because, as my mother has so sensibly explained to me, you are Lord Caulfield’s heir, which means I stand to become the Marchioness of Caulfield someday. Apart from your advanced age, you possess all the qualities suitable for a good match.” She gave him the same kind of appraising look her mother had. “In short, my lord, you’ll do.”
Ah. Comprehension dawned. He had offended the chit and now she was striking back. She had spirit, and he liked that. Better than a simpering deb.
He smiled at her. “And did your mother further explain that, together, we need to produce one healthy male heir—a feat my dear, departed brother Edmund, for all his other accomplishments, was not able to achieve. What think you? Shall we manage it?”
She seemed unfazed. “It remains to be seen.”
“I would say, rather, it remains to be done.”
Her color rose to her already rosy cheeks until it suffused her whole face and neck at this direct reference to their marital duties. Tertius was almost sorry he had spoken so quickly, but he needn’t have worried. She rallied admirably.
“You, my lord, are disgusting.” With that pronouncement, she wheeled away from him and marched back toward her mother.
The next morning, Gillian paced back and forth in her bedroom. Her opinions about the insufferable man she had been introduced to the evening before had not changed overnight. Each time she thought of his words “she’ll do!” she was outraged afresh.
“Mother, he’s ghastly! You can’t make me marry him.” Gillian stopped in front of the chaise where her mother lounged in her embroidered silk dressing gown.
She shuddered at the memory of Lord Skylar’s supercilious way of looking down at her from his great height while he pronounced some shocking statement in that lazy drawl. And that last ungentlemanly remark! Oh, it didn’t bear thinking on!
“Don’t speak nonsense,” her mother replied, examining her buffed nails in the morning light. “Lord Skylar is the best catch of the season now that he’s inherited his brother’s title.”
“Well, let someone else have him…if they can stomach his company,” she added under her breath as she resumed her pacing. She shook her head at the sprigged muslin her maid held out to her.
“He’s positively gothic. He reminds me of some creepy villain with those black eyes and hair and those gaunt cheeks. When he looks at me, I feel as if he sees right past me.”
“It’s a pity Lord Skylar doesn’t have his brother’s looks,” her mother conceded, “but he’s just got over a terrible fever. Who knows what malady a person can pick up in the Indies? But after he’s been in London a few weeks, he’ll put on some weight and be in the pink of health, just in time for the wedding, you’ll see.”
“I doubt his manners will improve on further acquaintance.” Gillian stopped long enough to remove her dressing gown and allow the maid to help her into the jaconet morning dress in pale green with the rows of pink ribbons along the hem.
“Oh, come, he was perfectly amiable to me.”
“He might have behaved so with you, but with me, he was most provoking.”
“Then you must exert yourself to be extra charming,” her mother replied.
“It will take every ounce of my resolve, which I confess isn’t any too strong at this moment,” she added, tapping her foot impatiently as the maid laced up her gown.
“The fact remains, it’s time you were wed. Don’t forget you’ll soon be twenty-one and that bloom will fade.”
She glared at her mother. Had she and Lord Skylar been consulting together? Gillian went to her dressing table and studied herself in the glass as her maid brushed out her hair. She’d always been considered pretty. More than pretty. Maybe it was her nose, not aquiline but a trifle pert, or her eyes, not a deep emerald green, but that washed-out shade she wished in vain leaned a trifle more toward blue.
She’d always thought her coloring good. Now she wondered if her cheeks weren’t too red.
As her maid arranged her hair into ringlets around her forehead and temples, Gillian looked at her in the glass. “Maybe we should try it away from the face today,” she suggested, pulling the side curls back.
“Lord Skylar’s is the kind of offer we’ve been holding out for,” her mother reminded her from the chaise.
“You’ve been holding out for,” Gillian corrected.
“Many a young girl has fared much worse in a choice of husband. You should be thanking your lucky stars old Lord Caulfield saw fit to approach us with this offer. As I said, you need to be married before you’re any older. It’s time you began setting up your own household.”
Her mother came to stand beside the maid.
“What do you think?” Gillian asked her mother.
The Duchess of Burnham smoothed back an escaping curl before nodding her approval. “It is simple, as is befitting a young lady.”
As the maid stepped away, Gillian’s mother placed a hand on her shoulder, her tone gentling. “You’ll soon see the advantages of being a matron over a debutante. You’ll have a freedom to come and go that you haven’t heretofore known.” She smiled. “If someday you meet a gentleman more to your taste, with your sensibilities…” She shrugged. “With a little discretion, you can enjoy the kind of romantic love you foolishly dream of now.”
Gillian’s further protests were stilled by her mother’s words. She shivered. Why did it seem her life was ending before it had scarcely begun? Would she never have that fulfillment she read about in romantic novels—that she’d scarcely tasted before it had been snatched from her? Would the only avenue that remained to her be to hope for some furtive alliance sometime in the distant future? She considered the ladies she read about in the society news. Lady Melbourne and her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline, women who were known for their lovers, and she wondered sadly if that was the only future left to her.
She thought of the pimply faced dandies that had surrounded her at every dance since her come-out and compared them to the ideal she’d been dreaming about and waiting for for so many years. A handsome, manly officer coming back to claim her as his own.
She sighed, dispelling the futile dream. Yes, she was ready for marriage. She needed a change. Too many years spent waiting…waiting for someone she was now resigned would never appear.
Her mother patted her hand as if reading her mind.
“What you need to think about is your wedding trousseau. We shall begin making purchases immediately. I shall have Mme. Rouget stop by and measure you for your wedding gown. How fortunate for Wellington’s victory. Think of all the Paris fashions now available.
“Come, let us look at the spring edition of La Belle Assemblée. It’s full of all the latest French gowns and bonnets. Since our glorious army has driven Napoleon off the Continent, everything has a military flair.” Her mother held out the magazine to her. “Look at this riding habit with the frogged neck and epaulets.
“You must have half-a-dozen new ball gowns at least. You’ll no longer be limited to white muslin but can be much more daring
