again.”

  His doctors all agreed. They’d been blunt. He’d never be able to properly seat a horse or ride for prolonged periods. The heartless men might as well have taken up a knife and carved out his heart. Never ride again, his love, his life torn away as easily as that?

  “My wife will share my love of horses. I will not give up my stables. I simply will not.” He looked at the second piece of foolscap in his hand. He’d completely forgotten he still possessed it—Miss Sheffers’ writ of eviction. Feeling nearly unhinged, Radford shouted his next words. “So you must agree. Miss Sheffers admitted it herself, if not in words in tone. She’s deathly afraid of the beasts!”

  Wynter started with a sudden jolt of confusion. “Miss Sheffers? I thought we were discussing the very eligible Lady Iona.”

  * * * * *

  May avoided her aunt Winnie and made a straight path up the stairs to her chamber to smooth her unruly hair and change out of her damp gown. Her shivering hands, not from the rainy chill but from the fury still boiling inside her, drew her attention to the thi
n teacup still lodged between her fingers. Bright blue parasols and flowers danced around the outside of the perfectly rounded cup.

  His teacup. In her rush to escape before angry words poured from her lips and shamed her, she made the horrible mistake of taking the teacup with her.

  Your father’s gypsy blood ruins you, makes you unruly, makes you as wild and impossible as him. Those bitter words, her uncle’s, rang loudly in her head. He tried to beat the willfulness from her, ruling her with a heavy hand those three weeks out of the year when she was forced to endure living with him.

  You’re just a passionate child. Aunt Winnie, always trying everything she could to fill the void only the return of her mother or father could truly repair, would coddle May in her arms, humming a sweet tune while a much younger, painfully innocent May wept. There is nothing wrong with passion.

  Yet there was. May learned under the heat of disapproving tonnish glares, wielded by some of the most imposing society matrons, to dampen her spirit, to fade—like her gowns—into something colorless, nearly transparent. She carried the crime of her father’s birth with her everywhere. Not until her entrance into society did she understand the weight of the burden or the discouragement her Uncle Sires felt when he looked upon her. Only after she came of age did her dreams of marrying a man who could love her as passionately as her father loved her mother disappear.

  Her birth, her looks, her lack of fortune, and her very manner frightened eligible men away. Gradually, she and her aunt exchanged positions and May became the caretaker, a lady’s companion. An honorable profession for a woman destined for spinsterhood.

  In time, May grew accustomed to her role. She took pride in providing for Aunt Winnie in the same loving manner she’d been raised. There was no room in her life for a husband, not with the full-time responsibility of caring for her aunt, running the small household, and accompanying her to an exhausting string of teas, balls, exhibitions, and dinners.