Michael glanced at his cousin’s ample figure and laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s too much danger of that, Charles,’ he said pulling up a chair. ‘I’ve been besieged by visitors today. First I had a call from—’ he broke off, frowning. ‘Never mind. The last caller was my Aunt Margaret.’
‘Been after you again about that chit? You’ll end up with your neck in the parson’s noose before you know it. I’m glad your Aunt Margaret ain’t my relative. Don’t envy you your father either.’
‘They’re bad enough apart, but together—I’d rather face a firing squad. I’d have much better odds.’ Michael frowned at the glass of dry sherry the waiter set in front of him. ‘My aunt came to inform me my bride-to-be will arrive in town within a fortnight. There’s been a slight illness in the family that prevents her from coming any sooner. I’ll have a reprieve at any rate.’
‘Don’t see how they can force you into marriage. Good lord, you’re thirty, well past your majority,’ Charles said.
‘Well, would you care to oppose my father?’
‘Good point,’ said Charles hastily as the waiter brought his meal. ‘Don’t know how anyone could oppose your parent when he fixes you with that damned devilish stare. Sets me to quaking in my boots every time. I’d marry a woman with a horse-face and freckles before crossing swords with Eversleigh.’
There was silence for a few moments while Charles dove into his food with all the vigour of a man who hadn’t eaten for weeks. Michael sipped his sherry in contemplative silence, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
His father, the Duke of Eversleigh, was notorious for his iron-fisted management of his family’s personal affairs. Several weeks ago he had summoned Michael to Eversleigh Hall. There, in his formidable study, the Duke had coolly informed his heir it was time he married. Since his son did not seem capable of choosing a suitable bride for himself, a bride had been chosen for him. The young lady was Miss Helena Randall, the granddaughter of a long-standing friend. She was to be presented at Court this season. After a suitable period, unless there were major objections on the part of either party, their betrothal would be announced.
Michael could see any number of objections, starting with the fact he had no desire to marry a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. Argument with his father appeared useless. The Duke wore the implacable expression that meant he’d made up his mind and would brook no opposition. In addition, the Duke’s health was poor due to a recent severe bout of pneumonia that nearly claimed his life. Michael hesitated to come to cuffs with his father in his still-weakened condition.
Charles, who always thought better on a satisfied stomach, dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘What you need, my boy, is a fiancée!’
Michael eyed him as if he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Exactly what I’ll end up with if my father has his way. That’s what I’m trying to avoid.’
‘Would save you a lot of trouble,’ said Charles earnestly with all the experience of a happily betrothed man. ‘Now that I’m betrothed to Beth I never worry about matchmaking mothers trying to foist their daughters on me. Not that I’ve ever had the number you’ve had. No more hounding from my mother about finding a suitable wife. And Beth’s a good girl; doesn’t have odd fits or expect me to escort her to any of those damned musical evenings.’
Michael was fascinated. ‘I never realised there were so many advantages attached to a betrothal.’
‘Well, the point is, Michael, if you were already betrothed your family could hardly expect you to offer for Miss Randall.’
‘Very true. It would be awkward. But the problem with fiancées is that one is expected to marry them.’
Charles downed several slices of ham, his brow creased in thought. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and looked up. ‘You could hire one.’
‘Hire one? One what?’
‘A fiancée! Remember when Greely hired an actress to be his wife so he could inherit from his old uncle in Manchester or some other ungodly place? Worked too; the old man fell for it and Greely got the money. Dare say he had to pay that actress a bundle.’
Michael grinned. A few of the actresses he knew flashed across his mind.
‘That may work very well in Manchester but hardly in London. Where in the world would I find an actress I could hope to pass off in the middle of a London season as my fiancée? Even the best of them couldn’t appear respectable enough to suit my father. Besides, my aunt could sniff out an impostor at ten paces!’
‘Maybe you could find a foreign actress.’
‘Good God, no! My father would be in a rare temper if I announced my engagement to a foreign woman! Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll figure out a way to avoid this entanglement. I always do.’ He polished off his sherry. ‘Where are you off to tonight, Charles?’
‘To Lady Winthrope’s rout. Probably another one of her damned squeezes. Promised to escort my mother and Beth. How about you?’
‘I’ll put in an appearance.’
‘I’ve heard Elinor Marchant is in town,’ said Charles carefully. ‘Have you met her yet?’
‘Today, while riding in the park. She was determined to regale me with every bit of gossip she could think of, half of it probably unfounded rumour.’
‘Hope you don’t plan to take up with her again.’ Charles shuddered. ‘Never saw such a temper in my life. Don’t know how you could have put up with it. That last scene—right in the middle of a ball! Heaving vases around!’
A grin lit up Michael’s face. ‘Only one vase. And it wasn’t in the middle of a ball, merely in a private room.’
‘One vase, half a dozen vases, what does it matter? You’re well rid of her! Never know how you manage to come up with these vixens. Need to show a bit more discrimination in the petticoat line.’
Michael laughed and rose from the table in a lazy movement. ‘Put your mind to rest, Charles. I have no interest in renewing a relationship with Lady Marchant. Ready to go? There’s a pair of chestnuts up for auction at Tattersall’s I’ve been wanting to see.’
Michael only half-attended to his cousin’s conversation as they made their way to the auction yard. Instead, he found himself thinking of Lady Jeffreys. Would she be present at Lady Winthrope’s rout? He hoped so, for he had the perfect excuse for speaking to her. After his aunt had departed, Watkins had presented him with a small folded fan, saying he believed it belonged to the young lady. Michael had taken the fan, assuring Watkins he would personally see it was returned to its owner.
Chapter Two
‘I was sorry to hear of your brother’s troubles. I know how much Meryton means to you,’ Edmund Fairchilde said softly. ‘Perhaps there is something I could do to help.’
Rosalyn looked up into his cool, hooded eyes, and wished she could escape from him. However, it was impossible in Lady Winthrope’s crowded drawing room unless she was to clamber over one of the guests behind her.
‘Thank you, there is nothing you can do. But, how did you know? I had thought it was a private game.’ She tried to keep the dismay from her voice. She had hoped no one outside of Lord Stamford, James and herself knew about the wager.
A faint smile touched his thin lips. ‘I was also there, my lady. I had hoped there was something I could do, but alas, Stamford rarely loses. It makes one wonder…but, his temper, one hates to suggest…At any rate, do not worry, only the three of us were present, and I am very discreet.’
‘Thank you.’ She managed a smile, not certain she trusted him at all. He had been a visitor to Meryton, coming down once with a group of her