“How extraordinary,” he murmured, feeling sorry for the woman, sight unseen.
“Lady Agnes was an eccentric.”
“Evidently. Tell me more about Miss Watson.”
“As you might have surmised, she didn’t take. She is what is colloquially called a wallflower. She is not ill favored, but I believe, due to her upbringing as the eldest of such a large brood and raised in a country vicarage, she is disastrously direct in her speech. And to be blunt with you, she is rumored to have bluestocking tendencies.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And her fortune?”
“A principle in excess of fifty thousand pounds plus an income of six thousand a year.”
Robert’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “And if she doesn’t fulfil the terms of her aunt’s will?”
“The lot will go to a home for orphans.”
“Lucky orphans,” he murmured.
“Needless to say, once the word gets out about her fortune, she will be besieged.”
“Who is her chaperone?”
“Lady Daphne Holbrook. Percival Holbrook’s widow. She is a cousin of Miss Watson’s father and a niece of Agnes Fairchild. She has supervised all Miss Watson’s seasons.”
He took a breath and let it out slowly, passing the five ladies under review quickly.
“So which lady would you like to meet first?”
He was most drawn to the widow. Physically, if he had a preference, it was for dark beauties. Being older, she might be the least complicated of the options available, and she would understand a marriage of convenience, as she had already had one.Then again, why would she choose a second husband if shedoesn’t need one? What can I offer beyond a title and a pile of debt?
But he was intrigued by the lady hiding behind the potted plant. He would at least like to see her face.
“Miss Watson,” he said with a smile.
Maria arched her brows and gave a little shrug. “Very well, come this way. You’re wise to get in before the rush.”
She led him over to the corner where his quarry lurked, and as they rounded the screen of plants, he caught his first view of the lady. She was of medium height, with a figure that was neither voluptuous nor thin. The gown she wore was of net over a pink underskirt. It was well cut and of obvious quality. She wore long white gloves and carried the ubiquitous fan and reticule. The gown’s décolletage was modest by fashionable standards, and a simple silver chain with a cross suspended from it and a pair of pearl earrings were her only ornaments. Her hair was a deep mahogany, a rich brown with red highlights, and had been piled on top of her head, confined with an arête and let to curl round her face in the latest fashion.
She might be quite pretty, but it was hard to tell because she had her head bent over a book and a pair of spectacles on her nose. Maria coughed and the young lady started, dropped the book, snatched the spectacles off her nose and blushed furiously, the expression of a startled hare on her face.
“Lady Sefton!” her voice was soft and slightly husky and sent a shiver through him that went straight to his groin.Promising?
Something vaguely familiar about her teased his memory, but he couldn’t recall actually meeting her. Yet he may very well have done so, as Maria had indicated. But he met hundreds of people a year in his role as a peer and dozens of young ladies. They tended to all blend together after a while.
“Miss Watson, I would like to introduce you to someone who is eager to meet you,” said Maria smoothly, ignoring the bookwhich had fallen at the lady’s feet and was sitting up on its end. He longed to know what it was.
The lady clasped her hands nervously, the spectacles still clutched in her fingers, and dipped a curtsy, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Her high color fled and for a moment he thought she would faint.What is there about my appearance to cause such a violent reaction?
“Miss Sarah Watson, may I present the Duke of Troubridge?”
The lady gulped and dropped a deeper curtsy, her eyes on the floor. “Your Grace.”
He offered her a bow in return. “Miss Watson, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
This was greeted by silence and the continued view of the top of the lady’s head. Maria faded away with a mouthed, “Come and find me.” He nodded and turned back to Miss Watson. He bent and picked up the dropped book and glanced at the spine. Volume three ofGlenarvon,Lady Caro Lambs’ roman-à-clef. He grinned.So the lady is a bluestocking?
“I believe this is yours?” he said gently, holding it out.
“Yes! Um, thank you.” She took it back and stuffed it and the spectacles in her reticule.
