The Wedding Game. Christine Merrill
Читать онлайн книгу.
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