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“Including Robins?”
His friend who had spent the majority of the meal not so subtly asking after her wealth? “Yes, even him.” For all his lack of tact, Lord Robins did seem a nice enough man at heart. “Though I am afraid if he continues on, I shall have to disappoint him.” The moment the words had left her mouth, she wished them back.
She’d simply gotten caught up in being open and free to speak her mind.
Lord Brooks folded his arms, his permanent scowl deepening. “Is that so? And may I ask what about Robins is so beneath you?”
Alice threw her hands up. Blast Lord Brooks and his purposeful determination to find fault with her. “He is not beneath me. Only...” She glanced away, her gaze going instead to the towering bookshelf behind him. “Only, I don’t care to be part of yet another marriage where my husband only wants me for my money.”
It was strange to speak the words aloud, particularly to Lord Brooks.
On the one hand, it felt good—a relief, even—to have said as much. It was a weight off her chest to have shared such a truth instead of leaving it to twist about only in her head as she had always done before.
On the other hand, she knew no sympathy would come from Lord Brooks. He wasn’t a longstanding friend upon whom she could depend for support. He wasn’t a shoulder to cry on when things got overwhelming. He was the only single man in all the county who would never seek a connection with her—as a friend or as anything more.
In a way, it was liberating knowing that. Since he would never make designs on her, why should she care what he thought about her words?
Let him take her words however he may. She was glad she’d said them tosomeone.
However, now, the silence between them was quickly growing strained.
“I believe I ought to return to the drawing room,” Alice said with a small curtsy. She strode toward the door, but he didn’t follow. Just before passing into the corridor, she turned back around.
Lord Brooks stood where she’d left him, though the room was too dark for her to know from this distance if he still scowled or not. He probably did. His form was completely still, so he was probably finding ways to twist her few honest words against her.
Alice shook her head and left him to his judgment and scowling. After all, she had a dinner party to bow out of and a son to get home to.
Dear Amelie
Cresthearth Manor, Carlaby
December 12th, 1815
My heart goes out to you; why do granddaughters and grandnephews have to cause so much grief? Yes, I have heard of the mysterious “missing marquess,” and I hope, for your sake, he makes his appearance soon. As for the farm boy you wrote of, I further hope that he is of an honorable disposition. Oh, how I wish I was there with you so that we might better assess the situation in person. Know you have all my love and prayers.
As for life at Cresthearth Manor, what can I say except I have barely entered into my matchmaking plans and already I am full of doubts.
My nephew and his friends have decided to stay longer than they originally planned—a relief, I can promise you. What had he been thinking, showing up only to announce he was staying no more than a couple of weeks? How can a great aunt successfully find love for him in so short a time? You can imagine my relief when Lord Brooks and his two friends declared they needed more time in Carlaby. They have decided to stay through Twelfth Night, so I have that long, at least.
However, no sooner was that concern laid to rest then another was forced upon my mind. The young woman I had planned for my nephew seems to have not caught his eye at all. Indeed, the bacon-brained man is so wrapped up in his discontent over another lady that he seems quite blind to all others. This is a problem I did not foresee.
Do not tell the others though, please? I am thrilled to learn that I am not the only one matchmaking this Christmas, but now I am terrified I shall be the only one who is unsuccessful!
I must find a way to get Lord Brooks to notice someone other than Lady Nightingale. Wish me luck! I will be sending many wishes your way as well.
Your dear friend,
Margarette Fudge
