The timeline for a courting couple was very clear. One began with an introduction, and the gentleman would markedly show attention to the lady, who accepted the attention with modest pleasure. They would dance together, but no more than twice to avoid scandal. Only one dance signalled moderate interest, the sort easily mistaken for politeness. Two signalled decided interest.
Carefully chaperoned visits followed suit with promenades marking them as a couple. At this point, Society would guess that there was an Understanding between the two.
A proposal was next followed by a short term betrothal which led to the union of matrimony bringing the story to the final chapter.
In reality, it was quite inevitable.
Leaning back on the sofa, Ursula allowed the letter to fall from her clasp. Lord Ashford was a fairly ordinary sort of man. He was not remarkably handsome, but nor was he plain. His manners were ordinary, imbued with a little of that snide superiority she often saw in men who thought they would be important one day. The promenading, she knew very well, was not about spending more time with her and getting to know her. No, it was about making apoint, and the point was that she belonged to him, not to anyone else. Since the moment Lord Ashford had first began to make his interest known, her number of gentlemen callers had begun to taper off.
Oh, they all sent cards and flowers and gifts, but nobody wanted to make an enemy of a man who would one day be a dukeby courting the woman he clearly intended to take as his bride so they kept their distance.
Because I all but belong to him now.
The thought sent a shiver down Ursula’s spine, but she decided not to delve too deeply into her feelings on that matter. At that moment, Evans entered yet one more time.
“Oh, please no more flowers,” Ursula groaned.
Evans gave a tight, disapproving smile. “On the contrary, my lady. Miss Worth has arrived.”
Ursula brightened a little, sitting up. “Georgie is here? Oh, excellent. Send her in.”
Miss Georgiana Worth came sailing into the drawing room, all golden curls and pink bows, smelling fresh as a summer’s day.
“There you are, cousin!” she fluted, holding out her hands to Ursula. “I almost didn’t see you amongst the bowers of flowers. I quite expected to see a queue of gentlemen callers outside the front door.”
Chuckling, Ursula rose to her feet, taking her cousin’s hands and kissing her on both cheeks.
“I’ve been spared, remarkably. Do take a seat, Georgie. Have some cake.”
“Cake? No, thank you,” Georgie laughed, sitting gracefully down on the sofa and placing a complacent hand at her narrow waist.
Georgie was pretty – prettier than Ursula herself, in Ursula’s opinion – but it seemed that her gold ringlets and large, doll-blue eyes had not captured Society’s attention enough. She was not the Diamond. It was a silly title, one that Ursula would have gladly handed over to her cousin if she could, even though she was quite sure that Georgie resented her, if only a little.
Georgie’s clear eyes flitted around the room, taking in every bouquet of flowers, every gift, and every neat littlebillet-doux.
She smiled, tight-lipped.
“My word, Cousin. How popular you are.”
“It’s nothing but an inconvenience, I can assure you,” Ursula snorted.
Georgie met Mama’s eyes but said nothing. Ursula began to pour the tea.
***
“Here,” Margaret said, sliding a piece of paper towards her son across the breakfast table. “I made a list. Take careful note of it.”
Graham clenched his jaw, glancing briefly down at the paper. It contained a lengthy list of female names, with smallannotations on the side containing his mother’s thoughts and opinions on each lady.
“As you can see,” Margaret added, “Lady Annabella Thornfield is at the verytopof the list. She is quite perfection, in truth. Such a beauty. Suchaccomplishment.”
Graham cleared his throat, gingerly pushing his luncheon plate away. He didn’t bother to touch the paper. His mother had already made it abundantly clear which ladies she would like to see him wed this Season.
And I have to pick one of them, or else this torture will continue.
“Mother,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “As you can recall, I did indeed say I wouldconsiderfinding a wife this Season. I haven’t seen anybody who takes my fancy, and…”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Graham!” Margaret snapped, glaring balefully at him. “You aren’t a child anymore. You’re the Viscount Sinclair, and you have been for these past six years! It’s beyond time for you to find a bride. At this rate, you’ll die childless and the estate and title will pass onto somebody else. Now, how would you likethat?”
