The Bridal Quest (5 page)

"Oh. I'm sorry," Francesca offered lamely.

"The Bennington girl does have a squint," Rochford pointed out. "Miss Farnley is a goose, and Lady Helen is dull as ditchwater."

"Well, what does that matter?" Lady Odelia queried. "He doesn't have to talk to them."

Rochford's mouth quirked up on one side, but he said only, "Yes. Well, I suspect he would have to at some point."

"I suppose I should have expected it of him," his great-aunt opined, ignoring his remark. "The Lord only knows what sort of woman he would prefer. That is another reason why it is so imperative that we find a proper wife for him, and soon. When I think of who he might bring home if left to his own devices ..." She shook her head. "Of course, we cannot force him to marry anyone," she continued, looking quite annoyed at the thought. "So we decided to turn to you."

She looked at Francesca.

"Everyone says you have had such success in this area. Well, look at the way you matched up that Woodley girl with your brother—though I cannot think but that you could have found someone with a bit more funds to her name. Still, she seems a very pleasant girl."

"You want me to help find a wife for Lord Radbourne?" Francesca exclaimed, flooded with relief that Lady Odelia was not trying to persuade Francesca herself to marry the man.

"Of course, girl. What have we been talking about this past half hour?" Odelia retorted. "Really, Francesca, you must pay more attention."

"Yes, I'm sorry," Francesca replied quickly.

"Though I scarcely see how you can manage to marry him off, when all our best efforts have failed," Lady Odelia went on. "But Rochford assured me that you were best person for the task," the older woman added.

"Really?" Francesca glanced with some surprise at Lord Rochford.

"Yes," he answered, and he leaned forward, his face serious. "I hope that you will be able to find the right person for Gideon. The man has suffered quite enough already in his life. He deserves some happiness."

His black eyes were intent upon her face. Francesca had wondered how Lady Odelia had trapped Rochford into accompanying her on this errand, but she saw now that the duke was here out of a real concern for Lord Radbourne. Unlike his great-aunt, he seemed to hope that Francesca would come up with a wife for Gideon not to please the family, but to help the man.

"If you could come to Radbourne Hall and meet Gideon, see what he is really like, I think that you could find the right woman for him," the duke went on.

"I see." Francesca felt strangely touched. Before this, she would have said that he thought her matchmaking efforts were at best harmless foolishness.

"That is precisely the thing," Lady Odelia agreed. "You must come to the Hall and meet him. Then you'll understand. And perhaps you might be able to polish him up a bit before he actually meets any of the girls you choose. Whatever else anyone might say about you, your manners are always impeccable."

"Why, thank you," Francesca responded drily. "But I am not sure whether I should do this. Whether I can ..."

She looked at Lady Odelia, imposing in her outdated purple satin dress and towering hair. Francesca did not relish the idea of dealing with Lady Odelia on a daily basis. She had little doubt but that the woman would poke her nose into everything that Francesca did, questioning and quibbling at every turn. Moreover, Lord Radbourne did not sound like a very pleasant person to deal with, either.
And what if she would have to deal with the duke, as well?

Francesca stole a glance at him. Things never went smoothly with Rochford.

Her instinct was to refuse to do what Lady Odelia asked. But on the other hand, Francesca could not help but think that it would be foolish to do so. After all, had she not just been wondering how she would survive until next spring? This seemed the answer to her problems. Lady Odelia, she knew, would reward her with a handsome gift if she managed to pull off the feat of marrying her great-nephew to an acceptable woman. And if she were living at the Hall, her own expenses would be decreased quite considerably.

Besides, there was the way the duke had asked for her help with finding Gideon a wife. How could she refuse?

"Very well," she said. "I will do what I can."

"Excellent!" Lady Odelia nodded her head sharply. "Rochford said we could count on you."

"He did?" Francesca glanced at the duke in surprise.

"Of course," he responded with that slow, sardonic smile that rarely failed to irritate her. "I knew you could not resist something so clearly doomed to failure."

"Now," Lady Odelia said, "we can get down to details. She must be a biddable girl, of course, who is aware of her responsibilities to her family. It will not do to find one,who get her back up at the slightest suggestion."

In other words, Francesca thought, someone whom Lady Odelia could bend to her will.

"She must be able to wield a beneficial influence over Gideon."

Meaning that she must be able to bend her husband to her will, Francesca interpreted.

"And well-educated, though not, of course, a bluestocking."

"Naturally," Francesca murmured.

Lady Odelia continued to list the many qualities she sought in a wife for her great-nephew, a large number of which were contradictory, and Francesca smiled and nodded politely, though her mind was busy elsewhere. She was more interested in reviewing the unmarried women of the
ton
in the hopes of finding a few who would be suitable—and willing—to attach themselves to the new Earl of Radbourne than she was in hearing Lady Odelia's opinions on the matter. Clearly Lady Odelia had been unable to come up with the right lady, so Francesca saw little point in being guided by her wishes.

Having finally ground to a halt regarding the qualities she felt necessary in the future Countess of Radbourne, Lady Odelia launched into a list of possible candidates. "You might start with Lord Hurley's daughter. Good name. And a steady sort. Not one to get up in the boughs over every little thing."

A pained look crossed the duke's face. "Aunt Odelia," he remonstrated, "the woman's horse mad."

Lady Odelia turned a blank look on him. "Of course. She's Hurley's offspring."

"But Gideon scarcely rides."

Lady Odelia rolled her eyes. "Well, he scarcely needs a wife who'll be forever in his pocket, does he? It isn't as if we are talking about a love match."

"Of course. What was I thinking?" the duke murmured.

Before Lady Odelia could continue her roster of available girls, the parlor maid once again appeared at the doorway, bobbing a curtsey.

"The Earl of Radbourne, my lady," she announced.

Even Lady Odelia fell silent at her words. As the three occupants of the room turned to stare, a man strode past the maid into the room.

"Gideon!" Lady Odelia exclaimed, looking astonished.

Francesca studied her visitor with interest. She did not know what she had expected the lost heir to look like, but this man was not it. She supposed that she had assumed he would be rather bumbling and ill at ease, an obvious fish out of water.

This man appeared about as ill at ease as a slab of marble. Though less tall than the lean and elegant duke, Lord Radbourne gave the impression of being a larger man. He was powerfully built, with a wide chest and muscular arms. His solid body was packed into a well-cut but plain black suit and mirror-polished boots, and he gave off an aura of wealth and strength.

Yet despite the expensive clothes and his air of confidence, there was some indefinable quality about him that hinted that he was not a gentleman. It was perhaps his thick black hair, worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and carelessly combed back. Or the hard set of his handsome face, tanner than that of most gentlemen. But no, Francesca thought, the difference lay in his eyes—cold and slightly wary, looking out on the world with the hard readiness that bespoke a life spent on the streets rather than in the lap of luxury.

When he opened his mouth, the impression that he did not belong among the aristocracy was confirmed. His grammar was correct, and only the merest tinge of an East End accent clung to his words, but there was some quality in his speech that would have hinted to any astute listener that he was not "to the manor born."

"Lady Odelia." Gideon nodded shortly to his great-aunt; then his gaze swept dispassionately across to the duke. "Rochford."

"Radbourne," Rochford replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "What an unexpected surprise."

"No doubt." Gideon's voice was dry. He turned next to Francesca, executing a brief but serviceable bow. "My lady."

Francesca rose, holding out her hand to him. "My lord. Please, join us."

He nodded to her and walked across the room to take a chair just past where Lady Odelia sat. "Well, Aunt," he began in a flat voice. "I presume you are once again engaged in arranging my life for me."

Lady Odelia's chin went up, and she looked back at Gideon somewhat defiantly. Francesca realized, with some amazement, that the intimidating Lady Pencully was actually a trifle afraid of this man.

"I hope to find an appropriate wife for you," Lady Odelia replied. "I trust you realize that your position requires it."

He gave her a long look from his bottle-green eyes, then said, "I am well aware of what my position requires."

Gideon turned once again to Francesca. His gaze was cool and assessing, and Francesca reflected that his face was as unreadable as Rochford's, but unlike the politely veiled expression the duke turned to the world, the Earl of Radbourne's face was like stone.

Now, she thought, he would tell her that he did not require her assistance in finding a wife.

"I know that my grandmother and great-aunt are seeking a bride in an attempt to tame me. To make me more presentable—I cannot imagine that I will ever be 'acceptable.'"

Odelia made a soft noise of protest, but when his gaze flickered her way, she fell silent.

Gideon turned back to Francesca. "I, of course, realize that it is a necessity that I marry. I am agreeable to it. Doubtless you will be as able to find a spouse for me as my grandmother and Lady Pencully have been. I do not think you could be less successful at it. I will rely on the duke's assurance that you know what you are doing."

"You told Gideon we were coming here?" Lady Odelia asked Rochford in some amazement.

"It seemed to me only fair, as it involves him," Rochford replied calmly.

"Pray proceed, Lady Haughston, in your search for a suitable bride for me," Lord Radbourne went on. "However, I feel I should point out that the woman in question will have to meet my approval, not Lady Pencully's." He paused, then added, "I prefer, you see, not to be saddled with a fool."

"Of course," Francesca replied. "I understand."

"Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave." He rose to his feet. "There are a number of matters regarding the business my family so disapproves of that require my notice."

"Of course, my lord. No doubt we will talk again."

He gave her a short nod, and bade goodbye to his cousin and great-aunt. He strode to the door, then turned and looked back at Francesca. "Lady Haughston ... may I suggest one woman whom I would like to consider?"

Francesca caught Lady Odelia's expression of amazement out of the corner of her eye, but she kept her gaze on Gideon, saying only, "Of course, my lord. Whom would you suggest?"

"Lady Irene Wyngate," he replied.

Irene watched her mother as she moved gracefully through the steps of a country dance with her cousin Harville. Sir Harville, whose party this was, was one of the few people with whom Lady Claire felt it was appropriate for a widow such as herself to dance. He was also one of the few people who could always bring a smile to her mother's face.

For those reasons, Irene always looked forward to Lady Spence's birthday ball. And since Sir Harville, instead of his penny-pinching wife, arranged the ball, the affair was also beautifully decorated and offered a midnight supper that would tempt even the faintest of appetites.

"Such a sweet little dance," Irene's sister-in-law said beside her, glancing about the ballroom with an expression that mingled approval with condescension. "Not nearly so grand a ballroom as we have at Wyngate House, but they have done it up very well."

Irene suppressed a sigh. Maura was the mistress of the insult wrapped in a compliment. However, Irene had promised her mother that she would not quarrel with Maura tonight, so she made no comment.

"Lady Claire is in good looks tonight," Maura went on. "Don't you agree, Humphrey dear?"

She turned a sugary smile on her husband, standing on her other side. Humphrey smiled back, pleased at his wife's comment, "Yes, she does look lovely. So like you to point that out."

It never ceased to amaze Irene that her brother, so intelligent in so many other ways, never saw through Maura's pretense of sweetness to the sharp claws beneath.

"No matter what others may say, I think it is wonderful for her to dance."

Humphrey frowned a little. "Say? What does anyone say?"

"Nothing," Irene assured him firmly, shooting Maura a daggerlike look.

"Of course not," Maura agreed smoothly. "Why, there is nothing at all wrong with a woman of her age dancing with her cousin—even if it is such a
lively
dance. And while one would be quite correct in presuming that some women would do it to call attention to themselves, of course your mother would never do that."

"No, never." Humphrey blinked, looking at his wife with some concern. "Do people say that?"

"No," Irene interrupted flatly. "They do not. There is nothing wrong with Mother's dancing, even if it were not with her cousin, and no one of
any consequence
would say so." She shot a fierce look at Maura as she spoke the last few words.

"Indeed not," Maura agreed, assuming a prettily determined expression. "And so I shall tell anyone who has the audacity to say so."

"Yes, quite." Humphrey smiled down at his wife, though his eyes remained a little troubled. He turned to look at his mother again.

"And I beg you will not say anything to Mother about it," Irene went on, iron in her voice. "It would be most unkind to make her worry in any way over doing something that she enjoys so much."

"Oh, indeed." Maura nodded. "Though one cannot help but wonder whether Lady Claire, with her sensibilities, might not decide that she would prefer to stand up to one of the more sedate tunes."

"That is true," Humphrey agreed, casting a fond look at his wife. "You are always so solicitous of Mother."

"Humphrey!" Irene said sharply. "If you or Maura say anything to destroy Mother's happiness in taking an innocent dance with her cousin—"

"Irene!" Maura looked shocked. Tears welled up in her blue eyes. "I would never hurt Lady Claire. Why, she is as dear to me as my own mother."

"Irene, really," Humphrey said, exasperated. "How could you say something so cruel? You know how Maura feels about Mother."

"Yes," Irene replied drily. "I do."

"Sometimes your tongue is just too sharp. You know how sensitive Maura is."

"Now, Humphrey, darling," Maura said before Irene could speak, "I am sure that Irene did not mean to hurt me. She is so much stronger than other women. She does not understand how words can wound a softer nature."

Irene curled her fingers into a fist by her side, willing herself not to lash back at Maura with cutting words. That would be playing right into her hands. For all her silliness, Maura was amazingly clever at manipulating a situation to her advantage.

As Irene swallowed her words, Maura cast her a maliciously triumphant look, then turned her head away. "Oh, look, Irene, here is Lady Haughston coming toward us. Now might be your chance to talk to her, as we were discussing the other day."

"Talk about what?" Humphrey asked. "I didn't realize you and Francesca Haughston were friends."

"We are not," Irene began.

"Never mind, dearest," Maura put in, smiling at her husband. "It was just girl talk."

"Ah." He nodded, looking pleased at the thought of his wife and sister sharing girlish confidences. "Then I shall not press you."

He bowed to Francesca as she reached them. "Lady Haughston. How good to see you."

"Lord Wyngate. Lady Wyngate. Lady Irene." Francesca favored them all with a smile. "Such a lovely ball, is it not?"

They spent a few minutes on the usual niceties, discussing the lovely fall weather, the lack of entertainment in London now that the Season was over, and the health and happiness of Lady Haughston's brother and his new bride.

At a pause in the conversation, Francesca turned toward Irene and said, "I was about to take a stroll about the room. Perhaps you would care to join me?"

Surprised, Irene looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, "Why, yes, of course."

Francesca smiled and stepped away, and Irene followed her, casting a suspicious glance at Lady Maura as she did so. Had Maura arranged this meeting with Lady Haughston? The surprise on Maura's face appeared quite genuine, yet ...

They strolled toward the opposite wall, where a bank of French doors had been opened to let in the evening air. As they walked, they exchanged the same sort of small nothings that they had been bandying about earlier, and Irene's curiosity grew with each step. It seemed too odd a coincidence that Francesca Haughston should make an obvious effort to meet her only two days after Maura had been urging Irene to talk to the woman.

Irene had assumed that Maura was simply using Lady Haughston as an excuse to needle her about her spinster state and her many deficiencies of charm and character. But perhaps Maura had been serious. Perhaps Maura was willing to go to any lengths to see Irene marry, given that it would mean that Irene—and perhaps her mother, as well—would leave Maura's house.

Color flooded Irene's throat as she thought about the embarrassing possibility that Maura had been talking to Francesca Haughston about Irene's failure to marry. She could well imagine how Maura would have smiled sweetly as she spoke of how sorry she felt for poor, unwanted Irene.

Irene set her jaw and cast a glance over at her companion. Would Francesca Haughston have any interest in doing Maura a favor? She could not imagine that the two of them were friends. Maura had only been around Lady Haughston a few times, and only in large social settings. And it seemed unlikely that Francesca would have sought out Maura's friendship. However much Irene regarded Francesca as frivolous, she knew that Francesca was not goose-ish. She was a sophisticated hostess, a light of the
ton.
Her favor was pursued by many, and she was knowledgeable about the world and about people. Francesca surely would not be fooled by Maura's manner, nor would she be impressed by the fact that Maura was married to Lord Wyngate.

No, Irene thought it unlikely that Francesca would have been particularly interested in doing Maura a favor. And even though she and Irene moved in the same circle, Francesca was seven or eight years older than Irene, and the two of them had never been what Irene would have termed friends, so Irene did not think that Francesca would have been moved by Maura's pleas into doing Irene a favor, either. Moreover, Irene could not forget that look of surprise on Maura's face when Francesca had taken Irene away from them. Surely Maura was not
that
good at dissembling.

But that left the question of why Francesca had sought her out. Irene was not naive enough to think that it was simply because she was interested in Irene's company.

"Lady Haughston ..." Irene said abruptly, breaking into the amusing little
on dit
that Francesca was relating.

Francesca looked at her, somewhat surprised, and Irene realized that she had probably been rude again. It was a fault of which she was frequently accused.

"I beg your pardon," Irene said. "I should not have interrupted you. But you have known me long enough to know that I believe in straight dealing. I cannot help but wonder why you asked me to promenade with you about the room."

Francesca let out a little sigh. "I am aware of your preference for plain speaking. And while I am in general of the opinion that it is as easy to employ tact as to be blunt, I, too, find truth to be the best course. I asked you to accompany me because a longtime friend of my family asked me for a favor. I was asked to introduce you to someone who wishes to make your acquaintance."

"What?" It was Irene's turn to look astonished. "But who— Why—"

"I can only assume it is because he admires you," Francesca answered, and smiled in that small catlike way she had, a little secretive and yet at the same time alluring.

Her words so took Irene aback that for a moment her mind was blank. Finally she rallied enough to retort, "Really, Lady Haughston, I am not fresh from the country. Do you expect me to believe that?"

"I see no reason why you should not," Francesca responded, widening her eyes. "I do not know his reasons, of course. I did not think it my place to quiz him regarding his motives. However, I find that is commonly the reason why a gentleman wishes to meet a certain lady. Surely you do not count yourself so low that you think no man would find you worthy of his notice."

Irene regarded Francesca thoughtfully. Lady Haughston had rather neatly boxed her in. Finally she said, "'Tis not false modesty. It is more that I have found I have a certain reputation among the
ton
that makes gentlemen disinclined to pursue my acquaintance."

Francesca's eyes danced with amusement, and her smile broadened. "A reputation, Lady Irene? Indeed, I cannot imagine what you mean."

"I thought you believed truth was the best course," Irene shot back. "We both know that I am regarded as something of a shrew."

Francesca shrugged. "Ah, but while you are not fresh from the country, this gentleman is."

"What?" Irene, puzzled, started to say more, but Francesca's attention had focused on something over Irene's shoulder, and she smiled. Irene dropped the rest of her words as she turned to see what had claimed Francesca's attention.

It was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode toward them with purpose, and it seemed to Irene that those around him were dwarfed in comparison. It was not that he was so much larger than the other men, but there was a certain aura about him, a sense of toughness and strength, that set him apart.

His hair was jet-black, thick and a trifle long, giving him the faint look of a ruffian, despite the quality and cut of his clothes. His face was all angles and lines, with high, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin. The straight slashes of his eyebrows were as dark as his hair, and the eyes below them were an intense green.

She did not recognize him and yet there was something about him that tugged at her, some sense of familiarity that she could not place. Irene was aware of a peculiar sensation inside her, a dancing of nerves through her midsection that seemed both excitement and trepidation, mingled with another, unknown feeling that coiled down into her abdomen, hot and disturbing.

Who was this man ?

"Ah, Lord Radbourne," Francesca said, holding out her hand in greeting.

"Lady Haughston." He bowed perfunctorily over her hand, and then his gaze slid past Francesca to Irene.

His eyes were not leering or bold, simply watchful, but there was a directness in them that was slightly unsettling. There was something different about him that intrigued her. She realized that she wanted to know more about him, that she wanted to talk to him, and the fact that she felt that way both surprised and annoyed her.

"Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Irene Wyngate," Francesca went on smoothly, turning from him to Irene. "Lady Irene, I would like you to meet Gideon, the Earl of Radbourne. Lord Radbourne is Lady Pencully's great-nephew."

It dawned on Irene then exactly who their visitor was. He was the long-lost heir to the Bankes family fortune and name, around whom so much gossip had swirled over the last few months. Though she knew no one who could say they had actually met the man, she had heard a great deal about him. She had been told that he was a criminal, found in prison and hauled out of it by a powerful family member. Others had declared that he was mad, still others that he was simple-minded. A few had hinted at perversions the depths of which they could not even name in front of a lady. A number had held that he was deformed, hideous to look at.

Obviously the ones who had made the last assertion were wrong, Irene thought. She extended her hand, schooling her face into a polite expression that she hoped masked the leap of interest she had felt when she realized who he was. "How do you do, Lord Radbourne?"

"Lady Wyngate." He took her hand, giving her the same brief sketch of a bow that he had given Francesca.