His four sisters descending upon London to assist him with his matrimonial goals was a prospect he would prefer to avoid. And it wasn’t necessary, in any case, since he had already found a young lady who perfectly fit his requirements. Still, he intended to keep mum about that for as long as possible.
Winning the hand of the beautiful and beguiling Lady Helen Maybridge would not be easy, even for a man of his position and wealth, and he didn’t want to jinx his chances. Helen had taken London by storm during her debut last year, captivating every person who met her, and she was well on her way to repeating that honor again this year. Barely May, and she already had suitors lined up outside her door, including—if the rumors were true—Crown Prince Olaf of some obscure Balkan realm. As a mere duke, Max knew he’d have his work cut out for him, and the last thing he needed was the interference of four well-meaning but nosy sisters. He could just imagine them remarking to Helen at every turn how handsome their brother was and dropping hint after hint as to his intentions.
“That,” he said with a shudder, “is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“So, you don’t want your sisters to know anything about your plans?”
“Can you blame me?” he grumbled. “The last time I was here for the season, my sisters spent half their time searching for husbands—and enlisting my help to do it, much to the dismay and irritation of my unmarried friends. And when they weren’t occupied with their own matrimonial ambitions, they were shoving their friends at me as suitable duchess prospects. All to make sure,” he added with a slight touch of bitterness, “I didn’t make the same mistake twice.”
“They only want what’s best for you and to see you happy.”
“I’m aware of that, and I love them for it. Nonetheless, I prefer to make my marital arrangements without assistance. And,” he added before she could reply, “this time around, I don’t intend passion to be my guide.”
She shook her head, eyeing him with sadness. “Max, we all know Rebecca wasn’t right for you, but that doesn’t mean—”
He cut off that line of reasoning with an exasperated groan. “Must we revisit the ghastly business of my first marriage? Yes, I fell in love with someone completely unsuitable when I was young and stupid, and we both paid the price. But when she left me and ran back to America, it all worked out splendidly, didn’t it? How convenient for us all,” he added, his voice hard, his chest suddenly tight, “that she stepped in front of a carriage a few days before my arrival in New York, saving me from the scandalous choice between using force to drag her home or using her desertion to gain a divorce.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it? I was so mad with passion that I ignored my own judgment, her reluctance, and all warnings of my family and friends, and married a girl completely alien to our way of life, never once considering if she could handle the job. If I am not to blame, who is?”
“In cases such as this, I’m not sure blame is a particularly useful concept, darling. You and Rebecca fell in love. We can’t always help who we fall in love with. It certainly doesn’t mean you can’t fall in love with the right girl this time around.”
“If love happens after the wedding, all very well and I’ll be grateful for it.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
He gave a shrug. “As long as we are well-suited, fond of each other, and aware of our duty, I hardly think it matters.”
“What a sensible approach,” she said so heartily that Max gave her a sharp, searching glance. “I cannot help but wonder, though...if love isn’t part of your criteria, what is?”
“I intend that my wife shall be well prepared to assume her position as Duchess of Westbourne. She will be someone already born and bred for this life, with a full awareness of the responsibilities involved. And if I choose someone who has the same background I do, enjoys the same interests I do, and who possesses an outlook on life compatible with mine, I think our union will be most satisfactory.”
“Well, then, everything is simple, isn’t it?” she said with cheer. “So, why don’t you just save yourself the trouble of a season, and let me arrange your marriage? I’d pick someone perfect for you, I promise.”
He straightened in his chair, feeling a prick of alarm, and he feared he might have to tell her about Helen, but thenshe grinned, and he relaxed again.
“Darling Max,” she said with affection, “I do love ragging you, and I hope by the time I return you’ll have fallen madly in love with just the right girl. But as busy as you’ll be, you will find the time to do that other little favor for me, won’t you?”
“You know I will, though I don’t see why this Harlow woman can’t sort out which of these exotic Eastern recipes she’s uncovered would be best and discuss them with Escoffier herself.”
Delia was shaking her head before he’d even finished speaking. “That won’t do, I’m afraid. Evie’s a darling, and brainy, too—which is what makes her so wonderful at digging up information. But there’s a language barrier, you see. Auguste doesn’t speak English.”
“And she doesn’t speak French?” That surprised him, rather.
“I thought all girls were required to learn French,” he said. “Isn’t it mandatory to a girl’s education?”
She frowned a little. “It’s mandatory in our set, darling. Not in everyone’s.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I didn’t mean to sound like a snob. But you’ve told me nothing about her background except that she owns a bookshop, which, to me, implies a certain level of literary education. I took it for granted that knowing French would be part of that.”
“Oh, EvieknowsFrench well enough. Reading it, writing it...but speaking it?” Delia broke off, making a face. “Listening to her stumble her way through the menus for a French banquet we planned last year was absolutely painful to my ears. As to her background, it’s quite respectable—upper-middle-class family once upon a time, but gone to seed during the last few generations. Her mother died when she was a child, and her father raised her alone in a dingy little flat over the shop, which seems to be the only asset left in the family. And he’s passed on as well, leaving her nothing else. She’s determined to keep the place going, though. I don’t know whether to deem her foolish or admire her pluck.”
“Not much profit in it, I gather?”
“Sadly, no. The building is a valuable piece of property, of course, for it’s right here in the heart of London. If she sold it, she could gain a nice little dowry out of it, but the shop itself earns next to nothing. It’s the sort of place that caters mostly to musty old men who want equally musty first editions no one else has ever heard of. Such a dreary life for a young woman; heaps of hard work, and no time for amusements.”
“She has no family?”
