Suzanne Allain - Incognito

“But I do not love him,” Lydia said, her voice a mere whisper, her eyes downcast.

“Well,” Emily replied in a bracing tone, “perhaps you will learn to love him. It is not as if you are in love with anyone else.”

Lydia’s quiet crying ended with a hiccough, and she turned abruptly to walk to the window. Emily looked suspiciously at her sister, who was avoiding eye contact with her. “Lydia? You are not in love with someone, are you? Lydia?”

“Of course not. With whom would I be in love?” she replied, fiddling nervously with the cornflower blue ribbon on her bodice.

“I have no idea. There are no eligible gentlemen in Stonehurst under the age of sixty. Except, of course, for—” She halted abruptly as Lydia looked up nervously. “Lydia, don’t tell me you are in love with Jonathan Sedgewick! He is as poor as—as a chimney sweep! Mama would never allow it. He is a vicar .”

“Vicars are perfectly respectable.”

“Respectable, yes. Rich, no. But I suppose that does not matter if you truly care for him. Do you?” Lydia nodded. “Then of course you must not marry Lord Wesleigh,” Emily said.

“But, Emily, Mama is counting on me to marry a fortune. How could I disappoint her so?” It was obvious the notion of disappointing their mother was abhorrent to Lydia. Emily reflected wryly to herself that it was a good thing she did not suffer from a similar anxiety.

“You know what Mama is like,” Emily told her sister. “She acts as though we are living in penury now that we are no longer at Rollings. It is absolute nonsense. We are perfectly comfortable here.” Emily paused, a contemplative look on her face. “But there is a way we could avoid disappointing Mama without sacrificing you at the marriage altar.” Emily thought for a moment, while Lydia watched her in anticipation. “Yes, I think it would serve very well,” Emily said slowly.

“What is it?” Lydia asked.

“I could marry Lord Wesleigh in your stead.”

This calm announcement was met with a moment of shocked silence, before Lydia instinctively protested. “Oh, no, Emily, I cannot let you,” she stated, shaking her head.

“Lydia, be reasonable. I am very unlikely to meet any prospective husbands here in Stonehurst now that my sister has chosen the only eligible man in the vicinity. I have to marry one day, and I am not the beauty you are. And just think of poor Lord Wesleigh,” Emily said, struggling to keep a straight face but unable to contain a mischievous smile. “We cannot just let an eligible young marquess wither on the vine.”

Lydia did not smile at Emily’s droll remark, but only regarded her in silence. Emily shrugged, growing more serious. “And as you said, we do not want to disappoint Mama,” she added.

“But Emily, it is such a sacrifice,” Lydia protested.

The gleam returned to Emily’s dark eyes, and she grinned impishly. “A sacrifice? To marry a wealthy young lord and live the pampered life of a duchess? I do not think most young ladies would view it as such. I will marry him if he is not despicable and he will have me. But from what we know of him, he does not appear to be particular. He agreed to marry you, and you are not even acquainted.”

Alexander Eaton, Marquess of Wesleigh, and heir to the dukedom of Alford, was totally unaware that a trio of females he had yet to meet had decided his future. In fact, he was blissfully unaware of anything at all, being sound asleep after having arrived home in the wee hours of the morning. So he was none too pleased to hear a knock at his door, followed by the sound of someone entering his chamber.

“My lord, you’ve received an urgent summons from your father.”

“Somebody die?” Wesleigh muttered thickly.

“Excuse me, my lord?”

“Did someone die?” Wesleigh repeated in a louder voice, albeit only a trifle more distinguishable, as it was muffled by the pillow he had pulled over his head.

“I should hope not, my lord, but I would not know.”

“Well, in that case, Jenkins, I expect I had best find out what this is about.”

“I should think so, my lord.”

Wesleigh sighed and rolled over in bed. If only Jenkins weren’t so dashed good with a cravat, he’d replace him with a valet who possessed a sense of humor. “And a face that would not curdle cream,” he muttered to himself, ignoring Jenkins’s look of inquiry.

As he dressed, he wondered what was behind his father’s summons. It was not like the old man to issue commands like that. Besides the occasional supper together at Alford House, his father usually left him to his own devices. He hoped this wasn’t about the aborted duel he’d taken part in the previous week. Both men had been foxed when the challenge was made, and when they sobered up the next morning, they realized they had made a mistake and deloped. Surely his father wouldn’t summon him about something so insignificant as that.

Or could it be he’d taken offense at Alexander’s latest entry in White’s betting book? It had indeed been in poor taste to place a wager on the number of weeks after Lord Montville’s recent demise that his young widow would remarry, but it was only a harmless jest. A bit childish, perhaps, but surely not so heinous a crime as to precipitate an urgent meeting.

So it was in a state of mingled anticipation, curiosity, and trepidation that Alexander finally entered Alford House and his father’s study. The duke looked up as his son entered, and it seemed to Alexander that his father had aged a few years in the fortnight or so since he’d last seen him. Stanley Eaton, duke of Alford, presented an imposing appearance to some, being a large man with a prominent nose and large, bushy eyebrows. But the sharp, alert expression Alexander was accustomed to was missing this morning. Alexander hadn’t seen his father look so weary since his mother’s death.

“You wished to see me, Father?”

“Yes, Alexander. Please sit down.” The older man waited for his son to take a seat before continuing. “I summoned you, Alexander, to discuss your future.”

“My future?” Alexander repeated, somewhat surprised. This was not at all what he had expected, but he was a bit relieved that his past was not going to be the topic of discussion.

“Yes. Your future. Have you given it any thought?”

Alexander barely considered the question. “No more than the next chap, I suppose.”

“I did not think so. Alexander, you are nearing thirty. Did you think you could continue on in this manner forever? Engaging men in duels for sport and making short shrift of a lady’s reputation?”

Alexander flushed and sat up straighter in his chair. Apparently his past was on the agenda. “I wondered if you had heard about those incidents.”

“They merely top your already illustrious career.” The duke sighed, rubbing his forehead wearily. “I believe you to be an intelligent, responsible young man at heart, Alexander, but you are frittering your life away. And I cannot stand by and do nothing any longer.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“I have already done it. I have written to a lady who was a close friend of your mother’s, a Lady Elizabeth Smithfield. Your mother and she had fond hopes that you would one day marry Lady Smithfield’s daughter Lydia. Well, the day has come. I proposed that in thirty days, unless she had an objection, the notice of her daughter’s betrothal to my son would appear in the Morning Post . Lady Smithfield probably received the letter this very morning.”

Alexander was momentarily speechless. The gall of his father’s action infuriated him. He was not a child, however childishly he had behaved in the past, and he would not be dictated to. “I am very appreciative of the honor you do me, sir, but I am afraid I must refuse your very flattering proposal,” he said through clenched jaws.