The Bridal Quest (3 page)

She looked to her friends for confirmation. "A man does not want a wife who will correct him or who will ring a peal over his head if he does something amiss. Is that not true, ladies?"

Irene's eyes flashed, and she said tightly, "Your information, while no doubt
well intentioned,
is of little use to me. As I told you, I am not interested in acquiring a husband."

"Now, now, Lady Irene," Mrs. Cantwell began, with a condescending smile that grated on Irene's nerves.

Irene swung toward her, and the light in her eyes made the other woman swallow whatever she had been planning to say. "I do not wish to marry. I
refuse
to marry. I have no intention of giving any man control over me. I will not meekly become some man's chattel or let some man with less wit than I have tell me what to think or say or do."

She stopped, pressing her lips together, regretting that she had let Maura push her into revealing so much of herself.

Across from her, Maura let out a little laugh and cast a wry look at the other women, saying, "A woman does not have to be under a man's thumb, dear. She simply makes him think that he is in control. She just has to learn how to lead a man into doing exactly what she wishes. The trick, of course, is in making him believe that it was all
his
idea."

Their visitors joined Maura in her arch laughter, and Mrs. Littlebridge added, "Indeed, Lady Wyngate, that is the way of the world."

"I have no interest in such pretense and trickery," Irene retorted. "I would rather remain a spinster than have to cajole and lie to be able to do what I should have every right to do."

Maura clucked her tongue, looking sympathetic. "Irene, my dear, we are not saying you should
deceive
anyone. I am merely talking about making the most of your looks and covering up ... certain aspects of your character. You dress much too plainly." She gestured with disdain toward Irene's body. "That gown you are wearing, for instance. Why must it be that drab shade of brown? And you have no need to wear such a high neckline. Why not show off your shoulders and arms a little? Even your evening gowns have such an air of severity—it is no wonder men rarely ask you to dance! Is it not enough that you are so tall? Must you stand so arrow straight and hide your shape?"

Irene could hear the real frustration creeping into Maura's saccharine tones, and she knew that however much her sister-in-law might enjoy pointing out Irene's defects under the guise of helpful advice, Maura was also honestly put out by Irene's lack of suitors. Maura would love to be rid of her altogether, and marriage was the only option open to her, short of murder—which not even Irene would accuse Maura of being capable of. No matter how much Humphrey was under his wife's thumb, even Maura must know he would not agree to turning his own sister out of the house, and in any case, the woman surely knew that such callous treatment of her husband's sister would earn her the disapproval of the
ton.
No, as long as Irene remained unmarried, Maura was saddled with her—a fact that doubtless irritated her almost as much as it did Irene.

"And your hair!" Maura went on relentlessly. "Heaven knows it is a trifle ... unruly." She frowned at Irene's curling mass of dark golden hair, pulled back ruthlessly into a knot. "But the color is quite nice, really. And your lashes are long and luckily brown, not fair, so that you do not have that hairless look that one sees in some blondes."

"Why, thank you, Maura," Irene murmured drily. "Your compliments overwhelm me."

Maura shrugged. "I am simply saying that you could make yourself look much more attractive if you would just
try
a little. Why, one would think that you are trying to drive men away rather than attract them."

"Perhaps I am."

There was a moment of stunned silence; then Miss Cantwell let out a nervous titter. "Lady Irene! One might almost suppose you are serious."

Irene did not bother to respond to the woman's remark. Miss Cantwell would never understand, any more than any of the other women present, that Irene truly did not want to marry. Marriage was the goal of every woman's life, as far as they were concerned. The pursuit of a husband was the focal point of a woman's coming out—and of every Season thereafter, until she finally managed to snag one.

Marriage-minded mothers mapped out campaigns for their daughters like war-hardened generals. Skirmishes were played out on the fields of ballrooms, opera boxes and open-air carriage rides through Hyde Park, and the weapons of choice were frocks, curls, flirtatious glances over the top of one's fan and—most lethal of all—gossip. Victory lay in snapping up an eligible bachelor, and few considered the years that lay ahead after the all-important ring was placed upon their finger.

No doubt Miss Cantwell and her mother were in the midst of that vital fray now. They would assume that any protestations Irene made were simply sour grapes for having lost that battle herself, for being a twenty-five-year-old spinster with no prospects other than living with her family for the rest of her life.

Irene sighed. She did not envy Miss Cantwell the marriage she hoped for. But she did wish that she could muster more equanimity to face the future she would have because she would not marry.

Maura leaned forward and laid her hand on Irene's arm, smiling sweetly. "Now, dear, do not sigh. 'Tis not so bad. We shall find you a husband yet. Perhaps we
should
pay a visit to Lady Haughston."

Irene grimaced, irritated that she had given Maura any glimpse of her discontent by sighing. "Don't be absurd," she told her crisply. "I told you, I am not seeking a husband. And if I were, I would not ask some silly butterfly like Francesca Haughston to help me."

She stood up, too annoyed to worry about her bad manners. "Excuse me, ladies. I fear I have something of a headache."

Then she turned and strode out of the room without waiting for a reply.

* * * * *

A few blocks away, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among Lady Wyngate and her friends, Francesca Haughston sat in the sitting room that was her favorite spot in the house, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the formal drawing room, and decorated in a sunny yellow that seemed to catch every stray ray of sun that flowed in through the west-facing windows. It was a pleasant place, furnished with pieces that, if a trifle shabby, were comfortable and dear to her. It was the room she used most, particularly in the fall and winter, for it was warmer than the other rooms, and it was cheaper to keep a fire here than in the larger drawing room. Of course, the fire was not of importance now, as it was the middle of August, but it was still the room she chose whenever she was alone.

Since the Season was over and many of the
ton
had returned to their country seats, she had few visitors these days, only her closest friends. As a consequence, the formal withdrawing room was kept closed, and Francesca spent her time here.

She was seated at the small secretary beside the windows, her accounts ledger open before her. She had been poring over the figures, but the pencil now lay in the trough between the pages, and she was gazing out at the small side garden, where the roses were putting up a last colorful show before autumn arrived.

Her problem, as always, was money—rather, a lack of it. Her late husband had been a profligate spender and unwise investor, and when he had died a few years ago, he had left her with little but her fashionable clothes and her jewelry. His estate, of course, had been entailed, passing to his cousin so that she no longer had a home except in London, a house that Andrew himself had purchased and had been able to bequeath to her. She had closed off all of one wing in an effort to economize, and had, with regret, let many of the servants go, keeping only a skeleton staff. She had also greatly curtailed her spending.

Even so, Francesca barely managed to scrape by. The easiest and most obvious way by which she could become wealthy—marrying again—she had rejected out of hand. She would have to be in much worse condition than she had yet fallen into to be willing to embark on that path once more.

There was a noise at the door, and she turned her head. Her personal maid, Maisie, stood there, looking uncertain. Francesca smiled and gestured to her to enter.

"My lady, I did not wish to disturb you, but the butcher's man is here again, and he has been most insistent. Cook says he refuses to sell her any more meat until she pays her account."

"Of course. Yes." Francesca opened the slender drawer of the writing table and took out a coin purse. She pulled a gold coin from it and held it out to the girl. "This should be enough to hold him off."

Maisie took the coin but continued to stand there, looking worried. "I could take something to sell for you, if you want. Maybe that bracelet."

Over the years since her husband's death, in order to survive, Francesca had sold off much of her jewelry and a number of other valuable items. It was Maisie who had taken such things to the jeweler's or the silversmith. Of all the people in the world, it was Maisie who knew her best and whom she trusted the most. Only a few years older than Francesca, Maisie had been her maid since she married Lord Haughston, and had been with her through every up and down. Maisie alone never suggested to Francesca that she ease her situation by accepting one of her many suitors.

For the past few years, Francesca had ingeniously supported herself by bringing out young girls and helping them find husbands on the marriage mart. Faced with the harsh reality that she was running out of items to sell or pawn and that there was little opportunity for a woman such as herself to earn her way other than to marry or to sell her virtue, she had sat down and assessed her skills. There was one thing at which she was an expert: attracting suitors. She had, of course, some natural advantages in that area. Her figure was elegantly slender, her hair a guinea gold, and her large eyes were a vivid dark blue. But there had always been a great deal more to Francesca's success in the social world than her physical attributes. Just as her family's long and respected lineage could only place her in the upper reaches of society, not make her a leading light of the
ton,
so, too, could her looks account for only a portion of her appeal.

Francesca had style. She had personality. She knew how to smile to make the dimple flash in her cheek, how to look at a man over her fan in a way that made his pulse speed up, or to gaze up at him in a manner designed to make the hardest heart melt. Quick of wit, she could engage in conversation on almost any topic and bring a smile to almost any lips. She knew how to dress for every occasion, and, moreover, she had an unerring sense of color and cut that rarely steered her wrong. Social occasions were her natural milieu, and she not only gave memorable parties, but she could enliven even the dullest gathering.

All her life she had helped her friends with questions of style and taste, and when she had guided the daughter of one of her late husband's relatives through the treacherous social waters of a Season and been rewarded by a gift of a large silver epergne from the girl's grateful parents, she had seen a way to maintain her style of living without really appearing to engage in that object of horror to English aristocrats: gainful employment.

She had pawned the silver epergne she was given, and paid her servants and many of her household bills with it. Then she had proceeded to maneuver herself into the path of mothers with marriageable daughters, especially those whose daughters had not really "taken." A suggestion here, an offer there, and soon she had a steady stream of young girls whom she helped to turn out and find an eligible husband.

Her most recent project had been the result of a wager with the Duke of Rochford. The duke had promised her a bracelet if she won, against Francesca's promise to pay a visit with him to his rather terrifying great-aunt Odelia. It had been absurd, and she had entered into it only because Rochford had goaded her. However, to Francesca's surprise, the whole thing had resulted in Francesca's own brother falling in love with and marrying Miss Constance Woodley. It had scarcely been what Francesca had envisioned, but it had turned out in the end to be something much better.

The duke had given her the bracelet, as well—a circlet of perfect deep-blue sapphires linked together by sparkling diamonds. The bracelet lay upstairs in the bottom compartment of her jewelry box, next to a set of sapphire earrings, given to her long ago and never sold.

Francesca looked up at her maid, who was watching her shrewdly. Francesca shook her head. "No, I won't sell it just yet. One must keep something in reserve, after all."

Maisie said only, "Yes, my lady," in a noncommittal tone as she tucked the coin into her pocket and turned to leave the room. At the door, the girl paused and cast a last, considering look at her employer before she went out into the hall.

Francesca saw the glance. She knew the maid was curious, but Maisie was not one to pry, and, in any case, Francesca had no answer for her, really. The bracelet, and Rochford, were topics best left alone.

What she really needed to think about was what she was going to do to get by until the next Season began. It was unlikely that she would come upon a mother or father eager to marry a daughter off until next April, when the new social Season would start and there would be debuts at court and a large number of routs, balls and soirees at which parents could show off their nubile young daughters and see what prospective husbands awaited.

There
was
what was often termed the Little Season, which took place roughly from September to November, during which some of the sophisticates, bored by their sojourn in the country, returned to London to enjoy its entertainments. However, it was not the prime husband-hunting venue that the full Season was; there were far fewer young girls and, indeed, fewer people in general. Francesca knew that it would be unlikely that she could find a prospect to "help" during this time.