Chapter 4
Waiting.
Edward glanced at the clock on the coffee table next to the tea tray. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten his newspaper. Every Tuesday and Thursday for the last year, he had called upon his fiancée and waited for her to grace him with her presence. He’d only been waiting for ten minutes, and he’d be damned lucky if she didn’t make him wait for another half an hour. Edward wanted to sigh, but that would be an outward expression of his irritation and was unnecessary.
He stood, unable to stay seated a moment longer, feeling as if the sunny room were some type of cage. Edward prowled to the window, clasping his hands behind his back, hoping to erase some of the tension from his shoulders.
Looking out at the garden with its formal rows of hedges and roses, small paths, and the fountain that gurgled in the middle of it all, he had a sudden urge to leave. Throw open the French doors and just walk out. He could imagine the gardener gasping in horror. Maybe even a maid shrieking in feigned shock for his break in routine.
That was what it meant to be him.
Every gesture, every move was scrutinized. By the lords and ladies of the ton, by the staff, by merchants and tradespeople. Everyone was waiting for him to do something—anything—that was vaguely unusual so that it could be talked about endlessly.
They are waiting for proof that I am like my father.
Edward was twenty-eight; had been managing his estate and turning a profit for over a decade, but memories were long, and the days were boring. They would watch him until the day he died, hoping he’d amuse them by disgracing himself or causing a scandal. Would he gamble too much, or get a string of maids and actresses pregnant; would he drink himself into a stupor? Really, the possibilities were endless. And then there was the other option, the one everyone eagerly anticipated and undoubtedly discussed ad nauseam, the one he would undoubtedly find in betting books by his peers who would remain nameless—would his poor duchess have as many accidents as his mother had? Always falling and being bruised.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache starting just behind his eyes. And he sighed. Edward unclasped his hands from behind his back and took a slow wander around the room. A meander really. After all, there was nowhere to go. He opened and closed his right hand, his knuckles sore and red from boxing. Perhaps he should get a newspaper from the butler. He’d take it un-ironed if he had to. The door opened, and his eyebrows rose in mild astonishment. Was it possible Katherine would only keep him waiting for ten minutes?
No.
Her mother. His close-lipped smile stayed fixed, but his jaw clenched. He went towards her, exchanging greetings as she blushed over the sight of him. Edward was tall, well over six feet and broad-shouldered. His hair was dark brown, his eyes the color of coffee. The gossip sheets described his looks as devilish, a description he could only call inane. Though accurate when one was the son of a fiendish man.
“Lady Calper, you look lovely as usual.”
“Your Grace, it is so nice of you to call,” she said as if his visits were not a standing appointment. She blushed and extended her hand for him to kiss. She took a seat on the sofa, and he went back to his seat, nodding his acceptance when she offered him a cup of tea. Another cup of tea. He couldn’t help but wonder what she wanted, but suspected that whatever it was would somehow inconvenience him.
“I cannot tell you how nice it is to have a man around the house. If only my Charles were still alive.”
“He is greatly missed.” Mostly by every actress in town. However, it was an appropriate display of loyalty on her part. It was undoubtedly much easier to forget how much one hated their spouse if said spouse were dead.
“Katherine misses him too. She needs the guidance of a strong man.”
Hmm. Edward took a sip of tea, refusing to comment. Was that the faint sound of the trap door swinging open?
“Now that she is eighteen, she needs more than a mother’s guidance. Your Grace, if I may speak candidly….”
He waited. His permission was obviously irrelevant.
“She is no longer a girl. It was admirable, even romantic, for you to allow her to have a season before being wed. But the time has come.” Her gaze fixed on him. Determined and vaguely terrifying. Rather savage, really. “You need an heir, and nothing soothes a woman’s disposition like children.”
Were children soothing? That sounded damned unlikely. “As well-meaning as you are, Lady Calper, the necessity for an heir doesn’t seem all that desperate at the moment. In fact, I plan on living for quite a while longer.”
She blinked, mouth opening and closing once, as though that hadn’t been the response she’d expected. Valiantly, she persevered. Mothers. “Well, of course you will! I didn’t mean it that way. Why, never has there been a more vigorous display of manhood than Your Grace.”
What the blazes did that mean? “I can assure you, I try to keep vigorous displays to a minimum. Sometimes it seems to be my only goal in life.” He smiled, and she frowned. And I’ll ignore the comments about my manhood. Surely, she meant to say something else.
“But…Katherine’s dear father and I had always hoped she’d be married by now. I can’t help but wonder why you would push it back another six months?”
“I was given to understand that moving the date was preferred.”
“By whom?” she said, tea splashing onto the saucer as she set the cup down hard.
“By your lovely daughter,” he said, keeping his voice polite but firm. He couldn’t remember the ridiculous details, but had been more than happy to agree to push the wedding back. “There was lace for her dress, but it was made by nuns or virgins or children somewhere in Europe and would take a year to arrive. It might even be carried here by nuns or virgins or children…probably via pony-cart or donkey. Something that takes a long time.” With every word he said, her chin pressed tighter against her neck, giving her the look of strangled poultry. “And then there was some flower that she wanted…A tulip? But it would have to come from the depths of some far-away land…probably brought to this country via slow pony-cart. Or donkey…as well.” Maybe even a swimming donkey. Her eyes were wide, and so he kept the last thought to himself. If her expression were any indication to her feelings, she did not think Katherine’s demands were ridiculous in the same way he did.
He made a dismissive gesture and put down the empty teacup, smiling at her charmingly. At least, he hoped it was charming. “Anyway, it comes from very far away, and she wanted it. My goal was to make your daughter happy.”
“That is very kind, Your Grace. But unnecessary.”
“Simply tell me when to be there, and I will,” he said magnanimously.
After several more minutes of what had to be the most inane chatter (he’d been unable to work in a reference to the pony-cart, although he’d tried quite valiantly), his fiancée finally made her appearance. She looked as lovely and perfect as always. Her perfection was impressive, something she actively strove for and something he had to admire. She made it look so easy, as if perfection were a game, and she had crafted all the rules. Edward idly wondered if there might come a time over the next several decades when he might be able to ask her if she genuinely enjoyed the rules and formality that governed every moment of her existence.
Probably not.
Her pale blonde hair was piled onto her head, her dress cut to emphasize her slender form. She appeared much older than her eighteen years, and he attributed it to her icy hauteur. She was every inch a perfect duchess. The weight of her frosty gaze would stop a person in their tracks; make a servant drop to the ground in terror of being dismissed.
A skill if ever there was one. Is it too early for whiskey?
Katherine smiled at him, and he instantly looked to her eyes, something he did out of habit now, waiting to see if they would crinkle a little. A sincere display of pleasure. Not this time. She was ever so concerned about lines upon her face. He smiled back at her and bowed
over her hand, kissing her cool flesh and inhaling the rose perfume she always wore.
It reminded him of his mother.
In fact, he’d bought her a different fragrance, even taken her to Bond Street to buy something different, but she seemed to have no interest in changing to please him. She’d chosen a perfume, smiled at him and never worn it. With a last lingering look to the gardens, Edward went to his seat, turning his attention to the ladies’ conversation. What exciting topic would it be today?
The wedding.
Of course, the wedding.