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‘Fortunate fellow, falling on his feet like that. I could wish Charles such luck. Mayhap a wealthy widow would remove him from my back.’
Charles Durant, a distant cousin, was Richard’s heir, and regularly applied to Richard to settle his debts. Richard thrust aside his momentary qualm at the thought of Charles ever inheriting the title and the estates. He was fit and healthy and had every intention of living a long time.
A footman opened the salon door as they approached and they dropped the subject as they joined Richard’s other guests—gathered for the first evening of a shooting party. It was an all-male event, as Richard’s mother was away from home, visiting an old friend.
The messenger arrived as dusk fell on the second day of the shoot. The weather had remained fine, the birds were plentiful, and beaters and shooters alike were happily exhausted after a successful day. The news of the death of Lord Craven—an old school friend of Richard’s—in a fall whilst out hunting shook them all but, for Richard, it was particularly painful, resurrecting the dark, agonising time when his older brother, Adam, had been killed in a shooting accident sixteen years before. Richard had been away at school at the time and, poignantly, it had been Craven who had comforted him when he heard the news.
He had returned home to find his parents changed beyond recognition: his father almost mad with grief, scarcely eating or sleeping, and his mother bitter and withdrawn. His parents had barely communicated with each other or with him. Richard had inherited the earldom at the tender age of seventeen, after his father had followed Adam into the grave and, since then, it seemed to Richard that his mother’s only interest in him was as a means to secure the succession of the title.
Many an argument had raged over his refusal to contemplate marriage to protect the title and estates, but he had held fast. He was one of the most accomplished sportsmen in the ton. He led a full and active life and was universally admired and feted for his prowess on a horse, his precision with the ribbons, his expertise with an épée, his shooting skills, and even his invincibility in the ring. He was in no hurry to don leg shackles. The only obstacle to his contentment was his mother’s persistent harassment about the risks he took, and her refusal to retire to the dower house until there was a new mistress to run Fernley Park.
But now...Craven’s death made Richard question his stand. If he did nothing, might his mother’s great fear of Charles laying waste to the estates be realized?
The atmosphere after dinner that evening was sombre. Most of his guests settled down to play cards after dinner, but Richard declined to join them, in no mood to play the convivial host. He wandered into the library, where he found Leo, alone, pushing chess pieces around a board in a desultory manner.
‘Care for a game?’
Richard shrugged, and pulled up a chair. Preoccupied and uneasy, he found it nigh on impossible to concentrate on the game, his thoughts dominated by his mother’s diatribes about sporting activities and premature death.
He moved his bishop and cursed under his breath as Leo swooped with his knight to seize the piece. He looked up to meet Leo’s quizzical gaze.
‘Things on your mind, Stan?’
‘Craven; hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Sad business. It must bring back unpleasant memories for you.’
‘It does.’
Leo had been a close friend of Adam’s and a frequent visitor to Fernley Park during his youth. He had supported Richard through those lonely years after his father’s death, having experienced for himself the pressures of inheriting such power and wealth at an early age. They had been friends ever since.
Richard reached for a bishop, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. Moving it would expose his queen.
‘How old was he? Thirtyish?’
‘Two-and-thirty: the same age as me. We were at Eton together.’ Richard fell silent, still contemplating his next move. He reached for a pawn. ‘It’s brought home my responsibilities, though. There’s no shying away from it: I’ve decided it’s time to settle the future.’
Now the words were out in the open, Richard, paradoxically, felt better. The tension that had plagued him throughout the evening began to dissipate.
Besides, marrying will have the added bonus of removing Mother to the Lodge.
The thought of Fernley Park without his mother made even marriage seem appealing. Her presence constantly reminded him of his failure as a son and he was conscious he avoided coming home, leaving more and more of the business to Elliott, his bailiff. Remorse filled him at his antipathy towards his own mother: all he could feel for her was filial duty and responsibility. Since Adam’s death, she had withdrawn any hint of affection for him. And then his father had... He swallowed hard. If only he had tried harder. Been a better son.
Could I have stopped him? Would he still be here?
His father’s death had rocked what remained of their family and shifted their world on its axis. Scandal had been avoided but neither he nor his mother had been the same since.
‘Much as I like Charles,’ he added, placing his pawn on a square at random, ‘I cannot risk him running the estate to ruin.’
‘Indeed. He is a somewhat profligate young man.’ Leo moved his queen, capturing the pawn Richard had just moved. ‘I hear the duns are sniffing at his heels again.’
‘So soon? I only bailed him out last year. I thought his debts were all cleared.’
‘I have no doubt they were. I believe I cautioned you at the time not to throw good money after bad.’
‘You did, and I should have heeded your advice. You’ve never steered me wrong yet.’
Leo smiled. ‘I like to think I still have some uses,’ he murmured, moving a rook. ‘So, you are thinking of marriage. Might I enquire as to the identity of the lucky lady?’
Richard huffed a mirthless laugh. ‘I have no idea. There is no one who springs immediately to mind. As long as she’s well born, is of an amiable and compliant nature, and is not minded to interfere with my life, I am sure I can find someone to suit.’ He picked up his bishop, hesitated, then took one of Leo’s pawns.
‘Aha,’ Leo said, with satisfaction, as he swooped on Richard’s queen. ‘Mine, I believe.’
Richard sighed. His mind was definitely not on the game. They had barely begun but, studying the pieces left on the board, he could see he was in trouble.
‘A marriage of convenience?’ Leo said. ‘Are you certain that is what you want? A compliant wife?’
‘Why ever not? I have no interest in a love match and, if I crave excitement, I can find plenty outside my domestic arrangements. No. A nice, compliant lady, content to run a comfortable household and to look after my children—that will suit me very well.’
‘In that case,’ Leo said, ‘I might know just the girl for you.
‘Checkmate.’
Chapter Three
Mid-September 1811
Felicity sat before the mirror in her bedchamber at Cheriton Abbey as the maid loaned to her by Cousin Cecily—the duke’s younger, unmarried sister, who had raised his children after the death of his wife—dressed her hair. It was hard to garner any enthusiasm over Anna’s efforts, although Felicity did silently admit—with a twinge of guilt at her disloyalty—that the result was an improvement on poor Beanie’s usual effort.
Miss Bean, nursemaid to all three Weston children, had acted as Felicity’s maid since her sixteenth birthday, but her advancing age and failing eyesight had made travelling to Cousin Leo’s estate impossible. It was time, Felicity had finally accepted, for her beloved Beanie—more of a mother to her than her own mother had ever been—to retire.
The house party had been organized for the duke’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia, in preparation for her début the following spring. A party of fourteen, plus the family, Cecily had told Felicity when they arrived from Bath an hour ago. Felicity was stomach-churningly aware, however, that she was also to meet her prospective husband.
‘There, milady, you’re ready,’ Anna said. ‘I must go now and help Lady Cecily—the family usually gather in the drawing room at six o’clock.’
‘Thank you for your help, Anna. Have all the guests arrived?’
‘I believe so, ma’am.’
Felicity’s palms turned clammy and her stomach seemed to rise up. How she wished she could simply turn up at church one day to find a stranger awaiting her at the altar. Surely that would be preferable to this wretched charade? She forced her thoughts away from the ordeal to come, recalling that Dominic, Lord Avon—Cousin Leo’s eldest son and Felicity’s childhood playmate—would arrive tomorrow. Buried in Bath, as she had been for the past six months, she was eager for news from Westfield, the orphan asylum in London both she and Dominic supported whenever they could.
A thought struck her. What if her husband disapproved of her charitable activities? Might he ban her from involvement with Westfield, as her stepfather had tried? He would have that right—the right to command and control her. A chill raced over her skin, raising gooseflesh on her arms.
It is nerves. You will feel better once you have met him.
Fretting over something to come was the worst part: it was the lack of action—the sense of being tossed and turned by events without any control, like a piece of driftwood caught in a current—that allowed such fears to tease her. She could stay alone with her thoughts no longer. Dragging in a breath, Felicity left the sanctuary of her bedchamber and headed for the stairs.
At the head of the magnificent staircase, she looked down and pictured that scene a year before. Stanton. A pleasurable feeling coiled in her belly at the mental image of his lordship in his shirt sleeves and breeches. Would he be here this weekend? It was likely, she realized, with a shiver of anticipation she swiftly banished. Despite their encounter on the stairs, Stanton had barely noticed her again as he had flirted with and charmed the other guests during the remainder of that weekend, living up to his rakish reputation.
Whoever her prospective husband might be he would be bound to show to disadvantage against the earl. Most men did.
And is that not precisely what you want? Did you not stipulate a quiet, ordinary gentleman for your husband?
She swallowed the nerves playing havoc with her insides as she descended the stairs and entered the drawing room to await the other guests and her future.
Leo ushered Richard to one end of his magnificent library, where a small leather-upholstered sofa and two matching armchairs were placed invitingly around a stone-carved fireplace in which logs crackled merrily.
‘Well? Are you going to tell me who she is?’
All through dinner Richard had been trying to guess the identity of his prospective bride. Why on earth had he not demanded to know before travelling all the way to Devon? All he knew was that she had asked her mother to arrange a match for her.
Leo’s silver-grey eyes gleamed. ‘Patience, dear boy.’
Richard glared at Leo, who met his look with raised eyebrows and a bland smile. He’s enjoying this, the wretch. They had been friends for fifteen years—Richard knew that look. Biting back his irritation, he sat on the sofa whilst Leo poured them both a brandy before settling into one of the armchairs. Richard tipped his glass, savouring the warmth of the fiery spirit, waiting.
‘My ward, Lady Felicity Weston.’
As he digested Leo’s words, Richard conjured up a mental image of Lady Felicity. They had not been neighbours at dinner and so had not conversed, but she had appeared monosyllabic and subdued throughout. Perhaps it was nerves, knowing she was to meet her future husband? He dredged up the memory of their encounter last year, but this girl had shown none of the spark and wit she had exhibited then.
Her mother, in contrast, was the life and soul of the gathering, but too loud and foolish for his taste. The other daughter—she had died young, he recalled—had inherited her mother’s beauty, but not so Lady Felicity. No wonder she had jested about being overlooked, for it was no more than the truth. Certainly, next to her flamboyant parent, she slipped into anonymity.
A further image arose, from his perusal of the occupants of the drawing room before the meal. Lady Felicity—head to one side, eyes bright, hands animated—had been chatting with Leo’s sister, Cecily, who had clearly found it hard to contain her giggles. Then Felicity had looked up. Their eyes met, and immediately all her liveliness had leached away. He had barely noticed at the time.
He chose his words with care. Leo, he knew, was fond of her.
‘She is a little insipid, is she not?’
An image of his mistress of the past year materialized in his mind’s eye. Harriet—now there was a woman: curvaceous, experienced, uncomplicated, fun. He frowned into the amber liquid swirling in his goblet. What had been his stipulations for his future wife? Well born, of an amiable and compliant nature, and not minded to interfere with my life. He had said nothing about appearance and, indeed, why should her looks matter? She was not ugly. She was...plain.
‘She doesn’t show to advantage next to her mother,’ Leo said, ‘but she’s a good girl, she has a kind heart, she wants a family, and she’s the daughter of an earl. And Lady Katherine’s father was a marquis, so her breeding on both sides is impeccable. Or have you changed your mind, and now desire a love match?’
Richard glared at Leo, who met his eyes with a grin. He leaned forward and gripped Richard’s knee.
‘Are you sure you want this, Stan? Neither Felicity nor her parents know your identity, and need never know if you do not wish to proceed.’
Was he sure he wanted this?
No. He had not thought to wed for several years to come.
But Craven’s death weighed on his mind, as did the premature deaths of his father and his brother. He was loath to agree with his mother but, if anything should happen to him... It was not about what he wanted any longer.
It was his responsibility.
His duty.
His decision.
‘My mind is made up. I must secure the future of the title and estates.’
Leo leaned back. ‘So, given that you are still minded to wed, how do you wish to proceed? Is it to be Lady Felicity?’
He had a choice. He could either choose to settle the matter now or he must seek another bride. The thought of suffering the matchmaking efforts of determined mothers and importunate fathers during the coming months in London was enough to bring him out in hives. Which left...
‘She is very young.’
‘She is almost five and twenty; older than she appears.’
Richard felt his brows lift. He had thought her younger. At least she had a spark of personality, although her dress sense was appalling—that pale-pink gown she was wearing tonight had done her no favours, and her figure, probably the reason he had thought her so young, was almost boyish. But, on balance, would he prefer someone like her mother—beautiful, but empty-headed and fluttery? No, that would drive him demented in a trice. At least Felicity had demonstrated a sense of humour and a down-to-earth manner he could countenance.
As long as she did not entertain girlish notions of his falling in love with his own wife, he thought Lady Felicity Weston would suit nicely.
‘Very well, Lady Felicity it is. At least I can deal with you, and not Farlowe, over the settlements and so forth.’
Leo grinned and gripped Richard’s hand. ‘Welcome to the family, Stan. I will go and extract Felicity and Katherine from the throng, hopefully without causing too much speculation.’
It was not long before he returned with Felicity and her mother. Richard stretched his lips into a smile as he stood up, pushing a hand through his hair, smoothing the unruly curls back.
He hoped he concealed his true feelings with more success than Lady Felicity. Her expression as she came through the door, and their eyes met, was one of sheer horror.
What was so very special about Lady Felicity Weston to suggest the Earl of Stanton was not a good enough match for her?
Chapter Four
Richard had no further opportunity to study his bride-to-be. Lady Katherine sailed past her daughter and captured his hands, standing so close her floral scent made his nostrils twitch. She gazed up at him through fluttering eyelashes. Already knocked off balance by Felicity’s reaction to him, Richard’s muscles quivered with the effort not to snatch his hands from her mother’s soft, moist grasp. From the corner of his eye he caught the resigned look that passed between Leo and Felicity. Mayhap he was not the only person who found Lady Katherine a touch overwhelming.
‘My dear, dear Stanton. Such joy...oh!’ She giggled breathlessly. ‘How droll am I? Joy is my dear girl’s middle name: Felicity Joy. Does that not suit her a treat, Stanton? I am certain she will bring you as much joy as she has brought to me and her dearest papa—God rest his soul—and now to my beloved Farlowe.’
Richard extricated his hands. ‘Indeed.’ He shot a baleful look at Leo, who shrugged and grinned before manoeuvring Lady Katherine to the sofa facing the fire. He then proceeded to engage her in conversation, leaving Richard to get to know his intended.
Which proved to be as difficult as drawing blood from the proverbial stone. Felicity, her face quite colourless, had taken her place beside her mother, her attention firmly on the flames as Richard sank into the nearest chair. Her expression was hard to read but her rigid posture and tight fists told their own story. Something—something about him, he must conclude—was not to her liking. Contrarily, her seeming reluctance fanned his determination to proceed with the marriage.
‘Well, Lady Felicity, who could have guessed when we met on the stairs last year that we would be here now, discussing our forthcoming marriage?’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Still she avoided eye contact, staring into the fire.
Richard, momentarily nonplussed, continued to study her. Nondescript was the most fitting adjective he could conjure up. She was a touch taller than average, with a slight build. Another woman of her stature might be described as willowy, but, somehow, Felicity was not quite tall enough, and not quite slender enough, to earn that accolade. Her features were regular, her complexion dull. Her oval face was a shade too long and her chin a touch too determined, for delicacy. Her nose was straight, but a little too strong to be considered dainty, and her mouth was... Richard paused in his appraisal. The compression of her lips did little to disguise their rosy fullness. They, at least, could be declared alluring.
Her brown hair was pinned up in the Grecian style, with curls—already wilting—framing her face. Her eyes were a striking amber and, at this moment in time, they stared dully ahead as Felicity sat straight-backed, her hands white-knuckled in her lap.
What was she thinking? According to Leo, Felicity had asked her mother to find her a husband, but her reaction to Richard almost suggested she would be entering the union against her will. Richard hoped not. Now he had made his decision he was impatient to proceed. He vowed to win her over.
‘It’s a pleasant evening, Lady Felicity. Would you care to stroll on the terrace?’
She looked directly at him for the first time since she entered the room. Try as he might, he could not read her expression. Before she could answer him, though, Lady Katherine intervened.
‘Of course she would, Stanton. Go along, Felicity. I am sure you do not need chaperoning if you are with your intended. I declare I have never been so happy in my life—except, of course, when my dear Farlowe proposed. Who would have thought that I would be mama-in-law to the Earl of Stanton. I shall be the envy of everyone. I cannot wait to see their—’
‘Mama, please.’ Felicity cut across her mother’s monologue as she stood up.
Richard rose to his feet with a guilty start. He had been on the brink of becoming mesmerized by Lady Katherine’s inane chatter.
Felicity, cheeks splashed with colour, shot a glance at him before lowering her gaze. ‘Thank you. I should enjoy a breath of fresh air.’
She took his arm and they left the library via one of the French doors. It was dark outside on the terrace, but lamps at intervals along the balustrade cast weak pools of light to soften the shadows.
Richard placed his hand over Felicity’s, where it lay on his arm. It was chilled, despite the mildness of the evening.
‘You are chilled, Lady Felicity. Shall I fetch your shawl?’
‘I am warm enough, thank you, my lord.’
‘Richard. Please. We need not stand on ceremony with one another; unless, of course, you have doubts about our marriage?’
Her eyes flicked to his face, then returned to their contemplation of the flagstones at their feet. Richard stopped beneath one of the lamps and took her hands in his.
‘Forgive my blunt speaking, but you do not appear happy. Am I ousting a preferred suitor?’
‘No, there is no other, although I had not thought... I did not realize... Oh, heavens, I cannot find the words.’
Felicity tugged her hands free and turned to stare into the darkness of the surrounding gardens. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and she looked somehow very vulnerable, standing there alone. It crossed Richard’s mind that she was self-contained: she gave the impression she was used to relying on her own resources. He shook his head in self-deprecation. Harriet would be impressed. She was forever castigating him about his lack of insight and yet, here he was, analysing his bride-to-be as though he had known her for years. He thrust away all thought of his mistress. It felt, somehow, disloyal to think of her whilst in the company of his future wife.
He put his hands on Felicity’s shoulders, the bones fragile beneath his fingers. ‘Try. I won’t bite, you know. I should prefer to start off with honesty between us, if we are to live together with any degree of comfort.’
Her shoulders tensed as she inhaled. Then she turned, and regarded him, her eyes as rueful as her smile.
‘This is ridiculous. You are right. If we are to wed, we need to understand one another. And, I admit I have doubts. Not about you. Well, that is...’ She paused, her brows drawn together in a frown. ‘No, that is untrue. It is about you, but it is about me, also. You and me. Together. You see, I hadn’t thought...I never presumed to be presented with such a...such a...catch, if you do not object to my calling you that?’
Richard bit back a smile. He had been called a catch many times, he was aware, but never to his face before. And never by an earnest-faced female who appeared to believe herself unworthy of a ‘catch’ such as he.
‘You may call me what you will,’ he said, ‘as long as you promise not to use such insultingly offensive terms that I shall be forced to take umbrage.’
She laughed, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. ‘Umbrage? I always thought that to be a state applied to elderly dowagers. Do you sporting gentlemen consider it a fittingly masculine trait, my lord?’
This was better. The spirited girl he remembered from last year had surfaced, her face alive with laughter, her eyes bright.
‘Perhaps umbrage does not quite convey the precise meaning I hoped to convey,’ he conceded. ‘Which word, in your opinion, should I have used, if I am to portray a suitably manly image to my future wife?’