A Regency Match (6 page)

Chapter Four

M
ARCUS
H
ARVEY
, the fifth Earl of Wynwood, felt no particular eagerness to attend his mother's houseparty at Wynwood Hall, even though it had been arranged at his request and was being held in his honor. The only reason he'd requested it at all was to avoid the much more ostentatious affair that his future mother-in-law had threatened to arrange. Iris's mother, Lady Lorna Bethune, had spoken of holding an engagement ball at her London townhouse for two hundred of her most intimate friends. “A mere two hundred?” Marcus had asked drily, hoping her ladyship was jesting.

“If you are implying that the number is too large, my dear boy, you may save your breath,” the strong-willed dowager declared. “I couldn't invite fewer without giving offense.”

Marcus quailed. “But, Lady Lorna, I couldn't—”

“Now, Marcus, be a good fellow and don't object. After all, you must understand that one's only daughter does not become betrothed every day. One likes to be surrounded by one's nearest and dearest at such a time.”

The prospect of facing the congratulations of two hundred of Lady Bethune's nearest and dearest proved too much for Marcus to stomach. Hoping for aid from his intended bride, he cast an anguished glance at Iris, who was seated on the settee beside him. But Iris was gazing demurely down at the hands folded in her lap, as if to indicate that it was not proper for a well-bred young lady to take part in planning for a party at which she would be the guest of honor. Marcus rose and began to pace about the room. He had an almost obsessive antipathy toward public display, and he abhorred to be made conspicuous. A ball such as the one his mother-in-law contemplated (at which he would be at the center of a crowd of well-wishers) was utterly repugnant to him. “But … my mother writes that … er …
she
wishes to give the party,” he improvised desperately.

Lady Bethune gaped. “Your mother? You mean at
Wynwood
?”

“Yes,” he went on, sinking deeper into deception, “at Wynwood. Mother wants to hold a houseparty, with only our immediate families and a few friends present.”

If any of Lord Wynwood's intimate friends had overheard the exchange, they would have understood the reason he'd fabricated that story. They all knew him to be scrupulously honest, so if he were concocting Banbury tales, the reason could only be that Lady Bethune was attempting to violate his deep sense of privacy. Lord Wynwood was known to have a reticence in public that was beyond the ordinary. One could see it in the subdued and modest style of his dress and manner—a style which he consciously adopted to keep himself out of the limelight. He hated to be noticed. If onlookers were inclined to take heed of his entrance into a room (and they often were), it was either because his height and his craggy features had caught their eyes or because his admirable reputation had preceded him.

His friends described him as the sort who never put himself forward. He kept his opinions to himself unless pressed, but since he was known to be a man of sense and considerable knowledge, his friends always pressed him for those opinions. He would then comply, of course, but with a soft-spoken, non-contentious manner which seemed to suggest that the listeners could accept or reject his views as they pleased. Those who didn't know him often asked why a man so obviously gifted by nature and so highly placed in the world would behave in so self-effacing a way. His intimates, however, knew that he was far from self-effacing. He was very much his own man and knew quite well how to please himself. If they could have witnessed the little scene between Marcus and his mother-in-law-to-be, they would have found it a case in point. For Marcus had no intention of subjecting himself to a grandiose pre-nuptial party which he would thoroughly dislike, and if a small deception were necessary to extricate himself from the situation, why then it was a price he was willing to pay.

So he had invented the story of his mother's letter, and Lady Bethune had been caught up short. She'd choked, and her mouth had dropped open. In fact, she'd almost goggled. “At Wynwood?” she'd repeated, awed. “You don't mean it!”

She had fallen back against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. What a dilemma the boy had faced her with! She was quite aware that invitations to Wynwood Hall were very much prized by the
ton
. There were two reasons for the value set on those invitations: the first was that Wynwood was one of England's great estates, and the second that invitations to visit there were offered only rarely—and then only to Lady Wynwood's most special friends. Lady Bethune's mouth fairly watered at the prospect of having her daughter's betrothal announced at Wynwood. On the other hand, she had quite looked forward to parading her daughter's “catch” (for it was universally agreed that the Earl of Wynwood was a very big fish indeed) before half of London society. If the affair were held in Sussex, the number present would be very small.

Lady Bethune had never met the mother of her prospective son-in-law, but she looked forward to the meeting with an eagerness bordering on awe. For Lady Wynwood was a somewhat legendary figure among the Londoners of her generation. Charlotte Harvey, Lady Wynwood, had been a great beauty in her youth. She'd been described as having “enchanted” eyes, an ethereal expression and an aloof manner. Even in those days, she'd kept the world at bay, permitting only a select few to enjoy her company. Thus her reputation for exclusivity had begun. When she'd married the taciturn Earl of Wynwood, a man fifteen years her senior and more at home on horseback than in a drawing room, she had set society's tongues wagging. Lord and Lady Wynwood had ignored the comments, had retired to the country and had lived there in apparent contentment. They were seldom in London. The few close friends who were invited to Wynwood Hall came back to town with tales of lovely surroundings, warm hospitality, lavish meals, good sport and stimulating conversation, and those who were not privileged to share in those pleasures listened with growing envy. And the value of an invitation grew. After the old Earl died, the invitations became even more rare and more desirable.

All this was quite well known to Lady Bethune. Although she had not yet set foot in Wynwood Hall, her friends already envied her. From the moment she'd whispered (to a mere eight or nine of her closest friends) that a match between her daughter and the desirable Earl of Wynwood was a settled thing, she had seen it in their eyes. If she could tell them now that her daughter's betrothal was to be announced at a small, select party at Wynwood Hall, they would be positively green.

Marcus had watched in unholy amusement as Lady Bethune's face reflected her inner turmoil. Her lust for a large ostentatious ball battled with her desire to mingle with the elite society of Wynwood. Elitism (as Marcus expected it would) had won the day.

Marcus had quickly taken his leave, inwardly sighing with relief. He'd immediately written to his mother to confess what he'd done. Lady Wynwood had responded in her usual, unworldly style.
My dearest boy
, she'd written,
you needn't apologize at all. I should have thought of having a party for you myself. I shall be most delighted to hold a house-party on such an occasion. I am quite looking forward to it, especially to meeting your young lady. How exciting that you are betrothed! I have no doubt at all that I shall love Miss Bethany
—
or is it Miss Battersea
?—
on sight. And Marcus, dearest, you must invite anyone you wish, but don't forget to ask your uncle Julian. He would be quite put out if he were not included. Which reminds me that I myself have invited a few friends down for the fortnight in question, but I'm sure they will all blend in very well with your people. We shall have a very merry time of it, I assure you. Oh, by the way, do you think you should invite your cousin Elvira? She is a bit garrulous, I know, but she would be so pleased to be part of the festivities. Of course, if you do, we shall have to have the entire Fitzhugh branch, so perhaps you'd better not. I suppose we might ask Henry and Constance, too, for they are always pleasant to have by when one needs extra hands for cards. I leave it all to you, my dearest. You are so much better at making such decisions than I. A bientôt. Your loving Mother
.

The letter, while it made him laugh out loud at the first reading, soon filled him with misgivings. How many friends had his mother already invited? And did she really want him to invite Henry and Constance? They could scarcely be called immediate family, no matter how skilled they were at cards. Didn't his mother realize that more than a dozen people would be horrendous? Every time they'd sit down to a meal, it would be like a damned
banquet
!

It was clear that, if the party were not to get out of hand, he would have to take control himself. Decisively, he ordered his valet to pack a bag. While that was being done, he paid quick visits to Miss Bethune, Dennis Stanford and his uncle Julian. Those errands done, he tossed the bag into his curricle and set off for Sussex.

It was early evening when he entered the gates of the estate. With the smoke and din of London far behind him, and the smell of spring filling his nostrils, Marcus found his mood brightening. Although he had not made his home at the Hall for several years, he loved the place better than any other on earth. His first glimpse of the house, whenever he'd been away from it for long, always filled him with pleasure. Wynwood was approached through a large, oak-studded park, over a balustraded stone bridge which spanned a bubbling rivulet with fern-covered slopes, and round a bend in the road which brought one face to face with the main buildings. The house, which had been built by the first Earl in the seventeenth century, was a lovely, three-storied block with an imposing six-columned portico, to which a pair of beautiful, curved wings had been added a century later, but with such tact that no one could see they'd been an afterthought. Even the outbuildings, the stables and the greenhouses seemed to blend in a pleasing coherence. As Marcus rounded the bend, he saw that the setting sun had sent sparks of radiance to dance on the bowed windows of the west wing and the greenhouses. He drew his horses to a stop and sat for a moment in admiring contemplation of his Sussex home, the view driving from his mind the annoyances that had brought him here.

But an hour later, after the affectionate greetings between mother and son had been exchanged, and his travel-weariness had been dispelled by the indulgence in a lavish tea prepared by Mrs. Cresley, the housekeeper, in honor of his arrival, the problems of the forthcoming festivities returned to his mind. He pushed aside his teacup and faced his mother purposefully. “I say, Mama,” he began, “did you mean it when you said you don't mind having a houseful of guests descend upon you?”

“Of course I don't mind, dearest,” she assured him with her customary serenity. “I shall enjoy every moment. What better way could I find to celebrate my only son's betrothal?”

Marcus rose and went to her chair. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, leaning over and kissing her cheek affectionately. “I'm more grateful than I can say. I've come a week early so that I can help you with the preparations.”

“There was no need for that, silly boy,” she said, patting his hand, “although I'm delighted to have you here. Mrs. Cresley and the butler can handle all the details, you know.”

Marcus winced. It was just like his mother to expect things to fall into place without any effort on her part. She had an unshakable faith that everything she undertook would turn out right. Any efforts she would make, she believed, would merely interfere with the smooth workings of Providence. Since
Providence
would provide, there was no need for
her
to exert herself. “It might be of some help to Mrs. Cresley,” Marcus suggested mildly, returning to his chair, “if we worked out some menus together.”

Lady Wynwood was having some difficulties with her shawl which kept slipping from her shoulders. “Very well, if you think we should,” she agreed absently while she fiddled with it.

“And we could plan a few outings. You know … to keep the guests happy and busy during the days. Things like riding, sightseeing, that sort of thing …”

“What a very good idea,” she acknowledged, looking up from her shoulder with a smile.

“And bedrooms,” Marcus persisted. “We should think about where to put people, don't you agree? We want to make them comfortable, you know. By the way, how many have you invited so far?”

“No one, dearest,” she replied, still occupied with her shawl. “I told you I would leave all that to you.”

“But you wrote that some friends of yours were coming down—”

Lady Wynwood looked up at him, wrinkling her brow in concentration. “I don't remember writing … Oh, yes! You mean Alicia. Yes, of course, Alicia is coming. She's my best and oldest friend—we must have
her
.”

“Oh? Is she the only one coming?” Marcus asked hopefully.

“Well, there's her granddaughter, of course. One couldn't expect Alicia to leave her behind. And Walter and Isabel—”

Marcus sighed. “Walter and Isabel?”

“Yes. Alicia's younger son, you know, and his wife. They've been away for years … India, I believe … so I thought, as a sort of welcome—”

“That makes four. Well, I suppose four can be managed.” He fixed his eyes on his mother's face and asked firmly. “Are there any more?
Think
now!”

“Let me see. I think … I'm almost certain that Walter and Isabel have a son. He'll be coming too, I expect,” Lady Wynwood murmured and turned her attention to her shawl again.

“Confound it, that makes five! Are you sure that's all?”

Lady Wynwood pressed a finger to her lips thoughtfully, causing the wayward shawl to slip from her shoulders again. “Well, I … I
think
that's all. Or … did I ask the Carringtons too?”