Liz Fielding: A Suitable Groom

‘It’s an interesting question, Miss Grant,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Maybe, like the best wines, they need a little extra time to mature.’

The touch of irony was not lost on her, and for just a moment he thought he detected the faintest blush colour her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear. That was tactless of me, wasn’t it?’

‘Probably,’ he agreed easily. ‘But illuminating. Tell me, is your opinion based on personal experience or simple prejudice?’

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. ‘I refuse to say another word on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.’

‘That’s a pity. I was rather enjoying the conversation.’ And to reassure her, he went on, ‘I have to admit my own pitiful excuse for not coming up to scratch is simply that I’ve been far too busy.’

Her brows shot up. ‘Doing what?’ Then there was that hint of a blush again. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t ask.’

‘Working, raising my sisters. I was dumped in at the deep end when my parents died a year after I graduated.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ And the quick compassion in her eyes told him that she wasn’t simply being polite. ‘My own father died when I was at university. I still miss him. So does my mother. They were, I think, the most perfectly happy couple—always together.’

‘Mine too. And they died together, too. I don’t think either one of them would have been capable of living without the other.’ It was the kind of love that seemed to strike every member of his family sooner or later. He wasn’t sure whether he welcomed the idea of it happening to him or dreaded it, and in a sudden flash of insight he wondered if maybe, after all, that was why he had so assiduously avoided all the marriage lures thrown in his path during the years. Then he realised that Veronica Grant was waiting for him to continue. ‘Unfortunately my father had no interest in business, or anything very much except my mother. Kavanagh Industries was in comfortable decline, everyone too cosy to institute the painful process of bringing it up to date; the family estate was in much the same situation, and I had two considerably younger sisters to distract me should I ever find myself with five minutes to spare.’ Not that he hadn’t had his moments. But he’d never allowed things to progress to anything deeper, more involving. Never even been tempted.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Veronica said, ‘Work can take over.’

‘And teenage angst is not conducive to romance,’ he continued with relief. ‘Either Poppy or Dora always seemed to have some crisis …’ And they had always come first. While he had been talking, he had been toying with his breakfast. Now he straightened and looked at her. ‘Why are you still on the marriage market, Miss Grant?’

Having bared his own soul for her curiosity, he decided it was perfectly reasonable to expect her to do the same for his, and she did not appear to object. Yet she regarded him levelly for a moment, as if wondering whether he was really interested, or simply passing the time. ‘I’m not on the marriage market, Mr Kavanagh. I told you, I’m not wife material.’

‘You’ve never even come close since the earl?’

‘Have you?’ she demanded.

Fergus sat back. ‘I apologise. It was impertinent of me to ask.’

She seemed to take a moment, gather herself. ‘No, Mr Kavanagh, I’m sorry for snapping. You see, most people don’t dare bring up the subject.’ She took a bite of her toast. ‘I’m considered rather formidable,’ she confided. ‘Except, of course, by my mother, who is formidable with a capital F. She believes that marriage is the only suitable occupation for a lady.’

‘She’s a bit old-fashioned?’

‘Positively prehistoric.’

‘Perhaps you should have just sent your regrets to your cousin, along with your best wishes,’ he suggested. An option not open to him. ‘Attendance isn’t compulsory if you’re not one of the major players.’

‘On the contrary, in my family we expect a full turn-out for dress occasions. Weddings, christenings, special anniversaries—’

‘Funerals?’

‘Those too.

‘And I’m very fond of Fliss. I couldn’t miss her big day. Besides, if I didn’t go, people would think I was sulking.’

‘Because of the biological clock ticking away in your ear?’

There was a pause, brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. ‘I don’t think my biological clock ever got wound up,’ she said.

Fergus regarded her thoughtfully. ‘So why does it matter what people think?’ She didn’t strike him as a woman who lived in awe of either her mother or other’s opinions, but she gave the smallest of sighs.

‘It doesn’t, to me. But to my mother …’ She lifted her shoulders a fraction. ‘And I do love her, even when she’s being absolutely impossible.’

He could understand that. He loved Poppy and Dora, and they were impossible most of the time.

‘You said it: weddings are hell.’ He forked up a little of one of the kippers. ‘Couldn’t you take along an escort as protective colouring?’ he suggested, after a moment. Dora had put ‘and partner’ on invitations to people whose relationships were informal or uncertain. ‘There must be someone you know, work with, perhaps, you could have asked along?’

‘I thought about it, but I couldn’t find anyone who would do.’ She glanced up. ‘Women have to be so careful when they’re in business. It’s so easy for motives to be … misunderstood. Besides, all the nicest men I know are married.’ She concentrated on her egg for a while and he, too, gave his breakfast his undivided attention. Well, almost undivided attention. Veronica Grant was not a presence it would ever be possible to totally ignore. ‘I actually did consider hiring someone,’ she said, after a while.

‘Hiring someone? Are wedding guest agencies listed in the Yellow Pages ?’ If so, he might be tempted to use their services himself.

‘No, but escort agencies are.’ She saw his expression and shook her head. ‘Not that kind of escort agency. There’s one which provides well-groomed men who are guaranteed to know which fork to use and not to flirt with your best friend.’

‘Is that important?’

‘The fork or the flirting?’ she enquired.

‘Both.’

‘Absolutely vital if you want to provoke envy. A friend of mine hired an escort when she had been invited to a rather grand party at which she knew her ex-husband would be appearing with his new trophy wife. She said it was worth the fee just to see his jaw drop when she waltzed in with this dishy man who was at least five years her junior. He could dance, too. The escort. A skill her ex had never been able to master. The trophy wife actually flirted with him .’

‘A perfect result, then.’

‘A-plus,’ she agreed. ‘And at the end of the evening it was a quick shake of the hand, a cheque in an envelope and goodnight. No strings. No complications.’

‘It’s an interesting idea.’

‘I have to admit that I was sorely tempted. They have an Italian count on their books whom I thought might be rather fun.’

‘That’s a terrible idea,’ he said, truly hating the thought of her hiring some dreadful gigolo type. Then, because she was looking at him rather oddly, ‘Your mother doesn’t sound like the kind of woman to be impressed by a fake Italian count.’

‘Who said he was fake? Impoverished European aristocrats have to eat too, you know. But you’re right. I’m afraid a good-looking toy boy simply wouldn’t cut the mustard on this occasion. I need someone who would give the appearance of being a serious contender. Someone like you, Mr Kavanagh.’ She picked up her cup, sipped her tea and then replaced her cup carefully on the saucer before looking him straight in the eye. ‘Which is why I bribed Peter to put you at my table.’