She must find someone to flirt with at the house party. Even Toby Strangelove if necessary. Though Josh and Ferdie and Robin were likely to be there too.
She was going to forget Justin Halliday—or if not forget him, at least relegate him to a far corner of her memory where he belonged. How foolish of her to be reliving every day and every night what he had probably forgotten within a day or two.
Chapter 7
It was something of a relief to be approaching Brookfield, country home of the Marquess of Gilmore, at last. The Earl of Wetherby looked with some interest at the large, imposing stone gateposts with the iron gates and the square stone lodge beside it. An elm-lined driveway stretched beyond. The house was not yet in sight.
It was a relief—the point of no return, at last. Not that there had ever been any returning, not since the previous spring when he had met Annabelle again and given in to his mother’s persuasions and to his own acceptance of the fact that he really must settle down soon and marry and start a family. But for almost a month, since his return from Price’s hunting box, in fact, his mind had been considering all sorts of devious schemes for escape, all of them dishonorable in the extreme.
Well, there was no going back now. The porter was swinging back the gates so that the carriage might proceed along the driveway and was smiling and bowing and touching his forelock.
“Do you remember it, Justin?” his mother asked from the seat beside him. “It is all of nine years since you were here last. It has not changed, has it?”
“I have not forgotten,” the earl said. “I was twenty years old at the time, Mama. I came on the visit with you, if you recall, because Papa was indisposed.”
Lady Wetherby sighed. “He never did recover,” she said. “But let us not think morbid thoughts on such an occasion, Annabelle was a very pretty child. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I recall my horror when you and Lady Gilmore conceived the notion that an alliance between our two families would be a desirable future goal.”
“Well,” she said, laughing and patting his hand, “and so it was, too. And you must admit that it is all turning out well, Justin. She is a remarkably pretty young lady and very nicely behaved, too.”
“Yes,” he said, “she is.”
“And so,” she said, “after nine years Eugenia and I move one step closer to realizing our dream. When are you planning to make your formal offer to the girl, Justin? And I do hope you press for a spring wedding in London. You know my thoughts on that.”
Yes, he did. It was strange how one became one’s family’s property more than one’s own person once one had expressed the merest interest in marrying, he thought. If there was still the faintest possibility of escape on his own account—though there was not—he was certainly tied hand and foot by the knowledge of his mother’s happiness for him and the knowledge that Marion, the younger of his two sisters, was also to attend this house party, mainly to witness the happy moment of her brother’s betrothal. His mother, of course, visited her close friend the marchioness with some frequency.
Sometimes one felt very out of control of one’s own destiny.
“I shall have to speak with Lord March,” he said. “I’m sure we can arrange everything to everyone’s mutual satisfaction.”
To everyone’s satisfaction, yes. His own included. He was very thankful that the moment had come, the point of no return. Perhaps after this day he would no longer dream of being free again, free to set out in search of... He pushed the thought ruthlessly from his mind—again. The house had come into view around a bend in the driveway.
Yes, he remembered it. It was a large Palladian mansion of yellow-brown stone, fronted by extensive formal gardens and a marble fountain. It was the place where he had spent an unspeakably dreary month nine years before, his only companions being his mother, the marquess and marchioness, and Annabelle Milford, their nine-year-old granddaughter, who had been spending a few weeks with them. He had been expected by a doting mother and the marchioness to converse with the child and entertain her—at a time in his life when his interest in women had run almost exclusively to buxom barmaids.
And now she was eighteen years old and he was returning to make his offer to her. And it was not, indeed, a bad match. He had been quite taken with her the previous spring. If he had not been, all of his mother’s persuasions could not have made him offer for her.
“Ah,” the countess said, peering through the carriage window as it rounded the formal gardens and approached the main doors across a cobbled courtyard, “we have been seen. There is a reception committee.”
That was another thing, Wetherby thought, looking through the window at the six people gathered on the steps outside the house and in the courtyard below it. He was quite well acquainted with most of the members of Annabelle’s family. It would not be easy to cry off even if he wished to do so—and of course he was not seriously considering any such thing.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Gilmore did not leave their estate very often, and when they did, it was to go to Bath rather than London. Lord Wetherby had not seen them for nine years. Even so, they looked familiar, both tall and slim and of proud bearing. Both had thick, silver-white hair; the marquess had the addition of a large mustache. Both were warm and gracious in manner. The earl had rarely known a couple who seemed so well suited to each other.
Viscount March was with them, as were Lady Newton, the marquess’s niece, Lord Carver, his grandson by his elder daughter, and Lord Beresford, his great-nephew and heir.
Lord March helped Lady Wetherby descend from the carriage and bowed over her hand. The other gentlemen bowed to her too, and the marchioness and Lady Newton took her into their care.
“Laura, my dear,” Lady Newton said, “you must be hagged. I do hate carriage travel, don’t you? Every time I make a journey I swear it will be my last. I shall take root in my town house, I always say, and anyone who wishes to see me may come there. But I daresay I will never do it. Uncle issues a royal summons to attend a family do, and I come running—or bouncing along in a carriage, to be more accurate.”
“Do come and have some tea, Laura,” the marchioness said, kissing her friend on the cheek. “The housekeeper can show you to your room afterward.”
“That sounds quite delightful, Eugenia,” the countess said. “And, yes, Claudette, it is good to be on firm ground again. Though Justin always keeps a well-sprung carriage.”
The earl shook hands with the marquess and Lord March and kissed the marchioness on the cheek before she disappeared inside the house with his mother.
“Your sister and her husband arrived an hour ago,” the marquess said. “So you are the young sprig who had to kick his heels here all those years ago while my wife and your mama were laying plans for your future. You have grown up. I would hardly have recognized you.” He chuckled and stroked his white mustache.
“We arrived only half an hour ago, Wetherby,” Lord March said. “The ladies are still upstairs. But you will meet them at tea. You will be wanting to freshen up before then.”
