Page 62 of Regency in Color

Stephen grinned as the towel was removed from his face. “I like to think I am. I look forward to taking her to Vauxhall tonight. She seems to get along better when she’s been out.”

“Yes,” Pavan agreed. “It is good for her to be social again. To leave this house.”

His mother had eschewed English standards of mourning, only recently shedding her black widow’s weeds. Four years was a long time to close oneself away from the world, but Stephen’s parents had loved one another dearly. Having never been in love, he couldn’t fathom feeling so intensely about another person. He loved his family dearly, small as it was, but knew nothing of passionate love. The pain still lingered in his mother’s eyes, but she’d begun to smile again and ask him to escort her about. He would attend a ball every night if only to see her take in the beauty of marble floors and crystal chandeliers, and smile.

“She will enjoy the evening, I think,” Stephen mused. “That is, if I can keep her and Uncle Philip from murdering one another.”

Pavan issued a low snort. “I will pray for you, Sahib.”

Stephen pinched his lips to keep from laughing as Pavan coated his jaw in shaving balm. His father’s brother, Philip, had become a resident of Westerfield House following the death of his wife. The man was loved by all who knew him for his quick wit, easy smiles, and engaging personality. Only the dowager duchess seemed none-too-amused by him. Yet, when at home they were often in each other’s company—griping at one another in a way that only old friends could.

“Perhaps you should be glad for your mother to be occupied with Mr. Dryden, for then she will forget to pester you about selecting a duchess.”

Stephen groaned as Pavan began meticulously scraping the stubble from his face. “Don’t remind me. I am not averse to the idea of marriage. On the contrary, I look forward to being wed—but to the right woman of my choosing, at the right time. Mother means well, but her ideas of what constitutes the perfect bride differ from my own.”

“She simply wishes for your duchess to live up to the Westerfield legacy. One scandalous marriage in the line of succession is quite enough, to her mind.”

Annoyance lanced through Stephen at Pavan’s reminder at what was at stake in his choice of bride. Since becoming a duchess herself and carrying one of the oldest and most illustrious titles in the empire, Sunita Dryden had made it her mission to represent her new name well. She dressed as an Englishwoman always, save for the opulent gold and gems passed down through generations of Indian royalty. Over the years, her accent had grown less and less noticeable, thanks to the efforts of a tutor through elocution lessons. She had borne her husband an heir, as required, though lamented she had been unable to provide the duke with more children.

Stephen’s childhood and education had been rigorous, his mother determined for him to become the perfect English gentleman—one worthy of carrying on the Westerfield title and living up to his father’s legacy.

And now, it was his turn to do what was necessary for the sake of the dukedom. Only, Stephen was of the opinion the one thing that ought to be decided with no thought to the title was his choice of bride. He had already been asked to give so much of himself to crown and country. Sacrifices must be made, and Stephen had made his peace with that.

However, a man’s wife wasn’t only a polished gem to be flaunted on his arm, or a broodmare for the sake of an heir. His duchess would be a constant companion, as he had no desire to live a separate life from his wife. Stephen wanted someone he could laugh with and feel comfortable being himself around. He wanted no stiff formality—no lady bowing her head and calling him ‘Your Grace.’ With her—whoever she might be—he would simply be Stephen, and she would know him like no one else did.

In essence, he wanted what his parents had shared. He wanted love and passion, and for that Stephen must be allowed to choose on his own terms. No matter how many young, pale debutantes his mother paraded before him, Stephen would not have his hand forced.

“She only wants the best for you, Sahib,” Pavan murmured, as if having read Stephen’s thoughts.

“I know,” Stephen said with a sigh. “Perhaps I could apply myself a bit more to the wife hunt. It will please her.”

“Indeed.”

They fell into companionable silence through the rest of his toilette—their years together having attuned them well to one another. Within the hour, he was dressed in a heavily beaded and embroidered sherwani coat of yellow-gold silk. Pavan’s beadwork added dimension to the piece, enlivening the silk with shades of crimson, purple, and royal blue. His churidars trousers were a matching shade to the jacket, while his turban was a contrasting shade of blood red. His mask seemed an unnecessary accoutrement—as no one in London could mistake him for anyone else due to his coloring and mode of dress. Still, it felt good to get into the spirit of the evening, tying the ribbons of a golden half-mask over his face.

He suffered through Pavan’s fussing—a loose thread snipped here, an imaginary wrinkle smoothed there. Once his valet was satisfied, Stephen was free to go downstairs, where he found his mother and uncle awaiting him.

His mother was a small woman, slender and short of stature. Her coppery skin had begun to show the signs of her age, yet she was as lovely as the portrait of her youthful self which hung in the gallery. Her thick, waist-length hair was arranged in an elegant knot—strands of silver entwining with ebony black. Her eyes were lighter than his own—like warmed honey, and her features were severe yet somehow all the more beautiful because of it.

Uncle Philip offered a sharp contrast to the dowager duchess—with a ruddy complexion, frazzled gray side-whiskers, and a balding pate. The paunch of his belly pressed at the front of his waistcoat, one button threatening to pop free at any moment.

They had shunned the fanciful costumes preferred by the younger crowd, opting for black dominoes with masks.

His mother smiled at the sight of Stephen, coming toward him with her arms outstretched. “My son … you look splendid. Does he not look splendid, Philip?”

His uncle raised a quizzing glass to one eye and made a sound of approval at the back of his throat. “Hmm, quite fine indeed. You cut a dashing figure, nephew.”

His mother cut her narrowed eyes at Philip and scowled. “You must not address him so informally. Nephew … I cannot believe … it is Your Grace!”

Stephen cut off Philip’s coming tirade with a hand his uncle’s shoulder. “We are family and in private. I see no need for formality. How do you fare this evening, Uncle? Looking forward to the fireworks?”

Philip’s pale blue eyes glimmered with the glee of a young boy as he tugged on one of his whiskers. “Fireworks are all well and good, but I was hoping you might arrange an ascent in the balloon for an old chap. I’d like to know what it’s like to taste the air from such a height at least once before I die.”

Stephen opened his mouth to respond that of course he would make the arrangements, but his mother was already taking Philip to task.

“He is to enjoy his evening without feeling beholden to either of us,” she admonished, with a click of her tongue. “You will survive just fine without setting foot in a hot air balloon. Besides, they are frightfully dangerous things. I’ve no idea why one would ever wish—”

“Enjoy his evening—bah!” Philip countered, hands on hips. “You aren’t fooling me, Sunita. You will do your best to shove every eligible lady into his path!”

Placing a slender hand over her bosom, his mother conjured her best affronted expression. “How dare you imply—”

“Uncle,” Stephen cut in, before the spat escalated any further. “I will do my best to ensure you are able to enjoy an ascension in the balloon. Mother, there are sure to be any number of eligible ladies in attendance. I shall arrange introductions to a few of them myself. Who knows? Perhaps the future Duchess of Westerfield is striding through the gates of Vauxhall at this very moment.”

Accepting his arm, Stephen’s mother offered him a beaming smile. “From your lips to God’s ears.”