Chapter 2
Lady Annalise Lyman—or Nellie, as her family called her—sat on one of the chairs lined against the wall of the Marchioness of Wellington’s garishly decorated ballroom and watched the couples on the dance floor move in unison to the graceful steps of a waltz. Not being asked to dance—especially a waltz—was one of the few things Nellie, as her five younger sisters called her, regretted about being a wallflower who was decidedly on the shelf. After all, what did you call a woefully unattractive woman nearing her thirtieth year?
If the choice was hers, she would avoid functions such as this and spend every minute of her time away from London. There was nothing she loved more than the peace and quiet of the country. Nothing she craved more than breathing in the clean country air, which was so much better than the foul-smelling, smoke-filled air of London.
Why on earth people rushed to the City twice a year when they could remain in the country was beyond her comprehension. Why they eagerly looked forward to spending a fortune on gowns and finery to impress the rest of Society, when they could save a year’s worth of profits if they avoided the London Seasons was a mystery to her. But this was where she was forced to come each year in order to introduce her sisters to Society in hopes they might find a husband.
Nellie searched the twirling couples until she found her youngest sister. Hopefully Francine would become engaged before the end of this Season so Nellie could begin planning the wedding and this whole ordeal would be over.
“Do you think our Frannie will marry Lord Cushing?” Nellie’s next oldest sister Brianna asked as she took the empty chair next to Nellie.
“I’m hopeful,” Nellie said. “She seems quite taken with him. And he’s known to have excellent character.”
“And then what, Nellie? What will you do when you have all of us married off?”
“I will return to the country where I’m the happiest.”
“Don’t you ever find it . . . boring?”
Nellie couldn’t help but laugh. “To my dying day, I will never understand how you and Daphne and Elizabeth and Frannie took to living in the city like ducks to water. Colette is the only one who seems content to live in the country. And I have no doubt that it’s because her husband has a love of the land.”
“I think you’re right, Nellie. But the reason we love it here is because there’s so much to do. There are parties and the theater and the opera and . . . oh, ever so much more.”
“And of course, this is where your husband’s work is centered.”
“Yes, there is that.” Brianna glanced at Nellie with the star-glazed look she acquired whenever she spoke of her husband.
“Speaking of Lord Wesley,” Nellie said, spying Brianna’s husband, “there he is on the other side of the room looking around as if he’s searching for someone.”
“Then I’d best let him find me,” Brianna said as she stood. “If you’re having a dreadful time being here, you may go home any time you like. Wesley and I will keep an eye on Frannie.”
“Thank you, Brie. I might take you up on your offer. I need to return before it gets terribly late. Papa made a trip to Bolton’s Book Store this afternoon and returned with his arms loaded with books. If I don’t force him to go to bed, I’ll find him still reading in the library tomorrow morning.”
“Go whenever you like, then,” Brie said, then made her way to where her husband stood.
Nellie watched Brianna nearly skip across the room. There wasn’t a doubt that every one of her sisters truly enjoyed the social life of London. It was clear they each bubbled with excitement whenever they came out in public.
Perhaps Nellie would feel the same if she had Brianna’s heart-shaped face, sweet smile, and graceful beauty and had been noticed by at least one gentleman during her three miserable Seasons.
Or had Colette’s high cheekbones and creamy complexion that were the envy of every female in London.
Or had Daphne’s exotic green eyes that had enticed more than half a dozen handsome suitors during her Season.
Or had Elizabeth’s pert upturned nose and lush figure, the perfect figure to show off every dressmaker’s gown to perfection.
Or had Frannie’s enviable mass of golden locks that drew the attention of every man with eyes in his head.
But Nellie possessed none of those qualities. Her face was long and plain. Her complexion was marred with freckles that turned even darker when she was out in the sun, which was every day of spring, summer, and well into the fall.
Her eyes were a pale hazel brown that seemed too large for her face. Her nose could never be called pert or upturned, but was—as she had decided long ago—embarrassingly large with an overzealous down-swoop at the end. Her brown hair had very little lustre and was often decidedly unmanageable. When a rainy day turned other girls’ hair sweetly curly, hers merely kinked in a most unsatisfactory way. And her figure. Well. Search as she might, Nellie couldn’t find a seductive curve on her tall, lanky body.
No, she was nowhere near as pretty as any of her sisters. It was as if God handed her all the blemishes or imperfections he could muster, so that there would be none left for her sisters.
Nellie’s eyes swept the ballroom. It was too late to have regrets over anything she couldn’t change, and she’d never been one to wallow in self-pity. She was content with her life. And truth be told, she was happy things had turned out the way they had. Papa often told her it wasn’t God’s plan that everyone marry. And Nellie believed she was one of those who God had marked for single-blessedness.
Nellie had never felt truly enamored of any man. She’d never felt what each one of her sisters described they felt for the man with whom they fell in love, then married. She’d never found one single male whose company she would trade for her freedom. Never encountered a man who made her heart race, or butterflies to flutter in her stomach, like Colette and Elizabeth insist is a normal occurrence when a girl falls in love. No, Nellie accepted the fact that it was doubtful she would ever experience any of those reactions because . . . well . . . because she was . . . different.
Nellie watched her sisters a little while longer, then sought her escape. She made her way along the perimeter of the ballroom until she reached the long French windows that opened onto the terrace. She stepped onto the flagstones, then walked to the balustrade that edged the steps to the garden.
The air was a little chilly, but cool air never bothered Nellie. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. She strolled down a garden path until she reached the first bench, then sat and allowed herself to imagine she was in the country. She envisioned a future where Frannie had met and married the man of her dreams, and Nellie could go home where she belonged.
Nellie closed her eyes and smiled.
Hugh Wythers looked around the ballroom and searched for another marriage-minded debutante who might fit his requirements. Of course, focusing was deucedly difficult when one had consumed as much liquor as he had tonight. But what did he expect? He’d just discovered the second love of his life was about to announce her engagement to someone else.
Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. No female would ever be the love of his life. The only female he intended to claim to love was one wealthy enough that her dowry would support his extravagant lifestyle in London so he wouldn’t have to live a hellishly boring life in the country.
He never intended to actually love her. He only intended to play the part of a loving husband while enjoying the substantial quarterly income from her massive dowry.
He reached for a glass from the tray of a passing footman and took a long swallow. Bloody hell. Charlotte . . . or Carlotta . . . or . . .
Hugh took another swallow from his glass. What the hell was the name of the chit who’d just rejected his offer of marriage?
He finished the liquor in his glass and staggered about looking for a place to discard it. He was running out of time. The Season was three-quarters gone and all the eligible young debutantes would go to the country for the summer. And so would he.
A knot lodged in his gut. Soon he would have to retire to the country the same as all the other landholders and pretend interest in the running of his estate.
Catherine . . . or Constance . . . or . . . whoever the hell she was had been the second wealthy debutante in a week who’d turned down his offer.
He couldn’t believe it. Females usually fell at his feet. He was rumored to be one of the most handsome men in London. Surely that should be enough to get him a wife with a massive dowry. So why had two females already turned him down?
Hugh looked around for another servant with a full tray of liquor. He needed another drink.
Instead of spotting another servant, though, he eyed a wall of muscled shoulders and chests coming his way.
“There you are, Hugh,” Captain Caleb Parker said, stepping to his right side.
“We’ve been looking all over for you,” Lieutenant Jeb Danvers said, stepping to his left.
Captain Ford Remington and his wife, Lady Calinda Remington, stopped in front of him.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” Lady Calinda said, smiling at him.
“My lady, itsha pleasure to shee you.” Hugh nearly fell as he attempted to execute a bow. He stumbled to the side, and several hands reached out to steady him.
Hugh held up one finger. “I can manage, friends,” he slurred as he staggered again. “I’m not drunk. I’m just a little . . .” Hugh stopped as he struggled to find the right word he needed. “. . . just a little . . . tipshy.”
“Yes, Hugh,” Ford said. “You are indeed a little tipsy.”
“Lieutenant,” Lady Calinda said, hooking her arm through his. “Would you care to accompany me outside?”
Hugh smiled. “Can we leave your husband in here?”
Lady Calinda laughed, and it was like music to his ears—all harps and harpsichords.
“No, Lieutenant. I’m sure he will want to accompany us.”
Hugh gave his friend a dark look, then took his first unsteady step toward the terrace.
He attempted to walk a straight line. He didn’t want his friends to think he was completely sotted, something he seldom was. Hugh was known to be able to hold his liquor. Except tonight. Staying sober tonight seemed an impossible feat.
He finally reached the outdoors and breathed in a gulp of fresh air. He thought that would make the world stop moving so unsteadily, but if anything, it only caused it to spin more erratically.
“Can you believe it?” he announced to his friends. He leaned against the railing to help hold himself steady. “Lady Charlotte is going to marry that . . . that dunderhead . . .” Hugh paused while he struggled to remember the dunderhead’s name. Finally, he placed his hand atop Jeb’s shoulder and leaned close. “Do you know who she’s going to marry?” he asked.
“Treverton,” Jeb answered. “It’s Lady Claudine, and she’s going to marry Lord Treverton.”
“Claudine! That’s who I was going to marry. That’s right. It’s what I get for choosing a female everyone else in Society wants.”
“Maybe you’re fortunate, Hugh,” Caleb Danvers said. “I hear she’s difficult to please.”
Hugh shook his head. “But she has a large, large, very large dowry,” Hugh slurred as he threw his arms open wide. “And I need a big, big dowry if I don’t want to end up living in the country.”
“Perhaps living in the country wouldn’t be so bad.” Ford pulled Hugh back when he started to lean too far over the railing.
“Wouldn’t be so bad?” he asked in disbelief. “Have you ever been there?”
“Where?” Jeb asked.
“The country!” Hugh bellowed. “The country! There’s nothing to do there except watch the cows and sheep eat grass!”
His three fellow traitors and Lady Calinda all laughed. “I’m sure there’s more to do than that,” Lady Calinda said. “My father and brother spent a great deal of their time fishing and hunting and riding each year. And of course, overseeing the estate. Then, every summer we would invite guests for a two-week-long summer party.” Lady Calinda looked up at him with excitement in her pretty blue eyes. “You could have a party and invite all of us,” she suggested.
Hugh burst out of the circle of his friends and staggered across the terrace. Such a life sounded absolutely horrid.
He needed to think. He needed to form another plan. He needed a drink. He stopped beside Caleb. “Would you be a good chap and find someone with a tray?”
“In a minute,” Caleb answered. “I will in a minute.”
Hugh staggered to the side, then wove his way to the far corner of the terrace. He was desperate. Time was running out. He needed to find a female with a large dowry. A female who was desperate to marry.
Suddenly, he realized he’d had the wrong requisites in a bride. He spun around and staggered back to where his friends stood. “I know what I’ve been doing wrong,” he said throwing out his arms to emphasize his awakening. “I’ve been looking for someone pretty. Someone beautiful.” He cast his arms wider and staggered several steps toward the railing. “Someone every other male in Shoshiety wants.”
“Why don’t you come over here?” Caleb said. “You’re getting too close to the edge of the terrace.”
Hugh ignored the warning. “What do I care what my bride looks like? What do I care if she has two heads and a hairy chin?”
Hugh staggered, but caught himself on the cement balustrade that rimmed the terrace.
“Hugh,” his friends called out in warning, but he waved their concern aside.
“Listen. Don’t you see? All that matters is that she has a large enough dowry that I can live off it and never have to spend a day in the country.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Ford said. “Now why don’t you step away from the railing?”
“Of course!” Hugh was so excited he could have leaped for joy. He turned in a circle then staggered, then . . .
“Hugh!”
He heard his friends call his name, then felt himself tumble through the air.
“Oomph,” he called out when he hit the ground. He landed with a thud and saw stars.
“Oh, my,” he heard a feminine voice say. “Are you all right?”
Hugh struggled to breathe. He fought to open his eyes, but his eyelids wouldn’t cooperate.
Soft gloved hands caressed his cheeks, then rested his aching head in a lap of silky softness. “Are you all right?” she repeated.
Hugh struggled to open his eyes. It took more than one attempt before he could focus. But when he did, he found himself staring into the plainest, most nondescript . . . dare he say, the homeliest . . . face he’d ever seen. A face just like he’d imagined—and she even had two heads.
“Just lie still,” she said in the voice of an angel.
But he couldn’t lie still. He’d just found the woman of his dreams. And he had to have her.
Hugh lifted his arm and wrapped it around the plain and unremarkable woman’s neck and brought her face down to his.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, then pulled her mouth close to his and kissed her.
Hugh put every ounce of passionate effort he could manage into his kiss. He had to show her how serious he was.
She pushed against him at first, but he couldn’t let her break the kiss. Not yet. Not until she realized how much he wanted her. How important it was that she want him, too.
He kissed her until she relaxed atop him, then kissed her in all seriousness.
“Hugh!”
He heard several voices call his name but couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to stop him from doing something he enjoyed so much.
“Hugh!” they called out again. “Unhand her.”
Hugh reluctantly ended the kiss, then looked into the most ordinary, plain, unremarkable, nondescript, face he’d ever seen.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered before the lady in his arms pushed away from him. “You’re just what I need. You’re not at all pretty. In fact . . . you’re almost ugly.”
Suddenly, Hugh’s head hit the ground with a thud, and the lady he’d been kissing bolted to her feet.
Hugh knew he should rise, but he couldn’t. All he could do was lie on the ground, stare up at the stars . . . and smile.
He’d just found the answer to his problems.