‘Me? Heaven forbid.’ Just so that she knew he wasn’t in the marriage market. ‘And in the unlikely event that I should ever be rash enough to take a plunge into that shark-infested pool, Miss Grant, I shall do it with the minimum of fuss. There will be no balloons, flowers or bridesmaids. I will not have a marquee erected on my lawn, or invite four hundred people to break my gardener’s heart, trampling through his borders.’
Veronica Grant took a spoonful of egg. Why on earth was her hand shaking? She simply wanted to borrow the man for the day, not marry him. Marriage played no part in her future plans. ‘The lady you decide to marry might have other ideas,’ she pointed out, before eating it.
‘They do say three’s a charm.’
‘Do they?’ Fergus was not about to let that pass unchallenged. ‘Then they—whoever they are—are talking through the back of their collective heads.’
‘I see.’ The lady was trying to hide a smile.
‘It’s not funny, Miss Grant.’
‘Of course it isn’t. In fact, I endorse your sentiments wholeheartedly.’ But the smile didn’t leave her eyes. It was irresistible. He just couldn’t help smiling back. ‘So you’re taking refuge in your gentleman’s club?’
He was that transparent? ‘The temptation to stay there until the whole thing is over is almost overwhelming; unfortunately, I have to give away the bride. But at least it’s given me an excuse to come up to town.’
Veronica Grant’s smooth high forehead puckered in the smallest of frowns. Then she said, ‘Oh, the tailor.’
‘Apparently I need a new morning suit for the occasion.’ And when Dora made up her mind about something, there was no point in fighting it. It was a thought to send a shiver of apprehension down his spine. ‘I had a call yesterday to say that it’s ready.’
‘Oh.’
I need a new morning suit … That sounded so unbelievably pompous, he thought. No one needed a new morning suit. ‘Actually, the one I inherited from my father fits like an old friend, and would have done perfectly well, but it’s black,’ he explained. ‘Dora said it made me look like a funeral director.’
Somewhat unexpectedly, Veronica Grant laughed. It was a real laugh, and caused several people to turn in their direction. Then she shook her head. ‘Weddings are hell, aren’t they?’
‘This one will be,’ he said with feeling. And not just because it was turning his house and his life upside down. Then he remembered the hatbox. ‘Is that the reason for the hat? Are you on your way to a wedding?’
‘For my sins.’ She concentrated on pouring her tea as the train raced through a cutting. ‘My cousin is getting married. She’s twenty-two and she hooked a viscount at the first attempt.’
‘Oh.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She flashed him a look from beneath her lashes. ‘That sounds terribly bitchy, doesn’t it?’ He didn’t reply. He didn’t see Miss Grant as the bitchy type, but it was quite possible that she’d been trying to hook a viscount too, and she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘I’m not jealous of Fliss, Mr Kavanagh. She’s a lovely girl, and deserves a wonderful life with the man of her dreams … ’
‘But?’
She gave an expressive little shrug. ‘But my mother will be. Jealous. She’ll give me long, hurtful looks. She’ll sigh a lot. She’ll murmur about “biological clocks” ticking away and her desperate longing to hold her first grandchild before she moves on to that everlasting cocktail party in the sky.’ Veronica illustrated this with small, theatrical gestures and expressions that summoned up her mother’s reaction to perfection, and Fergus found himself grinning. He couldn’t help himself.
‘I take it that her demise is not imminent?’
‘No. She’s fifty-five, but refuses to admit to more than forty-nine and gets away with it every time. But that won’t stop her having a …’ She waved her spoon as she searched for an appropriate word. ‘Do you suppose that there is a collective noun for prospective sons-in-law?’
‘I’ve no idea. A proposal?’ he suggested, after a moment’s thought.
‘A proposal?’ She considered it, and then smiled appreciatively. ‘A proposal of sons-in-law. I like that.’ It was rather like someone switching on the lights when she smiled, Fergus decided. And not just any lights. More like one of those enormous Venetian crystal chandeliers. Or the Christmas lights in Regent Street. Or Blackpool Illuminations. Quite possibly all three. ‘Well, there you have it,’ she continued. ‘I used to love family weddings, but these days they are something of a trial. My mother knows I won’t be able to escape her “proposal” of prospective sons-in-law; she’ll have them lined up for me like stallions at stud, each one vetted for financial acuity, with a family tree of oak-like proportions and the ability to put the magic word, “Lady” before my name.’ She regarded him across the breakfast table. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ she said.
FERGUS, if he’d ever given the matter any thought, might have concluded that most women would be glad to have all the hard work done for them. But, then again, perhaps not. Who wanted a partner that some well-meaning relative had decided was ‘suitable’? He, more than anyone, had reason to be sympathetic.
‘Is that important?’ he asked. ‘The “Lady” bit?’
‘It is to her. I was once engaged to an earl; she’s never forgiven me for not making it to the altar.’
‘An earl?’
‘An earl with an estate in Gloucestershire, a house in Eaton Square and a castle in Scotland.’ She paused. ‘Of course, it was only a little castle.’
‘Is that why you changed your mind?’ he asked. ‘Because the castle was little?’
‘No. I fortunately discovered in time that I wasn’t countess material. I didn’t want to give up my career, you see. That’s the test, wouldn’t you say? How much you’re prepared to give up for someone.’
‘I believe so. But would you have had to give it up? Your career?’
‘I told you. I wasn’t cut out to be a countess.’
Which didn’t actually answer his question, he noted. ‘You gave up the castle for your career?’
‘Without hesitation,’ she agreed.
Despite her cool manner, she was finding the conversation difficult. But he persevered. ‘Then it’s the idea of marriage that’s repellent, rather than your mother’s choice of suitable grooms?’
‘I’ve no particular objection to marriage as an institution, Mr Kavanagh. I can see that the right wife to organise his domestic life must be a wonderful asset for any man.’ His sisters would undoubtedly agree with her. ‘Unfortunately, I’m far too busy organising my own life to undertake the task for anyone else. I know my own limitations and I’m just not wife material.’ She paused. ‘I just don’t have the necessary qualifications.’
‘I didn’t know you could take a course in it. City and Guilds?’ he asked. ‘Or Royal Society of Arts examinations? Do they run a course for prospective husbands?’
‘Maybe