This time he knew he must rely on different currency for the negotiations. The women he had been well acquainted with in his life thus far had proved rather shallow, valuing a handsome face, charm and practised manners well above anything else in a man. They left it to their practical families to ascertain whether their choice possessed the necessary means to support them.
Now he must find a suitable woman desperate enough to overlook his altered appearance and lack of social inclinations to settle for his prospective wealth and title. More important, as he had impressed on Trent, he needed one who would not impact on the time he would require to fulfill his duties as earl. The task of handling the earl’s business matters already proved daunting. He must live up to it.
Trent’s words troubled him. Did such a woman as he required actually exist? He continued scanning the ballroom, dwelling on the corners where the wallflowers perched, trying to conceal their hopes and dreams behind fans and half smiles. None of their smiles were directed at him.
Suddenly, his good eye landed on one in pale yellow, a painfully thin figure with lank brown hair, a colorless complexion and enormous, doe-like eyes. Caine immediately sensed in her a mixture of hopelessness and resignation, yet she somehow maintained an air of calm dignity he admired. “A definite possibility there,” he muttered, more to himself than to Trent.
The girl was not precisely ugly, but it was certain no one would describe her as pretty. He felt a tug of … what? Sympathy? No, more like empathy. She did not wish to be here, either, most likely for similar reasons. Yet they must be here, probably striving toward the same goal—a suitable match.
These mating rituals were such a trial for any not blessed with the allure necessary to attract the opposite sex. At least he would have wealth and the title to recommend him. She had only her dignity apparently. If she were an heiress, she would certainly be better dressed, coiffed and bejeweled. Her pale neck and earlobes were completely bare.
If he could look past her surface, perhaps she would be willing to look past his. But he must put it to her in a way she would find palatable. He couldn’t very well say “You look like a quiet, unprepossessing chit I could count on to not complicate my life any further than it is already.”
Could he summon enough charm, persuasion and outrageous bribery to convince this one to have him? Yes, he decided, approaching her might be worth the risk of rejection.
“Yes, I think so,” he said to himself. “That one, Trent,” he said, nodding toward the candidate. “The one in the lemon-colored frock. She’ll do.”
“What? She’s a bean stalk, Morleigh, and the beans don’t appear to have developed yet.”
“I’m not out for beans,” Caine said tersely, his gaze still resting on the waiflike girl.
“Well, she looks like death on a plate. I doubt she’ll live through the month, much less the rigors of a wedding.” He nudged Caine with his elbow. “Besides, you said you’d let me choose.”
“Don’t be tedious. I believe she’s the one, so go. Do what we came to do,” Caine said simply, straightening his sleeves.
He hoped to have the selection completed with this one foray into society, because it was damned uncomfortable submitting himself to all these stares. He knew he wasn’t that monstrous looking and that they were mostly curious, but it bothered him.
His left eye bore only a few scars, but those surely made everyone imagine the very worst of the one he kept covered. The right, he always avoided looking at in the mirror and concealed it behind a rather large eye patch whenever he was in company.
That was probably a useless vanity due to the well-broadcast observation of Miss Thoren-Snipes, his former fiancée. She had declared to one and all that he was a horrible sight that turned her off sick, a fright she would never forget, one that caused her nightmares.
To her credit, his aunt’s reaction that day had verified that Belinda did not exaggerate by much. He made women faint, cast up their accounts and scream in their sleep. Avoiding that hardly qualified as vanity on his part. No, more like a gentleman’s consideration, he thought.
Trent did not understand, and why should he? He had the wherewithal to pick and choose and take his own sweet time about it. No woman would refuse Gavin Trent, handsome as he was, a hero of the wars and witty as hell. Caine owed him his life, admired him enormously and wished him well. Envy had no place in a friendship as enduring as theirs. But Trent’s eternal optimism and infernal teasing tried his patience to extremes.
The girl in yellow was now getting an earful from one of the other unfortunates, an overweight dumpling who seemed entirely too vivacious to qualify as second choice if he needed one. Her glance left no doubt about whom she had chosen to revile.
Caine wondered if perhaps he was overly sensitive and tried not to be, but he was unused to it yet. He had attended none of these functions since his return to London. He was grateful that he was still able to see and wished he could simply bypass mirrors forever and ignore how he looked. If not for this acquiring of a wife, he could be content with himself as he was.
The object of his future suit looked up and her very direct gaze again met his across the room. He should march right over and ask her to dance. Three times running. That would seal the deal. But not yet.
Caine snagged a glass of champagne off the silver tray of a passing waiter circulating among the guests. He raised it slightly, toasting the girl, and forced a smile as he spoke to his friend. “Go, Trent. Find out who she is. I’ll wait here.”
“You’re certain you want to go through with this?”
“Yes, quite.” He sipped the sparkling wine and concealed a wince. He preferred a stouter drink with some substance to it.
A quarter hour later, Trent rejoined Caine. “She’s Wardfelton’s niece, Lady Grace Renfair,” he declared. “His lordship laughed in my face when I spoke with him. Told me she has no dowry. She’s penniless. Worthless was the word he used to describe her, an ailing, aging millstone around his neck and none too bright.”
“Aging? How old is she?”
“Twenty-four or thereabout. I inquired of a few others, as well as her uncle. Lady Nebbins, that old talebearer, told me the chit was orphaned at sixteen, engaged to Barkley’s second son, a lieutenant in the navy, who died aboard The Langston six years ago. She lived as companion to the lad’s widowed mother until that lady remarried. Lady Grace has been with Wardfelton for these past two years.”
“Ah, good. Of suitable birth then. And something in common already, noble uncles with a foot on our necks. Perhaps she’s ready for a change.”
Trent hummed his agreement. “I don’t doubt that. Rumor about town had it she was perhaps dead. People had begun wondering aloud whether she was deceased and how she came to be so. It’s thought Wardfelton has trotted her out tonight to dispense with the gossip. I must say, she might yet make it a fact. To call her frail would be kind.”
Caine smiled. “No matter. I can go forward with it then.”
“Ah, well, there’s a fly in the ointment,” Trent informed him. He rocked to and fro as he spoke. “Wardfelton didn’t take me, or my request on your behalf, seriously at all. He thinks
we are making fun of his simpleminded niece and seemed to find it highly amusing that we should do so.”
“Simpleminded?” Caine didn’t believe it for a second.
Trent shrugged. “He doesn’t think much of her, obviously. Probably exaggerated. I would remind you, you did ask for dull of wit.”
“He didn’t refuse outright to let me address her, did he?”
“No, he doesn’t really expect you to,” Trent admitted. “I spoke with Lord Jarvis, too. He says she is the daughter of the previous earl. Wardfelton’s actually the third brother to hold the title. The second,