Chapter 7
Seven
Ambrose Hartley entered the Bullockes’ elegant London home with a bounce in his step. After a long season of searching for a wife, he was moments away from making an offer. All was as he had planned.
Well, almost.
He had planned to be betrothed a week ago. But finding an opportunity for a private word with Miss Bullocke had proven difficult. So difficult that he had considered writing a letter to accomplish the task.
Instead Ambrose had spoken with the lady’s father. Mr. Bullocke happily encouraged Ambrose and assured him that Miss Bullocke would be available this afternoon for a private audience.
All that remained was to give his carefully practiced offer and hear Miss Bullocke’s modest acceptance. Miss Fenton’s dire predictions would be proven wrong and he would gain one hundred pounds.
He could not consider asking for a woman’s hand without thinking of Miss Popjoy.
His proposal had been unstudied, proceeding from a lightness of spirit after they danced together at the Twelfth Night ball.
She had laughed as if he were in jest and pointed out his shortcomings, including his age and lack of occupation.
When he laid out his plan of becoming an architect, she had told him it was not a profession fit for a gentleman. Chagrined, he had pledged to spend his life doing whatever she preferred. He loved designing buildings, but that was nothing compared to the burning desire he had to make her his wife.
She had agreed to wait for him to prove himself and keep their promise a secret. He thought she felt as he did, that she believed in his plans, but a year later she was betrothed to Mr. Winters and he was brokenhearted.
This offer would be different in every way from his first. Most importantly, it would result in a successful marriage.
As he handed his hat and gloves to the footman, Ambrose reviewed his speech. He had reached the portion where he laid out his future prospects when a door slammed somewhere in the house above him.
“I will refuse him!” The screamed words seemed to echo into the entry from the upstairs drawing room.
Ambrose swallowed. Was that Miss Bullocke? He did not think the proper lady capable of such wailing. Perhaps it was one of her younger siblings?
“I would rather die than become Mrs. Hartley.” This sentence was said with the same volume but more vehemence.
Heat crept up Ambrose’s neck. Rather die? He thought she would welcome his offer.
The sound of something heavy crashing echoed through the house. Was she throwing things?
“No. I won’t. I won’t!” Miss Bullocke’s childish shrieks drew closer.
Was she trying to leave the drawing room? Would she run down the stairs?
On no account did he want to be seen by anyone, least of all the shrill woman he had hoped to marry.
He spun around.
The footman was ready with his hat and gloves.
“Good man,” Ambrose muttered as he snatched his things.
Ambrose escaped out the opened door, still fumbling with his gloves.
On the street, he was relieved to find his horse had not yet been led away. The groom raised his eyebrows but said nothing as Ambrose mounted.
Taking the reins, he glanced back at the grey stone building, its elegant facade giving no indication of the disorder inside. How quickly everything had changed. Frowning, he urged his horse forward into the London streets.
With each clip of the hooves, he heard Miss Bullocke’s voice resounding in his mind. How had he been so mistaken? Five minutes ago, he was sure she welcomed his offer of marriage. He had thought her a reasonable and genteel lady who met most of his requirements.
He was wrong. She was a screaming child and had no wish to be his wife.
Why then had she been encouraging? Why agree to so many outings? Why smile and compliment him? Why had her father encouraged the match? Questions buzzed about his head like a beehive as he navigated to his lodgings. He needed to sit down and write out his next steps.
His mortification and confusion were quickly replaced by anger. Miss Bullocke had used him abominably. It was Miss Popjoy once again, although his heart was safe and Miss Bullocke had not broken faith with him. At least this time he had only wasted weeks instead of nearly a year.
Once home, Ambrose went to his small sitting room.
On a table by the armchair, his neglected notebook sat.
It had been several weeks since he had needed to consult it.
He frowned, seized the book, and took it to his desk.
With energy he flipped to his list of candidates and crossed out Miss Margaret Bullocke several times in ink.
He reviewed his list. Miss Fenton had said that in a few months every lady would be struck from it.
Her prediction was nearly correct. Through careful vetting, the candidates had slowly been eliminated.
Some he found lacking or incompatible, some did not welcome his advances, and a few were not in London to be evaluated.
With June looming, he only had three names left. Was there time to assess them? After his marked attentions to Miss Bullocke the last month, he could not immediately be seen making addresses to another lady.
Society was already starting to leave the city for the country or the seaside. If he waited, he might miss his opportunity. He groaned. His frustration with Miss Bullocke renewed. He could never retrieve the time he had spent courting her. But how could he have known?
Miss Susanna Fenton had known.
When he had revealed his plan to marry Miss Bullocke, he had wanted Miss Fenton to retract her earlier prediction.
Instead she had declared it a terrible idea.
He had assumed she was bitter but now it seemed she knew something of the woman’s character.
Perhaps he should have accepted her help when she offered it in January or allowed his sister to matchmake.
Maybe then he wouldn’t be staring at three names and struggling to know what to do next.
With a sigh he leaned away from his desk and looked about the cramped but tidy room.
To minimize his expenses, he had taken modest lodgings—only two bedrooms and a small sitting room.
It suited his purposes, he had no need to entertain, and the second bedroom was only used when his friends visited.
It had been vacant since Charles Shepherd left in late February.
Ambrose’s plan for married life had called for a new London home with his new wife. He even had a list of potential properties. But that would now be put on hold while he renewed his search for a suitable lady.
In January it had seemed so simple. He had been certain he would not have to pay his friends.
But Andrew and Charles had been married for months.
Tristan was on his wedding trip, and he suspected Rowan Ashworth would soon find a way to gain Miss Delafield’s favor.
That left only Leonard Stanton. Ambrose was dangerously close to losing the bet.
He needed a new plan. One that he could execute quickly.
Leaning forward, he reached for his quill. His eye caught on a letter sitting atop his small pile of correspondence. A maid must have laid it there while he was out. Instantly he recognized his sister’s handwriting.
It was too small for a normal letter. Was there an emergency? Something wrong with his new niece? He quickly ripped it open.
Rosie,
We have arrived in London. After your last letter, I simply had to come and see this Miss Bullocke for myself. I hope you heeded my advice and waited to offer for her. Please visit us as soon as you might.
Your sister,
Grace
Ambrose tossed the letter onto his desk and ran a hand through his hair. Grace should not be traveling; Alice was only four months old. What had compelled her to come to London? Had she missed the excitement of town, or was she truly motivated by a wish to see Miss Bullocke?
Grace’s last letter had contained a few paragraphs of advice on choosing a wife.
Paragraphs that Ambrose had skimmed. It seemed useless to read them when he had made his choice.
His sister had a tendency to be high-handed when it came to ordering her little brother’s life.
He had postponed his reply in hopes that he could triumphantly include news of his betrothal.
What would she say when he told her of his blunder? She would likely tease him worse than Miss Fenton.
He stood up, nearly knocking his chair over.
If Grace was in London, then it would not be long before Miss Fenton was with her. He could almost see the two of them gossiping and laughing at him. Laughing at his list and judging his choices. The thought was intolerable.
He must get to the house on Wimpole Street before Miss Susanna. He would make Grace promise not to share his private affairs.
Then he would confess that all was at an end with Miss Bullocke. No doubt Grace would have advice on what he might do next. This time he would listen. Her ideas could hardly be worse than following his own counsel.