Chapter 3
Unaware of these musings, Lord Milton brought them all delicious lemon ices, and then left her in peace to eat hers; Mrs Constantine observed all this, and unquestionably had thoughts that she’d share freely later.
Allegra would no doubt gain her approbation for singling him out from the others so neatly, and lose it immediately for not finding a way to make him then stay at her side so that she could flirt with him.
But she couldn’t do it; she thanked him politely, as did her companions, but then he departed with a slight smile and the two older women chatted on, leaving her to her brown study.
It wasn’t, she thought, as though she could seize him by the elegant hand or the muscled leg and beg him not to leave her.
Being a young lady in the marriage mart apparently required a great deal of subtlety, which nobody would ever describe as her strong suit.
In fact, she didn’t particularly desire his company, or anyone’s, but should he not want hers, at any rate rather more than he seemed to?
He might not be her richest admirer – that was the young Baronet, whose late father had been a nabob and preposterously rich – but he was in other respects the most eligible.
He was a man of rank, connections and property, a baron with a large country estate; he was handsome, of famously equable temper – unlike Mr Englishby – kind, considerate and well-mannered.
Intelligent, too – in contrast with poor Sir Harry.
So why could she not find it in herself to like him to a greater degree than she did?
Surely it could not be simply that he was too perfect, and she too imperfect.
Would she welcome ardour, if he ever showed it?
She wasn’t sure. She had tried to picture herself alone with each of her admirers, in his arms, his lips on hers, more than that…
It was nigh-on impossible. Mr Englishby came closest to stirring her blood – he had a certain spark in his liquid brown eyes that promised much – but since she liked almost nothing else about him, this wasn’t all that helpful.
Allegra knew herself to be inconsistent, perverse even.
She didn’t care for it at all, nor found it the least flattering, when Sir Harry and Mr Englishby fought over her; Lord Milton would never do that, making a spectacle of himself and her too.
It was inconceivable, because he had too much good sense and his manners were too elegant.
And because of that, she criticised him as tepid.
Did the younger men care too much for her liking – was that even possible?
Or were they just silly boys with no self-control, their feelings being entirely bound up with their sense of their own dignity and having nothing to do with her as a person, as she’d suspected earlier?
And perhaps it was true too that Lord Milton did not care enough.
His feelings of admiration and interest in her, she felt instinctively, were lukewarm at best. Probably he wanted an heir, as a man of his age and standing well might, and his fancy had fallen on her.
His duty to his name required him to marry someone and set up his nursery soon enough, and her older sisters now had four sons between them, at the latest count, as he no doubt knew.
The Constantines were becoming famous for their fertility, or in her case their potential fertility, like so many heifers brought to market and sold to the highest bidder.
Or the only bidder. Against her will her lips formed a silent moo.
Anyone watching her would think she was running mad, and perhaps she was.
She wasn’t sure if heifer was the right word, but it had a sort of feminine heaviness to it that suited how she felt about the whole situation; she’d seen cattle markets, near her father’s house in Surrey, and what was this but another one?
She had no desire at all to be seen as little better than a farm animal, prize breeding stock, as Viola had so plainly been. Moo.
And maybe Lord Milton was secretly as bad as Edward, and she would find herself in no better case than Viola if she married him, alone and trapped with a man many years her senior who was a virtual stranger to her, watching her impatiently each month to see if she was finally going to fulfil her only real purpose in life: reproduction.
What was the right amount of liking – on a gentleman’s part, and on hers?
Was physical attraction necessary, and if it was, was it enough?
Surely not; it couldn’t be. There was a whole long life ahead of her with anyone she married.
She felt herself to be on a precipice, looking down into an abyss, with several hands in the small of her back pushing her to make a step that could be fatal.
It was all so important, so irrevocable and so dangerous.
And she had no one she could really trust to guide her.
Her father, unfailingly kind but always absent-minded, preoccupied with his agricultural interests, would inevitably tell her that such matters were her mother’s domain.
Her mother’s opinion she knew. She’d been provided by her with options, which was more than many girls had, but the consequences of whatever choice she made would be chiefly hers to live with.
Forever. Sabrina, who was happy, secure and loved, would no doubt fob her off with platitudes and affectionate but useless words of reassurance that it would all come right in the end.
(How?) Viola would be more honest and less emollient, but then she already knew what Viola thought – she’d told her already to be careful how she chose, to take her time, but what did that really mean? What should she do?