Читать книгу The Wedding Game - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 9

Chapter One

As they always were at the height of the London Season, Almack’s Assembly Rooms were crowded to the point of overflowing. Amelia Summoner circled the edges of the main room, watching the marriage-minded throng unobserved. It was easy to do when one knew the place and people in it as well as she did.

She had not missed a Wednesday in the three years her family had had vouchers. In that time she had watched three crops of debutantes arrive, parade and depart on the arms of the gentlemen who married them. She had made her own come-out the first year and, after a brief splash, she had sunk through the waters of society, forgotten.

Now she moved about the place like a fish in the deep, invisible until the moment she chose to be otherwise. Unlike other unattached girls of her age, she viewed this more as a freedom than a failure. It was more relaxing to dance, speak or flirt only when one felt moved to do so, instead of obsessing on each social interaction as if it was to be a life-changing event. If one simply wished to watch others, it was much better to be that Summoner girl.

No. Not the pretty one. The other one. The odd one.

After her first few balls, she had known that she was not going to be a major success. She had been classified by the patronesses as an ‘unconventional beauty with an excessively sharp wit’. Any other girl would have been hurt by such a damning compliment. It did not take a bit of Amy’s vaunted intelligence to know that only her desirable family name kept her from being labelled ‘plain and opinionated’. A connection by marriage to Lord Summoner could make a young man’s future, in politics or society. But even those men were hoping for a wife who was conventional in all ways and excessively pretty, rather than excessively sharp.

But it was Amy’s intention to remain just as she was. Thus far, her character had been formed without compromise and she was satisfied with the result. She’d yet to meet a man for whom she was willing to change. In the face of her stubborn refusal to aid in their ambitions by marrying them, even the most stalwart of suitors had given up wooing her ages ago. This Season, if a gentleman wished to dance with her, she knew it was out of pity.

More likely, it was because he wanted to be seen as the nice sort of fellow who bestowed his friendship evenly about the family, and was willing to stand up with her quiz of an older sister if it would make Miss Belle Summoner smile. This year, London buzzed with talk of Lord Summoner’s younger daughter, the most celebrated beauty of the decade. Tonight, as she moved through the crowd, Amy had overheard more than a few men sighing that a single smile from that delicate beauty, Belle, would be worth any sacrifice up to and including being nice to Miss Amelia, the spinster.

No one had dared to try it yet and Amy had no intention of being an easy target for their cheap flattery. She moved through the crush with a purposeful step that hinted a destination in mind and no time for interruption. When she sat, it was in a corner, with her fan raised, scanning the crowd as if looking for someone other than the people in the immediate vicinity. She kept her acquaintance limited, knowing that people would not dare to speak to her without an introduction. If she did not deign to know them, then they could not use her as a conduit to meet Belle.

Since she did not have to waste her time on dancing and idle chatter, she could watch and listen. She heard dozens of conversations without being a part of any of them, while scanning the opposite side of the room to catch those that watched her sister with more than casual interest. If a gentleman in tonight’s crowd was seriously interested in Belle, Amy would know his intentions almost before he did himself. Then she could prepare the proper defence against him. It would take a very special man to make a match with Arabella. No others need apply.

Tonight alone, Amy had catalogued and discounted a dozen prospective suitors. Their intentions did not matter if they lacked sufficient money, manners or station to get around Father’s plans for his daughters. He expected them to marry well, if they married at all. After years of trying to find a husband for Amy, Lord Summoner had declared her too headstrong to wed a man who was not of her own choosing and agreed to let her be.

But Belle...

Amy hid a sigh behind her fan. Belle would be very easily led, by Father or anyone else. It was good that she had a sister to look out for her and keep her from harm.

And it was not as if she did not want Belle to marry and be happy. Though there were many ne’er-do-wells and fortune hunters in London, there were some promising candidates as well. As Amy found them, she scrawled their names on the back of her empty dance card for further investigation. So far, there were fully eight men who might make a good match for Belle. They were neither too young nor too old, at least passably handsome, good tempered, well born and rich, but not high flyers. A union with any of them might result in pleasant rustication for most of the year and not too much strenuous socialising.

After separating sheep from goats in tonight’s field, there was but one man who fit neither category. He was the one Amy found the most worrisome. As she watched Benjamin Lovell, she did not need to hear his words to know that he was shopping for a wife.

Though Mr Lovell might pretend that he had come to London’s most popular marriage mart for a few dances and a light supper, he made too great a show of uninterest to be completely sincere. He stood at the side of the room, feigning boredom to the point of turning his back to the dance floor. But he had positioned himself so that he might gaze in one of the mirrors on the wall to watch and catalogue the females in the room just as carefully as she had been watching the males.

False apathy often proved more dangerous to the hearts and minds of young ladies than active pursuit. In response to his neglect, the gentle sex worked all the harder to get his attention. It was what he sought from them, she was sure. He wished to be the prey, rather than the hunter. It was a bold strategy for a man of uncertain parentage and she admired him for it.

Apparently, the patronesses admired him as well. No amount of money was sufficient to sway them into giving vouchers to a gentleman who was not worthy to marry into the finest families in England. Illegitimacy was a stain that not all men could rise above. But rumour had it that Mr Lovell was the most exclusive sort of bastard.

His Grace the Duke of Cottsmoor had not made a formal acknowledgement of Mr Lovell, but it must have been intended. Before Cottsmoor’s sudden death, Mr Lovell had often been seen in the company of the Duke and his Duchess. They had treated him as family even though they said nothing about his origins. When the Duke, the Duchess and their first born had all been taken by an influenza, Mr Lovell had withdrawn from society for a year, mourning them as lost parents and brother.

His birth and early life were shrouded in secrecy. He had been educated abroad, which raised a few eyebrows from those graduates of Oxford or Cambridge with the most school loyalty. But one could hardly blame Cottsmoor for not sending his bastard to the same school as his heir.

Mr Lovell had lost nothing by his Continental learning. His speech was flawless and no gaps had been found in his knowledge. He was thought intelligent without being didactic, witty without conceit and capable of wise counsel, but able to hold his tongue when his opinion was not required. Because of this, the new Cottsmoor, still too young for university, sometimes came to him for advice in navigating his new role as peer.

If the only flaw was that his noble father had not bothered to marry his mother? After meeting the charming Mr Lovell, society had declared it was hardly any fault at all. In fact, it might even be an advantage. The Duke had left a bequest to see that his natural son was amply provided for. According to gossip, Mr Lovell was turning his inheritance into even more money with smart investments.

But one would not have realised it, without careful observation. He did not call attention to his newly acquired wealth in his dress. His tailoring was impeccable, which made him no different than all the other gentlemen in the room. But the choices of fabric, with the richness of the black coat offsetting a white vest of expensive silk brocade, whispered that he was fashionable, but no dandy.

The buckles on his knee breeches were not overly large or brassy. But when one took the time to notice, one noted their heaviness and the dull gleam of silver. He wore no rings or jewellery other than the fob on his watch and that was all but hidden under his coat front. It only peeped into view when he danced, revealing a heavy gold chain that ended in a shockingly large emerald that winked as if to say, I have money, but the confidence not to flaunt it in public.

His valet had not bothered with a complicated knot for his cravat. It was done up in an Oriental so simple he might have managed it himself. The blinding white accented the sharp, dark line of his jaw. He had the same colouring as the rest of the Cottsmoor line, distinctive dark eyes and hair, and the faint olive cast to the skin. If the young Duke grew to be half as handsome as Mr Lovell, he would not need a title to send ladies scurrying for his approval.

But tonight, it was Mr Lovell who held the attention, of all the girls in the room. Of course, Amy’s fascination was purely academic. She fluttered her fan to cool the sudden heat on her face. She was not doting on the man. She merely needed to assure herself that he was no threat to Belle. If Mr Lovell was unworthy, it did not matter what Lady Jersey thought of him. He would not get so much as an introduction.

But if he was as good as he seemed?

She fanned herself again. If he was capable of being a kind and loving husband who gave as much attention to his wife as he did to his carefully crafted persona, then Amy could not hope for a better match for her sister.

She drifted in his direction, pretending to admire the line of dancers on the floor. Watching such a handsome man should have been pleasing, but there was something about this one that left her uneasy. Benjamin Lovell was too good to be true. Amy could not shake the feeling that his artless perfection was calculated more precisely than the fine watch on the other end of the emerald fob.

A part of her could not blame him. Who amongst them did not wear a mask from time to time? But it would have made more sense, were he poor. If his money was real, as it obviously was, he had no reason to be disingenuous.

With a flutter of her fan she moved closer, then past them to a chair in the corner where the candlelight from the chandeliers could not quite reach. It afforded her an excellent position to see both Mr Lovell and his friend Mr Guy Templeton in quarter-profile as they chatted.

Though the movement was almost imperceptible, Mr Templeton was shifting from foot to foot. Then, with a quick glance to check for observers that missed Amy entirely, he reached down to give his knee breeches a yank on each leg, and shifted again. ‘Damn things keep riding up,’ he muttered to Mr Lovell. ‘It gives a new meaning to Almack’s balls.’

The polite smile on Mr Lovell’s face barely wavered. ‘They are the price of gentility, Templeton. No lady of quality will have you if you cannot stand patiently in formal wear.’

‘They are nothing more than a nuisance,’ he insisted. ‘I wonder, is it necessary to examine our legs before making their purchase, as if we are horseflesh?’

‘Legs and wind,’ Lovell agreed, with a casual gesture toward the dance floor. ‘You had best prove to them you can gallop. With pins like those holding you up, you will not get a woman to take you unless you pad your calves. At the very least, we must get you a better tailor. You wear that suit like it is full of fleas.’

‘Because it itches,’ Templeton agreed. Then he sighed happily. ‘But the girl I’ve got my eye on will have me even so.’

‘She will need to be the most patient creature in London to put up with you,’ Lovell said, ‘if you will not attend to the niceties.’

Not too patient, thought Amy. With a good family, a pleasant face and a full purse, Mr Templeton was near the top of her list for prospective brothers-in-law.

‘Niceties be damned,’ said Templeton under his breath, offering a polite nod to a passing patroness. ‘Old bats like that one insist on breeches, call tea and cake a supper, and do not allow so much as a waltz with a pretty girl. Then they make the introductions, thinking they can decide our marriages for us. Worse yet, they make us pay for the privilege.’

‘It seems to work well enough,’ Lovell said with a shrug.

‘But if we truly love, can we not choose a more direct method to demonstrate our feelings? It is like standing on a river bank,’ Templeton said, gesturing at a group of girls on the opposite side of the room. ‘But instead of simply swimming across to the object of our desire, we have to pick our way across the water on slippery rocks.’

‘Swim?’ Lovell arched his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘The water would spoil one’s knee breeches. And what makes you think romantic emotion has anything to do with the process of picking a wife?’

The words were delivered in a tone of cold calculation so at odds with the pleasantly approachable expression on Mr Lovell’s strikingly handsome face that Amy almost dropped her fan in shock. She regained her grip and fluttered deliberately, staring away from them so they could not see her flush of annoyance. He was a heartless fraud, just as she’d suspected.

‘Not love and desire one’s future wife?’ Templeton said in genuine surprise. ‘Is that not half the fun of getting one?’

‘Fun.’ Lovell’s lip twitched in revulsion, as if he had found a fly in his lemonade. ‘Marriage is far too serious an undertaking to be diminished by idle pleasure.’

Then the grimace disappeared and the smile returned. But his stance, shoulders squared and one foot slightly forward, was the one her father took when on the verge of political oratory. He used the same distancing posture when encouraging her to conform to society and find a husband who would improve her weak character so her father did not have to.

To the last vertebra of his inflexible British spine, Mr Lovell was a man who knew how things should be and had no qualms in telling others the truth as he saw it. ‘When one marries, one does not just make a match with the young lady, one enters into a union with her family and with society as well.’

‘I should think it was unnecessary for you to think of such things,’ Templeton pointed out. ‘Cottsmoor, after all—’

Lovell cut him off with a raised hand. ‘For argument’s sake, let us assume that I have no family at all. I am the first of my line, which makes it all the more important that I choose my attachments wisely. Picking the right father-in-law will do more for a man of ambition than choosing the right woman ever will.’

‘Then you want a man with a title,’ Templeton interrupted. ‘The Duke of Islington is rich as Croesus and has three daughters, all of age.’

Lovell shook his head. ‘Title is hereditary and lands are entailed. And I do not need his money. I am quite capable of making my own.’

‘No title.’ Templeton stroked an imaginary beard as if deep in thought. ‘You don’t need to marry for money. But of course, you will tell me the daughter of a cit is not good enough for you.’

‘Nor scholars or men of law,’ Lovell agreed. ‘I want a proper Tory with an old fortune, distantly related to Pitts, elder and younger. Someone who dines with Wellington and has Grenville’s ear.’

Amy leaned forward in alarm.

‘Politics?’ Templeton said with surprise.

‘If one wishes to make a difference in society, where else would one be than Parliament?’

‘And you are speaking of Lord Summoner, of course.’

‘No other,’ Lovell agreed and Amy’s heart sank.

‘I assume you wish to wed the lovely Arabella?’ Templeton said with a bark of a laugh.

‘She is the toast of the Season,’ Lovell said. ‘I mean to settle for nothing less than the best of the best.’

‘Then you must get in line behind the rest of the men in London,’ Templeton replied, shaking his head. ‘Her dance card was nearly full before we even arrived. I had to fight a fellow for the last spot.’

‘I did not bother. I have not yet gained an introduction to her,’ Lovell said. ‘There must be nothing less than respectable in our first meeting.’

Amy’s mind raced to stay ahead of him. His insistence on propriety was a small consolation. It meant there was still time to stop him.

‘Even when you do manage to meet her, you will find it a challenge to draw her out,’ Templeton informed him. ‘She is very shy. Her smile is dazzling, but she speaks hardly at all.’

‘All the better,’ Lovell replied. ‘Who would wed a woman like that for conversation?’

The bone handle of Amy’s fan snapped beneath the pressure of her fingers. This odious man was speculating over Belle as if she was nothing more than an afterthought in his plans. Even worse, she suspected the comment about a lack of conversation was a reference to something no true gentleman should speak of when referring to a lady.

Apparently, Templeton agreed. ‘See here, Lovell...’

Lovell held up his hands in denial. ‘I meant no slight to the lady. But one does not have to marry any woman for intellectual stimulation when one’s goal is to take a seat amongst the wisest men in English society.’

Amy raised her fan to hide her smirk. Having met some of her father’s friends, Mr Lovell had a view of male superiority that was charming in its naivety.

He continued with his plans. ‘I want to wed a woman who is beautiful and talented, who will do credit to my home and bear and raise my children.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And to win the most sought-after girl of the year will reflect well on my taste and on my abilities of persuasion. I want to be the best and I will settle for nothing less than the best from those around me. But as I said before, it is less about winning the girl and more about winning her father. He has control of two seats in the House of Commons and I mean to be in one of them by year’s end. If he is here tonight, I will seek him out and find my way into his good graces. Once I have done that, the rest will follow.’

Bastard.

Another spine of her fan snapped, but Amy barely felt it. Bastard was too accurate to be an insult to his character. There were probably a great many epithets she would have used to describe him, were she a man, and Benjamin Lovell deserved every last one. He might pretend modesty in his perfect, plain suit. But the man was a trumped-up peacock, near to choking on his own pride. Without even meeting her, he’d decided he must have dear, sweet, innocent Belle, just to gain a seat in the House of Commons. He would not give a thought to her, once they were married. Worse yet, if he wished for the best from those around him, he might take out his disappointment upon her sister when he realised she was unequal to his ambitious plans.

Something must be done and it must be done immediately. Amy stood, almost bumping into a young man who was working his way along the edge of the room, balancing far too many glasses of lemonade. He muttered an apology and made to go around.

Suddenly, she had a plan.

She responded to his words with a simpering laugh. ‘La, sir. It is a relief to see you. I retired to the corner for I was parched and near to fainting.’

Before he could offer or deny, she reached out and took two of his lemonades away from him, taking a sip from the first. ‘Much better,’ she said, giggling again and ignoring his astonishment at her rudeness.

Then, as if she was as unsteady as she claimed, she turned and staggered forward the two steps necessary to stand before Benjamin Lovell. She wavered, lurched and allowed herself a brief, triumphant smile. Then she dumped the contents of the glasses in her hand down his elegant white waistcoat.