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“Of course, your father was an Astor, and you made your own fortune, and you do have a nice nose,” Merry said, recovering. “Do stop scowling at me, Jake. Obviously, ladies have given you too much attention. My husband says that before marrying me, ballrooms made him feel like the only red-blooded creature in a swamp full of horseflies.”
“Not a bad description,” Jake observed. “Did you know that horseflies slice a hole in your skin and drink the pooled blood?”
Merry yelped. “Enough! It’s astonishing that Frederica will take you on in all your sharp-tongued glory. And your mother is happy with your choice?”
“Certainly. In the last year, my mother has paraded any number of quivering maidens before me, including Frederica.”
“Quivering?”
“Would you prefer radiant? Fair as angels? Eyes like dark blue pansies?”
Merry shook her head. “You’ll have to be less dismissive if you want a happy marriage, Jake.”
“My wife will take me as I am,” he stated.
She tapped her chin with one finger. “Since you haven’t yet proposed to Frederica, I’ll introduce you to a young lady or two here. I still think you would be happiest with an original, a British lady who is unimpressed by your lineage and your fortune.”
“No, thank you.” He paused. “Frederica’s eyes are blue, Merry, and opals are her favorite stone.”
Merry leaned over and brushed a kiss on his cheek. “Then I apologize for teasing you, old friend. If you don’t mind my asking, what will Frederica think if she learns of your new wardrobe? Many of my friends carry on a vast correspondence with American friends and relatives. She’s bound to find out.”
He shrugged. “She’s not the kind of person who bothers about such matters.”
“Perhaps you should write to her,” Merry suggested.
“We don’t correspond,” Jake said. “I don’t even write to my mother.”
“I write to your mother!” Merry cried.
“What on earth for?”
“She’s one of my favorite people. Yours too, for all you pretend to find her annoying.”
“Write to my mother about my new wardrobe if you wish. I expect she’ll find my plan to win Quimby’s amusing.”
“May I mention the opal ring?”
“Certainly,” Jake said indifferently.
He couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like to wed a woman like Merry.
Frederica would never play gladiator in bare feet and a faded dishcloth. She was charming and placid. He rather liked her affection for cows.
No, he was right.
Miss Frederica Cabot would make an excellent wife and mother. She enjoyed embroidery and painting landscapes, quite good ones. Trees, hills, and yes, cows, but who didn’t like a nice cow on the wall?
At the end of a long day, he would walk into his house to find Frederica sitting in a pool of candlelight, working on her embroidery, a welcoming smile on her face.
Merry might be his oldest friend, but she didn’t understand him.
The last—the very last—thing he wanted was an “original,” whether English or American.
Chapter Nine
15, Charles Street
Mayfair, London
