by Mary Balogh
His relief was mainly attributable, though, to the fact that he had seen his future bride during one sweeping glance around the room before focusing his attention on his hostess. And to say that he was relieved was perhaps an understatement. She was a beauty of the first order, with exquisite features and delicate blond coloring and a figure to satisfy even the most exacting male's dreams.
Her two sisters were much younger and quite unremarkable. The report he had had of their ages must have erred.
"But there must be some mistake, my lord," Lady Astor was saying. She was looking somewhat bewildered. "You cannot possibly be my late husband's cousin whom I met many years ago. Why, you must have been in leading strings at the time."
He bowed. "You must be referring to my father, ma'am," he said. "It is sometimes confusing to share the same name as one's father. My mother insisted on naming me Geoffrey after him. You were not informed, it seems, of the fact that my father passed away four years ago."
"How distressing your loss must have been for you," she said, clasping her hands against her bosom. "But of course I remember that your poor dear papa had a son. And you are now Lord Astor, sir. I am delighted to make your acquaintance and only sorry for the ancient quarrel that has kept our families apart for so many years. My girls are as eager as I to renew the family acquaintance. May I present my daughters to you, my lord?"
Lord Astor assured her that he would be honored. He bowed in turn to Miss Frances Wilson, Miss Arabella, and Miss Jemima. And finally he took a seat close to the beauty of the family. He was not disappointed at his closer scrutiny of her face and figure. She had beautiful, trusting blue eyes—when he glimpsed them. Most of the time she kept them modestly lowered. But even so there was a great deal to admire. Her dark eyelashes were thick and long and fanned her blushing cheeks most becomingly.
She did not speak a great deal. But who would demand conversation from a female who had so much to offer the eye instead? As he sipped his tea, Lord Astor could picture to himself already the sensation she would create when he presented her to society as his wife. He could imagine the pleasure he would derive from taking her to a fashionable modiste and decking her out in the latest styles and fabrics.
Lord Astor conversed almost exclusively with his hostess. She tried to include one of the younger girls in the conversation—the tiny one with the masses of dark hair who sat on the window seat swinging her legs whenever she spoke—but the viscount did not give the girl a great deal of his attention. Or the other one, in fact—the thin auburn-haired one who stared mutely at him throughout tea. He did wonder briefly, as he had several times during the past few weeks, whether he would be expected to take his wife's mother and sisters back to London with him. But he suspected now that it would be unnecessary to do so. The two younger girls must be too young to make their come-outs yet.
He found, though, as he continued the conversation with Lady Astor, that he no longer cared greatly what good manners would compel him to do on the matter. So vast was his relief to find that after all he was to have a lovely and refined bride that he would have been prepared to drag along to London a dozen sisters if it had been necessary.
Lady Astor rose to her feet eventually and offered to escort him to his room—the master bedchamber, she was hasty to assure him—where he might wish to change from his traveling clothes before dinner.
He bowed to the beauty and her sisters and followed his hostess from the room, well-satisfied with his first hour at Parkland Manor. For the remainder of the day, he decided, he would confine his conversation to polite topics. Time enough tomorrow to have private talk with Lady Astor concerning his coming nuptials and the future of herself and her two remaining daughters.
2
Arabella was sitting on the lawn north of the stables, playing with George, her collie. He was not allowed in the house because he gave Frances the sneezes. But he certainly did not suffer from lack of human love. Arabella spent every spare moment out-of-doors, and George could usually be seen loping along in her wake or dashing on ahead of her. Today, though, she was sitting, scratching his ears, ignoring his frequent invitations to get up and romp. She did not want to be seen from the house.
She had left Frances crying in her mother's sitting room. Her sister had been unwilling or unable to say a word but had merely wilted gracefully onto a sofa and buried her face in her lace handkerchief. Mama, who had summoned Arabella to inform her that Lord Astor had requested a private audience later in the morning, suggested that perhaps Arabella should leave again. Perhaps Frances would speak to her mama alone.
But Arabella knew what had upset Frances. She was weeping even more bitterly than she had during the previous two weeks, knowing that the sacrifice Arabella had so cheerfully agreed to make had now turned into a bitter sacrifice indeed. Frances had guessed that the prospect of wedding the viscount was far more daunting to her sister now than it had been before, and her tender heart had set her to crying again.
Arabella had felt almost like crying herself since the afternoon before, except that she would not really know how to go about deriving any comfort from sobs and tears. From her limited experience with both, she would only make herself feel worse. Sobs caused a sore chest, tears a blocked nose. And both, of course, caused shiny red blotches on face and neck. No, she would not cry. And she would not complain or otherwise show her mother and sisters how insupportable her fate had now become. She could not burden them further with the knowledge that she now wished it were Frances who had been chosen as Viscount Astor's bride.
How could she possibly marry Lord Astor? He was not at all the comfortable older man of her expectations. He was young—surely no more than ten years her senior at the most. And—worse—he was a handsome man. He was not tall, not very much above average height, in fact. But he was slim and graceful and had a manly, good-looking face and shining dark hair. Quite the sort of man who would turn female heads even in a large assembly of gentlemen.
And worst of all—oh, far worse than his youth or his good looks—he was a confident, experienced man of the world. At least, he had given every indication of being both during the afternoon and evening of the day before. He had conversed with Mama on a wide variety of topics and had told them a good deal about London and the Continent. And there was an air about him—Arabella could not put it into words exactly. There was something about him that suggested knowledge of the world and experience with its workings.
There was that way he had of looking at Frances, for example, as if he knew and appreciated her even from so slight an acquaintance and was confident that she must return his regard. And there was the way he had of not looking at herself. She did not even exist for him. She had very clearly been dismissed as an uninteresting child of no account. Although she had spoken ten times as much as Frances the day before, she would swear that he had not taken note of a word she had said or afforded her more than an occasional glance.
She was finding it very difficult to support the prospect of marrying Lord Astor. She would never be able to lose her awareness of her own dreadful shortcomings with him. She would always be uncomfortably aware of how young she looked, how small and plump, how round and childish of face. She would always be aware of the dullness of her conversation and the narrowness of her experience with life.
Oh, dear, Arabella thought, rubbing George's stomach with such energy that he waved his paws in the air in perfect ecstasy, she could never be comfortable with Lord Astor! And all she had ever asked of this marriage was that she feel at ease and that she be able to make her husband comfortable. Everything would have been all right with an older man. She need not have been conscious of herself with an older man.
But with this viscount! She would forever feel inferior. And she would forever feel uncomfortable in the knowledge that he must constantly look at her with distaste at worst, indifference at best. She would want to impress this man, and in her wildest dreams Arabella knew that there was nothing on this earth she could possibly do
to draw his admiration.
Oh, how she wished that it were Frances who was to marry him. Frances was at least as beautiful as he was handsome. It was true that she had no more experience with life than Arabella, but with Frances that did not matter. Indeed, her very innocence gave her charm. A marriage between Lord Astor and Frances would be such an equal match. They would suit. They would be happy. He would be proud of Frances. Arabella had seen the day before that he already admired her sister.
And Arabella had a dreadful suspicion that Lord Astor had thought that Frances was his chosen bride. She had assumed that Mama had communicated her choice to him, but perhaps she had not. Perhaps the viscount had come to Parkland not knowing which sister was to be his bride. And if that were so, it was the most natural thing in the world that he would have thought Frances was the one. How dreadfully disappointed he would be when he discovered the truth this morning. In fact, perhaps he would renege on his promise and leave alone for London immediately.
What a dreadful humiliation that would be! Worse even than having to marry the man.
Arabella became suddenly and paralyzingly aware that the viscount, clad with suffocating handsomeness in green superfine coat, buff pantaloons, and white-topped Hessians, was striding toward the stables from the direction of the house. Perhaps he was leaving already. Or perhaps he had come in search of her, having learned the dreadful truth.
She ducked down, trying to make herself invisible even as George scrambled to his feet, barking furiously, and rushed toward the stranger. She might as well have waved a large red flag above her head, Arabella thought ruefully as she got to her feet with as much nonchalance as a wildly beating heart would allow, brushed at her skirt, and walked toward him, a smile of welcome on her face.
Her second guess had been the correct one, she thought with a sinking heart; he was on his way to talk to her. He turned immediately in her direction, and without any hesitation. Arabella stood still and waited. And smiled.
Lady Astor had been successful in persuading her eldest daughter to express her grief in words. It was not quite as Arabella thought, though.
"Mama, oh, Mama," Frances said, sniffing against her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes with it, "why did no one think to inform us of the demise of his lordship? No, he was not his lordship, was he? Papa was still alive when he died. He was Papa's heir, yet no one told us of his death."
"It was on account of that quarrel, doubtless," her mother said. "So foolish it all was, to be sure. I cannot even rightly recall what it was all about, though I do remember that Papa was entirely in the right of it. But it was remiss and indeed spiteful of the family not to inform us of the passing of Papa's heir. I do not wonder that the news coming suddenly as it did has shocked your sensibilities, my love."
"Oh, Mama, if I had only known!" Frances wailed, wringing her hands affectingly. "He is so young and handsome and fashionable. And amiable."
"Indeed, his lordship is a pleasant surprise," Lady Astor said. "A very agreeable young man indeed. He has not once made me feel that I am merely a guest in his home."
"Don't you see, Mama?" Frances' voice had become tragic. "There would have been no need for Bella's sacrifice if I had just known. I might have taken the burden upon myself."
"Indeed, my love," her mother said with a sigh, "you would make a far lovelier viscountess than Bella. And I am sure his lordship would prefer to have you. He has had eyes for no one but you since his arrival yesterday afternoon."
Frances pressed her handkerchief to her eyes again.
"Of course," her mother said, brightening, "I have not spoken to his lordship yet. He does not know which of you is to honor him with her hand. I am sure that Bella would have no objection to a change in plan. Shall I talk to her, my love, and suggest that you marry Lord Astor after all?"
Frances looked up, tears sparkling on her lashes, her eyes a deeper blue than usual. "Oh, Mama," she said, "that you should be the one so to tempt me. No, I could not do it. Dear Bella has made the sacrifice so cheerfully for all our sakes, and I was only too ready to allow her to do so when I imagined that his lordship was an old man. Now she is being rewarded for her selflessness. She is to have a young and handsome husband. She deserves her good fortune, Mama, for she is an angel. I am happy for her. I truly am."
She proceeded to prove her point by dissolving into tears yet again.
Lady Astor rose to her feet and patted her daughter reassuringly on the shoulder. "I think I have two angels for daughters," she said. "You have a generous heart, my love. Many is the sister who would be jealous of Bella under the circumstances. But you are right. She deserves this reward. His lordship will be fortunate indeed to acquire such a sweet bride."
She patted Frances on the shoulder again and announced that it was time to join his lordship in the morning room to make the nuptial arrangements.
Lord Astor did not want to be on his way to find Miss Arabella Wilson. Not by any means—she was the small dark-haired one, he gathered. But he supposed there was no point at all in delaying the moment. Sooner or later he must go through the formality of making the girl an offer. It might as well be sooner, since there was no earthly way he could get himself out of the predicament.
Just the day before, he had been prepared for disaster. He had talked himself into expecting that his bride might be ugly or awkward or vulgar. He had even persuaded himself of the possibility that she might be all three. It was cruel of fate to have buoyed up his spirits as it had done from the moment of his arrival until just half an hour before.
It had not even entered his head since the previous afternoon that perhaps his chosen bride was not the beautiful Frances. Indeed, he had not dreamed that either of the other two girls was old enough to be considered. He had not taken a good look at either, but his distinct impression had been that both were mere children. Yet it seemed that the solicitor had not erred in the one detail he had given about the three daughters of his predecessor. Miss Arabella Wilson was eighteen years old.
Old enough to be his bride.
It had been a cruel blow, when he had renewed his offer to Lady Astor a little earlier, to be told that, yes, she was sensible of the great honor he was doing her family and that her second daughter would be happy to receive his addresses. He feared that his jaw might have dropped at first, so unexpected had her words been. Her second daughter? He could not even recall at that precise moment exactly which of the two sisters that was not Frances was the elder.
But what could he do or say? He had bowed and said all that was appropriate to the occasion. And Lady Astor had released him, assuring him that she understood that he would wish to acquaint himself better with Arabella and settle the matter with her before discussing details of the nuptials.
He had bowed and asked where he might find Miss Arabella.
She had told him that the girl was probably outside where she usually was. She was possibly with her dog in the vicinity of the stables.
And so she was, Lord Astor found with some relief. He might have lost his nerve entirely if he had had to hunt for her. He saw her as soon as he turned his head in the direction of the black-and-white collie that was bounding toward him, barking enthusiastically. She was sitting on the grass, but she rose hastily to her feet and began to walk toward him. Clearly she was expecting him.
Lord Astor changed direction and smiled as he approached her.
"Good morning, Miss Arabella," he said, bowing and coming to stand a few feet in front of her. "That is a fine dog. He is yours?"
"Yes, my lord," she said, turning to pat the dog on the neck as it put its paws on her waist and panted upward into her face. "No, George, we may not go walking now. You will just have to wait. And do get down. I am not at all sure that your paws are clean."
She was indeed tiny. She must reach scarcely to his shoulder, even though he was not himself a tall man. It must have been her height that had misled him into thinking her a child. She had the shape of a woman. On the other hand, she ha
d the eager and flushed face of a child.
"Perhaps you would care to stroll with me," he said with a bow, "and thereby give, ah, George his exercise. Is he meant to bear any resemblance to any royal gentleman, by the way?"
She laughed. "It is just that Papa had all the other dogs named King and Rex and Prince and Duke and such," she said. "There did not seem to be anything very regal left by the time poor George came along."
"Shall we?" he said, indicating the lawn to the west, which appeared to lead down to a pasture.
She fell into step beside him. Her plain blue woolen dress and shawl made her look somewhat older than whatever it was she had worn the day before. Her hair was dressed in a plain chignon, but one heavy lock had come loose and hung down her back. It was a quite unbecoming style anyway, Lord Astor thought, making a mental comparison between it and Ginny's riotous curls.
And Miss Arabella Wilson was not pretty.
"I have had the honor of talking with your mother this morning," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "She has given me her permission to pay my addresses to you."
"Oh," she said, and blushed. She looked up into his eyes for a brief moment. "I am most dreadfully sorry. I mean, I am sure that you offered so that we would not be destitute and so that we would not feel ourselves beholden to you for charity. And I am sure that you would vastly prefer it to be Frances, for she is the acknowledged beauty of the family. And I am not beautiful at all. But Frances is to marry Theodore, you see—Sir Theodore Perrot, that is—and so it was decided that I should be the one to accept your so generous offer."
Lord Astor was lost for words. The girl prattled like a twelve-year-old. And did she not know that there were pretenses to be upheld? One did not openly admit that one was making a marriage of pure convenience.