Chapter 2
Edward Chase, the Earl of Hayward, was also hiding, although he had chosen the shadows in the western corner of the ballroom, situated behind a Corinthian column bedecked in cornucopias of sculpted fruit and frolicking cherubim playing musical instruments of every variety.
Unfortunately, he would not be able to hide much longer.
This was technically his ball, not that he’d had any say in the matter.
His mother had been hosting her Annual Summer Ball for nearly twenty-five years now, ever since she’d left London to marry Edward’s father and lead a “quiet” life in the country.
She also held an Annual Harvest Ball, an Annual Christmas Ball, and an Annual Benefit for the Hampshire Orphanage Ball, although thanks to his years at Eton as well as his recent studies at Cambridge, it had been a rather long time since Edward had been forced to endure them.
Of course, there was no escaping these sorts of events now that Edward was the Earl of Hayward.
His entire body stiffened as he thought of his father.
Had it really been two years since the earl’s death?
Some days it felt longer. Other days—like today—he could have sworn he had just seen his father that very morning, drinking coffee in the breakfast room, his nose in the paper, just as Edward had seen him do every morning as far back as he could remember.
It always startled him, how grief could simultaneously feel so far away and much too near.
Edward backed farther into the shadows as his mother glided past, looking regal in a dark purple gown.
He was happy to see her out of her black mourning garb, but he also felt rather frightened.
His mother was now a woman on a mission, and that mission was to see her only son married by the end of the year.
This was nothing new, of course, but lately she had taken on the task with a fervor that bordered on obsession.
Not that Edward didn’t understand her reasoning.
The estate had been hemorrhaging money at an alarming rate for the past decade, partly due to some bad business dealings on his father’s part, who never did have a good head for figures, and partly due to agricultural methods that were now proving outdated in the face of modern advancements.
In short, the newest Earl of Hayward was broke, and Whitefawn Manor was in serious jeopardy of going under.
Unless, of course, Edward found a bride. But it wasn’t just any bride he needed; he needed the sort of bride whose family hailed from big business; the sort of bride who had more money than anyone could spend in fifty lifetimes, let alone one.
He needed an American bride.
It was inescapable, really. Edward would not see Whitefawn, nor the employees whose livelihoods depended on its welfare, crumble. That would not be his legacy. Still, he couldn’t seem to find the strength to step out from behind the gargantuan columns and meet his fate.
“Ah, there you are,” a familiar voice called out, pulling Edward from his thoughts. “Same old hiding spot, I see.”
August Shaw, the Marquess of Holbrook, stood next to him, one hand behind his back, the other holding a champagne flute. Holbrook, in his usual demeanor, somehow managed to look both disinterested and wolfish all at once as he scanned the ladies in attendance.
“Found one who hasn’t heard of your many romantic exploits yet?” Edward asked.
Holbrook lifted a brow. “Found one who doesn’t have you running for the hills like a scared little boy yet?”
“I’m not scared.” Edward tugged on the fit of his waistcoat. “I’m evaluating. With discretion.”
“Yes, well, I’ll be sure to tell your mother that the next time she asks where you’ve gone.” Holbrook brought the flute to his lips with a grin. “You know, it’s not too late to make a run for the continent.”
“Holbrook—”
“Or America,” he said. “Just tell your mother you do not approve of the selection here and you’ve decided to go straight to the source to find your bride.”
Edward sighed. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. The manor won’t survive the year if I don’t choose someone now.”
“Pity,” Holbrook replied. “Well then, forgive me if I do not understand why you’re hiding back here instead of welcoming your guests?”
“I told you, I’m just—”
“Lady Hayward!” Holbrook called out, grabbing hold of Edward’s jacket and tugging him away from the column as the dowager countess passed. “I’ve found him.”
“Traitor,” Edward muttered under his breath.
“Ah, thank you, August, dear,” Edward’s mother, Margaret Chase, replied, her smile all too bright and her eyes all too sharp. “It’s nice to know someone understands the importance of my son’s duty tonight.”
Holbrook bowed. “I live to serve.”
Edward feigned nonchalance. “Oh, hello, Mother. I was just looking for you—”
“Save it,” she ground out from between her teeth. “It has been an hour since dinner, and you have yet to place your name on a single dance card. Have you forgotten the purpose of this ball?”
“To give you an excuse to buy a new gown?”
His mother’s glare seared Edward to his very core. “Sarcasm does not suit you, dear. Now, go out there and find a bride.”
“Mother, I don’t—”
“Must I remind you how many people will be out of work if Whitefawn goes under? If you won’t do this for me, perhaps you’ll do it for McAllister, or Mrs. Cooper?
Or for the gardeners, or the housemaids, or the footmen, or the farmers?
Or perhaps you’ll do it for the people in the village who rely on the livestock our estate raises and who drink the milk from our cows?
Or perhaps you’ll do it for your future children, so they can grow up on their ancestral lands, surrounded by the history we’ve worked so hard to protect? ”
“No, Mother. You don’t have to remind me.” It was truly all he thought about. “But are you certain this is the only way?”
“You looked at the books yourself. Do you have another suggestion?”
Edward had looked at them. Over and over again, he had looked at them, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not find any way to balance them other than adding a considerable fortune to their accounts, and the only way to do that—short of robbery or an act of God—was to marry into it.
Edward shook his head.
Margaret sighed and took his hand. “Your father was a proud man. He did not mean to leave us in such a state. I am certain he hoped to rectify the matter before his passing, but here we are. I am sorry this weight has fallen on your shoulders, Edward, but it is the responsibility to which you were born. You must do everything in your power to protect Whitefawn.”
She was right. Of course she was right.
Still, he couldn’t help wishing his marriage could be more than just a business transaction.
His parents had married for love, and he had seen how happy they’d made each other.
He had also seen the disastrous outcome of marriages of convenience, in which neither party could stand the sight of the other.
If given the choice, he would choose someone who looked at him every morning the way his mother had looked at his father—as if every moment together was a gift that shouldn’t be squandered.
But perhaps that kind of life was not meant for him.
Perhaps Edward’s great love would be Whitefawn.
Perhaps it had to be.
He squared his shoulders and scanned the couples gliding across the floor, as well as the ladies sipping champagne as they waited for the next gentlemen on their cards.
“Fine, then,” he said, tugging on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. “Which woman shall I choose?”
His mother’s eyes widened at his sudden change of heart. “I specifically selected every lady present for—”
“That’s not what I mean.” He turned toward her, a firm and practical determination rooting itself in his mind.
“I’ll make this very simple, Mother. Whitefawn needs as much financial help as it can get, so tell me which lady in attendance possesses the most capital, and she alone will be the focus of my efforts. ”
For a moment, he thought the dowager would tell him to stop being so crass.
Although there had been plenty of evidence to the contrary as of late, his mother was still English and therefore avoided the discussion of finances like the plague.
That was how Edward had known, even before he’d looked at the books and spoken with the accountant and the barrister, that Whitefawn was in dire straits indeed, because his mother had been the one to tell him.
She cleared her throat. “That would be Miss Calliope Hart, the one beside that fern over there next to the fireplace, in the light blue silk. She’s the daughter of Mr. Jonathan Hart, a man who made his fortune buying and selling New York real estate, and Mrs. Mercy Bissette Hart, of the Bissette Coal empire.
I am told their fortune is second only to the Astors. ”
Edward nodded. “Miss Calliope Hart it is, then.”
He started toward her, but his mother’s hand on his arm stopped him.
“Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze, and in those two words he heard all of the agony they had suffered since the morning the Earl of Hayward would not awaken, no matter how Edward’s mother had screamed, nor how much Edward had denied the news once it had reached him at Cambridge.
Nothing had been right since.
His mother gave his arm one more squeeze and smiled for his benefit, although he did not miss the tears in her eyes, nor the way she tried to blink them away.
“All will be well,” he told her. “Do not worry.”
Now if only he could get the gaping pit in his stomach to agree with him.
“A young lady in want of a husband must never overindulge in food or drink. She is, at all times, in control of herself and her appetites and therefore does not embarrass herself, nor her family, by stuffing her face with pastries or drinking amounts of alcohol that could impair her judgment. To do so would be to cause a scandal of the highest regard, lessening her marriage prospects considerably. This author suggests one glass of wine at dinner and nonalcoholic punch, coffee, or tea to follow.”
—Mrs. Marcell’s Book of Proper Etiquette, Second Edition