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.
CHAPTER THREE
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
