Dorothy Elbury - A Marriageable Miss

‘It would seem your ladyships have been badly misled,’ Richard said.

‘Whilst it is perfectly true that I was obliged to eject Lord Barrington from the room rather forcibly,’ he continued, ‘I consider that my actions were wholly justified. Far from molesting this young lady, as his lordship suggested, I was in the process of proposing marriage to her!’

Steeling himself to ignore the barely concealed gasp of dismay from behind him, he then added, ‘As Miss Wheatley will no doubt be prepared to confirm, should you care to ask her.’

He stepped aside to reveal the scarlet-faced and somewhat dishevelled-looking Helena who, having listened to his astounding claim with mounting alarm, now found herself so utterly taken aback that she was incapable of speech.

‘Miss Wheatley?’

Taking her unresisting hand in his, Richard summoned up a smile of encouragement and said, ‘It would seem that our little secret is out, my love. Perhaps you would care to explain to their ladyships the true purpose of our clandestine rendezvous?’

Dorothy Elburylives in a quiet Lincolnshire village—an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She has been married to her husband for fifty years (it was love at first sight, of course!), and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.

Recent novels by the same author:

A HASTY BETROTHAL

THE VISCOUNT’S SECRET

THE OFFICER AND THE LADY

AN UNCONVENTIONAL MISS

THE MAJOR AND THE COUNTRY MISS

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For Dodie B, Jojobub and Tom Bloggs, with love.

Tossing aside yet another polite reminder of a still unpaid account, Richard Standish, now 6th Earl of Markfield, leaned back in his chair and stretched his aching limbs, wearily surveying the mounting pile of similar requests on the desk in front of him.

It hardly seemed possible that a mere six months had elapsed since his cousin Simon’s fatal accident, as a consequence of which, Standish had unexpectedly and, most reluctantly, found himself in possession of the ancient title. Having resigned his commission the previous year, following Napoleon’s decisive defeat at Waterloo, the ex-dragoon major had returned home to his own small estate, fully intent on realising a long-held aspiration to revive the Standish Stud which, in his grandfather’s day, had been highly regarded in horse-breeding circles.

Unfortunately, his sudden acquisition of Markfield’s vast acreage, along with its accompanying tenant farms and labourers’ cottages, had very quickly put a brake on his purchasing powers, owing to the numerous calls on his rapidly diminishing funds. Not that the expense of the estate itself was in any way responsible for his present financial crisis since, thanks to the competent management of his late grandfather’s land agent, Ben Hollis who, for the past fifteen years or so, had been allowed a more-or-less free hand in the running of the place, this concern was largely self-supporting.

The real headache, from the new earl’s point of view, was the appallingly run-down state of Markfield Hall, the family mansion house, which had been built to celebrate Sir Edmund Markfield’s elevation to the peerage in 1698. In its prime, the Hall had been much revered as an outstanding example of classical architecture but, due to severe neglect on the part of the 4th earl, the late Simon Standish’s father, two of the chimney stacks were now dangerously unstable, several parts of the roof were open to the elements and rain had caused considerable damage to much of the Hall’s fine oak panelling.

Following Simon Standish’s untimely death, the newly ennobled Richard had been appalled to discover how carelessly the previous two occupants had treated the magnificent old mansion house. Not that he had any real desire to take up residence there himself, since he much preferred the more modern comforts of his own house at Westpark—which, until his grandfather had made it over to Richard’s father Henry, upon the occasion of his marriage, some thirty years earlier, had originally formed part of the much larger Markfield estate.

Nevertheless, as his grandmother, the dowager countess, had been swift to point out to him, ‘The Hall has always been regarded as a symbol of the family heritage—to simply stand by and watch it crumble into ruins would be an act of pure sacrilege!’

Accordingly, more in deference to his ageing grandmother’s wishes than to his own requirements, Richard had set in motion an extensive refurbishment programme but, since it had then transpired that the estate kitty contained insufficient funds to bear the brunt of the mounting expense, he had found himself obliged to furnish the cost of the operation out of his own pocket. Having already invested most of his capital in setting up his fledgling stud farm, this additional burden on his finances had been more than enough to cause him concern. Added to which, it now seemed that he had seriously underestimated the likely cost of the venture and, as he stared glumly down at the column of figures before him, he could not help thinking that the project was getting to the stage where it could only be likened to some enormous millstone hanging round his neck! Where in Hades he was going to find enough money to finance the spiralling expenditure was proving to be an ever-increasing quandary. He had already been forced to sell off two of his most promising mares, both in foal to the one-time champion Gadfly, and now it was beginning to look as though he might well have to sacrifice his prize-winning stallion, too!

Distracted as he was by the weight of his problems, the distant sound of the front door bell failed to impinge itself upon his consciousness and it was only the opening of his study door some ten minutes later that eventually roused him from his deliberations.

‘Her ladyship has arrived from London, my lord,’ came the sepulchral tones of Kilburn, his butler. ‘She has instructed me to inform you that both she and Mr Standish are awaiting your presence in the drawing room.’

Stifling a groan, Richard laid down his pen and pushed back his chair.

‘Have some tea sent in and tell her ladyship that I will be with her directly,’ he instructed the man as, getting to his feet, he shrugged himself into his jacket and ran his fingers hurriedly through his dishevelled hair. After casting a perfunctory look at his reflection in one of the glass-fronted bookcases at the doorway, he made his way across the hallway into his drawing room, whereupon he was greeted by his grandmother’s ringing tones.

‘Oh, here you are at last, Richard! Charles was just about to come in search of you!’

‘Dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Richard, bending down to kiss the old lady’s surprisingly unlined cheek before turning to acknowledge his cousin. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘We stopped off for a quick bite at the Red Lion in Wimbledon, as usual,’ said Charles, returning his smile. ‘But Grandmama was keen to get on and view the latest improvements—I see they’ve started stripping the roof of the west wing.’