Lady Sarah Milton was quite certain her mother
would not be sitting here in Lady Landis’s parlor, paying a morning
call and for all the world appearing to be on the best of terms with
the odious woman if said woman were not the mother of a Most
Eligible Matrimonial Prospect. Indeed, Sarah herself could not
remember a time when that son, Alfred Wickham, had not been
responsible for a prodigious fluttering in her own chest on the rare
occasions when she beheld his tall, handsome presence at Almack’s.
On each of these occurrences, she had prayed he
would take notice of her and do her the goodness of asking her to
stand up with him. But Alfred Wickham was not attracted to the
debutantes at Almack’s. Only the obligation of dancing with his
sister or his cousin, now the Duchess of Radcliff, had forced him to
those assembly rooms. The indulged only son and heir of the wealthy
Viscount Landis not only had no interest in respectable young
ladies, it was said he dallied with women of the worst sort—when he
wasn’t thoroughly absorbed with sporting pursuits of every manner.
Alfred Wickham attended the race meetings at
Newmarket. He engaged in high-stakes play at White’s. And Lady
Landis’s son was sure to be at the center of any gathering of
cheering men wagering on an outcome, whether it be pugilists engaged
in fisticuffs or a pair of cocks tearing into each other,
blood-tinged feathers flying. The newspapers were full of Alfred
Wickham’s exploits.
“My dear Lady Landis,” Sarah’s mother said, “it
must be nearing your daughter’s time. Your first grandchild, is it
not?”
A satisfied smile swept over their hostess’s
face. “Yes. Any day now. The earl is, quite naturally, hoping for an
heir.”
Lady Babington nodded. “But as you and I know,
daughters can be most dear and such a comfort.”
“Indeed. I will be with my dear Em at
Christmas. We might even have a Christmas babe!”
She flicked a gaze at Sarah, then looked back
at that young woman’s mother. “I am so gratified you and your
beautiful daughter have honored me today, Lady Babington.” Lady
Landis handed her a delicate porcelain cup resting on an
eggshell-thin saucer. Then her gaze settled on Sarah.
Lady Landis must have been a beauty when she
was a young woman. She was still lovely. Alfred had gotten his
height from his statuesque mother, but he did not inherit her auburn
hair. His dark hair had come from his father. Sarah had never before
considered Lady Landis’s beauty, likely because of the woman’s
abrasive personality. Lady Landis dismissed anyone who wasn’t
titled. Because Sarah’s father was an earl, Lady Landis had always
groveled in her mother’s presence and had been exceedingly
solicitous of Sarah.
“Since you came out, my dear Lady Sarah,” their
hostess said, pausing and lowering her brows. “How many years ago
was that now?”
Most young women who had been out as long as
Sarah without attracting a husband would be embarrassed to admit how
long it was, but Sarah was not. She had received many offers of
marriage, but none of the men had appealed to her in that special
way. As she sat here in Alfred Wickham’s home she found herself
wondering if she would have looked favorably upon an offer from him.
It was difficult to say since she had never spoken to him. But the
very notion sent her heartbeat thumping. “I was seventeen when I was
presented. I am two-and-twenty now.”
Mama’s face screwed up with distaste. “My
daughter is very discriminating. Too discriminating. She’s turned
down countless offers—one from a marquess even. I keep telling her
if she continues being so particular she’ll find herself a hopeless
spinster who’s lost her beauty.”
Lady Landis shook her head. “I cannot image the
lovely Lady Sarah ever losing her beauty.” Her gaze returned to
Sarah. “As I was saying, from the day you came out, I told myself,
that’s the girl for my Alfred.”
Sarah felt as if the breath were trapped in her
chest. If she were called upon to respond, she was not sure she
could summon her voice. Alfred Wickham and her? Just putting voice
to such a dream set her heartbeat racing. Lady Landis suddenly
became Sarah’s ally.
“Of course, at that time my dear boy was not
interested in settling down, but it’s time Alfred began thinking
about . . . well, it’s time he grow up. He’s thirty now, you know.
One cannot live one’s life solely for sport.”
Did his mother not know about the opera
dancers? Her Alfred was not a little boy any more.
Lady Landis continued smiling at Sarah. Was
Sarah supposed to respond? Oh, dear. She cleared her throat. “I’m
greatly flattered, my lady. I do believe, though, your son might
wish to weigh in on a topic so close to his own future. You see, we
don’t know each other. I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced,
and I’m quite certain we’ve never spoken.”
“Oh, but our families are close. I’ve always
known that when the time came, you would be the perfect wife for
Alfred. The Babingtons are the best kind of people, and quite
frankly, only a beauty would do for someone as handsome as my boy.
You’re the prettiest of all the peers’ daughters. And I have the
perfect plan to acquaint you and my dear boy.”
Wife. Sarah’s heart raced. Her brows
shot up.
Lady Babington’s brows lowered.
Both ladies watched Lady Landis with their
breaths held.
Lady Landis’s coy smile fanned from Lady
Babington to her daughter. “Our whole family—including my daughter,
the Countess of Dunsford—will be spending Christmas with our dear
niece, the Duchess of Radcliff, at their country home, and the
duchess has extended the invitation to your family. Oh, do say
you’ll come. It will be smashing fun. The duke’s great friend Mr.
Twickingham will be there, too, and he’s terribly amusing.”
Sarah’s gaze swung to her mother. To her
astonishment—since she knew her mother did not admire Lady
Landis—her mother said, “What a wonderful Christmas it would be! Our
own country house is undergoing renovations, and I was so dreading
spending Christmas in London. I’ve heard that the Duke of Radcliff’s
Hedley Hall is magnificent.” Mama eyed Sarah. “Of course, if Sarah
is opposed to the idea, we need not go.”
Sarah did not answer for a moment. “I am not
opposed to spending Christmas at Hedley Hall.” Though she could not
bring herself to say it, she was not opposed to an alliance between
herself and the handsome Alfred Wickham, either.
Lady Landis clapped her bejeweled hands and
smiled gleefully. “Wonderful.”
“But,” Sarah added, “I will have no part in
entrapping your son into matrimony.”
“Oh, but my dear Lady Sarah,” Alfred’s mother
said, “leave that to me. You need only be your beautiful self. I
feel it in my bones. When Alfred is removed from all those wicked
sporting influences and sees your loveliness, he will be snared by
Cupid’s arrow.” The lady’s face went solemn. Her eyes narrowed. “I
do hope you’re not offended by this whole idea. Could you be
attracted to my boy?”
Lady Landis was no fool. She knew very well how
attractive Alfred was to females of five to fifty.
“If your boy were attracted to me, I daresay I
could find him . . . most promising.”
* * *
Lord Hugh Pottinger looked up from White’s faro
table at his best friend. “I say,Wick, why in devil have you not
taken off your coat and muffler? You’re getting snowflakes
everywhere.”
His friend effected an angry face. “Because I’m
not staying. Come, Potts. I need you.”
Pottinger sighed. It went against his placid
nature to defy his friend. It had been that way ever since they’d
been together at Eton. Always, he’d done Alfred’s bidding, and for
that, Alfred deeply valued this man’s friendship. It was really
beastly the way he took advantage of Potts’s unwavering loyalty, but
there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Potts.
Frowning, Potts got up from the gaming table.
“What’s so bloody urgent?”
“I need you. My coach is waiting. I’ll explain
there.”
Pottinger gathered up his coat, hat, and
muffler and bundled up against the December chill before leaving
their club. Alfred directed his coachman to take them to Pottinger
House on Piccadilly.
“Why are we going to my house? The night’s
young.”
“Because you’re going to be packing. Or you’re
going to instruct your man to pack.”
“Pack for what?”
“I need you to come with me to Radcliff’s
Hedley Hall for Christmas.”
“But I don’t precisely know Radcliff. Why
should I spend Christmas at his house?”
“Because I’m going to be there. I don’t want
you to be all alone at Christmas.”
Potts pursed his lips. “Since when did it
matter to you how I spend my Christmas?”
“Ever since your father died, I’ve been greatly
concerned about you being alone at Christmas—what with your brothers
off fighting in the Peninsula and in the Royal Navy and your sisters
living in the Great Beyond.”
“Now see here, Wick. If you’re so adamant that
I come, there’s got to be a compelling reason, a reason that
benefits Alfred Wickham. Now spill it, dear friend.”
“First and foremost, I cannot tolerate two
weeks at a country home filled with couples wallowing in marital
bliss.”
Potts shuddered. “Know how much you dislike the
notion of marital anything.”
His friend did most thoroughly understand him.
“That’s why I need you there with me.”
“Well, since you put it that way. Might as
well.” Potts shrugged. “No fun spending Christmas in the city all by
one’s self.”
“There is one other matter. . .”
Potts drew a deep breath. “I knew it!”
“It’s just a small thing. You see, my mother’s
got a bee in her bonnet about marrying me off.”
Potts’s eyes grew large, then he burst into
laughter. Loud, explosive laughter.
“It’s not remotely funny.”
As the coach stopped in front of the Pottinger
baronial mansion, Potts finally managed to curtail his merriment,
turn to his friend, and ask. “Does your mother not understand your
extreme aversion to parson’s mousetrap?”
Alfred frowned. “I think it’s Papa. He’s
devilishly angry about my gambling losses. He says if I were a
responsible married man, I wouldn’t keep acting like a youth just
down from Oxford. Then when he goes off on one of his tangents like
that, Mama pops up with her praise of some earl’s daughter. Says
she’s known for years this is THE very girl for me.”
“Pray, who is she?”
“Name’s Lady Sarah Milton. Can’t say that I’ve
ever met her—though there was a Milton fellow with us at Eton . . .”
“Yes. A Year ahead of us, Lord John Milton. I
believe he’s been serving in the Peninsula for some time now.”
“Me either, though I’ve heard the name.”
The coachman opened the door, and Potts
disembarked first.
Just as Alfred was stepping down, Potts whirled
around. “Now that I think about it, I remember something else about
Lady Sarah Milton!”
“Pray tell, why?”
“That’s the girl who broke poor Fox’s heart.
Remember how he kept praising her beauty?”
“That’s the one?”
Potts nodded. “Fox was determined to marry her,
but she turned him down, along with his sixty thousand a year and
the chance to be a marchioness.”
“Then it may be my good fortune that the lady
must be holding out for a duke.”
“But I’ll lay you ten to one she’s a great
beauty. Maybe you will fall in love with her.”
Now it was Alfred who laughed heartily. “Have
you ever known me to be enamored of a well-bred lady?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
A footman in turquoise livery opened the door
for the two men.
“If I recall, it’s been at least four years
since Fox was smitten,” Alfred said. “If the lady’s still unmarried,
I cannot believe she’s any worthy prize.”
“There is that,” Lord Pottinger conceded.
“And even if she were a great beauty, you know
I don’t want to be trapped in marriage. Not until I’m much older.”
Potts sighed. “Remember when we used to think
thirty was ancient?”
Alfred smiled. “And now I think of it as the
prime of life. Think of how many more opera dancers and actresses
there are out there.”
“Not to mention Italian contessas.” Potts had
recently had an affaire de coeur with a beautiful Italian
widow.
One thing both men had in common: neither had
ever fancied himself in love with a respectable young Englishwoman.
As they climbed the stairs to Potts’s
bedchamber, Potts turned back. “Has it occurred to you the lady
might fall in love with you? You know, most woman do seem to be
affected by you in that way.”
“That’s why you’re coming with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
They had reached the second-flood landing and
turned toward the baron’s bedchamber.
“You have to convince her that an alliance with
me would be disastrous.”
“Why would that be?”
“You will need to make the lady aware of all my
wretched habits.”
“Tell her about your long-running losing streak
in the betting book at White’s?”
“Yes.”
“And about how you’ll just take off to
Newmarket whenever the mood strikes, even if there’s an important
vote in Parliament?’
“Yes, that too.”
As they entered Potts’s bedchamber, Alfred’s
brows lowered. “I thought you were going to redecorate this chamber
after your father died. With all this crimson and gilt, it looks
like a bloody brothel.”
Potts shrugged. “I kept meaning to, but you
know I’m hopeless with things like that. What colour would you
suggest?”
“You ask me about colour when my very freedom’s
at stake? How should I know about colour? It’s not exactly in my
line of expertise. There are, though, men at White’s who are noted
tastemakers. I daresay you should consult one of them.”
“That’s the very thing! I shall.” Potts tossed
his hat and gloves on a silk settee of faded red. “Now as to those
wretched habits you wish me to apprise Lady Sarah of . . . do you
want me to tell her how you fence at Angelo’s without a mask so
she’ll be aware that your handsome face could become mutilated—or
you could be blinded when your eyes are gouged out?”
“Of course. That should thoroughly repulse the
lady.”
“What else?”
“You could tell her I have an understanding
with a beautiful actress on the London stage.”
Potts’s brows hiked. “I thought I knew
everything about you! How could you keep something like this from
me? What’s her name?”
“Whose name?
“The actress with whom you have an
understanding.”
“Don’t be such a fool. I have no understanding
with any woman, nor do I plan to have an understanding with any
woman.”