Chapter 6

The benefit of having close friends who took their responsibilities in Parliament seriously and family who enjoyed socializing was that at least once a year they all converged on London at the same time. Right now, however, Griffith wouldn’t have minded a little less diligence on their part. The crack of the billiard balls as they crashed into each other was less jarring than the speculative questions and glances he was currently being barraged with.

“I understand waiting to see the girls settled, but why were you waiting on me?” Trent leaned over the table, his blond hair flopping over his forehead as he lined up his next shot. “There’s four years difference between us. You could have been setting yourself up for a long wait.”

“Not with the way you stumbled into trouble, pup.” Anthony, Marquis of Raebourne, extended his cue to slide the marker over on his and Trent’s scoring line. While Anthony wasn’t technically family, he lived in the estate next to Griffith’s and had married Griffith’s ward. As far as Griffith was concerned, he counted.

Trent shrugged with his regular good nature, the smile on his face a clear indication that, while he may have stumbled his way into a forced marriage, the couple hadn’t stayed distant from each other.

In fact, it was Trent’s marriage that had convinced Griffith he could choose the woman he would fall in love with. Trent had barely known his wife when they married, so his options had narrowed to one if he wanted to build a family with the woman he loved. Griffith intended to take the same path, only he would choose who that woman would be instead of stumbling his way into it.

“That’s rich, coming from you, Anthony.” Ryland stepped up to the table, head tilted to examine his possible shots through narrowed grey eyes. “Trent couldn’t get into as much trouble as you if he tried.”

Anthony frowned, not caring for the reminder of his multiple youthful indiscretions, but the laughter of Colin McCrae, the husband of Griffith’s youngest sister, kept Anthony from scowling too darkly.

Colin leaned against the wall, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “I’m less interested in his reasons for waiting and more interested in the logic behind his choice. Miss Frederica St. Claire? I’ve been mulling it over, and I honestly can’t see it.”

Griffith glared at Ryland. “Is there anyone you didn’t tell?”

One eyebrow rose as Ryland leaned on his stick. “Me? I didn’t tell anyone. Do recall who else was standing there when I made my prediction.”

Miranda. Griffith’s lively, meddlesome sister. While he knew he could count on her discretion in public, all was fair when it came to family.

“There’s nothing wrong with Miss St. Claire.” Apart from her predilection to faint at his appearance.

“There’s not much right with her either. At least not for you.” Anthony took his shot, then stayed leaned over, hands braced against the billiard table. “Her dowry can’t be much above mediocre—not that you need it—and there’s no way you can convince me it’s her sparkling wit that’s drawn your attention. If it weren’t for her unfortunate nose she’d be utterly forgettable.”

“Exactly.” Ryland crossed his legs at the ankle as he leaned against the wall. “He intends to slide her into his life without disrupting a thing. We’ll hardly know she’s here.”

The quizzical looks being sent his way irritated Griffith. They made him question his decision, something he refused to do. Ever. A duke couldn’t afford to second-guess himself. He pushed his cue forward, but his unease with the conversation had him putting a bit too much effort into the strike, and the ball pinged off the end of his cue and bounced into the rail.

“Though your arguments don’t matter, I may have to change my mind.” Griffith straightened from the table, knowing his uncharacteristic declaration would keep anyone from mentioning his poor game play. “Her affections appear to be tied to another. An Arthur Saunderson.”

Anthony frowned. “Who’s he?”

“One of Baron Ebchester’s younger sons, would be my guess,” Colin said.

Now the men’s wide eyes swung toward Colin.

“You know him?” Anthony asked.

“No. But if someone of Miss St. Claire’s ilk was going to encounter a man named Saunderson, that’s the most likely. Lord Ebchester owns the textile mills near Lord Pontebrook’s estate, and he has a passel of sons. Bought commissions for three of them.” Colin frowned. “I think one of them died a couple of years ago.”

Well, that explained her talk of ghosts.

Ryland gave a low whistle. “You don’t want to compete with a dead man.”

“Whyever not?” Griffith rather thought such a man wasn’t going to be able to give him much competition, being dead and all.

“Because he can’t do anything wrong.” Colin stood next to Trent, examining the table. “That’s a tough shot, there.”

Trent lined up his cue and shot. The men watched the balls clank against each other before the red one plopped into a corner pocket. Even though he had to acknowledge the skill of that shot, Griffith didn’t like losing to his younger brother. It wasn’t quite as bad, though, as the idea of losing to a dead man, even if he had been a soldier.

“I’m a duke.” Griffith set his shoulders back and tried not to look too haughty. “Some say I can do no wrong as well.”

Ryland, the other duke in the room, bent nearly double in laughter.

Anthony slid a piece of chalk against the leather tip of his cue. “If you’re serious about getting married, you could have your pick of women. Could probably even land the hand of Miss St. Claire’s cousin.”

Colin’s eyebrows rose. “She has a cousin?”

“A beautiful one.” Anthony grinned at Colin. “Your wife will be jealous.”

Given the fact that until now Georgina had been touted as the most beautiful woman to grace London’s ballrooms in a century, it was a distinct possibility that his youngest sister would indeed be jealous, but that wasn’t Griffith’s problem to deal with anymore.

The immediate tension in his shoulders and accelerated heart rate that came with the memory of the beautiful cousin, however, were his problem. The image of her disregarding her own appearance and the attention of her myriad of suitors to see to the welfare of her cousin refused to leave his head. It went against everything he knew about women of her ilk.

“I don’t see why you feel you need to pick beforehand.” Ryland potted two balls with one quick stroke. “All you have to do is ask a lady to dance and you’ll have half of London competing for your attention.”

“That is precisely what I wish to avoid.”

As three of the men debated the possibility that he could manage a courtship without inducing the mothers of London into a chaotic and desperate frenzy, Trent propped his hip on the cue rack and stared at his older brother.

Griffith tried not to stare back, but it was hard to ignore his brother’s assessing gaze. It had been wonderful to watch Trent mature and become his own man this past year, but part of Griffith longed for the days when Trent looked up to him with unquestioning adoration. Especially when he now looked as if he were about to slash through Griffith’s logic with his fencing foil.

“It’s not as easy as it seems,” Trent finally said.

The good-natured debate fell silent as the three men looked back and forth between the two brothers.

Griffith wanted to reply with a cutting remark, implying that if Trent could do it so could Griffith, but even his sudden discomfort wasn’t enough to make him hurt a member of his family that way. “I don’t see why not.”

“Because it’s not the same. Even if you say you aren’t giving yourself another choice, you’ll know that you have options. And so will she.”

“It’s a choice.” Griffith glanced at the other men in the room and set his shoulders back. Last year this same group of men had convened to help Trent study the Bible and learn how to love his wife, and the result had been discovering that a great deal of love was a matter of choice.

Trent stepped forward to brace his hands on the billiard table, leaning toward his older brother in an aggressive, almost challenging pose. “And are you willing to say, right here, right now, that you love Miss St. Claire?”

Was he? If love was a choice and he’d already made his selection, shouldn’t he be willing to declare himself in love with Miss St. Claire and act accordingly? He couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

His silence was Trent’s victory, which the man acknowledged with raised eyebrows and a slow nod.

No one said anything for several moments. Finally Ryland bent forward to angle his shot. Griffith was fairly certain it wasn’t his turn, but whose turn it was had completely escaped his notice.

After his shot, Ryland straightened. “I’ve a new landau that should be perfect for attending the races next month, if you’re still interested in going, Colin.”

Colin’s gaze lifted from the rolling billiard balls to Ryland’s face. “I thought you were only staying in Town for a few weeks.”

Ryland grinned at Griffith. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Griffith leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. When he’d risen this morning, he’d had a few misgivings over his choice of bride, but now he was more sure of his selection than ever. The last thing he wanted to do was wreck his life stumbling toward the altar like the men before him had done. So it stood to reason that anything they thought was a bad idea was a good indicator of a way to avoid their mistakes.

“Miss Breckenridge, you must allow me to tell you how brilliant your teeth are. Were you a horse I would bid until I won you.”

Isabella blinked, straining to maintain her smile, even though her cheeks were starting to hurt. There was a compliment somewhere in that bizarre statement, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to find it. All she could do was be grateful that she wasn’t a horse, led out onto the auction block to be snagged by the highest bidder.

Besides, she’d already sold herself to the highest—and only—bidder. Her one consolation was that at the end of it all, she’d be able to walk away from every last one of them, her uncle included.

She’d had no idea it would be this difficult, though. The men had been swarming the drawing room for nearly an hour. They’d given up the pretense of politeness that dictated one man at a time require her attention. Arriving on each other’s heels as they did meant no one had time to do more than deliver their flowers before the next man was attempting to claim his turn.

So they didn’t leave.

Ever.

At least ten men were currently in the drawing room, gathered around the settee, clogging the air with the combined scent of their varied cologne waters and enormous bouquets. Each man tried to give her a more outlandish compliment than the last. It was going to be very difficult to top the horse comparison. At least Frederica was seated on the settee beside her, preventing any of the men from claiming the coveted position. They were left to kneel or stand or take one of the three armchairs that sat about the room.

Or leave. Isabella would be the opposite of devastated if they took it upon themselves to leave the premises. As long as they gave her uncle an opportunity to talk to them first.

“Dearest Miss Breckenridge, would you do me the great honor of riding with me tomorrow?” A man she vaguely recognized but whose name she couldn’t remember knelt next to the settee. Finally, here was a request she could work with.

“I’m sure you understand, given my lack of knowledge of Town, that I’m directing all such requests to my uncle. I’m constantly forgetting appointments, and he’s promised to help me manage my calendar.” Oh, how it pained her to spin the words that way. The only appointments she’d missed since she left home with her uncle were the ones he’d forgotten to tell her about. As the person who’d held their farm together for the past several years, Isabella was more than capable of managing her social calendar.

She had, however, bargained away the right to do so.

“How wise you are to leave such delicate matters in the hands of men who know more.” The man had the audacity to take her hand in his and pat it. As if her appendage were a small puppy.

She gently slid her hand free and reached for her teacup. It was the sixth tea tray delivered to the drawing room that afternoon. Neither she nor Freddie ever rang for them—they just kept appearing. Of course her uncle would want the mass of men to remain in the house for as long as possible. How else could he pick them off one by one and convince them the way to her hand was through their parliamentary vote?

The excess of tea did give her an excuse to escape the madness, if only for a few moments. She just didn’t know the polite way to do it.

She leaned in Frederica’s direction to whisper in her ear. “I need to retire.”

Wrinkles of confusion formed between Freddie’s eyes but cleared as she looked from Bella to the nearly empty teacup in her hand.

A moment of panic made sweat pool in Isabella’s gloves as Freddie excused herself from the settee and crossed to the door. Was Isabella supposed to follow? Did they just leave all the men in the room?

Frederica’s spot on the settee was immediately taken by a man reciting poetry. It was by far the best performance she’d seen today, but it was the third time she’d heard the same poem. She’d probably be able to quote it herself by the end of the week.

In moments, the butler, Osborn, appeared to whisk away the remains of the last tea tray. Then, one by one, the men were met by Osborn quietly holding their hats, coats, and canes. No one seemed affronted by it, but they did start pressing closer to Isabella’s location, as Osborn was approaching the men nearest the door first. They couldn’t avoid the summons forever, though, and by the time the last man was escorted out the door, Isabella’s fictitious excuse had become a real one.

She grabbed Frederica’s hand and all but ran up the stairs to the water closet. There was one on the ground floor that she could have used, but escaping upstairs meant she could take longer, and that she could have a private word with Freddie.

Isabella took care of business and then paced the floor in her bedchamber, wondering how long she could claim it was taking her to refresh herself.

“Can you believe some of the outlandish compliments they’ve been giving us?”

Perched delicately on the side of the bed so as not to muss her gown or coiffure, Freddie emitted a quick bark of laughter. “Us? My dear, more gentlemen have passed through that drawing room this afternoon than have darkened my door in the past three years. Not a one of them is here for me.”

“Not one?” Surely someone was desirous of courting her cousin. She was a good match. Her dowry wasn’t large, but it should at least attract a younger son or two.

Freddie shook her head.

Isabella sniffed. “Well, I’m sure they’re simply waiting for a less hectic time to call. Now that the drawing room is empty, you’ll see. I thought surely we’d see your Arthur by now.”

Small white teeth snagged Frederica’s bottom lip. “I had hoped so as well. I didn’t tell Father about seeing Arthur last night, so he hasn’t had a chance to tell Osborn not to admit him.”

Uncle Percy detested the officer that much? Simply trying to understand her uncle’s thought patterns gave Isabella a headache, so she turned her efforts into cheering her cousin instead. “Well then, I expect you should still receive a visitor or two today. Perhaps even the Duke of Riverton. He did seek you out last night.”

“And then I promptly dropped at his feet before babbling on about ghosts and soldiers. No, the duke won’t be coming anywhere near me, unless it’s because he wants to visit you.”

Bella shook her head. “The men in London are fools.”

“Be that as it may, they’re fools who can earn you the deed to your family’s farm back. How many votes did Father say you had to recruit?”

“He didn’t.” Oh, how Isabella wished he had. Then she would figure out a way to calculate how many she needed and how far she’d gotten. “If the Apothecary Act doesn’t pass, I’m afraid he’ll claim I haven’t held up my end of the bargain. It doesn’t matter that the number of voting men who are single and socializing is remarkably limited. How many sons hold sway over their father’s political dealings? There’s no way of knowing.”

“So you have no choice but to play the coquette and pray that no one calls you on it?”

“There’ll be no praying involved.” Isabella studiously avoided the dressing table where her grandmother’s Bible sat, unopened since Isabella’s arrival in London. A necklace and two sets of earrings lay on the table next to it. “I can’t ask God to have any part of this farce.”

Frederica frowned. “You do know that isn’t how it works, don’t you?”

“He’s God. What do we know of how He works? He can’t possibly approve of what I’m doing, but He didn’t provide another way out, either, so I’m doing what has to be done. It’s the curse of living in a fallen world, Frederica.”

Freddie looked as if she wanted to argue more, but she had never been very good at debate—and was easily distracted. “Mark my words,” Isabella continued. “Riverton is going to call on you.”

Freddie’s nose scrunched up, and she folded her arms across her middle. “If he does, I’m throwing you at him. I don’t want anyone but Arthur. I’m sure whatever called him away from the ball is the same thing keeping him away today.”

The girls had spent the remainder of last night’s ball trying to find out more information about Arthur’s arrival. All anyone knew, though, was that there had been a group of soldiers recently returned to London, but then a missive had arrived for the colonel and they’d all left.

Despite this incredible lack of information, Freddie’s resolve to wait for Arthur had been renewed as if the past two years had never happened.

Isabella remembered, though. She remembered well the pages and pages of tearstained letters that had arrived nearly every day after news of Arthur’s regiment had reached Frederica. Then the whispers had begun, that he wasn’t even supposed to have been there, that the mission had been doomed to fail from the beginning. The letters had turned angry and bitter then, and there was no consoling her, especially not from as far away as Northumberland.

Isabella had been afraid to try, afraid that her cousin might be having a good day, might be moving on, and then she would receive Isabella’s letter and become sad again. So she’d kept her letters to other topics, asking about Freddie’s second Season and London until gradually her cousin’s letters had changed and it seemed Frederica had forgotten Arthur.

Until last night.

Isabella wasn’t willing to entreat God on her own behalf, but she was more than willing to throw Freddie on His mercies. She sent up a quick plea that distraction would work once more.

“You know, it’s been two years. It wouldn’t hurt to give another man a chance.” Isabella made a point of looking in the mirror and tweaking a false blond curl. “He’s a duke after all.”

“Can you imagine me as a duchess?” Freddie laughed and rose to cross to the door. “The caricature artists would certainly enjoy that.”

“They’ll have a farcical ball with whomever the duke marries.” Isabella frowned at the door. “I suppose we have to go back down there, don’t we?”

“You do, at least.” Freddie slid Bella’s book from the table beside her bed. “No one would know if I stayed up here and read for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I would know.”

Frederica dropped the book back on the table. “This wouldn’t be so bad if I knew we only had to suffer this chaos until you chose a man and married. Knowing it isn’t going away anytime soon and is, in fact, likely to get worse is disheartening.” She sighed and stood. “It’s going to be a very long Season.”