by Rose Gordon
“Oh, Anthony.” Mother rolled her eyes heavenward. “You know that is impossible. You are the eldest son, and your father’s heir. You must find a wife, and you must start your own family. Farming can come later.”
“I find it heartening that Anthony is so attached to life at Thursan Grange,” Father replied, breaking his silence at last. “But your mother is right, my son. You must find a wife, and you must marry. If not Genevieve, some other girl will do.”
“And sooner, rather than later,” Mother added, unfurling her fan slowly. “Anything to quiet the gossip. Honestly, I don’t know what has gotten into young ladies these days. Eloping with an American! How positively galling.”
Anthony turned to his grandmother, hating for the conversation to turn down that same well-worn path. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Grandmother had the fire in the grate roaring, which might have suited her, but was causing the rest of the family to break out in perspiration. Yes, Genny had eloped. Yes, she had eloped with her American cousin. He could not feel any kind of anger or remorse about this, because she had freed him—even if only temporarily, from the Marriage Mart. Grandmother understood. She wouldn’t force him to seek a wife over the Christmas holidays. “What do you think, Grandmother?” Asking her opinion would put an end to Mother’s tirade.
“I think,” the dowager began slowly, “that it is high time we visit my brother, Jonathan. He has invited us all to spend Christmas at Danby, and I feel compelled to go. He is much more acute on matters of matchmaking than I, and besides, I have a wish to see him again.” Grandmother looked Anthony directly in the eyes. “You aren’t off the hook yet, my boy.”
Anthony gave an inward groan. His family was determined to have him married off, no matter how he felt about the matter. And if Grandmother was planning to consult with the formidable Duke of Danby about this situation, then Anthony’s choices really played no part in the matter.
What could he say or do? He knew what he was. He was, at heart, a simple farmer. Nothing brought him greater happiness than seeing the ripe, unfurling rows of wheat reaching toward the sky in early spring. He knew what he was doing while working the land, whereas in a ballroom—well, better to leave that sort of thing to his dashing younger brother, Richard. Richard was the ladies’ man, the bounder, and the cad. Just as one would suspect from such a daring youth, he had gone off to the West Indies to seek his fortune, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.
Once Richard had gone, and scandals stopped brewing about him, the family’s focus had shifted firmly to finding Anthony a wife, even though he knew he had absolutely none of his brother’s debonair and suave ways.
“When do we leave?” Mother’s eyes were wide with alarm. “There’s so much to do before we can go. I had planned to have Christmas here, of course.”
“That was before Genevieve Hopwood turned our lives upside down,” Grandmother rejoined sharply. “Start making any plans you need for travel and for closing the house over the holidays. I’ll make inquiries of Jonathon as to where we shall stay. I think there are usually one or two homes to let during the season, and we shall simply take up residence in one of those. We shall arrive at Danby no later than the 20th. Jonathon is preparing a ball for Christmas Eve, and I want to make sure I have plenty of time to confer with him about Anthony’s predicament before the festivities begin.”
It really was too much. Anthony rose so quickly, he sent his gilt chair skidding backward. Conferring with the duke about his love life, a ball with too many of his annoying cousins, his sisters constantly underfoot, and no way to escape to the barns or to go riding over the snow-encrusted pastures of Thurson Grange.
“Tut, tut, Anthony,” Grandmother said, giving him a knowing look. “It may not be as bad as all that.”
He could think of nothing to retort. Grandmother deserved his respect and his honor, even if he thought the whole business a shameful waste of time.
There was nothing to do now except go for a ride. Perhaps an afternoon on horseback would clear his mind.
Miss Rosamond Hughes cowered behind the study door, hunched against the wall with Ladies Frances and Helen Carew, her two dearest friends in the world.
“Have they said anything about Richard?” Helen demanded in a fierce whisper.
Frances shushed her with a frantic wave of her hand. “Hush. They’re just talking about Anthony. Poor fellow. Genny did him an awfully bad turn, jilting him the way she did.”
Rosamond’s face heated with shame. Here they were, spying on Frances and Helen’s family to determine information about the great love of her life, Lord Richard Carew. Instead, they were eavesdropping on their eldest brother’s heartbreak. It really was too bad of all of them. They should not be prying.
She straightened and smoothed out her skirts. “Let’s go back upstairs,” she whispered. It simply didn’t feel right to listen in on a parental conference about Lord Bexley’s marital prospects.
Helen glanced up at her, frowning. “Don’t you want to know if Richard is coming home for Christmas? If he is, then we must begin making plans so that you may dazzle him as soon as he catches sight of you.”
Rosamond’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course I want to know,” she whispered. “But there are scruples involved.”
Frances shrugged. “All is fair in love and war,” she countered. Then she pressed her ear up against the heavy oaken door once more.
Rosamond was torn. Her friends had come up with the idea to eavesdrop on their parents once they saw the runner come to the house and deliver a message to Lord Bexley. Something big was afoot, and they wanted to know all the details. Then, too, they had offered to help Rosamond by finding out if Lord Richard would be home in time for Christmas. If he was, then she might have the chance to try to win his favor. She had been in love with him for as long as she could remember, but as a small, somewhat round, and shy young lass, she had little chance of earning his attention. Richard’s tastes ran to tall, beautiful, and vivacious ladies.
If she left now, she stood the chance of appearing ungrateful for her friends’ help, and that simply wasn’t the case. It was just—difficult—to bear any kind of witness to Bexley’s humiliation. Where Lord Richard had been sophisticated and dashing, Bexley had been aloof and distant. Lord Richard demanded attention, whereas Bexley’s approval seemed rather difficult to obtain. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to be an observer, even behind closed doors, to his heartbreak.
She stepped past Helen and Frances. Even if she was curious about Lord Richard, it did no good to stay. She would simply go back to the girls’ room and wait for them there. Surely, if they heard any news, she would be the first to be told.
As she passed the threshold, the heavy oaken door flew open and she collided with something strong and solid. A flurry of muffled shrieks and the patter of slippers told her all she needed to know—Frances and Helen had fled from whatever had just occurred.
“I beg your pardon.” A quiet, tense, male voice spoke up. Powerful hands gripped her shoulders and set her back on her feet. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Nor was I,” she gasped. She gazed up. It was Bexley, of course. His black hair was rumpled, as though he had been running impatient fingers through it, and his blue eyes held a defiant light. His square jaw was set, as though he were arguing with some invisible foe. Was Bexley always this well-built? The way he held her made her feel light as a feather. That so rarely happened—usually when she danced, or when a man squired her about, she was made readily aware that she was short and a little too plump.
He gazed down at her. “I suppose Helen and Frances are looking for you.”
“Yes, quite.” She swallowed. What would it feel like to dance with Bexley? She had never dared to suppose such a thing before. He was always so distant and far from her. Lord Richard, because of his daring and jesting ways, was far more approachable.
He released her, and then, giving her a curt nod, left. She paused for a moment, gathering her wits. If sh
e went to the girls’ room looking as abashed as she felt, then there would be no end to the teasing she must endure.
She walked, slowly and with what she hoped was a regal air, down the stone corridors of Thurson Grange. From all sides, ancient family portraits stared down at her. This was a fine old home, the kind of environment one could call established. Not at all like her people, who had come into money lately and then purchased a manor home to call their own. Everything about the Grange was strong and silent and traditional—even its eldest son.
She really must stop thinking of Lord Bexley, and focus instead on Lord Richard.
When she finally made her way into the girls’ room, they flung themselves upon her.
“Did Anthony see you?”
“Did he speak to you?”
“Yes, of course, to both.” Rosamond disentangled herself from their arms and took her place in a chair by the hearth. “He nearly knocked me down.”
“Poor fellow. He’s probably off to the stables,” Frances mused, walking over to the window and flicking back the heavy velvet curtain. “Even in this foul weather, he likes to be out riding.”
Rosamond glanced at the thickly-falling snow. “I should hurry home.” If the snow fell too fast, she could end up having to spend the night at the Grange. Given her addled feelings, this could prove rather ridiculous.
“Well, I suppose you must,” Helen agreed. “Tell you what. I’ll prevail on Mama and Papa, and ask them if you can be our guest over the Christmas holidays. You can come with us to Danby. Then, if Richard manages to come home for Christmas, you will be there when he arrives. We shall have plenty of time to make you into his type of young lady.”
“That is a capital plan.” Frances twitched the curtain closed. “I know your papa will allow it, Rosie.”
Yes, yes he would. Papa thought any opportunity for Rosamond to mingle with “the Quality” could only improve their standing in society. It was a rather disgraceful way to look upon her friendship with the Carews, for she would have liked them all whether they were poor as church mice or as wealthy as, well, they were. Some people were just jolly company. Despite their sometimes scatter-brained ways, Helen and Frances truly were her dearest friends.
“Very well.” She gave them a brave smile. “If your parents truly don’t mind, and if you feel you can make me into a diamond of the first water, then I should love to spend Christmas with your family.”
While she loved her friends, she doubted very much that they had the necessary skills to make her into Richard Carew’s type of young lady. She much preferred to walk the pastures of her father’s estate, or to care for the animals in his barn. She was, at heart, a country girl. On the other hand, if she didn’t act soon, she might be on the shelf forever. She was eighteen years old, and without a beau in sight.
How did the old proverb go? It would be like making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
Graveleon Head, Yorkshire
December 20, 1816
Rosamond glanced around her borrowed room. This would be her home over the Christmas holidays. She turned slowly, taking in each piece of furniture and each picture. The room was old-fashioned and gracious, mellowed from passing years, unlike her own bedchamber. Her father’s home was newer, rawer, and possessed little charm. In fact, it was a trifle sterile. It was much nicer to be outdoors at home, to imagine that the rolling pastures touched the sky.
She stretched out her hands to the welcoming fire in the grate, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror that hung over the mantle. She had never been apart from Papa over the Christmas season, but he had encouraged her, most heartily, to accompany the Carews to Danby. “Think of the connections you’ll make, my dear Rosie,” he had effused, clapping his hands together. “The old duke is most well-respected. Being a guest in his home can only add to our social polish.” And then, Papa had practically pushed her out the door.
Her smile wasn’t for these much-heralded social connections. No, her smile was for the possibility of seeing Richard again, and for spending the holidays with her two friends. For if she were home, and they here in Yorkshire, it would be a very dreary Christmas indeed.
The door opened, and Frances and Helen bounded into the room.
“Rosie, my dear, we have a most excellent plan,” Helen effused, taking her by the hand and whirling her about on the oriental carpet. “We only just thought of it, but it will solve all of our problems.”
Rosamond let go of Helen’s hands, her head spinning. “What plan?”
“It’s just this.” Frances, the more practical of the two, took over. “You see, Richard likes women who are flirtatious and daring, beautifully gowned, and so forth. Well, we will not only make you into a diamond of the first water while you are here, but we will also have you practice your whiles on Anthony.”
“Practice on Lord Bexley?” Rosamond’s stomach dropped like a stone. She had not yet recovered from accidentally stumbling into his arms that day at Thurson Grange. Even on the journey to Yorkshire, she had been hard-pressed to suppress a blush whenever she was in his company.
“Yes. Just think of it.” Helen giggled with delight. “Anthony must be feeling rather low, being recently jilted and all, and having the attention of a pretty girl would certainly boost his spirits. Practicing on Anthony would also give you the chance to hone your skills at flirting, which are sorely lacking.”
“Helen.” Frances spoke sharply, as though giving her sister a warning.
“I’m not saying anything that isn’t true,” Helen retorted. “Rosie knows she’s no flirt.”
“Yes, I know,” Rosamond murmured. She wasn’t ashamed of her lack of coquettish skills, and yet there was something altogether humbling about this proposal. As if, somehow, she wasn’t good enough for Lord Richard. There wasn’t anything wrong with being quiet and somewhat diffident, but often she found herself apologizing for not being more than she was.
“So that’s the plan,” Helen continued after a brief pause. “What do you think, Rosie? Shall we begin?”
“Are you so certain that Lord Bexley will want my attentions?” Rosamond’s face heated with embarrassment. “He’s so different from Lord Richard. He may think I’m just a silly little nonentity.”
“That may be true.” Frances sank into a velvet chair by the fire. “But all men like some sort of attention from women. It could very well be a balm to heal his heart. We all heard what Mama and Papa and Grandmama were saying. They intend to find him a match as soon as possible, to help mitigate the scandal Genny caused. That’s why we’re here. Our great-uncle is a master matchmaker. He will simply point to a girl, and Anthony will have to propose to her.”
Somehow, Rosamond seriously doubted this. Lord Bexley might indeed be obligated to find a wife, but he certainly did not seem like the kind of man who was easily led or persuaded. She kept her counsel, however. It didn’t seem right to speak her mind on the matter—as though she had made a serious study of Bexley’s character.
“Enough of this chatter,” Helen pronounced. “Let’s get to the fun part. Gowns, hair, jewels, and the like.” She stepped back, giving Rosamond a searching glance from the crown of her head to her slippered feet. “We must do something about your hair first.”
Rosamond put a defensive hand up to her head. Her hair had always been a trial. It was brown, and curly, and almost impossible to keep neat. “What are you going to do to it?”
“Sit down.” Helen waved her over to the dressing table. “I have to see what I have to work with before I can decide. We’ve always done our own hair, for we prefer to dress ourselves. Now let us try out our skills on you.”
Rosamond sat, and allowed Helen to remove the dozens of hairpins she had used to coil her locks into some semblance of decency. Helen ran her fingers through Rosamond’s curls.
“Good heavens, you have a lot of hair,” she remarked, squinting at Rosamond’s reflection in the mirror. “And your face is rather round. I think, perhaps, it would look better if we p
iled your hair up on top of your head.”
“I’m willing to try anything,” Rosamond admitted. Fashion simply was not her forte. She knew what she was—didn’t Father always call her his “little brown wren?” She would much rather dress simply and be able to work around the stables, helping the stable boys to train the puppies, or walking one of the mares to loosen her limbs before exercise. Sometimes, though, to get your heart’s desire, you had to completely transform yourself.
Lord Richard would have no use for a plump little thing. She must try to better herself. At the very least, she owed it to Frances and to Helen, who had invited her to their family holiday gathering for this very purpose.
A hairpin pricked her scalp. “Ouch,” she cried.
“Sorry,” Helen muttered around a mouthful of hairpins. “Your hair is awfully tricky, though.”
While Helen continued her ministrations, Frances opened the wardrobe and began rifling through Rosamond’s freshly unpacked gowns. “Rosie, you really should liven up the colors you wear,” she scolded. “One would think you were in half-mourning. It’s all dark grays and blues.”
“I feel too conspicuous if I wear bright colors,” Rosamond protested. “Really and truly, I do. You should see me in pink. I’m a fright.”
“You simply must stop thinking in those terms.” Frances yanked a wine-colored gown out of the wardrobe and held it up, giving it a critical glance. “This one will do for today. It’s pretty enough. Are you almost done with her hair, Helen?”
“Yes.” Helen stood back, admiring her handiwork. “Come and see.”
Rosamond glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, Helen had truly worked a miracle. With her curls piled high atop her head, her face appeared slimmer and her eyes seemed wider. Helen had somehow managed to convince a few curls to trail winsomely down her neck, giving her a softer, more romantic appearance.
“Very good.” Frances beckoned to Rosamond. “Now, change your dress.”
In a matter of moments, the two sisters had tightened her stays and fitted the heavy velvet gown over her head, while somehow managing to keep her curls in place.