The Marriage List (3 page)

Miss Sheffers’ mystically deep violet eyes had sparked with anger, not pity
.

Long gone were the days where every lady he met would stare up at his healthy physique with moon-eyed affection.

She hadn’t been moon-eyed, but she’d appeared indifferent to his condition
.

“Never mind my offending the woman, Wynter. She didn’t meet even one marriageable criteria.” Radford shook out the foolscap.

“Didn’t she?”

Radford began to read from the list. “Number one, age. She needs to be young enough to be pliable, readily molded into my image of the perfect wife and viscountess for my estate. No younger than eighteen—I have absolutely no wish to bed a child—no older than one-and-twenty. Need I go on?”

“I see no problem as of yet,” Wynter said with a shrug.

“Number two, appearance. She should be fair of complexion, like an angel smiling down from the heavens—I believe the poet in you added that last part. Her body should be sturdy, full enough to fill a man’s hands, and possess wide hips—”

“Within reason,” Wynter interjected.

“—To safely produce a brood of sons.” Miss Sheffers’ compact body, like a coiled spring, no doubt fit the second part of the description. The muslin gown hinted at the curves hidden underneath. But, alas, her unusual olive skin tone, angular features, and bright violet eyes gave her the look of part elf, part gypsy. A combination well suited for fairy tales and fantasies, but not the refined position of viscountess. “Again, need I continue?”

“I don’t see why not.” Wynter made himself comfortable in the overstuffed chair by the fire, enjoying the claret as well as the dissection of this woman’s shortcomings a little too much. Radford ground his jaw.

“Number three, disposition.” His voice rose along with his aggravation. “Above all things, she should possess a gentle disposition. Behave properly. Be agreeable in all things.”

“To be fair, Evers, circumstances had forced her to act as she had. I’d say she handled herself very well, considering . . . ” The reproach deepening the blue of Wynter’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

“Very well, we’ll skip that one for now. Not that it matters.” Radford drew a steadying breath. “Number four, family. Born to a respectable family of suitable rank and possessing a sizable dowry.” He cast a pointed look across the room, daring Wynter to argue in support of Miss Sheffers’ family, convinced her family name passed his friend’s ears as meaninglessly as it had his own.

Wynter shrugged. “As for the dowry, I don’t dare speculate. One can never assume the financial stability of another when so many live high on credit. But her family name stands on its own merit.”

“Exactly.” Radford stopped his pacing, uncertain. What did his friend mean,
stands on its own merit
? No matter. The last qualification was perhaps the most crucial, the one point he would never bend. “Number five, horses. She must”—the word underlined, twice—“possess a full knowledge and genuine affection of horses. I am planning to continue my breeding program whether or not I am able to ride again.”

His doctors all agreed. They’d been blunt. He’d never be able to properly seat a horse or ride for prolonged periods. The heartless men might as well have taken up a knife and carved out his heart. Never ride again, his love, his life torn away as easily as that?

“My wife will share my love of horses. I will not give up my stables. I simply will not.” He looked at the second piece of foolscap in his hand. He’d completely forgotten he still possessed it—Miss Sheffers’ writ of eviction. Feeling nearly unhinged, Radford shouted his next words. “So you must agree. Miss Sheffers admitted it herself, if not in words in tone. She’s deathly afraid of the beasts!”

Wynter started with a sudden jolt of confusion. “Miss Sheffers? I thought we were discussing the very eligible Lady Iona.”

* * * * *

May avoided her aunt Winnie and made a straight path up the stairs to her chamber to smooth her unruly hair and change out of her damp gown. Her shivering hands, not from the rainy chill but from the fury still boiling inside her, drew her attention to the thin teacup still lodged between her fingers. Bright blue parasols and flowers danced around the outside of the perfectly rounded cup.

His teacup
. In her rush to escape before angry words poured from her lips and shamed her, she made the horrible mistake of taking the teacup with her.

Your father’s gypsy blood ruins you, makes you unruly, makes you as wild and impossible as him
. Those bitter words, her uncle’s, rang loudly in her head. He tried to beat the willfulness from her, ruling her with a heavy hand those three weeks out of the year when she was forced to endure living with him.

You’re just a passionate child
. Aunt Winnie, always trying everything she could to fill the void only the return of her mother or father could truly repair, would coddle May in her arms, humming a sweet tune while a much younger, painfully innocent May wept.
There is nothing wrong with passion
.

Yet there was. May learned under the heat of disapproving
tonnish
glares, wielded by some of the most imposing society matrons, to dampen her spirit, to fade—like her gowns—into something colorless, nearly transparent. She carried the crime of her father’s birth with her everywhere. Not until her entrance into society did she understand the weight of the burden or the discouragement her Uncle Sires felt when he looked upon her. Only after she came of age did her dreams of marrying a man who could love her as passionately as her father loved her mother disappear.

Her birth, her looks, her lack of fortune, and her very manner frightened eligible men away. Gradually, she and her aunt exchanged positions and May became the caretaker, a lady’s companion. An honorable profession for a woman destined for spinsterhood.

In time, May grew accustomed to her role. She took pride in providing for Aunt Winnie in the same loving manner she’d been raised. There was no room in her life for a husband, not with the full-time responsibility of caring for her aunt, running the small household, and accompanying her to an exhausting string of teas, balls, exhibitions, and dinners.

As for a family—what woman didn’t long for children? But her heart was full. She had the love of her aunt and of her friend, Iona. And that was enough. It would be greedy to ask for more.

The only need in her life was time. She fingered Viscount Evers’ teacup, recalling just how he’d humiliated her.
I have no interest in squabbles of this sort
, he’d said, belittling the amount of pride May had had to swallow in order to enter his home like a beggar. He’d refused out-of-hand to hear how she’d already forced down a whole pantry-full of pride when she’d petitioned her uncle for funds after the fretful Mr. Thomas, the local banker, explained how the courts had seized her parent’s money.

Two and a half months had already passed, and still no word or reply from her uncle.

If it were just May’s fate in question, she’d understand his disinterest. But Aunt Winnie was Uncle Sires’ eldest sister. He always appeared in awe of Winnie and, even, faintly wary of her opinion. Absent siblings of her own, May had nothing to compare it with. Yet, she assumed his behavior a form of brotherly affection.

So why turn his back on Winnie now, when she needed him most?

She and her aunt were caught between the indifference of two men, that’s what. May chewed her bottom lip, uncomfortable with the feeling of being beholden to any man. She carefully placed the viscount’s stray teacup on her dressing table next to her brush.

That silly teacup. What the viscount must think of her! She crossed the room to the velvet cord, thinking to call the housekeeper and ask her to return the cup posthaste. Her hand had just touched the cord when she heard a clamor rise below and the rumble of horses.

She peered out the tall floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the small front garden, the street, and the fashionable Sydney Gardens. A carriage, bearing an intricate golden crest emblazoned on the door, swayed as it stopped in front of their humble cottage.

May reached for her throat, uncertain of what to do.

What could it mean for
him
to come here? This was most unexpected. She rushed a brush through her hair, despairing at the stray curls already pulling free from the pins, a regular condition only worsened by the rainy weather.

There’d be no time to change her damp gown. Aunt Winnie would need assistance preparing for company.

May glanced out the window one last time and watched a liveried footman with a dark umbrella in hand open the carriage door with measured purpose. She stiffened her spine—this would just have to be endured—and set off downstairs in search of her aunt.

Chapter 3

The rains had died away and the heavy clouds parted just enough to allow a sparkling ray of sunlight to pass through to the city. That moment, the first break in a storm, usually calmed May’s heart. It was in that magical instant she felt closest to the mother and father who were as elusive as the sunlight.

Today, May could only spare a wistful glance to the sky from the parlor window. The storm, it seemed, hadn’t truly passed but only moved inside.

Their guest paced the length of the parlor. Dressed in gray breeches with a long black coat fashioned from broadcloth, his heavy body filled the room. He hadn’t arrived alone, either.

Uncle Sires, the eighth Earl of Redfield, had brought with him a stranger. Mr. Tumblestone, a finely dressed gentleman as portly as Aunt Winnie’s lazy tomcat and nearly as old as her uncle, smiled fondly on May while he was presented to her. He took her hand in his and pressed his rather large set of lips to her gloved knuckles.

With introductions out of the way, family members inquired after, and tea sent for, Uncle Sires took to strolling about the parlor again while Mr. Tumblestone settled into a tapestry-covered seat. Aunt Winnie, panting from too much excitement, allowed May to assist her to her favorite chair near the fire.

Her uncle’s sharp gaze missed nothing. His frown lengthened as he took notice of Winnie’s weakened condition. Nothing appeared to please him, in fact. He paused to inspect a silver four-stemmed candleholder set on the mantel. He lifted the piece, turning it in his hand. The expensive wax candles had been burned down all the way to their nubs. Though the silver was polished, the cheaply made candleholder was dented from years of use in a string of households. He wiggled a stem. May held her breath, praying the brittle metal wouldn’t snap under the force of his hand.

He sniffed—a haughty sound—and set the candleholder down. His roaming gaze surveyed the women while Portia, the housekeeper, carried in a tea tray piled with an assortment of sweetmeats, cookies, and toast.

“Thank you,” May said with a kind smile. The unexpected guests had sent Portia into a flurry of activity in the kitchen. Uncle Sires’ arrival, so near to the approaching dinner hour, made one wonder not only if he expected to be fed, but also if he expected to be housed for the night. And not just him.

There was that stranger, Mr. Tumblestone, with him.

“So this is the cottage you wrote to me about,” Uncle Sires said, raking the room with his gaze. The parlor had always felt cozy. Today, under the cloud of her uncle’s glower, it merely felt impossibly small, inadequate.

“You wrote to your uncle?” Aunt Winnie inclined her head toward May. She sounded genuinely baffled. “Why ever didn’t you tell me?” Winnie’s surprise wasn’t unfounded. May never wrote her uncle without her aunt’s prodding.

“I didn’t wish to worry you, Aunt Winnie,” May said and then hesitated. Mr. Tumblestone had leaned forward in his chair—a chair conveniently positioned next to May’s—and appeared far too keen on listening to what promised to be a painfully private family matter.

For once Uncle Sires seemed to approve of her reluctance. “I see my niece is quite the gardener. If I recall properly, she does have an uncommon flare with roses.” He pointed to a small plot just outside the parlor window.

May had tried to encourage a collection of roses to climb an arbor in their tiny garden, allowing bushes of pale pink cabbage roses to intermingle with the white and pale yellow Albas. Her efforts created a tangle of vines heavy with blooms. The flowers were suitable for flower arrangements. They were not, not by any stretch of the imagination, a garden showpiece.

“Perhaps you would like to take a closer look.” In typical Uncle Sires form, the request was presented like a royal command.

Mr. Tumblestone fidgeted nervously for a moment. Drawing his wide lips into a closed-mouthed smile, he directed the strange expression at May and then upon Aunt Winnie. “I think I would enjoy inspecting the blooms.” His smile returned to May, and his watery gaze lingered on her body for several uncomfortable moments. “I am a great lover of beauty.”

He stood then, gave Uncle Sires a knowing nod, and excused himself to go wander outside. May breathed a sigh of relief when the parlor door closed behind him. Something about his manner, like a man starving for sustenance, put her nerves on edge.

“Someone will explain,” Aunt Winnie demanded. Though her heart might be growing weak, her resolve was as strong as ever. “Why would you have correspondences with Sires without my knowledge? And why, Sires, did you bring this man into my house?”

May rushed to her aunt’s side. She crouched down beside the chair, positioning herself between her uncle and Winnie with the hopes of shielding her aunt from hearing anything too upsetting. Winnie placed her hand in May’s. Her aging skin felt thinner than the finest muslin.

“I only meant to protect you,” May said when Uncle Sires opened his mouth to speak. “You must understand that.” May could not imagine a world without Aunt Winnie. She’d do anything to protect the sole person whose love persisted as a sunny constant in her life.

She turned to her uncle. His scowl deepened when their eyes met. “There was no need for you to come all this way over a trifling,” she said.

“Hush, May.” Aunt Winnie’s gentle voice belied the rebuke. She intended to be included in the discussion. The only clue of her aunt’s budding exasperation were the light blotches of color appearing low on her throat. “Sires, you may speak.”

“The child wrote to me asking for money.” Very rarely did Uncle Sires use May’s name. To him, regardless of her age she was forever
the child
, spoken with a healthy dose of sulfur.

“Is this true?” Aunt Winnie asked of May. “Did something happen to your parents’ funds?”

“The child’s parents are dead,” Uncle Sires announced before May could think of how to explain the situation without worrying her aunt.

Winnie gasped at the horrible news and clutched May’s hand.

“They are not dead,” May said. Her voice sounded shrill like a petulant youth’s. She cleared her throat. “They may not have written for many years, Uncle. Beyond that, there is no evidence that anything is amiss.”

“The child understandably refuses to accept the truth. They were last seen entering a dangerous jungle in South America seven years and five months ago. In light of that and the painful fact no one since saw them leave, I petitioned the courts to dispense with the legal matter of declaring them dead.”

Her aunt squeezed May’s hand, pinching it—a subtle reminder for May to hold her temper.

“I do not understand, Sires,” Winnie said. Her weary gaze hardened. “What does this have to do with May’s request for money? Her parents’ funds should still provide her with a sufficient income.”

“Uncle Sires had the courts seize control of the money, Aunt.” May could not keep the anger from her voice.

Nor could Winnie. “What is the meaning of this?”

“As you know the child’s mother—”

“Our youngest sister, Viola,” Winnie corrected.

“Yes, yes. Our grandmother’s inheritance went solely into Viola’s name. Absent a will, there are questions surrounding the inheritance. I have asked the courts to take control of the funds until the questions are resolved.”

“And who, besides May, do you believe is entitled to Viola’s fortune?”

“I am, of course. As head of this family, it is only right that I should control the purse strings. A romantic fool, our grandmother, to bestow a fortune to an errant granddaughter. Viola besmirched the family name by marrying that gypsy bastard against my wishes. What assurances do I have that this child won’t act in the same manner? With the promise of a fortune, there is many a blackguard who’d woo the child into some scandalous marriage with false proclamations of love.”