George asked incredulously, “There has never been anyone that you
wished to marry?”
“Well…once when I was very young,” Lord Rad
ford said with a softening of his eyes.
He gently
swirled the wine in his crystal goblet, divining the past
from its depths. “I was just down from
Cambridge and hunting in the shires when I met
her. I thought she was the most dazzling female I’d
ever laid eyes on. Rode like Diana, hair like flame, and
a figure that would keep a Cyprian wrapped in jewels
for the rest of her life. It appeared to be love at first
sight, but when I offered her my hand, my not incon
siderable fortune, and my honorable name, she threw
them back in my face.”
“You actually made an offer for her, and she turned you down?” Having seen women lan
guish after his friend for years, George was hard put to
imagine so firm a rejection. “Was she attached to some
one else?”
“She gave every evidence of returning my feelings.”
Radford stopped in mid-sentence at an un
expectedly vivid stab of long-buried pain.
A gentle
man could not speak of what had passed between him and a lady of gentler birth, but he never forgot
those forbidden kisses stolen in the garden one magic
night. Such sweetness, and such fire....
He had
searched in many places for their equal, but without
success. Until finally he ceased search
ing.
He shook off the memory. “One
would have thought she would welcome the match.
Her birth was unexceptionable, but her father had
gambled away his fortune and they were living in re
duced circumstances. She was due to be presented the
next Season, but it’s doubtful the family could have af
forded to have done the thing in style. It would be
hard to catch a duke when looking shabby genteel.”
“Do you think she would have accepted you if
you’d been Lord Radford instead of a younger son?”
Honesty compelled him to say, “Actually, I don’t think she was hanging out for a
title. I’m not even sure she knew my father was Lord
Radford. It all happened so quickly. Later she married a
military man and disappeared from society. Doubtless
she has long since succumbed to fat and freck
les.”
“That doesn’t support your belief that all women are mer
cenary.”
“But it does prove women are incomprehensible. At least the
mercenary ones are easy to understand. Since they are
the vast majority, I shouldn’t have any trouble select
ing the future Lady Radford. To get back to my earlier
question, who is available this Season who would be suitable? You are much more in touch with the Mar
riage Mart than I. Choose the future Lady Radford for
me!”
George frowned. “Do you seriously think that any girl you offer for will accept you?”
“In a word, yes. Or to be more accurate, she’ll accept
my fortune and title.”
His friend smiled mischievously. “Would you care to stake your
team of grays on it?”
Radford considered. “That
depends. What is your stake, and what are the condi
tions?”
“What if I bet a season of salmon fishing
at my Scottish uncle’s estate? He allows only a dozen
guests a year, and I’m sure he’d be willing to accept you in my stead.”
George made the offer with a touch of guilt. He
wasn’t over-fond of fishing himself, but since Jason
was addicted to all forms of sport, the incomparable
Craigmore waters would make a desirable prize. And
if Jason lost,
the Honorable George would enjoy cutting a considerable dash at the fashionable park promenades.
He continued, “Tell me
your requirements for a wife, and I’ll write down the
name of every eligible lady who fits them. Then we’ll
put the names in a bowl and you can draw one out.
You must take the chosen lady to the altar within six months to win the wager.”
“Done! It’s as good a way of choosing a wife as any
other.” Radford thought. “She must be of good
birth, naturally, and with no madness, chronic health
problems, or seriously offensive behavior in her family.”
“You’ve just eliminated half of the ton.” George
chuckled. “But not unreasonable requirements.
What else?”
“She must be passably good-looking—no sour-faced
antidotes since I shall have to see her in the day
light sometimes. And no spoiled, petu
lant Beauties who are used to having odes written to
their eyebrows and who expect men to languish at
their feet.”
“Right, no Beauties. Is there anything else you particularly want? Think carefully,” George warned. “You are choosing your life’s companion here, Jason.”
Radford shrugged. “Any well-
brought-up, docile maiden of average looks will do.
How many can you come up with?”
The next half-hour was punctuated by the scratch
ing of a pen and George’s muttering of such phrases
as, “No, Miss Emerson-Smythe won’t do, she has a
distinct squint,” and, “Hamilton’s run off his legs and
would demand some ridiculous settlement for that
frumpy daughter of his.” A bottle of wine later, he had more than a dozen
names ready for the drawing.
“Here you are, Jason, a careful selection of the most
eligible young ladies the polite world can offer.
Choose your future!” Mr. Fitzwilliam dropped the
slips of paper in a bowl, first dumping the nuts it con
tained on the table, then swirled the bowl ceremoni
ously and held it well above his head.
Jason stood, carefully adjusted his
cuffs, and reached into the bowl. A moment’s fum
bling, then he pulled a slip out, opened it, and stared at
the name.
“Who is she?” George said eagerly.
“Caroline Hanscombe. The name is unfamiliar to
me. What can you tell me about her?”
His friend looked a bit disappointed as possession of the coveted team of grays became unlikely. “She
shouldn’t be too much of a challenge. She’s a quiet lit
tle thing with no conversation. Not unattractive, but two or three years older than the average debutante.
Almost on the shelf. Her parents kept her back to pre
sent her with a younger sister. Her father, Sir Alfred
Hanscombe, is a bit of an oaf but wellborn enough.
The sister, Gina, is a jolly strapping wench, much live
lier—but she’s nearly betrothed. Still, I’m sure Miss
Hanscombe will make you a fine, tractable wife, or I
shouldn’t have entered her name.”
“Caroline Kincaid, Lady Radford. It sounds well
enough. I suppose she’ll be at Almack’s tomorrow
night with the rest of the husband-hunting maidens.
Lord, I haven’t been to one of those stuffy assemblies
in years—courting has hazards I hadn’t anticipated.
Shall we drink to my future wife?”
Raising their glasses, they solemnly clinked them together. “To Lady Radford!”
* * * *
“Aunt Jessica, can you give me one good reason
why I should go to Almack’s tonight?”
Jessica Sterling raised her auburn head from her mending and smiled sympathetically at her favorite visitor. “Well, your stepmama will insist on it, for
one.”
“That’s a compelling reason but not a good one. Truly,
Jess, isn’t there some way I can get off this marriage-
go-round?” Caroline Hanscombe raised her tawny
head from the lute she was tuning, her deep blue eyes
shaded with humorous pleading. While her propor
tions were pleasing and her movements graceful, she was characterized as “a mere dab of a girl” by more
than one critical elder. She forgot her shyness only
with close friends or when she was absorbed in music;
then her delicate face relaxed to a dreamy, ethereal
loveliness.
More often, her considerable intelligence and humor
were concealed behind the anxious look produced by
her stepmother’s continual criticism. Her small stature
and dark blond coloring gave her a chameleon-like
ability to fade into the background on the numerous
occasions when she wished to avoid notice. On this
early-morning visit to the aunt who was also her best friend, she could speak her mind in a way impossible
under her parents’ roof.
“Oh, Caro, I do wish you enjoyed the parties more. They can be quite fun—I enjoyed my own come-out tremendously.”
“Confess, Aunt: you haven’t a shy bone in your
body. And beautiful as you are, half the men in Lon
don must have been languishing for a single look from
your glorious green eyes.”
Jessica chuckled engagingly. “It wasn’t quite like
that. While I attracted some attention—including, my
girl, sixteen sonnets and no fewer than three odes—I
was considered too headstrong by the high sticklers.
And indeed, they were right. I wouldn’t want you to follow my social example too closely. Al
though,” she said parenthetically, “I do believe I
would have attracted less censure had I not had red
hair. It was very hard to pass unnoticed! You are much
better at rendering yourself invisible than I. But it
would be nice if you could see the Season as something other than torture.”
“But it is torture! I feel paralyzed by shyness whenever I
meet someone new. And when one of the dragons
looks me over and so clearly finds me wanting . . . ! Al
mack’s is the worst of all. The patronesses are posi
tively panting to find something wrong with us
trembling mortals. I shrink to think of it.”
“Still, it is a young woman’s best opportunity to
meet a future husband. Much of aristocratic Britain
gathers in London to mingle. It gives you the opportu
nity to meet people you would never discover buried on your father’s estate in Wiltshire.”
Caroline sighed. “Since the purpose of it all is to
catch a husband, I still cannot become enthusiastic. I
don’t want to marry; I want to move in here with you.
Apart from Signore Ferrante’s house, this is the only
place I have ever been comfortable. And while he has
been the best and kindest of music masters, I can’t
imagine that he would want me to live with him.”
Jessica’s gaze softened as she looked at her niece.
“You know I would love to have you. But you are too
young to bury yourself with a widowed aunt and her
daughter in an unfashionable neighborhood. Marriage
is what you make of it—you can see it as a trap or as a
girl’s main chance to change her life. If you didn’t like
the way you were raised, attach a man in a different
mold from your father. It’s something of a gamble, of course, but it makes life more interesting.”
Caroline giggled mischievously. “Jessica, you’re in
corrigible. You look and sound exactly the way you
did when you were breaking all those hearts at seven
teen. I was only eight then, but I remember clearly. It’s
all very well for you to say ‘attach a man’ as if it were
just a matter of making your choice. That may have been true for you, but I have no such magical power
over the opposite sex. And I wouldn’t want such
power! I can truly think of no happier life than to
move in here with you and Linda and your admirable pianoforte.”
Jessica sighed and applied herself to her sewing for
a few moments. While complimentary gentlemen
were fond of saying that she looked no more than a
girl, she felt the weight of her experiences if not her
years. The life of an officer’s wife had been exciting,
but also full of fears and constant change. She was
thirty years old, had borne a child and buried a hus
band, and would never be truly young again.
“Things change, love. It may seem like the ideal life for you now, but nothing remains the same. Linda will
grow up and marry, you might start longing for a
nursery of your own. I might even marry myself. One
can’t choose a way of life and say, ‘It will stay like
this.’’”
“You think you might marry again? This is
the first time I’ve ever heard you mention the possi
bility.”
“While I have accepted the idea of remarriage in
principle, it may never happen in practice. My income is not great, but it is adequate, and I do enjoy my free
dom. It would take someone very special to make me
wish to marry again, and that is unlikely to happen a
third time.”