deciding which offer to accept, but never fear. I shall certainly be married in time to fulfill the conditions of my father’s will.”
“I’m sure you’ve had your offers, dear,” Elvira said, her tone implying she thought nothing of the kind. “But when a woman reaches your age unwed, one has to wonder …” She gestured vaguely. “So fortunate that if you prefer spinsterhood, you’ll have quite a nice little competence, enough to live in some genteel place like Bath.”
“Since I dislike Bath, it is very fortunate that the issue will not arise,” Jocelyn said in a silky voice.
Elvira’s polite mask slipped into a scowl. “It isn’t as if you need the money. We have five children to establish. It was quite infamous of your father to leave Willoughby scarcely enough to maintain the estates.”
Actually, the fourth earl had left his brother ample income to support his family and maintain his lordly dignity, but the countess was the sort who could never have enough. Before Jocelyn could succumb to the temptation to point that out, Elvira shrieked. A tawny body had streaked over the back of the sofa and plopped onto her wide lap, eyeing the countess with golden eyes and a sadistic feline smirk.
Jocelyn repressed a grin. Isis had the usual cat genius for pouncing on those people who least wanted to be pounced on. Making a mental note to order oysters for the cat’s dinner, she pulled the bell cord before crossing the room to scoop Isis from the countess’s lap. “I’m so sorry, Aunt,” she cooed. “Apparently Isis has conceived a fondness for you. Or perhaps for that cream bun in your hand. Bad Isis.”
The cat blinked placidly, quite aware that the scolding wasn’t real. Isis had been the gift of a naval suitor who claimed to have brought her from Egypt, and her velvety, lion-colored fur and fine-boned elegance did resemble the felines seen in Egyptian temple art. The cat had far more aristocratic style than the Countess of Cromarty.
When the butler entered in response to Jocelyn’s summons, she said, “Dudley, my aunt was just leaving. Please have her carriage brought around.”
Even Elvira could take a hint that broad, but her expression was complacent when she rose. Clearly she thought that the husband hunting had been left too late. “Good day, Laura. And do invite us to your wedding, Jocelyn. If there is one.”
Accurately interpreting the look on her niece’s face, Laura hastily escorted the countess from the room. On the verge of one of her rare but incendiary bursts of temper, Jocelyn rose and stalked across the room to stare out at the street as she struggled to master herself. Elvira had always been irritating, and it was a mistake to give her the satisfaction of losing control.
A few minutes later, she recognized Lady Laura’s quiet footsteps entering the drawing room. Turning from the window, she said, “I’d marry a beggar from Seven Dials before I’d let the money go to Willoughby and that … that archwife.”
“One could wish that Willoughby had chosen a woman of more refinement,” Laura admitted as she sat down again. “But Elvira is right, you know. Time is running out. I haven’t pressed you about marriage because you’re no green girl, and you know your own business best. Relinquishing most of your inheritance is preferable to an unhappy marriage, and it isn’t as if you’ll be left penniless.”
“I have no intention of giving up the fortune I’m entitled to,” Jocelyn said crisply. “Certainly not to the benefit of Elvira.”
“You’ve had over three years to find a husband to your taste. The weeks left aren’t much time.”
Remembering what she had wanted to discuss, Jocelyn sighed and resumed her seat. “Oh, I know whom I want to marry. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet succeeded in engaging his interest. At least, not the marrying kind of interest.”
“How … interesting. I hadn’t realized you had set your sights on someone. Who is the dense fellow who hasn’t yet recognized his good fortune?”
Jocelyn reached into the sewing box by her chair and pulled out an embroidery hoop with fabric stretched across the frame. “The Duke of Candover.”
“Candover! Merciful heavens, Jocelyn, the man is a confirmed bachelor,” her aunt exclaimed. “He’ll never marry.”
“The fact that he never has doesn’t mean that he never will.” Jocelyn threaded a length of pale blue silk through a needle, then took a meticulous stitch. “He and I are very well suited, and his attentions have been quite pronounced in the last few months.”
“He does seem to enjoy your company. You were just out riding with him, weren’t you? But he has stayed well within the bounds of propriety. Morning calls and dances at balls, with the occasional ride or drive. Unless there is more that I don’t know about?” Her sentence rose at the end, turning her words into a worried question.
“He has always behaved as a perfect gentleman,” Jocelyn said with regret. A pity that the duke hadn’t crossed the line of propriety; he was not the kind of man to do that with her unless he had serious intentions. “But he has spent more time with me than with any other eligible female. He’s in his mid-thirties, and it’s time he set up his nursery.”
Lady Laura frowned. “You’ve set yourself an impossible task, my dear. Candover has perfectly good cousins, so he has no need to marry to get an heir. He’s been on the town for years and has never come close to marrying. He’s had his share of mistresses, but always widows or other men’s wives, never a marriageable young woman.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “If you want him as a lover, marry someone else and he’ll probably oblige, at least for a while. But he’ll never make a husband.”
“Blunt talk indeed.” Unnerved by her aunt’s assessment, Jocelyn considered the last months for the space of a dozen stitches. Had she imagined the duke’s interest? No, he found her attractive; she’d had enough experience of men to recognize genuine admiration. And the attraction was more than simple physical awareness of a member of the opposite sex. “There is a … a real sense of connection between us, Aunt Laura, perhaps because we’ve both been pursued by fortune hunters for years. But it’s more than that. I think there could be a great deal more.”
“It’s possible,” her aunt said gently. “But you’ve run out of time, my dear. If he hasn’t offered for you yet, I can’t imagine that you’ll bring him up to scratch in a mere four weeks. If you’re determined to marry no one but him, you’d better start packing. Elvira will want to move in here the day after your birthday. She wouldn’t dare put you out, of course, but I assume you have no desire to stay on at her sufferance.”
“I will not give her the satisfaction of getting what should be mine.” Jocelyn stabbed her needle into her embroidery with unnecessary force. Being no fool, she’d already realized that it was wildly unlikely that Candover would move from admiration to matrimony in the weeks left. “I have an … an alternative plan.”
“One of your other suitors? Lord MacKenzie would marry you in a heartbeat, and I think he’d make a wonderful husband.” Lady Laura dimpled. “Of course I’m biased, since he reminds me of Andrew.”
Jocelyn shook her head. MacKenzie was pleasant and good-looking, but not for her. “I’m thinking of accepting Sir Harold Winterson. It’s something of a game between us that he proposes to me regularly, but he’d be delighted if I accepted. The man must be seventy if he’s a day—too old to be interested in exercising his marital rights. I’d fulfill the terms of Father’s will, and it wouldn’t be that long until I have my freedom again. If I’m a widow, Candover will regard me in quite a different
