The Bridal Quest. Candace Camp

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СКАЧАТЬ cast a wry look at the other women, saying, “A woman does not have to be under a man’s thumb, dear. She simply makes him think that he is in control. She just has to learn how to lead a man into doing exactly what she wishes. The trick, of course, is in making him believe that it was all his idea.”

      Their visitors joined Maura in her arch laughter, and Mrs. Littlebridge added, “Indeed, Lady Wyngate, that is the way of the world.”

      “I have no interest in such pretense and trickery,” Irene retorted. “I would rather remain a spinster than have to cajole and lie to be able to do what I should have every right to do.”

      Maura clucked her tongue, looking sympathetic. “Irene, my dear, we are not saying you should deceive anyone. I am merely talking about making the most of your looks and covering up…certain aspects of your character. You dress much too plainly.” She gestured with disdain toward Irene’s body. “That gown you are wearing, for instance. Why must it be that drab shade of brown? And you have no need to wear such a high neckline. Why not show off your shoulders and arms a little? Even your evening gowns have such an air of severity—it is no wonder men rarely ask you to dance! Is it not enough that you are so tall? Must you stand so arrow straight and hide your shape?”

      Irene could hear the real frustration creeping into Maura’s saccharine tones, and she knew that however much her sister-in-law might enjoy pointing out Irene’s defects under the guise of helpful advice, Maura was also honestly put out by Irene’s lack of suitors. Maura would love to be rid of her altogether, and marriage was the only option open to her, short of murder—which not even Irene would accuse Maura of being capable of. No matter how much Humphrey was under his wife’s thumb, even Maura must know he would not agree to turning his own sister out of the house, and in any case, the woman surely knew that such callous treatment of her husband’s sister would earn her the disapproval of the ton. No, as long as Irene remained unmarried, Maura was saddled with her—a fact that doubtless irritated her almost as much as it did Irene.

      “And your hair!” Maura went on relentlessly. “Heaven knows it is a trifle…unruly.” She frowned at Irene’s curling mass of dark golden hair, pulled back ruthlessly into a knot. “But the color is quite nice, really. And your lashes are long and luckily brown, not fair, so that you do not have that hairless look that one sees in some blondes.”

      “Why, thank you, Maura,” Irene murmured drily. “Your compliments overwhelm me.”

      Maura shrugged. “I am simply saying that you could make yourself look much more attractive if you would just try a little. Why, one would think that you are trying to drive men away rather than attract them.”

      “Perhaps I am.”

      There was a moment of stunned silence; then Miss Cantwell let out a nervous titter. “Lady Irene! One might almost suppose you are serious.”

      Irene did not bother to respond to the woman’s remark. Miss Cantwell would never understand, any more than any of the other women present, that Irene truly did not want to marry. Marriage was the goal of every woman’s life, as far as they were concerned. The pursuit of a husband was the focal point of a woman’s coming out—and of every Season thereafter, until she finally managed to snag one.

      Marriage-minded mothers mapped out campaigns for their daughters like war-hardened generals. Skirmishes were played out on the fields of ballrooms, opera boxes and open-air carriage rides through Hyde Park, and the weapons of choice were frocks, curls, flirtatious glances over the top of one’s fan and—most lethal of all—gossip. Victory lay in snapping up an eligible bachelor, and few considered the years that lay ahead after the all-important ring was placed upon their finger.

      No doubt Miss Cantwell and her mother were in the midst of that vital fray now. They would assume that any protestations Irene made were simply sour grapes for having lost that battle herself, for being a twenty-five-year-old spinster with no prospects other than living with her family for the rest of her life.

      Irene sighed. She did not envy Miss Cantwell the marriage she hoped for. But she did wish that she could muster more equanimity to face the future she would have because she would not marry.

      Maura leaned forward and laid her hand on Irene’s arm, smiling sweetly. “Now, dear, do not sigh. ’Tis not so bad. We shall find you a husband yet. Perhaps we should pay a visit to Lady Haughston.”

      Irene grimaced, irritated that she had given Maura any glimpse of her discontent by sighing. “Don’t be absurd,” she told her crisply. “I told you, I am not seeking a husband. And if I were, I would not ask some silly butterfly like Francesca Haughston to help me.”

      She stood up, too annoyed to worry about her bad manners. “Excuse me, ladies. I fear I have something of a headache.”

      Then she turned and strode out of the room without waiting for a reply.

      A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among Lady Wyngate and her friends, Francesca Haughston sat in the sitting room that was her favorite spot in the house, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the formal drawing room, and decorated in a sunny yellow that seemed to catch every stray ray of sun that flowed in through the west-facing windows. It was a pleasant place, furnished with pieces that, if a trifle shabby, were comfortable and dear to her. It was the room she used most, particularly in the fall and winter, for it was warmer than the other rooms, and it was cheaper to keep a fire here than in the larger drawing room. Of course, the fire was not of importance now, as it was the middle of August, but it was still the room she chose whenever she was alone.

      Since the Season was over and many of the ton had returned to their country seats, she had few visitors these days, only her closest friends. As a consequence, the formal withdrawing room was kept closed, and Francesca spent her time here.

      She was seated at the small secretary beside the windows, her accounts ledger open before her. She had been poring over the figures, but the pencil now lay in the trough between the pages, and she was gazing out at the small side garden, where the roses were putting up a last colorful show before autumn arrived.

      Her problem, as always, was money—rather, a lack of it. Her late husband had been a profligate spender and unwise investor, and when he had died a few years ago, he had left her with little but her fashionable clothes and her jewelry. His estate, of course, had been entailed, passing to his cousin so that she no longer had a home except in London, a house that Andrew himself had purchased and had been able to bequeath to her. She had closed off all of one wing in an effort to economize, and had, with regret, let many of the servants go, keeping only a skeleton staff. She had also greatly curtailed her spending.

      Even so, Francesca barely managed to scrape by. The easiest and most obvious way by which she could become wealthy—marrying again—she had rejected out of hand. She would have to be in much worse condition than she had yet fallen into to be willing to embark on that path once more.

      There was a noise at the door, and she turned her head. Her personal maid, Maisie, stood there, looking uncertain. Francesca smiled and gestured to her to enter.

      “My lady, I did not wish to disturb you, but the butcher’s man is here again, and he has been most insistent. Cook says he refuses to sell her any more meat until she pays her account.”

      “Of course. Yes.” Francesca opened the slender drawer of the writing table and took out a coin purse. She pulled a gold coin from it and held it out to the girl. “This should be enough to hold him off.”

      Maisie took the coin but continued to stand there, looking worried. “I could take something to sell for СКАЧАТЬ