Oh, blast. Diana’s brow was wrinkled with a look of concern.
“You are over her, aren’t you, Alex?”
“Of course,” he said quickly. He’d never spoken about his feelings, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. “It was nothing. An unfortunate situation, but it’s in the past.”
“It was something,” Diana said rather fiercely. “She hurt you. Mama and I both saw it, much as you tried to hide it.”
“Ah. Well.” He shifted on his chair. He did wish his female relatives wouldn’t so busy themselves in his affairs. “As you can see, I’m fine now.”
Diana and Mama exchanged one of their “poor Alex” glances. He rushed to speak before they could pursue the topic further.
“I do hope Charlotte can return to Society. Would it help if I had a word with Buford?”
Mama shook her head. “No. Don’t worry about Charlotte. I think things will work out for her.”
“That’s good, then.” He started to rise, eager to escape. “If you’ll excuse—”
“It’s you we’re worried about,” Diana said. She looked at Mama again.
He made the mistake of turning his eyes in his mother’s direction as well.
Oh, Lord.
He sank back down onto his chair. Part of him wanted to run, but he knew that would be futile. There was no running from Mama.
“Alex,” Mama said, “we know you want to marry.”
He’d swear the back of his neck suddenly flushed from the hot breath of the horde of eligible young women Mama and Diana must be assembling. “All peers need to marry to get an heir, but I’m only thirty. There’s no hurry.”
Mama ignored him, of course. “My particular friend, the Duchess of Greycliffe—or, as the wags call her, the Duchess of Love—wrote me a few weeks ago to say you’d been attending every party in Town and begging introductions to all the unmarried girls.”
Diana nodded. “My friends told me the same.”
Zeus, how he hated that London was full of spies.
“So I invited someone you might be interested in,” Diana said.
His stomach knotted even as a certain spinster’s face popped into his thoughts.
Why the hell am I thinking of Miss Wilkinson?
“Diana, Mama, I know you both mean well, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop meddling in my life.”
Diana was as good at ignoring him as Mama. “You don’t have to worry. We didn’t let on that you might be considering her for the position of countess.” She grinned. “We were very clever. I’m quite certain she has no inkling of it.”
Dear God, save him from clever women.
“Please. I can manage this matter by myself.” He wanted to say—and think—no more about it, but he couldn’t keep one question from slithering snakelike through his mind: Who?
He hadn’t met any woman in London who appealed to him.
Yet. Surely he would eventually. Someone who would be open and honest and let him trust his instincts again.
“Well, you haven’t been doing such a wonderful job of that so far, have you?” Mama said, though in a gentle rather than hurtful sort of way.
Diana nodded. “We invited her brother as well, you see. He knew Imogen years ago and has been in touch with her.”
“Oh?” Something in Diana’s tone made his stomach shiver with unease. And Mama was smirking . . .
What the hell have I got myself into?
Diana looked damnably pleased with herself. “I wondered why you ran off to Loves Bridge back in August. It was very odd of you.”
Unease turned to horror. Surely Diana hadn’t invited—
The door opened. Jennings stood there, a man and a woman behind him.
“Milady, Mr. and Miss Wilkinson have arrived.”
Chapter Five
Jane scowled at her reflection. She was quite sure the neckline hadn’t been so low the last time she’d worn this dress. Had Poppy somehow altered it?
Ridiculous. The cat might be . . . unusual, but Poppy couldn’t sew.
She fastened her mother’s pearls around her neck, but they didn’t begin to cover the vast expanse of exposed flesh. She tugged on the fabric, but of course that didn’t help, either.
What she needed was a fichu. She would have sworn she’d packed one, but she hadn’t been able to find it in her luggage just now. Hmm. Now that was something Poppy could have had a hand—or a paw—in. She wouldn’t put it past the cat to have snatched it out of her portmanteau when her back was turned.
She blew out a long breath. She should have known better than to bring this dress. She’d worn it only once, to attend a ball the first Lady Davenport had held before Anne went up to London for her debut Season. That was . . . lud! She counted the years in her head and then recounted them.
The dress was almost ten years old. Not only was it immodest, it was dreadfully out-of-date.
She squeezed her eyes shut. I’m going to look a complete fool. I should change.
But she was so tired of her only other choice: a serviceable white frock she trotted out for every Loves Bridge party.
She’d wanted to look special for this gathering.
She grimaced. She certainly looked special—like unfashionable, skimpily clad mutton dressed as lamb.
Oh, why was she worrying about how she looked? No one would pay her any attention.
Her shoulders slumped. Right. To be honest, she’d thought the silly dress would give her courage. She’d wanted to look beautiful, composed, and confident.
She’d wanted to impress Lord Evans. More, she’d wanted him to admire her.
Apparently, she’d let Randolph’s suggestion that the earl had had a hand in this invitation take root and grow like a weed one didn’t know was there until it suddenly poked up from among the flowers.
How mortifying.
Admiration was not what she’d seen in his eyes when the butler had presented her and Randolph earlier. The earl had hidden his reaction quickly, but not quickly enough.
He’d been shocked and, she thought, dismayed.
“I’m such an idiot,” she said out loud as if actually hearing the words would cause her stupid heart to let some sense into its murky center.
She looked around the elegant bedroom, at the mahogany washstand, the rich yellow bed hangings and matching window curtains, the bright paintings in their elaborate, gilt frames. It was a good thing the earl wasn’t interested in her. She didn’t belong here. She belonged in Loves Bridge, in the old, comfortable Spinster House.
Well, it wasn’t that comfortable.
She’d never admit it out loud, but after years of wanting to live on her own, free of the need to consider Randolph’s preferences and tidy up after him, she’d expected to be wildly happy every single moment she spent in the Spinster House.
She was not.
Some days she wanted more companionship than an independent, inscrutable cat could provide.
She stared back at herself, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. Ridiculous! The problem was simply a matter of adjustment. Her friends had moved on in their lives. Anne had physically moved to her husband’s estate, and Cat was consumed with all her new duties as duchess.
She’d only been in the Spinster House for a few months. Things would improve. For now, she—
Someone knocked. It must be Randolph, the person responsible for dragging her into this uncomfortable situation.
She opened the door—and stepped back. She might not have kept up with the latest fashions, but apparently Randolph had.
Well, she couldn’t actually say whether his waistcoat was fashionable or not. She squinted.
“Are those peacocks?”
“Yes.” He tugged on it, stretching it tight over his thickening middle and making the peacocks’ tails spread wider. “Do you like it?”
“Er.” It was pretty in a gaudy sort of way. “I suppose so. Did you get it in the village?” Though she couldn’t imagine Mr. Wilcox, the Loves Bridge tailor, w
orking on such a flashy garment.
“No, London.”
Randolph had gone up to Town? London wasn’t far from Loves Bridge, but Randolph didn’t make a practice of going there, particularly to waste time and money shopping.
Hmm. There had been a few days when he’d left the office early and hadn’t got back before she went home to the Spinster House, but she’d just assumed he’d had business elsewhere in the village.
He cleared his throat and tugged on the peacocks again. “Well, I’ve come to take you downstairs,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Something in the way he’d said “downstairs” made her focus on him rather than the peacocks. There was an odd tension about him as if he were both anxious and excited.
Perhaps he was off balance as well.
“I should change.”
He frowned and looked her over. “Why? You’ve got a dress on.”
Clearly, her brother hadn’t really looked at her. “It’s not suitable.”
“It’s fine.”
“Randolph, the neck is too low.”
He glanced at that portion of the dress. “It looks all right to me, but if it bothers you, take a shawl.”
She consulted the mantel clock. “It’s only just the hour now. We don’t want to be the first ones in the drawing room.”
“We won’t be.” Randolph took a half step down the corridor. “Do come along.”
Why is he in such a hurry?
He took another half step.
He won’t go down without me, will he?
She didn’t want to find out.
And there was no point in delaying. She couldn’t magically conjure a new dress from thin air—or from the window curtains—and she truly didn’t want to wear her white gown every single night. A shawl would have to do. Likely the other guests would be too transfixed by Randolph’s peacocks to notice her.
“Very well.” She grabbed her shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and stepped into the corridor. When she put her hand on her brother’s arm, she felt how tense he was.
Clearly, she wasn’t the only one dealing with a fit of nerves. “Why are you so eager to go down to the drawing room, Randolph?”
She felt him flinch ever so slightly.
Perhaps that had sounded a bit harsh, especially as she could think of only one reason for his tension. She tried to soften her tone.
“I know you said you’d like to find someone to marry, but I’m very much afraid you won’t have any luck here. From what Lady Chanton said when we arrived, this is a small, family gathering.”
Which raised the question again—why had they been invited?
Randolph shrugged and didn’t meet her gaze. She waited for him to say something.
He didn’t, which was unlike him.
Alarm bells went off. Something was indeed up.
She was not about to face a roomful—or even a handful—of strangers without knowing if there were hidden traps to stumble into.
“Randolph, what aren’t you telling me?”
More silence.
Good God, there was something.
“You have to tell me.” She stopped, grabbing his forearm with both hands and squeezing. “I can’t go in there not knowing.”
He hesitated—and she squeezed harder.
“Very well, though it’s nothing that affects you. I told you I’ve been corresponding with Lord Chanton’s cousin.”
“Yes. And you expect him to be here.” Randolph could not be this nervous over seeing an old friend.
He smiled. “Her, Jane. I expect her to be here.”
“Oh.” He’d been corresponding with a woman. So that was why he’d been so keen on fetching the post recently.
The notion threw her a bit off balance. They might not discuss their lives with each other, but she’d never have guessed Randolph had secrets. Certainly he’d never hidden his weekly visits to Mrs. Conklin.
“Jane, I’m not sure if you’re aware—I don’t believe we’ve ever talked about it—but before Mama and Papa died, I was . . .”
His voice trailed off. Normally, she would push him to continue, but this time she didn’t. She was a little afraid of what he would say.
“When I was nineteen, I fancied myself in love.”
“Ah.” So the rumor had been true.
A muscle jumped in Randolph’s jaw. “Papa was furious.”
Papa was often furious. “Was the woman unsuitable?”
“No. He thought I was too young.”
Nineteen was too young.
“He came up to London to have it out with me, but I refused to give in. He left in a complete fury. I’d never seen him so angry.”
Randolph wasn’t one to exaggerate. She didn’t remember Papa being angry that day, but then she’d tried to escape Papa’s tirades, either by going for a walk or losing herself in a book. And, to be honest, her memories of that horrible time were very hazy.
“The next day he drove his carriage into a tree, killing himself and Mama.” His voice was clipped, his expression, bleak as though he—
Jane inhaled sharply. “Randolph! You don’t blame yourself for their deaths, do you?”
She saw in his eyes that he did.
Lud! Her brother had carried this guilt for over a decade, and she never knew. Never even suspected. “It was an accident. A simple, unfortunate accident.”
“Papa was an excellent whip.”
“Yes, but even excellent whips have accidents. And Papa was driving a new horse, remember. I distinctly recall hearing him say when he first bought the animal that it was hard to handle.”
Randolph looked off down the corridor. “Perhaps. But, Jane, I’d truly never seen Papa so angry as he was during our, er, discussion in London. I think he and Mama must have been arguing about me, and that’s why he lost control at that curve.”
That was possible.
But it was just as possible something else had caused the crash.
Jane shook Randolph’s arm. “Stop! You can’t know that. A bee might have stung the horse or a rabbit startled it and it bolted at just the wrong moment.”
He shrugged, clearly not willing to accept her explanation.
“I wager Papa regretted arguing with you as soon as he got back to Loves Bridge, if not sooner.”
Her brother snorted.
Well, yes, she doubted it too.
“In any event, if Papa’s anger did cause the crash— which we have no evidence is the case. You know he was often very angry and yet he’d never crashed his curricle before. But if he was so angry that he lost control of his horses, then that was his fault, not yours.”
Randolph’s jaw was set—he was not buying her argument. Very well then.
“Even if you were to blame, you’ve more than paid your penance. You had to give up all your plans to come home to take care of me.” She’d never told him how much she appreciated that. She shook his arm in an appreciative way this time. “Thank you. I am sorry you had to make such a sacrifice.”
He frowned. “It wasn’t a sacrifice. I’d always intended to come home and take my place in the firm. The accident just made that happen sooner.”
“But I’m the reason you didn’t marry.” She forced a smile. “It’s really not surprising the woman didn’t want to take on mothering a girl only a few years younger than herself.” She should be completely honest. “An opinionated, stubborn, unhappy girl. I realize I could not have been an easy charge.”
Randolph’s frown deepened. “That wasn’t it at all. Oh, I don’t doubt Imogen’s parents used you as an argument against our marriage, but they had never favored the match. They didn’t want their daughter to waste herself on a mere solicitor.”
“Oh!” She would like to find these people and give them a piece of her mind.
“And a penniless one at that.”
“It wasn’t as bad as that.” Though it was true Papa had not left them in a good way. Things had been very difficult those first few years.
&n
bsp; “It was that bad, Jane.” Randolph shrugged. “In any event, Imogen married Eldon. When I read of his passing, I wrote her a note of condolence and she replied. And when the invitation for this celebration arrived, I hoped she might be attending.”
He grinned, barely contained elation in his voice. “And she is here. Can you wonder I’m anxious to go down and see her?” He tugged on his waistcoat, bringing the peacocks to attention. “It’s been years and nothing may come of it.” He looked endearingly hopeful. “But something might.”
Jane managed to smile back at him. She was suddenly swamped with love for him—and worry. What if this Lady Eldon hurt him?
But what if she didn’t? What if Randolph married the woman?
Oh, God. First Cat and then Anne and now perhaps Randolph. Everyone she cared about was pairing up two by two like the animals going into Noah’s ark.
She was the one left behind, standing out in the rain as the floodwaters rose around her—
Ridiculous! There was no rain or ark or any such nonsense. She didn’t need a partner to be complete—she was complete by herself. She was the Spinster House spinster.
Though she did wish Lord Evans had wanted her to attend this gathering.
* * *
Alex strode into the drawing room where everyone was to gather before dinner. He’d come down early to find the room empty and had taken a turn or two or three around the terrace, trying to get his feelings under control.
It had not worked.
But now Roger and Diana were here. Excellent. It was time to get a few things settled.
“Alex.” Roger slapped him on the back. “Sorry I missed you earlier. Had a tenant issue I needed to address.”
“Oh? How convenient that the problem came up just the moment I arrived.”
Roger grinned, not at all repentant. “Yes. Funny how that happened.”
There was nothing funny about it. Roger had long practice in avoiding the worst of Diana’s machinations.
Alex turned to his sister and spoke quietly—but emphatically—keeping one eye on the door. “I cannot believe you invited Miss Wilkinson to this family gathering.”
He’d wanted to corner her and Mama after Mr. and Miss Wilkinson had gone up to their rooms, but his wily relatives had accompanied their guests, ostensibly to be certain they were comfortable. He’d waited and waited in the drawing room for Mama and Diana to reappear and had finally gone in search of them, looking in Roger’s study, the music room, the library, and finally the nursery, where he found his three youngest nieces.
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