“One has got five children. The other was indeed a love match,” she said.
“Fivechildren?” Good lord, he couldn’t imagine the chaos of adding five more children to a household already in shambles. Five more little ones to cower away from him, to terrorize with his very presence.
“That’s a no?” Charity asked. “If your purpose is to get an heir, I should think the lady has proved her value there.”
“Motherwants an heir,” he said. “I don’t particularly care one way or another. I’ll consider her, if no one else suits. But the love match—thatisa no. I’d prefer a bride who is heart-whole. I haven’t a prayer of winning a heart already engaged.” Even if its prior owner was deceased.
“I think you give yourself too little credit,” she said. “But even so, that’s enough to begin with. Now—ballroom conversation.”
Anthony bit back a groan. “What does one speak of on a ballroom floor? The weather?”
“To begin with,” Charity said. “Naturally, you cannot flirt overtly with a woman you have only just met. Especially a lady. But you might remark upon the weather, if it has been fair—”
“This is London. The weather is never fair.”
“Or commiserate with her over it, if it has not,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “You might entertain her with something of interest from the morning’s newspaper, or else recommend to her a book you have recently enjoyed.”
“Should I ask her no questions of herself?”
“Of course you should, but it is a dance, not an inquisition. Even though you are seeking a duchess, you will not want to give her the impression that she is auditioning for the roleso publicly. You may, of course, remark upon your interests to ascertain whether she shares them, and inquire after her own.” Charity cleared her throat, inclined her head. “If, at the end of the dance, the conversation has been agreeable, you will ask if you might call upon her in the future.”
“She might refuse.”
“She might. That is the risk one takes in such circumstances. If she invites you to pay a call, you must bring a small gift. Sweets, perhaps, or a book from your library. Poetry is a popular choice. Whatever you choose must not be too personal, you understand. And even if she should refuse a call, it would be prudent to send flowers the following day and a short note to thank her for the dance.” As she drew them to a halt once more, she patted his arm reassuringly. “Fret not,” she said. “Any visit should be limited to no more than a quarter of an hour. You can make conversation for that long.”
“Can I?”
“You have been. And any lady who has been raised properly can carry a conversation on her own.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “That’s enough dancing for one evening, I think,” she said. “Back to your study, hm? I have got the name of the woman who very well may be your future duchess.”
∞∞∞
Lady Cecily Wainwright.The woman he was meant to court. Anthony had her name upon a scrap of paper in his hand, rendered in Charity’s elegant script, and he felt…nothing. Not anticipation, not anxiety. Just—nothing.
“She’s a bit older that the usual woman on the marriage mart,” Charity said as she waited with him in foyer for Redding to return her pelisse. “I’m given to understand that her father—the late Earl of Avesbury—was stricken with some illness just before she was meant to have made her come-out in society. She cared for him at their country estate for several years, and mourned for the appropriate period when he passed on.”
A woman of compassion, then, and with a healthy appreciation for family and duty. Anthony supposed he should have been pleased. It boded well for him, that caring and devoted behavior which Charity extolled. That her friends had vouched for the woman’s kindness and consideration promised better still.
But he feltnothing. Perhaps that would change when he met the woman. Would she laugh if he happened to step upon the hem of her skirt? Carry on dancing as if a tear in her gown hadn’t bothered her a whit?
“She comes with an astronomical dowry,” Charity continued, “so you may at least be certain that she has no particular need to marry well. She can well afford to marry where she pleases, and at her age, she cannot be compelled to do otherwise.”
“How old is she?” he asked.
“Thirty, or thereabouts,” Charity said.
So not too young, then. Old enough to know her own mind, to make her own choices.
“She is quite attractive,” Charity said. “I can vouch for that myself; I’ve caught a glimpse of her a time or two. Beautiful blond hair; lovely figure.” A brief hesitation. “You may have some competition, as she is something of an heiress. But I am assured that you won’t be competing on the basis of your appearance, nor on the prestige of your title. A woman of independent means loses much when she marries. Her choice will depend upon whether you will enrich her life rather than restrict it. She will wed the man who wins her trust and affection—or not at all. That puts you at the advantage.”
“How so?”
She gave a small, tight smile. The smile of a woman all too knowledgeable. “Men too often convince themselves that a lady of a certain age must needs be desperate to be wed. But Lady Cecily is the furthest thing from desperate. She will be neither fooled nor impressed by gentlemen who press their suits upon her disingenuously, who might insinuate that she ought to be grateful for their attentions. Those gentlemen who approach her in such a spirit will strike themselves as suitable matches straight off.” Redding returned at last, offering the pelisse to her with a bow. Charity shrugged into it one arm at a time and began the tedious process of fastening the buttons over the ruins Anthony had made of her skirt. “Four days hence, you’ll attend the Worthington ball. Lady Cecily will certainly be present. You’ll gain an introduction, and if you like her, we will determine how to proceed.”
“Four days?” Anthony’s stomach pitched and rolled. “But I haven’t sent a response. It’s far too late—”
“Not for a duke,” she quipped.
“I can only manage a waltz.”
