“Make it clear you’re back on the marriage mart. Let the ton know you’re looking for a wife. And humor me by following through with it and attending balls, going to the opera, and actually looking for a bride.” She neglected to crack even the barest hint of a smile.
He groaned. “Mama, I attended a number of balls last Season. I found no one suitable at any of them.” The docile debutante daughters of meddlesome Mamas always filled the blasted affairs. An unsightly combination of unhappily married ladies and lonely widows were continuously on the prowl, on their salacious hunt for male companionship. For some reason, all of these females typically marked him as their primary target any time he attended such a rout.
Who was he fooling? He knew precisely why they marked him as their sport.
Sometimes he wished didn’t not carry any of his titles, that he was simply Peter Hardwicke and not the Duke of Somerton. Then, perhaps, he could prove their attentions hinged only on a desire for station and not on a desire for him.
That, however, could never be. Like it or not, he had been born with the knowledge that he was destined for this position. He had been brought up with this singular purpose forever in his mind.
One simply could not escape fate, no matter how hard one might try.
“You attended a grand total of three balls last Season,” Mama countered. “I expect far more effort than that this time around.” She pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear before resuming her position, regal as the queen herself.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “How much more effort?” He doubted he could bear more than four or five balls at the most. The Season only lasted a few months, after all.
“Total.” Mama raised a single eyebrow, daring him to defy her.
He groaned aloud. With that determination in her eyes, the woman would stop at nothing less than insisting he attend at least two or three soirees for every week of the Season.
She frowned across at him. “You and Sophia will each find an eligible match before the year is out, so help me. She’s already on the shelf despite my best efforts, the stubborn girl, though she thankfully still has a number of gentlemen admirers. If only she wouldn’t keep running them all off! I honestly have no idea why she can’t find a single gentleman suitable. And you, my dear boy, are hardly better off than she. As such, I intend to have you escort your sisters and me to every ball of consequence.”
“Every ball of...?” Peter raked a hand through his short hair, sending it into disarray. Good God, his mother was relentless. He knew her well enough to know she would never give in until she had her way. “Fine. You have this one Season, and one only, to find me a bride. If I haven’t found a suitable match by the end of the summer, you’ll leave me in peace as the widower I am.”
Damnation. He really needed to keep a better check on his temper so he wouldn’t be so sorely tempted to speak before he thought. Fiend seize it, had he truly just agreed to attend entertainments every night for months on end? He must be barking mad. They should lock him in an asylum and toss the key into the fiery pits of hell.
Mama smiled at him. “Excellent. But mind you, I intend to see to it you hold to your end of the bargain. You must do your very best to fall head over ears in love with some proper and eligible young miss? I’ll hear of no less.”
“And what, precisely, shall I gain in all of this, Mama?”
“Why, happiness and love, of course!” Her hands fiddled with the note she’d been holding since she first burst through the doors of his library. “Now, there is one other piece of business I wanted to discuss with you.”
Wonderful. How could things possibly get any worse? “What might that be?” he drawled. Peter saw no reason to feign excitement over any part of this conversation.
“I’ve been corresponding with my third cousin, Barbara Matthews, do you remember her? The vicar’s wife? I’m certain you must. She’s really a dear, sweet lady. Anyway, she has a daughter with no dowry, and they’ve been so unfortunate as to be unable to provide her with a come-out either. I should very much like to invite her to stay with us this Season so I can sponsor her. Will you allow it?” Yet again, her tone challenged him with an order more than asked a question.
“So you propose I should have three young, unmarried misses in my home partaking in the marriage mart while you force me to participate as well? I can think of nothing I would enjoy more, Mama.” He couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. Not that he had tried, precisely.
First there was Sophie, who’d already been on the marriage mart for close to a decade. Now Charlotte was due for her come-out. With the addition of this long lost cousin, Peter thought he might drown in silks and lace before he could even contemplate doing what his mother had asked of him.
She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment but didn’t comment on his rudeness. “Yes, that’s precisely what I suggest. How else will Jane ever find a husband? The poor girl has no true prospects where they live. It’s the least we can do for her. We are her relatives, after all.”
“Since you will sponsor her come-out, I suppose you expect me to give her official debut ball, as well.” He waited for Mama’s nod. “Will you at least allow me to combine Miss Matthews’s ball with Charlotte’s? These balls will be the death of me,” he said, grumbling the last bit beneath his breath and certain she would still hear it.
“That would be quite all right, sweetheart. I’m sure Charlotte and Jane will be quite content to share their ball.” Mama stood and began to gather her belongings. “Splendid. I’ll send my cousin a response today and leave to collect Jane tomorrow. Might I use your carriage for the journey? They live in Whitstable, you know, and I can’t imagine traveling to fetch her in something less comfortable.”
Tomorrow? They would be back within less than a week. How would he possibly get through his ledgers in such a short amount of time? But it would be almost impossible to sort out the problems with Turnpenny at Carreg Mawr once they returned and he began to fulfill his newfound societal obligations.
He needed Mama out of his library, and the sooner the better. Every moment he could spare would be necessary. “Of course you may take the carriage. I’ll have a room prepared for Miss Matthews before your return.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve already ordered it done.”
Why had she even bothered seeking his permission then, if she’d seen to all of the details? Clearly, she had already made up her mind, no matter his wishes.
“Is there anything else? I have a great deal of work to accomplish this evening and would like to get back to it if possible.”
“No, dear, that’s all.” She stood to leave the library, but turned just before reaching the doors. “And Peter? Know that I only ask this of you because I love you and want what’s best for you.”
“Yes, Mama. I know.” If only she would trust him to know what was best for himself. He had been the Duke of Somerton and the head of the Hardwicke family for over five years now. Yet still she treated him like a little boy, for Christ’s sake.
“Good. I’ll inform Forrester which of those invitations he should accept before tea.” Mama rubbed her hands together with a broad smile. “We’ll be quite busy this Season.”
Too bloody busy for Peter’s comfort. He settled at his desk and opened the first ledger for his Welsh estate before checking the clock on the far wall. There was no time to waste on Mama’s distraction of searching for a wife, but what else could he do? If he neglected to follow through with it, she’d badger him for the rest of eternity. One Season—one silly, fussy little Season—would surely not kill him. It might make him itch to strangle a libidinous widow or two at times, after they had attempted to work themselves into his bed, or perhaps wish to jump from the window of the highest floor at Hardwicke House, but it wouldn’t kill him of its own accord.
Mama returned to his library only a moment after she’d left. “One more thing, and then I’ll leave you to your business. Jane’s dowry. What can you do about that?”
&n
bsp; Why would she not leave him be? “Her dowry?” he drawled.
“Yes, her dowry. She needs one. You have more than enough to provide her with one. And she is a relative, however distant. How much will you offer her suitors?”
“As much as it takes to unload the blasted woman as soon as possible and convince you to leave me alone, that’s how much.”
For the first time that day, Peter earned his mother’s smile.
~ * ~
Jane set aside the gown she had been sewing and chose a book from Mrs. Zachariah’s collection on the nearby bookshelf. “How does Pride and Prejudice sound for today? It’s high time we start with a new book.” She leafed through the pages, desperate to lose herself in the story. Of course, the village matron would agree to whatever book she selected—their reading sessions were merely a means to achieve Mrs. Zachariah’s afternoon nap.
“Oh, yes. That sounds truly lovely, dear. Why don’t you begin?” Mrs. Zachariah pulled a quilt high about her shoulders and struggled to keep her eyes open while the late afternoon sun warmed her gray, papery skin.
Jane wondered how much they would read before her friend nodded off from the lull of her voice. She returned to her seat near the lounging chaise where the older woman rested. A large ball of orange and white fluff leapt into her lap almost as soon as she was seated. “All right, let’s begin. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. What a terribly odd sentiment.” Mr. Cuddlesworth purred his agreement as he kneaded his paws against her bosom.
“Was that in the story? Jane, do please try to keep your thoughts to yourself. My feeble mind doesn’t need any more distraction than it already has.” Mrs. Zachariah coughed and cleared her throat, then settled in again.
Jane pushed the cat’s paws away from their inappropriate behavior and tried to readjust him in a more decorous position curled up on her legs. Try as she might, she’d never managed to break her cat from drawing attention to her more-than-ample bosom with his antics. At least no one here cared how thoroughly unacceptable the Mr. Cuddlesworth’s behavior was, whether they were in company or not.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said once he was resituated “I’ll try to do better.” After only a few pages, Mrs. Zachariah’s all-too-familiar snores reached her ears, so she continued to read to herself. She could always read it again to the older woman tomorrow—and she likely would.
Several chapters later, she was fully engrossed in the tale and had lost all track of the time. The housekeeper poked her head into the drawing room. “Miss Matthews? Your mother will be missing you if you don’t leave soon, ma’am.”
Jane looked at the Bornholm clock by the double French doors. “Drat!” She was more than an hour late. Jane rushed to tidy the room and return things in their proper places. Mr. Cuddlesworth grumbled at her from his new position on the floor where she’d unceremoniously dumped him. “Thank you so much, for the reminder, Mrs. Dennison. You are most dear.”
Mother would be furious at her tardiness. They had a guest arriving, some distant cousin or something. A dowager duchess, no less. One would think she was the blasted Queen of England herself, the way Mother droned on and on about the Dowager Duchess of Somerton.
Why should a title matter one whit? The woman was only a relative, and one who had never bothered to visit before, at that. Nor had she invited any of them to visit. She probably looked down upon them, because Jane’s father was merely a country vicar and he held no title.
With the room set back to rights and her sewing packed away, Jane carefully moved Mr. Cuddlesworth to his well-worn (or rather, so terribly old and used it was falling apart) basket. She wished he’d find something else to sleep in, but her sweet cat was very set in his ways. The basket had been his since the very first day she snuck him into the house. She’d tucked him in her skirts when she was only nine years old to accomplish the feat. He didn’t seem to care how it was too small to house his body or how hideously the wicker broke about him. It was his, and he would use it until the day he died. Jane rather thought he might tell her as much himself, if he could speak.
Or if she could understand his cat language.
Once he was settled, she gathered her belongings and rushed out the door, the cat’s basket tucked snugly under one arm and another with her sewing notions in the other hand.
She trudged through the muddy lane separating their two houses. At least the rain had finally stopped. Mr. Cuddlesworth hated to get wet. They always fought an epic battle when he needed a bath, though it was usually quite unclear in the aftermath which of them had come out the victor.
As she turned the corner toward her parents’ home, she realized things were far worse than she expected.
Double drat.
A huge, crested carriage waited before the front door. At least four men accompanied it, each of them at work caring for the team of six horses.
Six horses! Oh, dear Lord.
Jane rushed past the carriage on her way to the house, ducking her head as she passed the team so as not to draw their attention. One horse reared back and whinnied, and her heart palpitated. Breathing became almost impossible. She froze where she stood, so that perhaps the beast would calm down.
Only a few more steps to the kitchen door.
One of the men waiting with the carriage grabbed hold of the horse’s reins and calmed it, and Jane took that opportunity to dart the rest of the way. Thank heavens. She hoped she could clean up before being spotted by anyone. Mother would be livid if Jane came in to be introduced to the dowager with a muddy hem and shoes. She threw open the door and scurried inside.
And ran straight into the lion’s den.
Drat, drat, drat.
Mother’s eyes dropped to the floor and her cheeks filled with color. Oh, dear. She hated to embarrass her mother. Jane had always hoped that, perhaps as she grew older, she would find a way to stop being so clumsy—that she could manage to behave appropriately more often than she behaved inappropriately.
Fortune had not been so kind as to grant her that favor.
She set her baskets down on the floor and brushed a hand over the wild mass of blonde hair falling out of place on her head. Nothing could be done about the state of her attire at this point, but at least she could try to straighten her hair. The damp air was causing her curls to run riot, though, and they quickly bounced back to their original position.
Blast, why had she worn the green cotton? It always made her skin look sallow. Not only that, but it had far more pulls from Mr. Cuddlesworth’s claws than any of her others. She really ought to make herself some new gowns sometime soon. Her current dresses were all too worn, too faded.
Too late to do anything about that, at the moment.
With a sheepish grin, Jane tried to execute a proper and polite curtsy to the dowager, but her muddy shoes slipped on the hardwood floor and she fell forward. Thwack! Her nose smacked hard on the floor just beside the dowager’s feet.
“Oh, that hurt.” Her pride, more than anything.
Mrs. Childress, the family’s maid of all work, rushed to her side and helped her to her feet. A tiny pool of blood pooled on the floor just where her nose had been, and a few droplets fell forward and landed on the dowager’s gown as Jane straightened. She took a seat across the table from the two older women. That was not quite the elegant entrance she’d hoped for.
Mr. Cuddlesworth jumped into her lap and shoved his head into her hand repeatedly, forcing her to pet him just as he wanted, and entirely oblivious to the scene his favorite person had just caused.
“Your Grace, oh goodness, I am so terribly sorry,” Jane’s mother interjected. “My daughter is quite the clumsy fool at times.” Mother’s voice trembled with misery as she sprinted about to dab a wet cloth on her cousin’s gown. “I certainly would understand if you’ve changed your mind after the behavior she has just displayed.”
“Changed your mind about what?” Jane tried to ignore th
e hurt tone of her mother’s voice. She pressed another wet cloth, brought over by Mrs. Childress, against her bloody nose with her unoccupied hand and hoped the flow would cease soon. If it didn’t, she would likely get blood all over Mr. Cuddlesworth and then have to give the poor dear a bath.
A chore neither of them relished. She might end up bloodier than she started.
“Gracious heavens, girl, I’ve taught you better manners than that. I apologize for my Jane’s impertinence, Your Grace.”
Jane frowned. “Mother, I can certainly apologize for my own impertinence. There’s no need for you to do so for me.” She looked the dowager full in the face. A glint of amusement settled deep in the woman’s eyes and the tiny upward curl of her lips intrigued her. “Changed your mind about what, Your Grace?”
She was a grown woman, by God, and not some silly girl still in leading strings. She would speak when she wanted to speak, and question when (and whom) she wanted to question, regardless of rank or station. Jane purposefully left the apology out of her question, choosing instead to simply add a proper styling for the woman’s rank.
Mother’s gaze hardened in outrage, but the dowager laughed outright. Her blue eyes twinkled with delight and soon her fair skin flushed to almost match the rich reddish hue of her hair. “Miss Matthews, I do believe I like you.”
She turned to Mother and took the cloth from her hands. Then she took over the task of blotting the bloody spots from the fine yellow muslin of her gown. It was quite the fashionable gown, too, with subtle yet intricate stitch-work along the seams. It took every ounce of restraint Jane owned to keep from leaning closer and examining that gown down to the last inch. She wanted desperately to recreate it—only in a blue shade, something more akin to the sky on a sunny, spring afternoon.
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