Stronger Than Magic, page 5
Stephen, however, had no such compunction. “Oh, she’s a taking little thing,” he fibbed. “Exceedingly satisfactory in all regards.”
“Coloring?” Stanton interrogated.
Wincing, Lucian murmured, “Blonde.”
“Like a golden angel,” Stephen gushed.
“Figure?” This was from Bradwell, whose main preoccupation when not gossiping was leering down women’s bodices.
“Mm—” At a loss for something complimentary to say, Lucian made a vague hand motion in the air.
“Slender,” Stephen interpreted. “Rather resembles the Grecian nymph statues at Vauxhall Gardens. Flatters the latest fashions to perfection.”
Damned if Bradwell and Stanton didn’t look impressed. Lucian nodded as the attendant refilled his glass. Didn’t Stephen realize that his glowing descriptions were merely going to make Alys seem all the more disappointing in contrast when the men finally met her? With a sigh, he lifted his glass to his lips.
“Good. Very good,” Stanton was saying, rubbing his hands together so vigorously that Lucian expected a hole to appear in the fabric at any moment.
“Pink of the ton by the sound of her,” Bradwell piped in.
Lucian choked on his port at that description.
Patting his back, Stephen wickedly added, “Met the chit myself just yesterday. Pronounced her passing fair with a nature to match. A paragon. Isn’t that so, Thistlewood?”
All gazes were trained on him now, Bradwell’s through his ever-present quizzing glass. Resisting the urge to spear Stephen with his glare, he forced a taut smile on his lips. Not only was Stephen dragging his own credibility through the mud, he was dragging his with it.
Taking his smile for an affirmative answer, Bradwell boomed, “If her marriage portion is as up to nines as her person, she’ll doubtless take the ton by storm.” By the way he was peering at him through his ridiculous glass, it was apparent that he was waiting for Lucian to disclose the specifics of Alys’s dowry.
Stephen started to say something, but Lucian gave him a sharp yet surreptitious kick in the foot so that all that came out was a breathless “Oomph!”
Having saved himself the embarrassment of hearing Alys’s dowry pumped up to no doubt include half of England and the lion’s share of the crown jewels, he replied, “Her portion is respectable enough. As the only living member of the Faire family, her dowry will include Fairfax Castle, three hundred and fifty acres of surrounding farmland, and a woolen mill.” Though he didn’t bother to add that the castle was tumbling down, the farmland fallow, and the mill barely operative, he’d at least told the truth.
Bradwell and Stanton seemed satisfied with his response, for they nodded in unison, Bradwell letting his glass drop in the process.
“One thing I must add, gentlemen,” Lucian said, deciding that since Stephen had put him in for a penny, he might as well go for the entire pound. “Unlike many guardians, I shall not marry my ward to a rake with his pockets to let just to get her off my hands.” He shook his head. “No. I shall insist on a man solid in both character and finances.”
“Considering your ward’s abundance of fine attributes, I should think that finding her a quality match shall present no greater problem than deciding what sort of a man she might prefer,” Stanton assured him.
Lucian snorted softly. “Her preferences have no bearing on the matter. She shall marry whomever I choose, and I believe that I have already stated my requirements.”
“Yes. A solid man,” Stanton acknowledged, while Bradwell flagged a passing attendant to request a pen, ink, and paper so they could make a list. He paused for a moment to consider, then nodded. “If you’re not overly particular about age, you won’t find a steadier man than Lord Haddon.”
Lucian tried to place the man, but failed. “I’m not certain I’ve met Lord Haddon.”
“Not surprising,” Stanton replied. “It’s been nigh on two decades since he’s been to town. He much prefers his seat in”—he shot a querying glance to Bradwell— “Leicestershire?”
Bradwell nodded his confirmation, then expelled a satisfied “Ah!” as the attendant placed the requested writing supplies on the small table at his elbow.
“Leicester, yes,” Stanton echoed, returning his gaze to Lucian. “Heard tell that the holdings bring him an annual income of twenty-five thousand pounds. At any rate, I saw him riding in the park last week and struck up a conversation. Told me he was in town for the season to find a bride. Seems his wife died without providing him an heir, and he’s most eager to remedy the situation. He—”
“Exactly how old is this Lord Haddon?” Stephen interrupted.
“Fifty. Sixty.” Stanton shrugged. “Somewhere thereabout.”
Lucian rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Lord Haddon’s age presented no problem that he could see. In fact, it might prove an advantage. Being so much older, he might be inclined to overlook Alys’s plainness. He was also likely to be better prepared to take her willfulness in hand. Nodding slowly, he inquired, “Did this Lord Haddon specify what sort of bride he desired?”
“He said that she must be young and chaste, and, of course, healthy enough to bear him an heir,” Stanton replied.
Bradwell cleared his throat noisily, drawing the other men’s attention. “In regards to Lord Haddon, I do feel it only fair to inform you that he’s a Methodist. A strict one.”
Lucian shrugged. “Then he’ll no doubt be a nice, sobering influence on the girl.”
Stanton’s squinty eyes narrowed at his words. “I wasn’t aware that your ward required any sobering.”
Lucian could have bitten off his tongue, Glancing from Stanton to Bradwell, who was staring at him through his quizzing glass again, he explained, “She’s young, and like all young women she’s impressionable. I was merely indicating that Lord Haddon would set a fine example for her to follow.” He almost smiled as Stanton signaled to Bradwell to write Haddon’s name on the list. He’d put the pair’s misgivings to rest without a hint of a falsehood. He glanced over to see if Stephen had duly taken note.
Stephen was staring at him, his face scrunched up in a mask of horror. “You can’t be serious about Haddon, Luc,” he exclaimed. “Would be frightfully cruel to shackle the poor chit to a pulpit-drubber thrice her age.”
“A man needn’t be young to be a good husband,” Lucian informed him in a clipped tone. “And there’s nothing wrong with being devout.”
Stephen guffawed. “Ha! Wager you’d change your tune quick enough if you were the one being forced to bed some long-of-tooth sermonizer.”
“Bedding is only a small part of marriage, one that demands nothing from a woman,” Lucian pointed out. “Unlike a man, who must be attracted to his spouse in order to perform, it isn’t necessary that a woman find her husband physically pleasing. All she need do is lay back and receive his passion.” He gestured dismissively. “Women don’t expect, nor are they capable of, deriving pleasure from lovemaking.”
“Maybe your women don’t find lovemaking pleasurable, but mine certainly do,” Stephen quipped, arching one eyebrow meaningfully.
Lucian snorted his disdain. “Doxies all. And you know as well as I that members of the demi-rep aren’t normal women. Their libidinous natures are rare aberrations, freakish in that they feel desire.”
“If such natures are so rare, then why do so many wives cuckold their elderly husbands with virile lovers?” Stephen asked. His eyes brimming with deviltry, he shifted his gaze to Bradwell and Stanton. “How would you gentlemen explain the phenomenon?”
The two men exchanged uneasy glances, visibly discomfited by the subject.
“Ah—” Stanton stammered, his gaunt face mottling purple.
“Atwood. Um, yes,” Bradwell cut in, smoothly saving them both from having to respond. “There is always Lord Atwood if the gel seems disturbed by Lord Haddon’s age. He’s only twenty-two. Heard his papa is ailing and wishes to see him settled before he dies. Says he wants to see his grandchildren.”
“Atwood?” Lucian echoed, frowning. The name sounded familiar.
“You know. Claringbold’s boy,” Stephen reminded him. “Spindly shanks, spotty complexion. Stutters whenever he gets within a league of a female.”
Lucian mentally placed the thin, timid young man. He was a bit unfinished at the present, true, but he had the makings of a fine man. He was also the heir to several holdings in Surrey, one of which bordered a small section of the Faire farmlands. That in itself might prove enticement enough for the boy’s father to encourage him in the match. Smiling, he nodded to Bradwell. “Add his name to the list.”
“Hope old Claringbold has a few years left on his calendar,” Stephen intoned in a funereal voice. “He’ll need them if he wants to see Atwood’s children. As awkward as the boy is around women, I doubt he knows how to do his manly duty.”
“Then they’ll learn together,” Lucian snapped.
Stephen grunted. “Can’t imagine that the clumsy fumbling of an unlicked cub would be any more pleasant than the groping of an old fanatic.”
“Might I suggest that you consider Lord Drake?” Stanton chimed in, obviously trying to pull the conversation away from the marriage bed. “He is a man of much, uh, experience.”
Lucian frowned at that suggestion. In his opinion the handsome, dandified Drake had too much experience to make a good husband. Indeed, his sexual conquests provided regular basis for wagers in the club’s betting book.
Stephen, however, was clearly not of like mind, for he leaned forward and asked, “Are you certain that Drake is looking to tie the nuptial knot?”
“Overheard him tell Lord Talbot so just yesterday,” Stanton replied. “Said his father is threatening to cut him off if he doesn’t present him with a wife by the end of the season.”
Stephen nodded at Lucian. “Young. Handsome. Heir to an earldom. Seems a perfect choice to me.”
“Perfect?” Lucian echoed, staring at his friend as if he’d lost his mind, which, indeed, he wondered if he had. “Drake is a profligate blood. He’d no doubt have one hand down the bridesmaid’s bodice while putting the ring on Alys’s finger with his other.” He gave his head a firm shake. “No. He’ll never do.”
“A-hem. May I say something on Drake’s behalf?” This was from Bradwell. At their nods, he proceeded. “While Drake might not have the steadiest nature where women are concerned, he is shrewd in business and has managed to increase his family fortune several times over. Since he’s not given to deep-pocket gambling, whoever he weds shall never want for anything, except perhaps for his attentions. And I doubt she’ll be too eager for those once the babies start coming.”
“There you go, Luc. A good, solid provider,” Stephen said. “Sounds to me as if he’s just the man to round off your list.”
Lucian hesitated a beat, then nodded his assent. Bradwell was right. What would it matter what company Drake kept as long as Alys and her children had security and comfort? Not that he held out much hope for that particular match. Drake was notoriously fond of pretty faces and rounded figures, neither of which Alys possessed.
“Of course, once the season is in full swing we’ll undoubtedly turn up more prospects,” Bradwell said, setting down his quill and sprinkling sand on the freshly inked name. “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we ended up with a dozen or so names.” He held out the list to Lucian.
Lucian sighed inwardly as he took the paper. He hoped so. For Alys, he was going to need a very long list indeed.
How dare she! The nerve of the chit! Lucian turned on his heels as he reached the marble hearth and resumed his agitated pacing in the opposite direction. She must be possessed. What else could explain her awful behavior?
“I came as soon as I received your message, Luc,” a feminine voice cut into his brooding. “Whatever is so urgent that you would send for me at this ungodly hour of the morning?”
Lucian whipped around so quickly that his head spun. He’d been so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the door open. “Charlotte. Thank God,” he expelled in a sigh, more glad to see his sister than he’d ever been to see anyone in his life.
“By the pressing nature of your note, I half expected to find you on your deathbed,” she said, peeling off her lemon-yellow gloves. “The lines, ‘Come posthaste. Regards matter of grave concern,’ generally mean that someone has died, is dangerously ill, or at the very least is in jail.”
“It’s worse than that. Much worse.”
“What could be worse than death?” she asked, looking up with a frown.
“My new ward.” Lucian more groaned than spoke the words.
Charlotte watched in amazement as her eternally self-possessed brother ran his hand through his perfectly brushed hair, worrying it into a wild disarray. The chit must be beyond terrible, for this was the first time in her thirty-six years that she had ever seen Lucian perturbed.
Firmly grasping his arm, she led him across the drawing room to a blue brocade sofa, clucking, “Now, now. I’m certain things aren’t as bad as all that. Why don’t we sit here”—she sank down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her—“and you can tell me all about the girl.”
Instead of sitting, Lucian resumed his pacing directly in front of her. “She’s awful,” he ranted. “Her behavior is wretched beyond all tolerance. If I were a papist, I’d send for a priest to exorcise whatever is possessing her.”
Charlotte leaned forward a fraction in her intrigue. “What exactly did the girl do that was so dreadful?” she held her breath as she awaited his reply, expecting a tale of heinous deeds and demonic behavior.
“She tore up the list!” The words were flung with as much outrage as if he were accusing her of burning down the house.
“List?” She frowned. “What list?”
“The list of prospective suitors I made up for her,” His stride speeded to a jog. “I presented it to her at breakfast, along with the pertinent details of each man such as his title, land holdings, and annual income.”
Charlotte’s head bobbed from side to side as she watched him race to and fro. “What exactly did you expect her to do with the list?”
“Look it over and decide which man she thought might best suit her.” He made a derisive noise. “Last time I listen to Stephen. It was his suggestion that I offer her a choice. Said it would make her more amenable to the idea of marriage.” He flailed his arms in a broad gesture of chagrin. “Instead she tore it up without so much as a glance, saying that husbands aren’t saddles of mutton to be ordered from a menu.”
“For the love of God, Luc! Will you cease pacing and sit down?” Charlotte exclaimed, grabbing the flying tail of his coat as he passed. “I’m getting a headache watching you.”
Scowling and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “the damn brass-faced hellion,” he heaved himself into the chair opposite the sofa.
Charlotte stifled a smile as she looked at his flushed face. It really was amusing when you thought about it: the unflappable Marquess of Thistlewood thrown into a pucker by a mere girl. Why, she’d seen him remain coolly unmoved in situations that would have made a saint resort to violence.
Returning her gaze with an expression of … could that be bewilderment? … he groaned, “You’re a woman, Lottie. What do you make of such behavior?”
She sighed and shook her head. “You honestly don’t see, do you?”
“See what?” Yes. That definitely was bewilderment on his face.
“How you upset that poor girl. She’s been under your roof less than a day, and you’re already trying to rid yourself of her. You’ve made her feel as unwanted as the pox.”
“I’ll take the pox any day,” he muttered darkly. “I’d at least have a prayer of getting rid of it.”
“I’m certain you’re exaggerating her faults. Surely she isn’t so very awful?”
“Not if you happen to like stunted, pasty-faced termagants who smell like a parade of unwashed beggars.”
“Dear me.” She stared at him in shock. “Are you telling me that the girl actually smells?”
He nodded. “Her stench is the only thing that saved her from being turned over my knee and receiving a well-deserved spanking when she tore up that list.”
Charlotte made a clucking noise. “Perhaps the poor thing was never taught the virtue of cleanliness and just needs to be taken in hand.”
“Are you suggesting that I discuss the problem with her?” He couldn’t have looked more flabbergasted if she’d suggested that he toss her in the tub and scrub her himself.
“Of course not,” she retorted, staring at him in wonder. Lucian, flabbergasted? Unheard of!
He made a helpless gesture. Helpless? Odder and odder. “Then what do you suggest I do?”
“Hire a mature, experienced abigail to guide her. I’ll ask around and see if I can’t arrange to have a suitable woman sent over within the next day or so.”
“Hopefully the woman will be clever enough to do something to improve her appearance as well, though”— Lucian grimaced—“I suspect that that’s asking a bit much of a mere mortal.”
“You might be surprised by what a clever lady’s maid can accomplish. I have seen them work miracles with the aid of a fashionable wardrobe and a pot of rouge.”
He grunted. “We’re going to need a miracle. You can only improve on nature so much, and nature was shockingly stingy with Alys.”
“Still, unless she is afflicted with some sort of deformity, which I assume she isn’t …” She slanted him a querying look.
“If you don’t count being blonde a deformity, then no.”
She sniffed at his comment. “In case it has escaped your notice, I happen to be blonde. And nobody has ever seen that feature as being anything but an asset.”
