Мэри Бэлоу: Someone to Romance

He had considered finding a good agent in London and putting a new steward of his own in at Brierley, someone who would be capable of making sound decisions and exerting his authority while reporting to Gabriel once or twice a year. But doing that would mean revealing that he, Gabriel, was still alive. And if that was revealed, then he would be allowed no more peace in America. He would be expected to return home to England to take up his inheritance and fulfill his duties and responsibilities as a peer of the realm. Even if he held firm and refused to go, the truth would surely be found out in Boston, and everything in his life would change. Probably not for the better. He enjoyed being respected, even courted. He would not enjoy being fawned upon.

That last letter from Mary had turned out to be life altering. He had realized it from the moment he had broken the seal and read it. It had forced him to make the choice between the life he had built in America and the life he had left behind in England. The choice ought to have been ridiculously easy to make.

But there was Mary.

He had reluctantly put the business in the hands of Miles Perrott, his assistant and close friend, whom he would trust with his own life— and with the running of the business. He had made him a partner, leased out his house for two years, made numerous other arrangements, all within a couple of months, and sailed for home with no more than a few months to go before he was officially dead.

A strange choice of word, that— home . His home was in Boston. Once he had established his authority in England and made some sort of arrangements for the smooth running of all he owned there, he could return, he had told himself as he watched America disappear over the horizon, to be replaced by endless expanses of ocean. But making arrangements , he had admitted to himself during the endless days and nights of the voyage, was going to entail far more than he wanted to believe. For though even in Boston he would wish for an heir to inherit the business and the fortune he had amassed, here the need was of far more urgency. For in England he would not have the option of making a will and leaving everything to anyone he chose. In England there were rules and laws, at least for the aristocracy. If as the Earl of Lyndale he died without male issue—and both his father and Cyrus had died suddenly and early, not to mention his uncle and cousin—then the title and entailed properties and any fortune that went with them would go after all to Manley Rochford and his descendants: specifically that son who was already lording it over all who lived in the vicinity of Brierley.

Gabriel had not known Manley well when he was a boy—he had always kept his distance. But what he had known he had abhorred. The feeling had been mutual. The son sounded like a conceited ass. Gabriel did not know him. He had been a mere boy when Gabriel sailed for America.

His need to marry was an urgent one, and he had come to realize it long before the voyage was at an end and he set foot again upon English soil. It was not a happy thought. Nothing about this whole business was happy. But he no longer had the leisure to look about him for as long as it would take to find that one woman who would suit him and offer the expectation of a life of contentment. He needed to marry—and soon.

And his bride must be someone unexceptionable. An earl was not at liberty to marry a scullery maid or a shopkeeper’s daughter or . . . Well. He must choose someone who could fulfill the duties of Countess of Lyndale as though born to the role. She must be someone wellborn, well connected, refined; able to deal with difficult relatives, difficult servants, difficult neighbors . . . difficult everything.

As far as Gabriel knew, his name had not been cleared all those years ago, though he had never asked Mary outright. He might be facing hostility at Brierley, to say the least. He certainly needed a woman who was no timid mouse, one who would command respect by the mere expectation that it would be accorded her. It would help too, and not just for his personal gratification, if she had some beauty, grace, and elegance. And a few more years of age and experience than a young girl fresh from the schoolroom would have.

More important than anything else, he needed someone who could give him sons. Though that was the one thing that could never be guaranteed, of course.

And now it had struck him, as though as a joke, that Lady Jessica Archer might well be the perfect candidate.

Was it a joke?

He really had not taken a liking to her. But he would admit that his hasty judgment might not be a fair one. He knew that from his professional life.

She was almost certainly on her way to London.

And so was he.

Perhaps he would have the chance to get a second look at her.

Three

Jessica rather enjoyed being back in London now that she was here. The weather had warmed even though it was not officially summer yet, and so far there had been more sunny days than wet ones. There had been shopping to do, since fashions changed with dizzying regularity, and last year’s gowns would look sad if worn to this year’s most glittering ton events and last year’s bonnets would stand out like a sore thumb if worn to the daily parade in Hyde Park. There were friends to be called upon and a winter’s worth of news to be caught up on.

There was family to visit and be visited by. Some of the Westcotts had been in Gloucestershire for Seth’s christening, of course, but others had not. Either way, it did feel lovely, as it did every year, to be surrounded by so many family members in close proximity to one another.

This Season would be more special than any other, if everything went according to plan. She would marry and be settled at last. But . . . Well, what she had so sensibly planned while she was at Rose Cottage seemed a little cheerless now that she was about to put her plan into action.

Lady Parley’s ball in honor of the coming out of her eldest daughter was to be the first truly grand entertainment of the Season, and Jessica was pleased that she had arrived in time to attend it. There had even been time to have the first of her new ball gowns finished and delivered to Archer House, Avery’s home on Hanover Square. It was also her favorite, its narrow yet flowing lines both elegant and flattering to her figure, she believed, its color a deep shade of rose pink she had been looking for in vain for years. Her hand had already been engaged for three sets of dances—the opening set with Mr. Gladdley, who could always be relied upon to make her laugh; the second with Sir Bevin Romley, who for all his large girth and creaking corsets was light on his feet; and the first waltz with Lord Jennings, who despite having no conversation whatsoever beyond his horses always performed the steps with flair.

Jessica had kept all other sets free. There was always the hope, after all, that a new Season would bring new people to town—specifically new gentlemen. And there was always the chance that one of them would be tall, dark, and handsome. And eligible. And interested in her. This year in particular he would be very welcome indeed, this mythical man who would sweep her off her feet and rescue her from sensible plans.

Besides, if she did not keep at least a few sets free until the ball was already in progress, she would never hear the end of it from her disgruntled group of admirers, who would collectively feign heartbreak and heartache and any number of other silly woes. She derived great amusement from them all. It was impossible to take them seriously when they tried so hard to outdo one another in their ardor—most of it deliberately theatrical and not really meant to be taken seriously anyway. Which left the question: Were any of them serious about her? Was she in danger of being left on the shelf after all? But she would not believe that any such ghastly fate awaited her.