idiot.
“Deene, good day.” She turned, that smile still on her lips, and waited for Deene to handle the introductions.
A sweet moment, to be introduced to a duchess, and by no less than his own seething brother-in-law in view of all and sundry.
“Your Grace, may I make known to you my brother-in-law, Mr. Jonathan Dolan? Dolan, Esther, Duchess of Moreland.”
And abruptly, the sweet moment turned… tainted. For one instant, Dolan forgot how a man—a gentleman— behaved upon introduction to a duchess.
Deene had bowed. Dolan bowed to the same depth and came up with his best charming smile in place—Her Grace was an easy woman to smile at, pretty even at fifteen years Dolan’s senior, with a palpable graciousness about her not typical of her kind.
Not that Dolan had been introduced to so very many duchesses.
“Mr. Dolan, a pleasure. My daughter was complimenting your Georgina just the other day. If raising my five girls is any indication, your daughter will soon be turning your hair gray and breaking hearts. Deene, I’ll be expecting you for supper Tuesday next. The numbers won’t balance if you decline.”
She murmured her good days in such dulcet, cultured tones Dolan could almost forgive her for being a damned duchess.
“I’d heard you were driving out with the woman’s daughter. I wouldn’t mind having the daughter of a duke for Georgina’s aunt.”
Deene had recovered himself thoroughly. He aimed a stare at Dolan that felt uncomfortably pitying. “Dolan, there is more to choosing a wife than the benefit she brings you and your
“And do you number your sister’s only child among those bogtrotting relations, Deene?”
They’d descended to insults that hit dangerously close to tender places, and lowered their voices accordingly. As Dolan watched his brother-in-law’s handsome face, he reflected that learning to trade insults like a true English gentleman was not an accomplishment to be proud of.
“You had best hope your Goblin never finds himself running against King William. I would not want to have to explain to my niece why English bloodlines are superior to all others, even as they relate to lower species.”
Dolan smiled, so English was that insult.
“Perhaps you’re right, my lord, at least when it comes to running fast. Shall we part on this cordial note between enthusiastic horsemen, or go another three rounds?”
For one disturbing moment, something bleak flickered through Deene’s eyes.
“Good day, Dolan. Please give my compliments to Georgie and tell her I asked after her. You have my thanks as well for the flowers you keep on Marie’s grave.”
“Good day, Deene.”
On that civil—and puzzling—note, they did part, though Dolan felt the need for a quiet place to sit and reflect on the entire conversation before administering the week’s verbal beating to his solicitors.
Marie had loved her brother. It was probably accurate to say that upon being forced to marry Dolan, her brother was the
And yet, for the one moment when bleakness had flickered through Deene’s eyes, Dolan would have sworn that they also shared another emotion where Marie was concerned, an emotion more burdensome than love.
Dolan had to wonder on what grounds the marquis might be entitled to feel guilt where his sister was concerned—if indeed that had been guilt Dolan had seen flickering in Deene’s handsome blue eyes.
“Eve Windham, what on earth can you be poring over in here when any sane creature is outside on such a glorious day?”
Louisa sat herself—uninvited and unwelcome—right beside Eve on the small sofa.
“I’m making a list, if you must know.” Eve set the list aside, though she’d hardly kept her aims secret from her sisters.
“Of?” Louisa, having the advantage of greater reach, helped herself to Eve’s scribblings. “These are names of men.”
“My sister is a genius.”
This provoked a grin as Louisa perused the admittedly short list. “These are single men, but what a group you’ve gathered on your paper, Eve. Trit-Trot; Sir Cleaveridge Oldman, better known as Old Sir Cleavage; Harold Enderbend, known to his familiars as Harold Elbowbend.” Louisa continued to study the list, her grin fading. “These are your white marriage knights, as it were?”
“They are a start.” Though it had taken Eve all morning to come up with even a half-dozen names.
“Scratch Trit-Trot off your list. Joseph says he gambles excessively.”
Eve took up the paper and did as Louisa suggested, but it was no great loss. Trit-Trot would bow and blather her witless in a week.
Cleaveridge would not keep his hands to himself.
Enderbend was a sot whose drunken wagering would bankrupt them in a year.
Eve nibbled her pencil. “Can you think of anybody else? Mind you, this is strictly in the way of contingency planning.”
“We should ask Jenny. She notices things. This discussion will require sustenance.”
That Louisa wasn’t laughing at Eve’s project was both reassuring and unnerving. While Lou rang for trays— plural—another footman was sent off to retrieve Jenny from the gardens.
“We’re trying to find Eve a white knight husband, but it’s rather difficult going,” Louisa explained to their sister. “We need a fellow who will leave her in peace but be attentive and civil. He must be goodlooking enough to be credible and have all his teeth.”
Jenny took a seat in the rocker and frowned at the list. “He must be able to keep Eve in the style to which she has become accustomed.”
Before the tea trays had arrived, Eve’s sisters had concocted a list not of eligible husbands, but of the characteristics such a man must possess.
He must like to travel—preferably to foreign parts for extended periods.
He must be mild mannered, but a man of his word.
He must be affectionate
It wouldn’t hurt if he already had an heir.
Nor if he were devoid of relatives who would be curious about the nature of the marriage.
Such an effort her sisters put forth to secure Eve a list of appropriate possibilities, and yet nowhere on their list were the things that might have made a white marriage bearable:
He must be kind.
He must be that rare man who could befriend an adult woman.
He must be loyal—faithful was a ridiculous notion under the circumstances.
And it really, truly would not hurt matters if he loved horses, either.
“Eve has left us.” Jenny made this observation when Louisa had laid siege to the sandwiches and cakes an hour later.
“I’m thinking,” Eve said, which was not a lie. She was thinking of never seeing Franny’s foal grow up, never bestowing a name on the little fellow, or petting Willy’s velvety nose ever again. Never again kissing the only man to make her insides rise up and sing the glories of being a healthy young female…
“Jenny has come up with a capital notion. You must marry this portrait painter everybody is raving about. I forget his name, though he and Joseph are cordial.”
Eve forced herself to attend the topic, more because her sisters left unsupervised would have her betrothed to the fellow without her even being introduced to him.
“Elijah Harrison. He has a title,” Jenny said, “but he doesn’t use it. He’s mannerly and quiet, also very talented and an associate member of the Royal Academy, one of the youngest so far.”
