Chapter Two
The morning Jack intended to set out on his journey, his cousin, Grant, paid him a visit at his rooms in Piccadilly. Jack liked him, always had. If the dukedom was to go to anyone, it should be Grant. A decent fellow, he would take infinite care of his inheritance. Even as a lad he was of a serious mien and considered ancestry to be of great import. He’d make as good and fair a duke as Jack’s father before him.
Jack admitted him to his bedroom while he continued to pack. He deliberated over adding another shirt. Every item needed to be carefully selected as there was very little room in his portmanteau. “Take a seat, Grant. Can I offer you a drink?”
His tall fair-haired cousin folded himself into a chair. “No, thank you. I see you mean to go on this journey. I thought it might only be talk. You know, a reaction to that business with your mother’s relatives.”
“There is nothing that lot can do or say to upset me. Although they do keep trying.” Jack looked up from folding the shirt. “So, you thought I was all piss and wind.”
Grant sighed. “Let’s just say I hoped you would change your mind. Simms, the family solicitor, is to read the will this afternoon. You’ll stay for that, surely?”
Jack shook his head. “Whatever it contains will keep until I return.”
“You’re heading north to your estate?”
“In a roundabout fashion. Thought I’d go via Ireland.”
Grant uncrossed his legs and sat up. “Ireland?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Neither have I. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Just have a hankering to see it.” He’d been thinking of it for some time, after discovering some letters of his mother’s in a drawer of his father’s desk.
Grant nodded light dawning in his gray eyes. “Your mother’s people were Irish.”
“Yes, but I’m a stranger to them. Can’t see they’d want that to change.”
If Grant thought seeing Ireland would cure Jack’s restlessness, he was barking up the wrong tree. It was curiosity that drew him, pure and simple. Jack squeezed his toiletry bag containing soap, razor, toothbrush, and a hairbrush into his portmanteau. Difficult to find these on the road, and since being in the army he disliked disorder of any kind. In the side flap of the saddle he’d add the currying brush to keep Arion in the best condition. The horse would enjoy this trip as much as he. He’d been a wonderful asset to Jack during the war and appeared to relish the adventure.
He eyed his cousin. “I expect you’ll tour the ballrooms now, to select a bride from the current crop of debutantes,” he said with a devilish grin. He knew Grant would prefer to remain closeted in his study with his history books and tomes on heraldry. “Time you married, anyway, at thirty-two.”
Grant didn’t look eager as he smoothed back his fair hair with both hands. “I’m prepared to do my duty.” He watched with obvious unease as Jack checked his pistol.
“Duty?” Jack chuckled. “If it’s not to be a love match, find a woman you want to bed. One who makes you laugh. You’re going to be together for a long time, God willing.”
~~~
“Wear your best dress to the ball tonight, Erina,” her father said. “The pale green satin looks well on you. I expect to see you dance with Harold Feather. And smile at him.”
“I doubt he’ll be smiling at me,” Erina said. “I don’t think he likes to dance with taller women.”
Her father scowled. “He’ll get used to it. Some men like taller women, although not many, I grant you.”
Her mother had been an inch or two taller than he.
“Yes, you did like tall women, papa.” Perhaps it was her mother’s dowry which attracted him. Erina couldn’t remember them being in love, for her mother had died when she was eleven.
Her father banged his pipe against a bowl then began to fill it. Intent on his task, his face looked strangely vulnerable. “I overlooked it. Your mother was a fine woman.”
Erina’s throat tightened. Would Mr. Harold Feather be prepared to overlook her height?
That evening in the Moncrieff’s hot, crowded ballroom, Harold approached her and bowed. “Would you grant me the waltz, Lady Erina?”
When she rose from her curtsey, Erina studied his expression. Harold’s jaw looked rigid, his expression bleak. How unflattering. He wasn’t unattractive in his black and white evening clothes, with chestnut brown hair and eyes the color of chocolate. But even if he’d been a bit taller, she wouldn’t marry him. He was an obedient son. Of sober character. The type of man many women might admire. But he didn’t excite her.
When the musicians struck up, Harold returned and led her onto the dance floor with a polite smile. He placed his gloved hand at her waist and they began to waltz in the light flooding down from two massive chandeliers. The dancers whirled around them over the floor, a blur of color amid the men’s dark evening clothes and the debutante’s white gowns.
In her ball slippers, she and Harold were of a similar height. He was a neat and adequate dancer, guiding her safely over the floor with an absence of thrilling flourishes.
“You are glaring at me, Lady Erina,” he said as they reversed.
“Am I? I hope you don’t think it’s because I’m angry with you, sir.”
“I quell at the thought.”
“You don’t wish to marry me, either,” she said bluntly.
He smiled for the first time. It improved his appearance. “You don’t mince words do you?”
“I like to call a spade a spade as the saying goes. And we have no time for delicate sensibilities if we are to put a stop to our parents’ ridiculous scheme.”
Her father stood watching them. To appease him, she turned the full force of her smile on Harold.
“Those green eyes of yours certainly flash,” he said. “When you look at me like that, I am sure we are unsuited. You have wildness in you. You’re a passionate woman.”
“Is that so very bad?” she couldn’t help asking.
“You’d turn my quiet life upside down.”
It was all very well for her not to want to marry him. But he so obviously didn’t want her, she felt piqued. “How cowardly,” she said with a grin, aware of being perverse.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I admit it. After years in the army, I fancy a simple life. An enjoyable book, a brandy and a cigar, my wife with her embroidery by my side. Just looking at you, I can foresee riding to hounds, jumping tall hedges, and dancing till dawn. It fatigues me to think of it.”
Erina laughed. She glanced over her shoulder. Her father smiled and nodded. “You describe me well, Mr. Feather. I admire your clear-sightedness. So, what will you do to help me put an end to this madness?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What will I do? Precisely nothing.”
She frowned. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “My father will grow tired of the idea. He does you know. Tends to flit from one thing to the next.”
She tightened her lips. “I don’t see how you can be so confident. My father sets a course and sticks to it.” And some of his courses were better cast aside.
The musicians were coming to the end of the Mozart concerto. The rondo dying away.
“Let us not be too impatient,” he said offering her his arm when the dance ended.
They joined the line departing the ballroom floor. “But I am. Father plans a house party in you and your father’s honor, Mr. Feather. You shall be in my company for several days. And at the end of it our engagement will be announced.”
He rubbed his brow with a gloved finger, looking pained. “Who else is invited?”
“Some forty or so guests.” Her father had complained about the cost. But he put it down to an investment.
His gaze settled on a small, fair-haired young woman who sat quietly alone. “Can you gain an invitation for Miss Florence Beckworth?”
Erina had met Florence once and found her difficult to converse with. So dreadfully serious. So that is how things are, she thought gleefully. “I shall send the invitation myself.”
He nodded. “Good. And leave the rest to me.”
“You have hidden depths, Mr. Feather,” Erina said, as they approached her father. “I’m in half a mind to snap you up myself.”
Harold bowed. “You are a most frightful tease, Lady Erina.”