by May Burnett
Time to turn the page again. Lady Ariadne sent him a coy smile and fluttered her pale blond lashes. Did she really think he was going to be captivated by her charms? Prettier women had tried without success. Even now, Miss Prentice was fixing her large brown eyes on him from the second row. The silly girl fancied herself in love with him, though Rook had never given her the slightest encouragement. His mere existence seemed enough for some females to fix all their hopes and desires on his person. It was getting rather tiresome. Miss Prentice’s eyes were cow-like, an attribute the ancient Greeks had considered a great compliment. Indeed cows tended to have pretty eyes; and horses too, but they did nothing for Rook’s libido.
Turn the page… he had nearly been late this time. Better keep his mind on the task at hand, even if it was something as inconsequential as turning the music for a hopeful young lady. He should not be so hard on her or Miss Prentice. Well-born girls were brought up to make the best possible match and had little choice, and often enough a hard fate if they did not find a proper partner in the few short years of their prime.
Lady Ariadne triumphantly played the last note. Rook applauded with the rest, complimenting her on her musical talent. She glowed with pleasure. Had he overdone it? But no, his words had sounded no different from those of Pell, or Lord Amberley, or Amberley’s younger brother James. It was just that they came from him. Rook suppressed a sigh.
“Will you play for us, Charlotte?” Lady Amberley asked her sister-in-law. Mrs. Ellsworthy rose obediently, but warned, “I don’t have much time to practice, with three children underfoot – forgive me if I am not up to your standards.” She sat down at the instrument without further ado. When she said she was playing from memory, Rook was free to return to his spindly chair in the first row. Charlotte’s rendition of a simple Mozart piece would not have impressed a professional musician, but her verve and playfulness suited the piece very well, and Rook applauded more sincerely than before. As this lady was happily married, he ran no risk of raising unfounded hopes.
“Can you also play, Rook?” Lady Amberley asked him, when this performance had been properly acknowledged, and Charlotte Ellsworthy had resumed her seat by her husband James’s side. “I seem to remember you playing the flute years ago?”
“That was in my early youth,” Rook said, “I have given it up long since, though I sometimes sing, when someone else plays the accompaniment.” The duke, his father, had not considered the flute sufficiently manly for his heir – as though Rook needed to care about such things. But at sixteen he had not been secure enough to stand up to his autocratic parent.
He ended up singing an old folk song in a duet with his host, a cappella. Lord Amberley’s baritone combined well with his own timbre, closer to basso. As he sang, he was uneasily conscious of the gazes of Lady Ariadne, Miss Prentice, and Lady Chloe Tembley, all the young eligible ladies present in the ancient country seat, excluding infants. Lady Chloe, a diminutive blonde, looked like a recent escapee from her nursery. Why did he find very young debutantes increasingly silly and tedious, when he himself was only twenty-seven? And why did they not chase Anthony, who was closer to their age, a great catch, and quite personable? But it was always the same. Ever since he had shaved off his moustache, maidens seemed to find Rook well-nigh irresistible. Maybe he should have kept it. Or added sideburns, gradually coming into fashion. It was not too late…. But did he really want to look like an ass, only to scare off female admiration? Once he married, it would no longer matter. One more reason to stop procrastinating and fix his choice.
He wanted a woman sufficiently clever to realize that Rook preferred to be the hunter rather than the object of the chase. A young woman attractive enough to catch his interest, but who would keep him guessing until she finally allowed herself to be caught. If the ideal woman in his mind had bright red hair that was mere coincidence… there had to be dozens of pretty, well-born women with whom he could be happy. Surely he would meet the right one eventually.
Not Lady Ariadne, Lady Chloe, or Miss Prentice, however. Their very adoration disqualified them. His future duchess should be more proud and reserved than that.
Where was she?
***
Lady Amberley and her husband were private at last a little after two, when all their guests had retired to their bedrooms. As was their custom, they concluded the evening with a quick visit to the nursery, to check on their two daughters, Verena and Amelia. The children were slumbering peacefully, looking more angelic than their daytime natures justified, at least in Verena’s case. A precocious five year-old, she manipulated adults with ever-increasing skill. Amelia was only a few months old and might yet prove to be as sweet-natured as she seemed at this moment, though her mother doubted it.
“I have never seen the nursery so full,” she said to George in a low voice, as they turned to leave. “Between ours, James and Charlotte’s three, and Minerva’s little Oscar… What a shame that your mother is not here to enjoy having all these grandchildren in one place.”
“Jennifer’s four are not here, so they are only three fifths of her ten grandchildren,” George pointed out. “It is up to Mother, and she may yet change her mind.”
“I hope she does. Her room is ready for her, with the flowers changed daily, whenever she decides to join our house party. There is still a whole month to go.”
“I wonder if that is not too long. We have only invited old friends and family, apart from Durwent, who left so quickly. The entertainment would be more interesting if we were not all so familiar with each other. Did you not think to include some additional strangers, to enliven the proceedings?”
“Rook and three nubile young ladies do not offer drama enough for you? It is amazing how they will not even look at Anthony, as long as Rook is around. Whatever makes him so irresistible, I do not feel it myself, probably because I cannot find any other man more attractive than you.” At these words, George cast a quick look along the deserted corridor and seeing no servants lurking, grasped his countess around the waist for a lusty kiss.
“Not here, George – oh well, if you insist…,” Marianne’s protests were feeble enough, and she returned her husband’s kiss with interest. Hand in hand they quickened their steps towards their own apartments, each knowing exactly how the evening would end in mutual pleasure and intimacy. After six years of marriage and two children, they had learned each other’s tastes and desires very well, and yet they still regularly surpassed past pleasures with ingenuity and invention.
Presently they were done, and a pleasant lassitude took hold of both.
As she relaxed, Marianne pitied Rook, all alone in his lonely bachelor bed, but she knew better than to say so at such an intimate moment. Besides, it was Rook’s own fault – had he wooed Minerva with more passion, he might even now be a member of their family, as everyone had expected at one time. It had to be bad for Rook’s character, all that adulation wherever he went. Anyone would get conceited. The sooner he married, the better.
She had planned to find Rook a wife during this house party, but to her vexation none of the three young ladies she had so carefully selected had bowled him over. Rook was too self-assured, too smug. It was not his fault that he had been the foremost prize on the marriage mart for the last half-dozen years, or that his imposing height, blond Viking looks, and keen sportsmanship made him so admired, but it made match-making very difficult. It would do Rook good to be humbled, but life did not usually work like that. The proud and arrogant earned admiration and toadying, the deserving generally received scorn, and only very rarely their just deserts.
“George – are you awake?”
No answer. Well, it was very late. Tomorrow would bring new possibilities. She would consult Charlotte and Minerva, her sisters-in-law, whose insight might yet allow her to find a way. Lady Chloe was very pretty, and Miss Prentice so painfully in love … could Rook really be that hard to please?
She closed her eyes, to take counsel of sleep, the bringer of wisdom.
>
Chapter 2
The next day started well enough with an early morning ride on Charger, Rook’s favourite mount, which he had sent ahead to Amberley. Rook preferred bringing his own specially bred horses, rather than risk finding that none of his hosts’ animals was up to his weight. He jumped a dozen hedges and enjoyed the fresh crisp air. Dew was still glistening in the flowers on the meadows, and the exercise gave a pleasant edge to his appetite for breakfast. Out of deference to the ladies’ sensibilities, he nonetheless changed into different raiment, not reeking of horse, before joining the others in the Golden Salon, where breakfast was traditionally served.
Unlike the more informal household of James and Charlotte Ellsworthy, where he had spent some weeks after an accident the previous summer, Amberley had assigned seating even at breakfast, strictly according to rank. He took his accustomed place and told the footman his preferences, simple enough – bacon, steak, potatoes, sausages, eggs, plentiful toast and tea. He preferred his tea without sugar, plain and not too dark, but never made a fuss if it was too strong for his palate.
A letter had been placed beside Rook’s silverware. From the scrawled signature franking the missive, it was from his father. It could wait until he had fortified himself with food.
“I hope you rested well,” Lady Tembley, Chloe’s mother, said to him. “I always like the country air after the dust of London, but a few months later I long for town again, no matter how fetid it can be.”
“Indeed, in such surroundings it is easy to sleep well,” Rook said, “as I hope you did also, my lady?”
She agreed that she had, adding, “Chloe should be here any moment, she was just deciding between her favourite green and blue dresses. Both are good colours for her, do you not think?”
“Both suit blonde beauties like your daughter, most certainly.” Rook was getting bored with the exchange, and dug into the food that was placed before him before the woman could continue her inane comments. What did he care if her daughter dressed in blue or green, or purple, for that matter?
“Good morning,” said Charlotte Ellsworthy, coming in from the direction of the gardens. She looked very pretty in a pale green dress that indeed went well with blonde hair. “Hello Minerva, how is your son? Have you seen him yet this morning?”
The two put their heads together to discuss their children’s teething, while Rook morosely addressed himself to the food. This was not the kind of conversation he preferred at breakfast.
Henry Beecham, Lady Minerva’s husband, avidly reached for the paper the butler had just put on a side table. “You don’t mind?” he asked his wife, who barely looked up from her discussion. It made sense for Beecham, a radical Member of Parliament, to be so interested in current events. Hopefully he would share some of the news, or at least leave the paper behind when he was done.
“I say,” Beecham suddenly said, looking strangely at Rook, “I had no idea you were engaged! Congratulations. It is a great match! The Foreign Office will be pleased.”
The man must be mad. Rook shook his head. “I am sorry, you are mistaken. If I am engaged, it is news to me. What makes you think so?”
All the other persons present in the breakfast room had fallen silent and were watching the exchange in fascination.
“But it says so right here in this paper,” Beecham said, puzzled. “Here, look for yourself, Molyneux.” He got up and obligingly handed Rook the paper, folded to the page he had been reading – society news.
Marriages. A marriage has been arranged between the Right Honourable Marcus Dominic Breton, Lord Molyneux, b. 1796, oldest son of the Duke of Ottway, and his late wife Georgina née Desborough, and Her Royal Highness Princess Gisela Maria Florentina von und zu Obernberg, b. 1788, etc.
Rook stared, his hand trembling. The name of this lady belonged to one of the minor German principalities, one of the Protestant ones, he dimly recalled. He had never met this Princess Gisela. Who was she? And eight years older than he? Who could be responsible for this outrageous lie?
His eye fell on the unopened letter from his father and a terrible premonition came upon him.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said to Beecham, who had already drawn his own conclusions and returned to his place, leaving the paper behind. The ladies were all staring at Rook as he sliced the envelope open with a clean silver knife and began to read. A few small murmurs sprang up in the room, but he could not hear anything over the roaring in his ears.
Dear Molyneux,
As you were taking so much time over the choice of your bride, I have taken the matter into my own hands, and have concluded a contract that is most advantageous for our House, as you will surely come to see.
Our government had engaged, as part of the negotiations in Vienna, to find a suitable groom for the eldest daughter of the Prince of Obernberg in exchange for some diplomatic concession or other. The Prince was getting rather obnoxious about it for the last several years. According to the agreement it should have been a bridegroom of royal blood, since Princess Gisela herself is the daughter of a ruling house. However there was no suitable member of the British Royal family to offer.
This impasse was not only affecting our bilateral relations, but our reputation among the German principalities, as the Prince was highly vocal in his disappointment. A bright young man in our Foreign Office, who had noted your great popularity among members of the female sex, proposed your name as a possible solution. The Obernbergs hemmed and hawed for a few weeks, but I believe they are desperate to settle the matter, and so the engagement was concluded this very morning, with me signing as your proxy, and the special envoy of the Prince on your future wife’s behalf.
The match not only brings royal blood into our line, but I have also negotiated a most desirable quid pro quo: your brother Colin will be elevated as Earl Comarthen, reviving his maternal grandfather’s ancient title. We will thus have two seats in the Lords, and double our influence.
Princess Gisela is said to be less than happy with the fact that her spouse is not of royal blood, but I have no doubt that you will soon be able to persuade her of the advantages of the match. She will be arriving at Amberley within three days of this letter with her dame de compagnie, Komtesse Anna von Rosenfels, and a few maids. I shall come to check upon the progress of your courtship myself in two or three weeks. Do not disappoint me.
“Are you all right, Rook?” James Ellsworthy was standing before him, looking at his face with concern. “You look pale. Is it bad news?”
Rook laughed, though the laugh emerged less than convincingly. “Oh no – on the contrary. It seems that I am engaged after all.”
“It cannot be!” Lady Tembley gaped at him, no doubt thinking of her daughter’s disappointment. At least the three young women were not present at the breakfast table, to witness this humiliating farce.
“You didn’t know anything about it? Is that even legal?” Charlotte Ellsworthy asked. “It sounds positively medieval to me.”
“It is, especially as I have yet to meet my betrothed, the Princess Gisela von und zu Obernberg. Father writes that she is coming here with her entourage. But how can that be, without an invitation?”
“I see a letter from the Foreign Office among my own correspondence,” Lord Amberley said. “No doubt to apprise me of the planned visit. If it is in the national interest, of course the Princess is most welcome.”
“You really have never met her?” Lady Amberley’s brows were creased. “Princess Gisela of Obernberg, you say? The name does not ring a bell. She cannot have been active in London society at all.”
“She may come straight from her home in Germany. Where is it exactly?” Lady Minerva asked.
“Between Saxony and Bavaria,” her brother James informed her. “It is a small enough place, the southernmost Protestant principality in German lands. I wonder if she has any English? If she was promised an English groom, it is likely.”
Rook was about to mention that he understood German tolerably wel
l, and was fluent in French, but thought better of it. As long as the Princess did not realise that he understood her language, he might learn what she really thought of the match from her interactions with her retinue.
George had in the meantime scanned his own letter. “It is as I surmised. Marianne, we’ll have to prepare several more rooms. The best suite available for the Princess, of course, and another nearby for the Komtesse, her companion.”
“Is Komtesse the German word for Countess?” Charlotte asked. “It sounds similar.”
“No,” Rook explained, “Countess would be Gräfin. A Komtesse is the daughter of a Count, like young Lady Verena.”
“So the companion is unmarried as well,” Lady Amberley mused. “I wonder if she is some prune-faced old dragon.”
“We will make her welcome regardless,” her husband said. “Who knows if the ladies are any happier at this development, than Rook? Don’t deny it, your face as you read that letter said it all. You looked like a man who had just suffered a nasty shock.”
“I trust you will not say so to this Princess,” Rook warned.
“Of course not, my dear fellow. It will be difficult enough to woo the woman under these circumstances. We are not going to put any additional stones in your path. Unless you want us to do so?”
“Remember that I have not yet met the lady. How should I answer that?”
“None of us has met her,” James Ellsworthy said. “Personally, I would not have liked it if my father had arranged a marriage without even consulting me. Last year I swore an oath that I would let my own children choose their partners without interference.”