It’s Marriage Or Ruin. Liz Tyner
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to spend time with, her aunt, was surrounded by well-wishers. Her aunt laughed, the sound reverberating in the room, causing others to chuckle along.
Emilie sighed. There was so little difference in their ages, yet her aunt had succeeded, where Emilie had not.
Emilie’s deepest dream—the dream which made her spirit live—was to create art which mattered to people. Portrayals which people noticed. She wanted to leave a legacy. James Gillray was gone and still people kept his caricatures of the Prince Regent.
Her mother snorted, ever so delicately, and Emilie knew she’d best give her mother full attention.
‘Do not get your expectations up, Emilie. Avondale’s son is likely to be considering you for a dalliance, nothing sincere. But by dancing with him, the other men in society will notice you. This is indeed beneficial to your marriage prospects.’ Her mother looked at her, then in the direction the man had taken. ‘He’s speaking to his brother now. Perhaps both of them will dance with you tonight.’
Emilie tilted her head so that her mother might not study her too closely and notice the remaining tears. ‘Very beneficial. Yes, Mama.’
She compared the two brothers, talking, with drinks in their hands. They were too far above her in every way. She would say one reached almost to the doorframe and the other was taller still. Well, she was tall enough herself. She would not oversize them. The tallest one grinned at her. The other one reminded her of someone she couldn’t place. It was as if she’d seen him in a painting before, yet she was certain she would have remembered a portrait with that image in it.
She bit the inside of her lip, concentrating.
The more serious one took a drink from the glass in his hand. His frown changed and she assumed he’d glanced her way, but she wasn’t sure. A tiny crease showed on one side of his mouth. He seemed to be paying attention to his brother, but the tickle inside her told her she’d been viewed—pleasantly. Not as a country miss overstepping her bounds, or as a woman in search of a marriage, but as a person who might be interesting.
Both men were completely comfortable at the soirée, speaking as if they were alone. She wondered what brothers could find to talk about. But everyone in the room seemed to have plenty of things to discuss with their friends, or to be enjoying the spontaneity of the gathering. Even the other young woman whose mother inserted her directly into the line of marriageable men appeared at ease.
Marriage wasn’t in Emilie’s future. She knew that. She pretended to be on a husband search because bringing down the wrath of her mother never ended well. Paints could be tossed away. Brushes broken.
But she rarely had a chance to study features on men near her age and the serious brother was familiar. ‘Do you mind if I stand near the Marquess of Avondale’s sons so I will be ready when the waltz begins?’
‘That is a questionable plan, Emilie. You must not talk much, and remember to say pleasantries. You’ve not demonstrated that as a ready quality.’ Her mother paused. ‘But we’ll make the best of it.’
‘Which is Lord Grayson and which is Mr Westbrook?’ Emilie asked, realising she didn’t know which brother was the eldest.
‘Nature was fair. The younger son, Mr Westbrook, inherited Avondale’s handsome face and immense charm. Lord Grayson inherited the title,’ her mother told her.
Then Lady Catesby contemplated Emilie and whispered. ‘But don’t remind anyone of our connection to Beatrice. Your aunt Beatrice was a late-in-life baby and our parents doted on her far too much. Father was busy training Wilson to take over the ducal estates and Mother spoiled Beatrice. She married for the wrong reasons and ended up on the worst of terms with her first husband. The worst.’
‘I’ve heard of her attacking a carriage.’
‘Shush,’ her mother whispered. ‘Fortunately, that husband died and she married someone who calms her. Mostly. But she has excellent conversational skills when she wishes and that has advanced her somewhat. Could hold a conversation with a teacup and kettle at the same time. Probably has done so and doesn’t care at all how she embarrasses us.’
‘She is my favourite aunt.’
‘I know. I’ve kept you apart from her for your own good. You have the same leanings as her. It is so obvious. I would not have let you attend tonight had I not known how many marriageable males would be here and received your promise of good behaviour.’
Marcus watched Miss Catesby. He could remember her from many years before, but he was fairly certain she didn’t recollect him.
The soirée was a crush—the largest one this Season. Sometimes his mother did get her feathers in a swirl and decide to show everyone that she was the Marchioness of Avondale. She stood, talking with Miss Catesby’s mother.
Miss Catesby had wandered again into his line of vision. He regretted asking her for a waltz. He’d spoken with her to help him recall where he’d seen her before. It wasn’t until after she spoke that he’d remembered she was the hoyden at the wedding.
If he’d known she was going to keep her attention on the portrait when he’d spoken to her for the dance, he’d not have requested her to partner him. His brother had watched the interchange, and found it amusing.
She moved closer, and he and his brother, Nathaniel, greeted her.
‘You are radiant tonight,’ Marcus said, taking her gloved hand to bring it to his lips for a kiss. The glove smelled of springtime roses.
‘Thank you.’ Emilie turned to his brother. ‘I’m so looking forward to our dance.’
Marcus’s eyes narrowed and he studied her.
Nathaniel tensed, straightened a bit, but then gave a bow and took her glove to raise it almost to his lips and brush a kiss in the air above it, fighting a grin. He didn’t release her glove as he should. ‘I would indeed love to partner you, Miss Amelia.’
Marcus waited for Emilie to correct the mispronunciation of her name, but she didn’t. Nor had she, it was obvious, taken notice when Marcus had been the one to ask her to dance.
‘It is my good fortune that you accepted. My immense good fortune,’ Nathaniel continued.
He finally released her fingers. ‘But can you imagine the dilemma that this presents for me? While I asked you to dance, my brother asked Miss Geraldine the same question and she mistook him for me.’ He put a hand over his heart. ‘Happens repeatedly. They are thinking of me when he appears and, well, I suppose it is a purposeful game they play to try to get closer to me. So, I really should waltz with Miss Geraldine as she has been expecting it. You alone can make this faux pas fade into nothingness, Miss Amelia. Please do me the great honour of saving the evening and my brother’s deep embarrassment, and move to the floor with him.’ His lids lowered. ‘Of course, I would be happy to partner you before the night is over.’
Marcus stared at his brother’s grin and the confused regard of Miss Catesby, whom he now rather disliked.
Her eyes opened wide.
‘It would indeed be fortunate if you saved me grave embarrassment, Miss Catesby.’ Marcus shot a glance at his brother before giving her a bow.
‘Oh, how awkward for you.’ She turned to him in sympathy. ‘Of course I will partner you.’
‘If you will pardon me, I must fetch Miss Geraldine,’ Nathaniel said, moving away.
Marcus nodded to Emilie. Her heart-shaped face and delicate lips were beyond ordinary. He regarded her enthusiasm. She could sparkle with radiance when she inspected splatters of colour…or his brother, Nathaniel, or even a particularly good lemon, he recalled.
The music started and he held out his hand for hers.
She moved into his arms and the waltz began. Marcus