A Marriageable Miss

‘It would seem your ladyships have been badly misled,’ Richard said.

‘Whilst it is perfectly true that I was obliged to eject Lord Barrington from the room rather forcibly,’ he continued, ‘I consider that my actions were wholly justified. Far from molesting this young lady, as his lordship suggested, I was in the process of proposing marriage to her!’

Steeling himself to ignore the barely concealed gasp of dismay from behind him, he then added, ‘As Miss Wheatley will no doubt be prepared to confirm, should you care to ask her.’

He stepped aside to reveal the scarlet-faced and somewhat dishevelled-looking Helena who, having listened to his astounding claim with mounting alarm, now found herself so utterly taken aback that she was incapable of speech.

‘Miss Wheatley?’

Taking her unresisting hand in his, Richard summoned up a smile of encouragement and said, ‘It would seem that our little secret is out, my love. Perhaps you would care to explain to their ladyships the true purpose of our clandestine rendezvous?’

Dorothy Elbury lives in a quiet Lincolnshire village—an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She has been married to her husband for fifty years (it was love at first sight, of course!), and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.

Recent novels by the same author:

A HASTY BETROTHAL

THE VISCOUNT’S SECRET

THE OFFICER AND THE LADY

AN UNCONVENTIONAL MISS

THE MAJOR AND THE COUNTRY MISS

A

Marriageable

Miss

Dorothy Elbury

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Dodie B, Jojobub and Tom Bloggs, with love.

Chapter One

Tossing aside yet another polite reminder of a still unpaid account, Richard Standish, now 6th Earl of Markfield, leaned back in his chair and stretched his aching limbs, wearily surveying the mounting pile of similar requests on the desk in front of him.

It hardly seemed possible that a mere six months had elapsed since his cousin Simon’s fatal accident, as a consequence of which, Standish had unexpectedly and, most reluctantly, found himself in possession of the ancient title. Having resigned his commission the previous year, following Napoleon’s decisive defeat at Waterloo, the ex-dragoon major had returned home to his own small estate, fully intent on realising a long-held aspiration to revive the Standish Stud which, in his grandfather’s day, had been highly regarded in horse-breeding circles.

Unfortunately, his sudden acquisition of Markfield’s vast acreage, along with its accompanying tenant farms and labourers’ cottages, had very quickly put a brake on his purchasing powers, owing to the numerous calls on his rapidly diminishing funds. Not that the expense of the estate itself was in any way responsible for his present financial crisis since, thanks to the competent management of his late grandfather’s land agent, Ben Hollis who, for the past fifteen years or so, had been allowed a more-or-less free hand in the running of the place, this concern was largely self-supporting.

The real headache, from the new earl’s point of view, was the appallingly run-down state of Markfield Hall, the family mansion house, which had been built to celebrate Sir Edmund Markfield’s elevation to the peerage in 1698. In its prime, the Hall had been much revered as an outstanding example of classical architecture but, due to severe neglect on the part of the 4th earl, the late Simon Standish’s father, two of the chimney stacks were now dangerously unstable, several parts of the roof were open to the elements and rain had caused considerable damage to much of the Hall’s fine oak panelling.

Following Simon Standish’s untimely death, the newly ennobled Richard had been appalled to discover how carelessly the previous two occupants had treated the magnificent old mansion house. Not that he had any real desire to take up residence there himself, since he much preferred the more modern comforts of his own house at Westpark—which, until his grandfather had made it over to Richard’s father Henry, upon the occasion of his marriage, some thirty years earlier, had originally formed part of the much larger Markfield estate.

Nevertheless, as his grandmother, the dowager countess, had been swift to point out to him, ‘The Hall has always been regarded as a symbol of the family heritage—to simply stand by and watch it crumble into ruins would be an act of pure sacrilege!’

Accordingly, more in deference to his ageing grandmother’s wishes than to his own requirements, Richard had set in motion an extensive refurbishment programme but, since it had then transpired that the estate kitty contained insufficient funds to bear the brunt of the mounting expense, he had found himself obliged to furnish the cost of the operation out of his own pocket. Having already invested most of his capital in setting up his fledgling stud farm, this additional burden on his finances had been more than enough to cause him concern. Added to which, it now seemed that he had seriously underestimated the likely cost of the venture and, as he stared glumly down at the column of figures before him, he could not help thinking that the project was getting to the stage where it could only be likened to some enormous millstone hanging round his neck! Where in Hades he was going to find enough money to finance the spiralling expenditure was proving to be an ever-increasing quandary. He had already been forced to sell off two of his most promising mares, both in foal to the one-time champion Gadfly, and now it was beginning to look as though he might well have to sacrifice his prize-winning stallion, too!

Distracted as he was by the weight of his problems, the distant sound of the front door bell failed to impinge itself upon his consciousness and it was only the opening of his study door some ten minutes later that eventually roused him from his deliberations.

‘Her ladyship has arrived from London, my lord,’ came the sepulchral tones of Kilburn, his butler. ‘She has instructed me to inform you that both she and Mr Standish are awaiting your presence in the drawing room.’

Stifling a groan, Richard laid down his pen and pushed back his chair.

‘Have some tea sent in and tell her ladyship that I will be with her directly,’ he instructed the man as, getting to his feet, he shrugged himself into his jacket and ran his fingers hurriedly through his dishevelled hair. After casting a perfunctory look at his reflection in one of the glass-fronted bookcases at the doorway, he made his way across the hallway into his drawing room, whereupon he was greeted by his grandmother’s ringing tones.

‘Oh, here you are at last, Richard! Charles was just about to come in search of you!’

‘Dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Richard, bending down to kiss the old lady’s surprisingly unlined cheek before turning to acknowledge his cousin. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘We stopped off for a quick bite at the Red Lion in Wimbledon, as usual,’ said Charles, returning his smile. ‘But Grandmama was keen to get on and view the latest improvements—I see they’ve started stripping the roof of the west wing.’

Mindful of the tiler’s recent statement of account, Richard gave a cursory nod. ‘The work is progressing more quickly than I had anticipated. I rather fear that, if the bills keep coming in at their present rate, I may well have to call a temporary halt in the proceedings.’

‘Oh, surely not, Richard!’ protested the dowager, laying down her teacup with such force that its contents spilled over its rim. ‘I have only just this minute finished telling Charles that the Hall is beginning to look almost as it did when I first went there as a bride over sixty years ago! Your poor grandfather would be so disappointed if he could hear you!’

‘It’s a question of juggling the finances, dear heart,’ returned her grandson, as he moved over to the sideboard to pour drinks for Standish and himself. ‘I already have a mountain of bills to pay and I must keep enough in the kitty for day-to-day expenses. However, if we are lucky enough to pull in good harvests on both estates, I dare say it might be possible to start on the east wing in the autumn.’

‘If only your Uncle Leo had paid heed to my warnings after that dreadful storm, the poor old Hall wouldn’t be in this state now!’ said Lady Isobel, with a plaintive sniff. ‘I begged and begged him to attend to the roof damage, but would he listen? Oh, no! Said he had better things to do with his money. And your cousin Simon was little better. I can only thank God that neither of you is a gambling man!’

‘An occupation for fools and tricksters, in my opinion,’ replied Richard, shooting a warning glance at his cousin, whose cheeks had reddened at the dowager’s remark. ‘Have no fear, Grandmama, I promise you that neither Charles nor I has any intention of following either Simon’s or Uncle Leo’s example.’

Lady Isobel frowned, but said nothing. Having suffered the loss of so many males in her family under somewhat unfortunate circumstances, she took considerable consolation from the knowledge that the current Lord Markfield had few, if any, of his predecessors’ bad qualities and was determined to restore the estate to its former grandeur.

Furthermore she was confident that once Richard was set on a course of action almost nothing would change his mind.

Glancing across at him now, as he stood chatting to Charles, the youngest of her grandsons, her eyes softened. The 6th earl certainly cut a fine figure and was very personable to boot. If only he could be persuaded to take himself a wife and start setting up his nursery! Having reached the ripe old age of eighty-one years herself, she was well aware that her time was running out and she dearly wanted to hear again the joyful sounds of childish laughter ringing through the old Hall before she eventually met her Maker.

‘You’ll stay for dinner, of course?’ Richard was asking his cousin.

Placing his empty glass down on the tray, Charles shook his head. ‘Better not, old chap,’ he replied. ‘I promised Mother I’d be back in time to dine with her. It’s been over a week now and you know how fidgety she’s apt to get if I’m away for more than a few days at a time. I’ll look in tomorrow, if I may?’

‘Of course—you’re always welcome, as I hope you know.’

After escorting his cousin to the door, Richard returned to his grandmother’s side. Sitting himself down on the sofa next to her, he leaned back and stretched out his legs, a slight frown on his forehead.

‘Take heart, my boy,’ Lady Isobel said bracingly. ‘At least you don’t have to face up to a complaining invalid every time you come home. How Charles finds the patience to deal with that woman is quite beyond me. I have never been able to understand what your Uncle Andrew ever saw in her, for she was always completely useless as a cleric’s wife!’

Richard, whose own mother had died when he was just seven years of age, gave a rueful smile. ‘Well, it’s not as though he can ignore her, is it? Besides which, he’s obliged to come down to Southpark to attend to various estate matters.’

‘To see how much is in the coffers, you mean!’ returned the countess, with some asperity. ‘He would do far better to get himself a wife and run his share of the estate as it should be run, instead of gallivanting about town!’

Well aware of what was about to follow his grandmother’s observation in regard to his cousin’s marital state, the earl, shifting uneasily on his seat, compressed his lips and waited.

‘And, much the same applies to you, Richard, my boy,’ she then went on. ‘Apart from anything else, you have the succession to consider! Four changes of title in eight years should be more than enough warning to you. What if you were to die without issue?’

‘Well, I did manage to get through an entire war pretty well undamaged,’ he felt constrained to point out. ‘I dare say I’m good for a few years yet! But, as to marrying, there’s time enough for that—besides which, I have far too many other problems to deal with without adding the complications of courtship to the list.’

‘That would depend on your requirements, surely?’ returned his grandmother. ‘In my experience—which is hardly limited—the acquisition of a wealthy wife tends to solve a good many problems!’

Richard stared at her in amazement. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that I should choose a wife on the strength of her dowry?’

Lady Isobel lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. ‘It’s hardly uncommon, amongst those of our standing, my boy. Always provided that the gel comes from good family stock, of course.’ Pausing for a moment, she then continued, in a seemingly offhand manner, ‘Added to which, a sizeable injection into those dwindling funds of yours would enable you to concentrate your efforts on that new horse-breeding programme you keep on about. I cannot think of anything that would please your grandfather more than knowing that you had brought the Standish Stud back into the forefront of horse-racing circles once again—he was deeply hurt that not one of his sons showed any interest in what had always been his pride and joy!’

One quick glance at her grandson’s expression assured the countess that she had hit the vital spot. ‘All those empty stables over at Markfield are just crying out to be restocked,’ she added persuasively.

For a moment, Richard regarded her in silence, the hint of a frown sifting across his brow. ‘I’m beginning to get the feeling that you won’t be satisfied until you see me actually standing at the altar. Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d already drawn up a list of this Season’s likely candidates—the usual progression of whey-faced schoolroom misses out on the catch, I dare say!’

‘And I dare say that you might expect to do rather better than that!’ laughed the countess. ‘You are a Standish, after all! All you really need is some suitably endowed young female of acceptable breeding who fancies herself as a countess. Sadly, it would seem that this Season’s selection has very little of interest to offer. Why, only the other day I was talking to my stock-broker—trying to find out if any of my shares were worth more than a fig—and he was telling me—Oh! Good heavens! I do believe I may have hit upon the very thing!’

Giving little credence to the idea that the dowager might be seriously considering involving herself in his selection of a bride, Richard was, however, somewhat confused by her sudden change of topic. ‘Thinking of selling some of your shares?’ he queried. ‘I doubt if we have enough between us to cover even half of what’s needed to fix that roof.’

His grandmother shook her head impatiently. ‘Wheatley—my broker—I hear that he has been touting around for a leg-up into the beau monde for his girl for over a year now.’

‘You’re not about to suggest that I shackle myself to a Cit’s daughter, I hope!’

As she eyed him uncertainly, Lady Isobel’s brow furrowed. ‘Whilst it is perfectly true that Giles Wheatley is a man of business, he also happens to be positively dripping with lard. Besides which, it just so happens that the girl’s grandmother was a Coverdale.’

‘I’m afraid the name means nothing to me,’ said Richard, giving a careless shrug. ‘So, what’s she like—this daughter, I mean? She must be something of an anathema, since your man hasn’t been able to palm her off for a twelvemonth or more!’

‘That’s as may be,’ returned the countess, with some asperity. ‘She is, however, her father’s only heir and, apart from the fact of her dowry being something in the region of fifty thousand pounds, it would seem that her background is reasonably sound. In point of fact, if I remember correctly, I was slightly acquainted with her grandmother, Lady Joanna Coverdale, before she became Countess of Ashington. Be that as it may, it seems that Lord Ashington disowned their daughter—Louisa, I believe her name was—when she eloped with his accountant’s clerk—who is now my very wealthy stockbroker, Giles Wheatley. They—the Ashingtons, that is—died in a carriage accident shortly after the gel ran off and, since the estate was entailed to some distant cousin in the Antipodes, the daughter was left with nothing.’ Pausing reflectively, she then added, ‘Nevertheless, it seems that the pair did very well for themselves over the years, although it appears that Wheatley’s wife and son both died a couple of years ago. Can’t say that I have ever set eyes on the girl herself, but she is sure to have been brought up in a very proper manner, her mother being who she was.’

‘Well, there must be something deucedly odd about her,’ remarked her grandson, who was not at all happy with the direction in which this conversation was heading. ‘Plenty of fellows would be willing to sell their souls for fifty thousand!’

‘Perhaps she is just difficult to please?’ ventured the countess. ‘Her father is certainly wealthy enough for her to pick and choose—not that she will have been presented with a particularly inspiring set of individuals, if the usual set of fortune-hunters is still out on the prowl. You are sure to have far more chance with her than any of those ramshackle bucks.’

‘You are too kind!’ the earl ground out. ‘However, I am not sure that I care to join the ranks of such dubious company.’

Lady Isobel picked up her teacup and sipped tentatively at its now lukewarm contents. ‘Well, it’s entirely up to you, of course. However, I cannot help thinking that a readymade bride would certainly absolve you from having to go through all that tiresome business of formal introductions and correct procedures at Almack’s and so on.’

Although the idea of being obliged to contemplate marriage at all at this point in his life was sufficiently galling, without the added prospect of being saddled with a bride whose attributes had, it would seem, already failed to capture the interest of several previous suitors, the earl’s hitherto sceptical dismissal of his grandmother’s suggestions was now beginning to be replaced by the uncomfortable feeling that the dowager might actually be correct in her summation of the situation.

He was well aware that few men of his station married for love, an amicable mutual tolerance between the two parties being all that was usually required—and there was always the possibility that this Wheatley girl might not be quite as unprepossessing as she sounded, after all! It would mean giving up his occasional visits to Rachel Cummings, of course, although, in the event, that might not be such a bad thing, since that lady was beginning to develop rather expensive tastes of late—those ruby earrings he had recently presented her with had been a trifle extravagant, given his current financial position. Aside from which, the temporary cessation of his carnal delectations was a small enough price to pay for the restoration of the Markfield estate! Indeed, the very idea of being able to devote all his own resources to re-establishing the Standish Stud was beginning to prove an almost irresistible inducement.

Picking up his glass, he strode over to the window and stared pensively across the wide expanse of fresh green lawn that swept down to the river, which separated Westpark from its parent estate of Markfield—so very different from the baked and arid plains of the Iberian Peninsula where he had spent much of the past six years. The lush green landscapes of the English countryside were, as he knew, entirely dependent upon the weather, rainfall in particular. Just as rain could affect the outcome of a battle, so also could it affect the success of a harvest. He was well aware that his plans to utilise the returns from the forthcoming harvest to settle his outstanding bills lay very much at the mercy of the weather. And, given that they were still only in April, he was also shrewd enough to recognise that some of his creditors might be less than willing to hold out until August. Meanwhile, just the rumour of a possible alliance with a wealthy spouse could be all that was needed to deter further financial harassment. It would certainly make good sense to have, as it were, a second line of defence. After all, he then reasoned, it should not be too difficult to bring any such temporary relationship to a close, since it appeared that the female in question was merely out to gain herself a title and he was quite certain that there were any number of other fellows around who would be more than happy to fulfil that requirement.

As a Field Officer he had been used to choosing courses of action based on the information to hand and when timing was of the essence.

There was little doubt that this present situation required such an instant decision.

Draining his glass in one swift gulp, he swung round to face his grandmother.

‘Very well, you may go and see your Mr Wheatley and inform him that I’m willing to throw my hat into his ring.’

Chapter Two

‘Do come away from the window, Lottie, I beg of you,’ implored Helena. ‘It is not at all seemly to be seen twitching at the curtains in that manner!’

‘But are you not in the least bit interested in seeing what he looks like?’ queried her cousin Charlotte, reluctantly turning away from her self-appointed vigil at the window that over-looked the front doorstep.

‘Not in the slightest,’ returned Helena, with a weary sigh. ‘He will be much the same as all the others—rude, conceited and feigning an interest in me simply in order to get his hands on my dowry. If it were not for the fact that it upsets Papa so, I should have refused to go through this charade again. He seems incapable of understanding how very demeaning it is for me.’

As she watched Helena continue to ply her needle in silence, Lottie could not help but feel a certain sympathy for her cousin’s unusual plight. The Wheatleys’ runaway marriage had left their daughter stranded between the two distinctly separate worlds of upper and middle class. The young men of her father’s acquaintance considered her too far above their touch and those who moved in the circle on which her mother had turned her back all those years ago were not of a mind to consider the girl at all. Not until Mr Wheatley had, by word of mouth, advertised his present intention, that was, and, as Lottie well knew, this obsession of his had developed only as a direct result of dear Aunt Louisa’s death.

‘Perhaps I could try talking to him,’ she offered hesitantly. ‘If I explained how very much you have taken against the whole idea since that unpleasant business with Lord Barrington—’

‘No, Lottie! Please do not!’ urged Helena, her clear blue eyes widening with concern. ‘Papa got into such a dreadful state over that incident and you know that Doctor Redfern said that it was not good for him to be upset—his heart will simply not stand up to another attack.’

‘But what will you do this time?’ asked her cousin, perplexed.

An impish smile spread over Helena’s attractive features. ‘Oh, have no fear,’ she replied complacently. ‘I shall be sure to think of something. Fortunately, these town dandies—the ones with whom I have come into contact, anyway—hardly seem to be blessed with much in the way of intelligence, so it does not take a genius to find a dozen ways to send them packing!’