Barbara Metzger (21 page)

“Precisely.”

No, Lady Dorothy would not have been happy in Bath, either.

She could have married, Ian knew, for she had a handsome competence of her own, and a more than generous dowry, which Ian had handed into her keeping when she moved to Richmond. She had received several respectable offers that he was aware of, in the years closer to her come-out, and who knew how many since. Dorothy had claimed that the men who sought her hand in marriage sought that dowry more, and she had refused them all.

To Ian, his sister was a handsome female, tall like the rest of the family, but willowy instead of being a sturdy oak. She had fine brown eyes, chestnut hair, and a well-formed figure. She did, regrettably, have severe scars on her face from a childhood bout with the smallpox.

The fashionable world did not welcome imperfections. Lady Dorothy could not be excluded, of course, not when she was an earl’s daughter and sister, but she could be ignored. Doro had sat on more spindly gilt chairs in her earlier years than most females see in a lifetime. Her mother had kept dragging her to party after party, urging her to smile, to sit up straight, to add another ruffle to her hem, anything to see her daughter wed. Ian had enlisted his friends to dance with her when he was in town, but mostly she sat on the sidelines of every ball. She was disfigured in the eyes of her peers and, worse, opinionated. The other girls were afraid of her and afraid to be seen with her, lest anyone discover they had two thoughts to rub together. Dorothy was a confirmed wallflower, to her mother’s dismay.

By the time Doro reached her twenty-fifth birthday, Lady Marden had developed innumerable conditions and Lady Dorothy had declared herself on the shelf. She put on caps, moved to Richmond, and started trying to change the world.

In Richmond, Ian’s sister was a leading light of local society. She held literary salons, fund-raising dinners, and political debates, with at-home afternoons and public days on the grounds. None of the neighbors turned down her invitations, and she was a welcome guest in every home in the area, from crofter’s cottage to squire’s manor to the mansions of the nobility, when the latter sought the peace of the countryside after the hectic London Season.

She started a series of lectures to teach women how to manage money, and she started a school for adults who wished to learn to read and write. At Ian’s urging, she broadened her interests to conditions in the manufactories, which he was fighting to improve before the ill-used workers started a civil war.

He was happy to have her eyes and ears in the industrial regions, and Doro was happy to be useful—but would that do for Miss Renslow? Not at all, in Ian’s mind.

Not in the minds of others, either, it seemed, for an outcry went up in the drawing room when his sister offered to have Athena come stay with her.

They were waiting for Miss Renslow before dinner, with Lord Rensdale and Carswell invited, too, to make up the numbers and separate the sparring Marden ladies.

Predictably, Ian’s mother was most vocal in her opposition. “Just because you have chosen to live like a nun,” she told her daughter, “that does not mean every woman wants to forego the pleasure of matrimony and motherhood.”

No one had the nerve to ask what pleasure Lady Marden had taken in motherhood, but Ian and his sister exchanged glances.

“Hear, hear,” Rensdale seconded the countess’s comment. “The gal’s reputation is already dicey. Wouldn’t want her known as an eccentric besides.”

Ian wondered if he had to defend his sister’s honor at that, but Carswell came to her rescue. He was dressed to the nines, as usual, even though they were mostly family and old friends. “I see nothing wrong with a strong woman living an independent life, but Miss Renslow’s circumstances are different,” he said, letting his quizzing glass dangle on a ribbon in his hand. “She would be your pensioner, Lady Dorothy, instead of mistress of her own home.”

“A fine home,” Viscount Rensdale added, looking around the vast chamber. “A countess. Can’t sneeze at that.”

Lady Marden could and did, until Ian moved the vase of flowers some idiot had placed on the mantel.

“So should a woman wed,” Dorothy demanded, taking a sip of her wine, “for wealth and position? Will that make her happy?”

“Happier than a poor female going out to work would be, I’d wager,” Carswell countered, bringing the quizzing glass to his eye to inspect a painting on the wall. “Men are married for their titles and women for their dowries every day.”

Rensdale choked on his Madeira, having wed his wife for her father’s money, as everyone in the room knew.

“And that is equally reprehensible. I would not wish my brother married to a fortune hunter.”

Rensdale stopped coughing in time to say, “Here now, my sister is no such thing. Not her fault she landed in this bumblebroth. I say she needs a ring on her finger, not a poker up her—” He coughed again.

“And Ian needs a wife, anyway,” his mother put in. “To ensure the succession. He knows his duty.”

“Bah, what woman wishes to be wed out of duty?”

“A sensible one,” her mother replied. “One who does not want to lead apes through Hell.”

“And it’s a wife’s duty to give a man his heirs,” Rensdale proudly added. “Attie knows the way of it.”

“Don’t you think we ought to let Miss Renslow speak for herself?” Ian asked when his mother and his sister appeared ready to unsheath their claws.

“Right, Marden. I’ll put it to her as soon as she comes.” Rensdale pulled out his pocket watch to check the time.

“No! That is, I will speak to her privately. This is, after all, between us.”

Rensdale held the watch to his ear, then tapped on its face, to see if it was working properly. “Between you two and all of London, from what I heard in the clubs.”

Carswell nodded in confirmation. “Which is precisely why we are here.”

“No young girl can make such a decision on her own,” Ian’s mother informed the gathering. “She needs the guidance of her elders.”

“I disagree. Miss Renslow seems a sensible sort, from the few moments I spoke with her. She can choose for herself,” his sister insisted.

Rensdale started to turn red in the face. “Gals don’t know their own minds. She’ll do what she’s told.”

“A woman is not a servant to be ordered about.”

“Servants do not wed without permission,” Carswell reminded her.

“I say she has no choice!” Rensdale swore.

“The way you were ready to marry her off to that toad, Wiggs?” Carswell wanted to know. “Did she have any choice about that?”

“She isn’t engaged to him, is she?” Rensdale answered, growing redder still, because she would have been, if he’d had his way. Or his wife’s way. “Anyhow, Wiggs wasn’t the one who ruined her.”

No one had any replies to that.

Ian looked at the clock on the mantel and his mother started to grumble about setting dinner back. Carswell announced he was ready to lay odds that Miss Renslow would not come to dinner, not when she was being served up on a platter.

Lady Dorothy swatted him with her fan. “This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Carswell, nor a fit subject for a wager. A woman’s future depends on this decision.”

“And a man’s,” he reminded her. “If he marries the wrong female, he can wind up regretting it every day of his life.”

No one looked at Rensdale, who blustered, “I still say Marden has no choice but to ask.”

They all agreed on that. Even the butler, refilling the glasses, nodded his white-wigged head.

*

They were talking about her, and Athena knew it. She knew it before she reached the partway opened drawing room door and overheard them dissecting her future, carving up her past. The earl hadn’t said much—not since she came to the door, anyway—and that made everything worse, somehow. He should have said she was not ruined, that he had not ruined her, that neither of them was under any obligation. On the other hand, he could have said that he would be delighted to have her as his bride. He hadn’t said anything but that she was too full of pluck to miss dinner.

Athena was not full of anything but dismay. She did not want to go into that room, into dinner with the earl and his family and his best friend—and her brother, who only wanted to get rid of her. She wanted to run back up those marble stairs and sit at her other brother’s bedside, where Troy thought she was just Attie, the same as always, no soiled goods to be wrapped in clean linen for a tidy disposal, or a ball of dust to be swept under the rug.

She was an adult, she wanted to shout, not a child, and not chattel to be handed from an uncaring man to an unwilling one.

Oh, she knew what they were saying, what they were planning, how they could resolve the messy problem that was Athena Renslow. Lady Marden had mentioned the word
grandchildren
with a fond smile, and the word
trousseau
with an even fonder one, showing that she preferred shopping to children, but was eager for both. Then she had turned the subject to her uncertain health, as usual, saying that Marden would do the right thing. He was Lord Marden, not some cabbage-headed caper-merchant, and could someone pass her the cordial?

Spartacus had said something, too, about his lordship being an honorable man. Athena had agreed wholeheartedly, that Marden was the perfect gentleman, until she realized what her brother meant by honorable. Spartacus was not referring to how the earl spoke up for reform in Parliament, how he treated his dependents, and paid his debts. Her brother was implying that he expected Lord Marden to sacrifice himself on the altar of propriety.

Even the maid assigned to help Athena dress spoke of how happy the staff was that Miss Renslow would be staying at Maddox House.

Athena was not. Not happy. Not staying. Not going to marry the earl. How dare they all, from scullery maid to countess, assume that she would accept Lord Marden’s offer, when there was no need for it?

She would refuse, naturally. Of course, she could not refuse an offer that had not yet been made. She could not walk into that drawing room, announce she would rather wed Wiggy, who at least wanted her for her dowry and her connections, than a man who did not want her at all. She had landed on his lordship’s doorstep by happenstance, she wanted to yell at all of them, like a stupid lost cow that wandered onto a neighbor’s field. That did not mean he had to keep her! That did not even mean he
could
keep her.

She was a lady, though, and could not shout, could not stamp her feet, could not turn tail and run away. She stiffened her spine, raised her chin, and shoved the door open the rest of the way. The door bounced against the wall, she had pushed it so hard, and everyone jumped. The butler jostled the bottle of wine he was pouring, which dripped onto Mr. Carswell’s trousers. That gentleman cursed, which caused Lady Dorothy to chide him for being so vain. That made Lady Marden groan, declaring it no wonder that her daughter was still unwed, for no man wanted a sharp-tongued wife. Which made Lord Rensdale, who had in fact married a shrew, take the wine bottle from the butler and pour himself another glass.

“I believe dinner is ready, Miss Renslow,” Lord Marden said, coming forward to offer Athena his arm. He was looking elegant this evening, she thought, as if he had taken more care with his apparel now that his mother and sister were present, and she could not help comparing him to the other gentlemen present. He was larger, of course, but that was not the only reason her eyes kept returning to look at him, after the others managed to greet her.

The earl’s indigo blue coat fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, with his black-striped gray waistcoat showing his flat abdomen, unlike her brother’s waistcoat, which was puffed out and barely buttoned across his spreading paunch, or Mr. Carswell’s, which was embroidered with silver hummingbirds. The earl’s hair was neater than usual, too, she thought, with only one curl falling onto his forehead. Carswell’s hair was pomaded in place and her brother’s was…thinning.

Lord Marden was the only one of them who was not scowling, so Athena smiled at him. He thought she had pluck? She would not disappoint him. They could settle everything later. For now, it was enough that he smiled back at her. At least he did not hate her for placing him in this impossible situation. She did wish that she had fussed more with her hair, but she had lost track of the time, trying to keep Troy abreast of his lessons, for when Mr. Wiggs did come back: Her maid had only been able to gather it up with a ribbon and a few hairpins, which were already coming loose. At least she was wearing her favorite ivory gown and her mother’s pearls, so she did not feel entirely like the country bumpkin she knew she was.

Athena expected the dinner to be awkward and uncomfortable, but everyone was too well-bred for that. Lady Marden, at the head of the table, informed Athena’s brother of every complication she had suffered during her own pregnancies. Lady Dorothy and Carswell sat across from each other and disagreed at length and at volume about extending the vote, Sir Walter Scott’s new work, and which were more clever, dogs or cats. They would have debated whether it was day or night, Athena thought, giving up trying to find a topic that was not controversial.

Lord Marden did not offer any conversation or attempt to mediate between his friend and his sister. Nor did he look at Athena. He only addressed his meal.

Oh, yes, they were all too well mannered to discuss the one subject on everyone’s minds.

Finally Lady Marden rose, after finishing off a hearty meal for such an invalid. The ladies would leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars, she declared, while the women had a comfortable chat in the drawing room.

Athena did not see anything comfortable in listening to Lady Marden haranguing her daughter about failing once more to make herself agreeable to a gentleman, or Lady Dorothy’s remonstrations that if her mother ate less, she would not suffer so many digestive complaints. Before they could turn their attention to her, Athena decided to excuse herself. Her brother—her younger brother—had been alone too long, she told the two older women. Troy was used to their reading together before bed, which helped him relax so he did not need as much laudanum.