Candace Camp - The Bridal Quest

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Francesca replied quickly.

“Though I scarcely see how you can manage to marry him off, when all our best efforts have failed,” Lady Odelia went on. “But Rochford assured me that you were best person for the task,” the older woman added.

“Really?” Francesca glanced with some surprise at Lord Rochford.

“Yes,” he answered, and he leaned forward, his face serious. “I hope that you will be able to find the right person for Gideon. The man has suffered quite enough already in his life. He deserves some happiness.”

His black eyes were intent upon her face. Francesca had wondered how Lady Odelia had trapped Rochford into accompanying her on this errand, but she saw now that the duke was here out of a real concern for Lord Radbourne. Unlike his great-aunt, he seemed to hope that Francesca would come up with a wife for Gideon not to please the family, but to help the man.

“If you could come to Radbourne Hall and meet Gideon, see what he is really like, I think that you could find the right woman for him,” the duke went on.

“I see.” Francesca felt strangely touched. Before this, she would have said that he thought her matchmaking efforts were at best harmless foolishness.

“That is precisely the thing,” Lady Odelia agreed. “You must come to the Hall and meet him. Then you’ll understand. And perhaps you might be able to polish him up a bit before he actually meets any of the girls you choose. Whatever else anyone might say about you, your manners are always impeccable.”

“Why, thank you,” Francesca responded drily. “But I am not sure whether I should do this. Whether I can…”

She looked at Lady Odelia, imposing in her outdated purple satin dress and towering hair. Francesca did not relish the idea of dealing with Lady Odelia on a daily basis. She had little doubt but that the woman would poke her nose into everything that Francesca did, questioning and quibbling at every turn. Moreover, Lord Radbourne did not sound like a very pleasant person to deal with, either. And what if she would have to deal with the duke, as well?

Francesca stole a glance at him. Things never went smoothly with Rochford.

Her instinct was to refuse to do what Lady Odelia asked. But on the other hand, Francesca could not help but think that it would be foolish to do so. After all, had she not just been wondering how she would survive until next spring? This seemed the answer to her problems. Lady Odelia, she knew, would reward her with a handsome gift if she managed to pull off the feat of marrying her great-nephew to an acceptable woman. And if she were living at the Hall, her own expenses would be decreased quite considerably.

Besides, there was the way the duke had asked for her help with finding Gideon a wife. How could she refuse?

“Very well,” she said. “I will do what I can.”

“Excellent!” Lady Odelia nodded her head sharply. “Rochford said we could count on you.”

“He did?” Francesca glanced at the duke in surprise.

“Of course,” he responded with that slow, sardonic smile that rarely failed to irritate her. “I knew you could not resist something so clearly doomed to failure.”

“Now,” Lady Odelia said, “we can get down to details. She must be a biddable girl, of course, who is aware of her responsibilities to her family. It will not do to find one who will get her back up at the slightest suggestion.”

In other words, Francesca thought, someone whom Lady Odelia could bend to her will.

“She must be able to wield a beneficial influence over Gideon.”

Meaning that she must be able to bend her husband to her will, Francesca interpreted.

“And well-educated, though not, of course, a bluestocking.”

“Naturally,” Francesca murmured.

Lady Odelia continued to list the many qualities she sought in a wife for her great-nephew, a large number of which were contradictory, and Francesca smiled and nodded politely, though her mind was busy elsewhere. She was more interested in reviewing the unmarried women of the ton in the hopes of finding a few who would be suitable—and willing—to attach themselves to the new Earl of Radbourne than she was in hearing Lady Odelia’s opinions on the matter. Clearly Lady Odelia had been unable to come up with the right lady, so Francesca saw little point in being guided by her wishes.

Having finally ground to a halt regarding the qualities she felt necessary in the future Countess of Radbourne, Lady Odelia launched into a list of possible candidates. “You might start with Lord Hurley’s daughter. Good name. And a steady sort. Not one to get up in the boughs over every little thing.”

A pained look crossed the duke’s face. “Aunt Odelia,” he remonstrated, “the woman’s horse mad.”

Lady Odelia turned a blank look on him. “Of course. She’s Hurley’s offspring.”

“But Gideon scarcely rides.”

Lady Odelia rolled her eyes. “Well, he scarcely needs a wife who’ll be forever in his pocket, does he? It isn’t as if we are talking about a love match.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?” the duke murmured.

Before Lady Odelia could continue her roster of available girls, the parlor maid once again appeared at the doorway, bobbing a curtsey.

“The Earl of Radbourne, my lady,” she announced.

Even Lady Odelia fell silent at her words. As the three occupants of the room turned to stare, a man strode past the maid into the room.

“Gideon!” Lady Odelia exclaimed, looking astonished.

Francesca studied her visitor with interest. She did not know what she had expected the lost heir to look like, but this man was not it. She supposed that she had assumed he would be rather bumbling and ill at ease, an obvious fish out of water.

This man appeared about as ill at ease as a slab of marble. Though less tall than the lean and elegant duke, Lord Radbourne gave the impression of being a larger man. He was powerfully built, with a wide chest and muscular arms. His solid body was packed into a well-cut but plain black suit and mirror-polished boots, and he gave off an aura of wealth and strength.

Yet despite the expensive clothes and his air of confidence, there was some indefinable quality about him that hinted that he was not a gentleman. It was perhaps his thick black hair, worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and carelessly combed back. Or the hard set of his handsome face, tanner than that of most gentlemen. But no, Francesca thought, the difference lay in his eyes—cold and slightly wary, looking out on the world with the hard readiness that bespoke a life spent on the streets rather than in the lap of luxury.

When he opened his mouth, the impression that he did not belong among the aristocracy was confirmed. His grammar was correct, and only the merest tinge of an East End accent clung to his words, but there was some quality in his speech that would have hinted to any astute listener that he was not “to the manor born.”

“Lady Odelia.” Gideon nodded shortly to his great-aunt; then his gaze swept dispassionately across to the duke. “Rochford.”

“Radbourne,” Rochford replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“No doubt.” Gideon’s voice was dry. He turned next to Francesca, executing a brief but serviceable bow. “My lady.”

Francesca rose, holding out her hand to him. “My lord. Please, join us.”

He nodded to her and walked across the room to take a chair just past where Lady Odelia sat. “Well, Aunt,” he began in a flat voice. “I presume you are once again engaged in arranging my life for me.”

Lady Odelia’s chin went up, and she looked back at Gideon somewhat defiantly. Francesca realized, with some amazement, that the intimidating Lady Pencully was actually a trifle afraid of this man.