A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  God save me.

  “Casriel, you are the soul of social savoir faire, and yet, you are barely making sense. Is Lady Canmore inspiring you to blunder and stumble?”

  Grey took off his hat and set it on the bench. “A gentleman does not bandy a lady’s name about.”

  “Theodosia called on Lady Canmore yesterday. Every other word was ‘Casriel this’ and ‘his lordship that,’ punctuated by blushing silences. If she’s bandying your name, then you can certainly keep a concerned friend informed of your worries.”

  Addy had perhaps mentioned Grey twice, and one of those mentions would have been prompted by Tresham’s wife. Still, blushing silences were all too credible. Grey, in fact, was blushing while Tresham and his damned dog watched.

  “Like that, is it?” Tresham said.

  “I have created an impossible situation,” Grey said. “I care very much for her ladyship, and yet, duty compels me to seek marriage with a woman of means.”

  Tresham gave the dog a final pat to its massive head. “You can’t cut expenses?”

  “Dornings are thrifty. There are too many of us for any profligacy. By the time I’ve lent Will a bit in a lean year, aided Sycamore to get his club on its feet, kept Oak, Thorne, Ash, and Valerian in new boots and riding horses, paid for the parish living, done a bit for charity, looked after my pensioners, caught up Tabitha’s bills—”

  Tresham held up a hand. “I recall your ledgers. An heiress is the necessary solution if you can’t either cut expenses or increase revenue, and the sooner you get your hands on her money, the healthier the earldom will be.”

  Grey should have stood, thanked Tresham for his damned keen insight, and taken himself away to kick stone walls and curse all leaking roofs. Instead, he remained on the bench.

  “My difficulty is that a man is expected to get his hands on his wife from time to time, not simply on her fortune. This is an obligation which I no longer believe to be within my abilities.”

  The dog cocked his head.

  “You are in love,” Tresham said gently. “You are smitten with Lady Canmore, and you cannot fathom being intimate with another.”

  “Cannot fathom… cannot even theoretically admit the necessity. And yet, marriage entitles a woman to expect certain attentions from her husband. I’m not sure why else a wealthy female would take a husband, much less a man whose household includes four grown brothers, not a one of whom can seem to recall that his boots do not belong on the furniture. That reminds me. How is Sycamore faring at The Coventry?”

  “You should ask him.”

  “I have, and he’s predictably evasive, suggesting he’s in over his head, floundering, and making a bad situation worse. He excels at putting a good face on a disaster, but charm alone will not pay the bills.”

  The dog wandered over to the fountain, stood on his back legs, and took a noisy drink from the water splashing down from the stone pineapple.

  “Sycamore has changed some practices at the club,” Tresham said. “I think he could use a brother or two at his side, but it’s not my place to tell him that. He seems to be managing.”

  Grey rose rather than hear more bad news. “When he seems to be managing, when he’s doing his best impersonation of a young gentleman in control of his affairs, that’s when he’s usually top over tail in trouble. Thank you for letting me rant and pout like a toddler.”

  Tresham eased to his feet. Since marrying Theodosia, the Quimbey heir was more relaxed. He moved more slowly. He smiled more. He was a more congenial host at his monthly Lonely Husbands evenings, and he could occasionally be seen hacking out with Mrs. Tresham on fine mornings.

  The changes were modest, visible mostly to friends or family, but Tresham was thriving in the married state. Clearly, husband and wife shared the day’s gossip with each other. They spent the occasional evening at home together, and they even stood up with one another for the first waltz of the evening.

  Grey envied his friend with an intensity no gentleman could admit to and no honest man could deny.

  “What will you do?” Tresham asked. “You cannot offer for a woman in bad faith. One could—some men could—but you, Casriel, cannot. You are also incapable of dissembling where Lady Canmore is concerned, and my best guess is that your feelings are reciprocated.”

  Don’t say that. Don’t think that. Don’t even hint that. “Her ladyship’s first husband was a less-than-ideal match for her. She does not view remarriage enthusiastically.”

  The dog climbed into the fountain with a great splashing leap. The water wasn’t deep enough to submerge the entire mastiff, but Grey envied the beast his simple pleasures.

  Tresham smiled as the dog behaved like a twelve-stone puppy. “Have you considered asking Lady Canmore to marry you?”

  Only a thousand times. “I dare not. If she answered in the affirmative, where would that leave us? I can offer her only poverty and disgrace.” And if she accepted his offer, they’d be in a damned, hopeless mess, as opposed to a merely wretched coil.

  “Theodosia says Lady Canmore’s means are modest, Casriel. I’m sorry.”

  “Perhaps her ladyship will tire of me.” If that happened, Grey would retreat into the role of fond memory and wish the lady well. Then he’d get roaring drunk and kick whomever and whatever he pleased, starting with the vicar and finishing with Papa’s headstone.

  The dog bounded from the fountain and had the grace to shake vigorously while still some yards off. A dog’s life was uncomplicated, his comforts inexpensive and easily found. One of Caesar’s few obligations was to attend Georgette, Will’s equally stupendous lady mastiff, when she paid her visits.

  Oh, to be a hound rather than a peer of the realm.

  “Lady Canmore will not tire of you,” Tresham said. “She hasn’t spared another man so much as a glance since Lord Canmore went to his reward. They were reported to be a love match, you know. If she’s put aside his memory to favor you with her company, you are more than a passing fancy for her.”

  She’d put aside her heartache where Canmore was concerned, or started to. That Grey had been her confidant was more precious to him than all the slate roofs in Dorset.

  “And she is much more than a passing fancy to me,” Grey said.

  “Could one of your brothers perhaps attach an heiress?”

  One of Grey’s brothers—Ash, by name—was much taken with Lady Della Haddonfield, to whom Tresham had a discreet family connection. She was not an heiress. Ash had engaged the lady’s affections to all appearances, and then scarpered back to Dorset, leaving the woman no explanation.

  Grey had his suspicions regarding Ash’s motivations, but Ash’s reasons were his own. He was surrounded by family at Dorning Hall, and that was for the best.

  “The only brother with sufficient charm to win an heiress,” Grey said, “is Sycamore, and he’s much too young to embark on such an objective. Oak is retiring by nature, Valerian a dandy without means. Thorne is charmless and unrefined of sentiment. I at least have a title to offer. The fortune-hunting is best left in my hands.”

  Tresham delivered a thumping pat to Grey’s shoulder. “Perhaps one of those brothers will provide you with your heir. It’s the least they can do, considering the sacrifice you’re contemplating.”

  Tresham saw Grey to the back gate, the damp dog panting un-fragrantly at his heels, and then Grey was making his way alone through the shaded alleys. The alleys were free of debutantes and matchmakers, which he’d discovered of necessity in the past two weeks.

  Alleys were a good place for a man to walk and worry.

  In every regard other than consummation of the vows, taking on a wife was arguably a prudent move. The countess would assist with managing Dorning Hall and the earldom’s social obligations. She’d take meals with the family. She’d incur some expenses, but also—Grey hoped—provide a guiding hand for what remained of Tabitha’s upbringing.

  None of which told Grey how he could possibly perform as a husband was expected to on his ow
n wedding night.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You are brooding,” Aunt Freddy said. “This is why you should have applied yourself to the study of the harp, my dear. If you must be pensive and pale, you could at least look pretty doing it.”

  “I am neither pensive nor pale. I’m trying to be considerate when you are clearly too tired for conversation.”

  That answer—more snappish than Addy had intended—was proof enough of Aunt’s conjecture to have the old woman smiling.

  “This is about Casriel, isn’t it?” Aunt asked. “He’s a fine specimen, and he claims he’ll have my harp ready any day.” Aunt picked up her tea cup and blew on the contents without taking a sip. Her hand trembled slightly, though she didn’t spill.

  “If my mood is poor, that’s because the Season has reached the dragging-on-interminably stage,” Addy said, “and I am approaching the anniversary of Roger’s death.”

  Aunt set down her tea cup. “My poor lamb, I had forgotten, but then, I’m not exactly consulting my calendar regularly. Perhaps you should go down to Canmore Court for a week or two. Take a respite, spend time with your nieces and nephews.”

  Jason and his countess were up to five children. A third healthy little boy had arrived two months ago. They’d named him Roger and asked Addy to be his godmother.

  “I will not impose on my in-laws when they have a newborn in the house. Shall I bring you your knitting?”

  “You may do a few rows for me,” Aunt said, clearing her throat in the abrupt manner of the elderly. “If you wait until the present Earl of Canmore has no infants in his nursery, you will be nearly as old as I am. Just as the children taper off, the grandchildren start. When that happens, otherwise sensible, mature people lose their remaining wits over a scrap of humanity who weighs no more than a cat.”

  Casriel would be like that. A doting father who became an adorable grandfather, wise, kind, full of good stories.

  Though he would not be doting on Addy’s grandchildren. She’d seen him standing up for a quadrille with Miss Quinlan, seen the ambition in the young woman’s smiles. Grey’s troubles would soon be over, as would Addy’s affair with him.

  She opened Aunt’s workbasket and took out the blue shawl. Nothing had been added to the project since Addy’s last visit, not so much as a single row.

  “This will be wonderfully warm come autumn,” Addy said. “Do you have enough of the blue yarn to finish?”

  Aunt took a sip of her tea. “Tell me about Casriel.”

  Older people could be like this, having trouble following the thread of a conversation. “He’s all that is gracious and good company, and I suspect we’ll hear an announcement regarding his marital prospects before the Season ends.”

  She set the needles in motion, trying to quell a growing sense of despair. Her first affair was to have been a lighthearted romp. Not even a stolen pleasure, for widows were expected to romp.

  They were entitled to romp, in fact.

  “You are supposed to knit six and purl six, Addy. Have you fallen in love with the famous Dorning eyes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. His lordship and I are friends. Have a biscuit.”

  Aunt coughed gently, perhaps to avoid laughing. “Friends don’t stand by and watch as a mésalliance forms beneath their noses, my girl. Casriel would suit you splendidly. He’s settled, is sufficiently well born, and is every inch a gentleman. You are overdue for some gentlemanliness.”

  Addy had to go back and count her stitches, for she’d lost track halfway down the row. “Casriel is a gentleman with constrained finances and a strong sense of duty. He’ll marry well.”

  “As you married well?”

  When had Aunt grown so querulous? “I married far above my station. Too far and at too young an age. Roger was amused with me for a time, but then I failed him in the one aspect of wedlock that mattered to him. Casriel is far kinder than Roger and won’t have unreasonable expectations of his bride.”

  He’d expect much of himself, though.

  “You are cross. Women in love, contrary to the myths, can be difficult. They tend to fall in love with men, though not always, and therein lies a great deal of aggravation.”

  Addy finished the row, though it didn’t look right. “Where did I go wrong here?” She held up the knitting for Aunt to examine.

  “You fell in love with a good man,” Aunt said. “The mistake is understandable, but now you must deal with the consequences of your folly.”

  Tomorrow was half day. Addy was counting the hours until her next episode of folly. “There can be no consequences, and I have not fallen in love. I know what falling in love is like—I fell in love with Roger. I was giddy at the mention of his name. A glance from him could send me into raptures.”

  The raptures Casriel engendered were of a different nature, and every one came wrapped in regret. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  “Why couldn’t you have met Casriel ten years ago, hmmm? I’ll tell you why. Because, if he’d had the sense to realize what a treasure you are, he would not have allowed himself to offer for you then either. He would have been just as poor, but too convinced of his ability to remedy his finances with sheer hard work. You would not have had the discernment to realize what a treasure he is, because he fiddles with ailing harps, he talks of farming, and he’s mannerly rather than gorgeous and wicked. You have it all backward.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You started off the row purling instead of knitting. Perhaps you should propose to Casriel.”

  How did one repair an entire row done incorrectly? “Ladies do not propose to gentlemen, and I have no fortune. Casriel isn’t greedy, but his family looks to him to provide. In five years, when marrying me costs him the ability to dower his Tabitha well, or to keep his brother Sycamore from debtors’ prison, he’d resent me just as bitterly as Roger ever did. Do I take out the whole row?”

  And probably ruin the shawl doing so.

  “You can, or you can simply start a new pattern. For the next forty-seven rows, begin with the purling, then for the next forty-eight after that switch back to beginning with the knitting. Some of my best projects did not go according to—” Another quiet cough, then a throat-clearing. “According to my plans.”

  This lighthearted affair with Casriel was not going at all according to plan. Addy had entrusted him with some of her most bitter memories. She’d fallen asleep in his arms. How often had Roger dozed off after his marital exertions, leaving Addy feeling inexplicably empty and lonely? Casriel had held her. He’d talked to her. He’d listened.

  Addy could not bear the thought of him married to some empty-headed twit, not because she was jealous, though she was, but because he deserved better.

  And that was the essence of her dilemma. She’d resented Roger’s mistresses and liaisons, then learned to be indifferent to them. Most men of means did not limit themselves to a wife’s attentions. Roger’s passions had been quick to rise and swiftly sated, so how important could those other partners have been to him?

  Addy had never worried that Roger was unhappy with those people, never wondered if any of them were taking advantage of him. She’d never fretted that Roger was squandering his time on pursuits that were in some odd way only making him more miserable.

  “You should at least have some tea,” Addy said. “You’re not eating enough to keep a bird alive, Fredericka Beauchamp.”

  Freddy closed her eyes. “Because it’s time I flew away. I have some money, you know. I’m not leaving it to charity.”

  Not this. Not now. “Aunt, you must do with your funds as you please. You always have, and I am fortunate that my means are adequate for my needs.”

  “And yet, your life is not adequate. You should go to Canmore Court. Children are always so cheering, and then Casriel would be free to pursue his fortune-hunting with a clear conscience.”

  Aunt’s eyes were closed, but that arrow had been aimed with the skill of a master. “He will end matters soon en
ough.”

  “Yes, dear. Of course he will.”

  Addy knitted and purled, she let the tea grow cold, and she considered Aunt Freddy’s advice, which had been meant kindly and had been offered from long experience.

  Casriel would not end matters. He’d danced with the wallflowers, partnered dowagers in the cardroom, and avoided all but one set’s worth of socializing with either the Arbuckles or Miss Quinlan. If Addy cared for the man, and she did, beyond all sense or explanation, she should end this frolic sooner rather than later.

  But not just yet.

  Tomorrow was half day. Wonderful, delightful, precious half day, but tonight was a musical evening at Lady Dornley’s. Fortunately, Grey’s hostess did not believe that her guests should have to sit in rows on uncomfortable chairs like schoolchildren serving detention. She’d opened up the public rooms in her house, so guests were free to wander from the buffet under a tent on the terrace to the music room, to the library and parlors.

  Addy was not among the guests. He’d looked for her, despite the fanciful notion that he’d feel her presence. Tresham wasn’t in evidence either, though both the Arbuckle twins and Miss Quinlan had greeted Grey effusively.

  Why did gentlemen never plead a headache and leave a gathering early? Why could a gentleman never tear a handy hem, never take a bad step on a dance floor or garden path?

  Why am I whining?

  “My lord, good evening!” Drusilla Arbuckle, for once without her twin, beamed up at him. “Are you enjoying the quartet? They are quite good, I think.”

  “Good evening, Miss Arbuckle. The music is most enjoyable. May I escort you to your mother?” The young lady had come upon him on the terrace, where couples and small groups were conversing under torches. The buffet gave off the aromas of cooked meat, and laughter punctuated the music wafting from the house. The evening should have been pleasant, and yet, Miss Arbuckle’s smile foretold Grey’s doom.

  I should spend the rest of my evening charming her. I should spend at least half an hour winning her favor. I should be willing to devote fifteen damned minutes to… my future bride?