Lady Meredith must have sensed Dorothea’s distress, for she gave her husband a troubled look. “What Trevor means to say is that we have taken the responsibility for your future happiness very much to heart. We agreed to be your sponsor this Season so you would have the opportunity to meet and mingle with a variety of eligible men.
“Ultimately, however, it is your uncle Fletcher who will make the decision regarding the suitability of your future husband, since he is your blood relative. We only hope that you will at least listen to our advice before making your choice, since we are acquainted with most of these gentlemen and their families.”
“Men can be idiots when it comes to finding a bride,” the marquess said cheerfully. “In my case, it was sheer luck that brought Meredith into my life. I was too blind and pigheaded to at first see she was the very best thing that could have happened to me.”
“Oh, Trevor.”
Lord Dardington ran the tip of his finger lightly over his wife’s bare hand. Dorothea glanced away. There was so much affection and regard in that simple gesture; it made her feel like a voyeur to witness it.
Was this what she wanted for herself? A husband who treated her as an equal, who considered her opinions, who on occasion deferred to her wishes, who obviously adored her?
Or did she want a husband who basically left her on her own? One who was an amiable companion, an elegant escort, a solid provider? It was a question she pondered daily, yet she had not reached a definitive conclusion.
The one thing she did know with certainty was that she would not marry a man whom she did not enjoy kissing. Hence any man she considered a reasonable candidate earned himself an uninhibited kiss from her. It was her final test. Alas, thus far no gentlemen had passed it.
Lord Dardington pulled his attention away from his wife and once again regarded Dorothea. “It hardly takes a genius to see that Arthur Pengrove was not the man for you.”
“He is a man of good character,” Dorothea protested, feeling slightly annoyed that the marquess so clearly saw what she had not—that Arthur was very much the wrong man to be her husband.
“Yes, Pengrove is a fine man,” Lord Dardington agreed. “A kind, affable fellow who would bore you to tears within a month of marriage. And then who knows what could happen? In my experience, an unhappy wife can make for all sorts of mischief.”
Dorothea blushed to the roots of her hair. “Are you calling my honor into question, my lord?”
“No.” He gave a great sigh. “Allow me to share with you the benefits of my age and experience, Dorothea. You are far too naïve and pretty for your own good. As a discontented wife, you would be easy prey for every rake and rogue in society. And believe me, we are in no short supply of them.”
The marquess excused himself and went in search of some dessert for the three of them. Dorothea sat quietly, pondering his words.
“I hope Trevor has not caused you undue anguish,” Lady Meredith said. “This whole marriage business can be rather nerve-racking for a female.”
Dorothea nodded, her spirits lifting at Lady Meredith’s kindness and sympathy. “I had no idea it would be so complicated, so confusing.” She paused, then rushed ahead with her next question before she lost her nerve. “May I ask, were you in love with Lord Dardington when you married?”
Lady Meredith frowned. “Not at first.” She thanked the eager young footman who removed their dirty dinner plates and then turned back to Dorothea. “Is that what you want? To fall in love and then marry?”
Was it what she wanted? Dorothea felt a small shiver move through her. Slowly, she shook her head. “I suppose what I want most from the man I marry is the possibility of falling in love.”
“Well, there are all sorts of marriages that are deemed very successful by society’s standards,” Lady Meredith said. “For the most part, being in love with one’s spouse is considered rather bad form by many of the ton. Either before or during the marriage.”
“Yet both you and your two brothers married for love.”
Lady Meredith laughed. “Yes, the Barrington family is well known for its eccentricities. And I for one am very glad of it.” The older woman’s expression sobered. “I shall give you one piece of advice and ask you to consider it most carefully. Don’t rush yourself, Dorothea. I can bear witness that the old adage, marry in haste, repent at leisure, is unfortunately true.”
“Ladies, I come bearing gifts.” The marquess’s deep voice cut into the conversation. Lord Dardington appeared at their table with two footmen carrying large silver trays in tow. “’Twas too difficult to decide upon a single sweet, so I brought one of everything.”
Both Dorothea and Lady Meredith let out a squeal of delight. With broad smiles they hastily made space on the small table for all the plates. The marquess resumed his seat and within minutes they were all busy tasting and then passing around the dishes, each exclaiming over their favorites and encouraging the others to have a sample.
As Dorothea chewed on a sinfully rich piece of cake, her thoughts turned to Lord Atwood. He had pulled her into a dance this evening without knowing her name. He had called her the future Mrs. Arthur Pengrove. How on earth did he know that Arthur had proposed? Dorothea believed she could say with a fair degree of certainty that the two men were not friends, making it impossible that Arthur would have confided his plans to the marquess.
Dorothea spooned a generous portion of raspberry trifle into her mouth. As the sweetness of the berries burst upon her tongue, she paused for a few seconds to relish the flavor. She took a second bite and decided this was most likely a puzzle that might never have a proper resolution.
Chapter Three
It was a pleasantly warm, cloudless afternoon. Carter rode cautiously through the clogged streets, as fast as the London traffic would allow, all the while thinking he should have brought his carriage. That vehicle most assuredly would have been moving at a snail’s pace as his driver sought to negotiate around the other carriages, carts, riders, and pedestrians.
Carter was in no hurry to reach his destination. Far from it, really. His father would still be in a furious mood, no matter what time he called. The tersely worded message had arrived at Carter’s bachelor rooms at the unfashionably early hour of nine a.m. His anxious valet had woken him the moment it was delivered, deciding a summons from the duke was sufficient reason to ignore his master’s long-standing order never to disturb him when the bed curtains were drawn tightly shut.
Carter had thrown the unopened letter at his servant’s head, rolled over, and pulled the covers to his chin. But his sleep had been effectively disrupted and he had been unable to restore it. Rousing himself two hours later, he bathed, allowed himself to be shaved and dressed, then ate a hearty meal. Deciding he could put it off no longer, the marquess reluctantly ordered his horse to be brought around.
The sunshine of the day had initially boosted his mood, but those good spirits diminished as he drew closer to his father’s residence. Grimacing, Carter steered his mount around a tipped vegetable cart, secretly hoping his horse would stop to nibble on the greenery strewn about the street. But the animal kept his head lifted proudly in the air, disdaining the bounty beneath his hooves.
All too soon he reached the doors of his father’s stately London mansion. It was the largest,
