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“No, indeed. He likes the company of ladies,” Agatha said. “But unlike the Marshams, we do not have any daughters we are desperate to get off our hands.”
All the ladies paused for a moment to think about the Marshams’ five daughters—all of marriageable age, none of them yet spoken for.
Aunt Faith put their thoughts into words. “Thankfully, we do not have daughters to marry off who squint or laugh like a horse, or look like a horse, for that matter.”
Charity regarded her reproachfully. “Oh, sister, that is not nice.”
“But it’s true.”
None of the ladies could refute that.
“So he comes here for refuge—he feels safe with us,” Agnes said.
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p; “Perhaps.” Aunt Faith gave Ria an arch look. “Maybe he is thinking of getting caught in the parson’s mousetrap. That is what gentleman call it, I believe. The latest on dit is he gave his chère-amie her congé a few months ago and apparently hasn’t replaced her.”
At the mention of his former mistress, Ria’s hand tightened on her embroidery needle.
Agatha looked at the other ladies, her brow furrowed. “I haven’t heard anything said about his looking on the marriage mart.”
“Maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman,” Aunt Charity said. With another look at Ria, she added, “At least not on the marriage mart.”
Aunt Charity’s expression made it clear she thought the earl was going to ask Ria to marry him. Ria wasn’t so sure, even though Charity was right about at least one thing. He had been visiting often. Every day, in fact.
Before her accident, she would have said he was going to propose. Well, make a proposal, though not one of marriage. Perhaps he’d had her in mind to replace his mistress.
Since the accident, Ria was unsure. He was different. And if he did propose marriage what would she say?
She stared sightlessly at her lopsided embroidery. She didn’t know. Her masquerade wasn’t the only barrier. There was also his rakish behavior. She looked searchingly at the ladies. “He is, I believe, a rake. Do you really think he would make a good husband?”
Cousin Agnes shook her head, the long lace ends of her cap brushing her shoulders. “I’m not sure I would call him a rake.” Looking at the others, she asked, “Perhaps a Corinthian?”
“I don’t know, cousin,” replied Agatha. “I haven’t heard that he is a sportsman. If we were talking about his friend the Marquess of Lyon, well, that would be different, but Arden—his sport seems to consist of chasing ladies of somewhat questionable reputation.”
“And he does like to gamble,” Faith said.
“And drink,” added Agnes despondently.
“So maybe he is a rake, then,” Agatha said.
All the ladies looked crestfallen but then cheered when Charity said, “They say a reformed rake makes a good husband.”
“As long he’s in love. That’s essential,” Faith said firmly.
“Nothing like a reformed rake—that is, if you like the possessive, protective type,” Charity said.
“He would be a good father, particularly for a young girl,” affirmed Agnes.
Ria considered what the ladies had said. She couldn’t help but wonder how many rakes did reform. And how one would know if they did. “Rakes by definition are accomplished flirts with a talent for saying the right thing. How would you know he’d reformed? How could you tell if he was sincere?”
Aunt Charity beamed at her. “Oh, that’s easy. It’s when they lose their talent for saying the right thing.”
“And say the wrong thing,” Agnes added for clarification.
Aunt Faith nodded. “They lose their charm.”
Ria looked at them in confusion. What on earth did they mean?
