Page 37 of The Cornish Mermaid

His eyes glinted. “I’ve persuaded my grandfather, who has always cherished me as his favorite grandson, that a ball would be a fitting welcome home to me after my time away from Denby in the service of the King.”

Why did Morvoren doubt his claim to being the favorite grandson? Because he wouldn’t be her favorite anything. Although perhaps he was the only grandson, and took the place by default. The thought made her lips twitch in a smile.

Loveday was able to fill her in later, as she’d had all the gossip from Martha, who of course had grown up here and, like all servants, so Loveday declared, knew everything about not just this household but all the neighboring ones as well. Having a gossip as a mother helped.

“The duke be right old,” she said with glee, as she prepared Morvoren for dinner. “He did have three sons and a daughter, and that captain, he’s the son o’ the daughter who were her father’s fav’rite child.” The scandal of the daughter running off with a neighbor’s younger son, a lowly lieutenant in a foot regiment, with no hope of a title, came tumbling out, possibly with more detail than Ysella had been given. She hadn’t known, for instance that the shock had been enough to cause the duke to have a nasty turn, from which he’d taken a while to recover. Possibly a heart attack or even a stroke.

“She did come back right soon though,” Loveday went on. “Got fed up livin’ the life of a soldier’s wife. Brung the children back with her she did, only not the father—Mr. Kit’s wicked uncle.” She gave a snort of derision as she patted Morvoren’s hair into place. “Of the three sons, there be but one left now, as the other two died as children. The heir be that captain’s uncle, the Marquess of Flint.”

“Does he have sons?” Morvoren asked, knowing full well he didn’t, but wanting to hear the servants’ view. She slipped her feet into the dainty slippers Ysella had given her.

Loveday shook her head. “He don’t, and he be in London lookin’ for a new bride since his first wife died, and the baby she were birthin’ with her. A boy. ’Tis said the marquess were mighty upset about the baby but not so much about the wife, as all she’d given him so far were girls.” She chuckled. “Six healthy girls likely to cost him a lot in dowries. The talk o’ the servants’ hall is that he’s thinkin’ of convertin’ to bein’ a Papist so’s he can put them all in convents to be nuns and save hisself some money.”

Six girls. Morvoren had never before considered the importance for a man to have a son to not only carry on his name but also to inherit his title. Never having mixed with titled or even rich people before, she’d never come across this necessity. But even in her own time, a lord couldn’t pass his title on to a girl, unless under exceptional circumstances.

She rose to her feet, ready to go downstairs to dinner. She’d think about all of this later.

Chapter Sixteen

Kit

“You did what?” Kit stormed, marching over to the fireplace and leaning against it. “You told him we’d go?”

His mother regarded him out of complacent eyes. “I did indeed. I had no idea I wasn’t allowed to accept invitations to balls without your permission.”

Kit scowled. “You know that isn’t what I mean.” He shook his head. “Ordinarily, I would be happy to accept, but not when it’s in honor of Fitzwilliam.”

His mother pulled her earlobe, where a large diamond earring hung, thoughtfully. “You know how much Ysella likes him. It would have been churlish of me to cry off, and besides which, he brought the invitation in person so it would have been rude to have turned him down.” She smiled. “And he is your cousin, even though he’s Denby’s grandson. Being in Denby’s family doesn’t oust him from ours.”

Kit scowled some more, refusing to be mollified by his mother’s attempt at persuasion. “The fellow’s a rake and I don’t like him.”

His mother smiled a smile not unlike her youngest daughter’s. “And that’s what makes him so attractive, Kit dear. Every nice girl loves a rake. They’re so… interesting. You know how Ysella craves excitement.”

Damn the woman. Now she was making him feel like a killjoy. Like a fusty old man in his sixties complaining about the younger generation, when in truth, if only she knew it, he was embroiled in activities every bit as exciting as Fitz. Not that he wanted her to know. How did she always manage to do this to him when he wanted to put his foot down about something?

“Morvoren doesn’t have anything to wear to a ball,” he tried, knowing this was a losing battle already. “I doubt the Misses Sedgewick will have time to make her a suitable gown.”

His mother’s eyes lit up. “They will if I ask them to,” she pronounced, and turned to the footman in the corner. “Albert. Go and ask Miss Ysella and Miss Morvoren to come here at once. I have something to tell them.”

Kit sighed inwardly. Knowing his mother, she could indeed persuade the Misses Sedgewick to drop all other commissions in their Marlborough dress shop and set to work on a ballgown for Morvoren. But would she want to go? She’d been so awed by Ormonde, how would she manage at Denby Castle?

The girls arrived, pretty as a picture in their sprigged muslin day gowns, Ysella full of giggles, as usual, and excitement at the prospect of a ball, but Morvoren more restrained and serious. Good. He liked a girl not overly given to silly laughter and chatter the way his youngest sister was.

“Kit will take you girls into Marlborough in the barouche,” his mother announced no sooner had the door had closed behind them. “You are to go straight to the Misses Sedgewick and have Morvoren measured for a ballgown. She can hardly go to the ball at Denby Castle in borrowed clothing.”

Ysella danced across the room to her mother and threw herself down on the sofa beside her. “Does that mean I am to go as well?” Her dark eyes sparkled with excitement. “I hardly dared hope that you’d let me.” She glanced up at Kit, cheeks glowing pink.

“As it’s a country affair,” Lady Ormonde said, jumping in before Kit could offer a denial, which he’d been going to do. “You may accompany Morvoren and Kit.” She paused. “And myself.”

Ysella seized her mother’s hands in hers. “Oh, thank you Mama! Thank you! Does that mean that I too shall have a new gown? The one I had last year for when we had our own ball here will be out of fashion and probably won’t fit me any longer, now I’ve grown so tall.”

The minx. If Kit had been able to have his way, she’d have been staying safely ensconced here at Ormonde until she’d had her coming out next season. But last year his mother had prevailed upon him to hold an autumn ball during one of his infrequent visits home, and of course, Ysella, at seventeen, had clamored to be allowed to attend. She’d worn him down, telling him that she’d spend the entire time with her dear Caro and not dance with anyone at all. This had been a lie, as her card had filled up amazingly quickly and he’d spotted her dancing with a different ardent young man for each dance. And now she was determined to outwit him and attend her first proper ball when he didn’t want her to.

His mother huffed. “I suppose you’d better.”

Kit tapped his foot on the hearth, but no one looked at him except Morvoren, an expression of compassion on her face. Did she know what he was thinking? Was she a mind reader?

“Oh, Kit, thank you so much!” Ysella gushed. “Come, Morvoren. Let us go and find our things and we can leave immediately if Kit will be kind enough to send for the barouche.” She jumped up from her seat beside her mother and threw her arms around him in a bear hug. For a moment he didn’t respond, before half-heartedly hugging her in return. She’d bamboozled him into getting her own way yet again. Heaven help whoever she married, because if her own brother couldn’t curtail her, no one could.