Chapter 1
Chapter One
Charles Shepherd was not known for being anxious. He rarely felt uneasy and never entertained worrisome thoughts. He was as calm as the sea on a cool day and as carefree as a new leaf basking in the balminess of a spring sunshine.
But this morning, as he rode across the green fields of Dorking, he could not help the impending dread slithering toward him.
The dark clouds cloaking Surrey did not help his unease, nor did his black gelding stamping the ground nervously and snorting out great puffs of white air in the cold.
But something else was troubling him even more, and that would not be settled until he faced it head on.
Westburn House appeared within his view low in the fields, a round drive leading to a simple brown exterior with a dozen windows divided between two floors.
He’d seen the house countless times before, having grown up only a few miles away, though he hadn’t seen any of Dorking for the last few months, due to his extended stay with Rowan at Ashworth Hall for Christmas and Ambrose and Tristan in London for the following winter months.
Because of his absence, he had yet to meet Westburn’s new tenants, the Oakleys. They’d taken possession of the estate only the year before. This was why he had come—to pay his respects to Mr. and Mrs. Oakley.
And of course there was the somewhat microscopic matter of having agreed to meet Miss Oakley, the Oakleys’ “very amiable and very single daughter.”
Charles grimaced. Mother and Father had spent the better part of the last year attempting to pull Charles toward Miss Oakley and all of her “many accomplishments.”
Charles had managed to finagle his way out of meeting the woman for months now, but he’d promised to return home someday, and unfortunately, “someday” was now.
Only the promise of a ride across the countryside had pulled him toward Surrey this morning—and the guarantee that Mother would stop pushing him toward Miss Oakley if he agreed to meet her. So he had.
After his visit with the Oakleys—which, heaven willing, would only take a quarter of an hour—Charles would be ready for his trip to Leicestershire with Tristan where they would enjoy a well-deserved holiday, fishing, hunting, and enjoying the sunshine.
What a delight that sounded. Far more than meeting with a woman he had less interest in than a cold.
He entered the grounds of the Oakleys’ estate, the gentle thudding of his horse’s hooves shifting from grass to crunching gravel. With each new step, he drew closer to fulfilling his duty of contributing to Mother’s happiness.
Her favorite pastime was setting her sons up with one woman after another, convinced that each new female would be the answer to her sons’ joyous futures.
Tristan had thus far managed to evade the worst of her attempts thanks to Charles.
Charles was the oldest—by three minutes and thirteen seconds—so he was happy to help his brother, even if he had to deal with the brunt of Mother’s meddling matchmaking.
First it had been Miss Beaumont with her five-thousand-pound dowry. Then there had been the heiress Miss Fitzroy, and the year after that, Miss Grant, with her red hair that would have made “the loveliest of babies.” Now, it was Miss Oakley and her unmatched accomplishments.
Miss Oakley is too serene for your brother.
You, Charles, are in need of a gentle touch, and she is sure to give it, as she is the most charming woman.
You will not, I am certain, find her equal in beauty and goodness in all of England.
I am convinced, as is your father, that you two would make a most happy match.
Miss Oakley has also expressed interest in an arranged marriage, as she is, perhaps, a mere degree older than your average female—I believe quite near your age. I know how you feel about such arrangements, but has your opinion, perhaps, changed? How you would make my maternal heart sing if it has!
There was always more to her letters, but Charles’s interest typically drifted off after a couple paragraphs. Still, knowing Mother and her crafty ways, this Miss Oakley could very well be nearing fifty.
He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, the leather creaking with his movements. His horse snorted in protest, feeling his master’s discomfort. Charles gave the gelding a settling pat on his black neck.
The very idea of an arranged marriage was preposterous. Just because his parents had agreed to one that had miraculously proven happy did not mean Charles wanted to take that risk himself. He wanted to marry for love—he wanted a happy life, a happy home, a happy future with the woman he chose.
He was five and twenty this year, which only amplified Mother’s attempts, but he was in no rush to marry.
Not even Thomas Denby’s ridiculous wager six years earlier could convince him to change his opinion.
Or the fact that Andrew Langford had been added to the growing list of men becoming leg shackled.
Charles enjoyed his adventures with his friends and Tristan too greatly to give them up for a life as a husband and father just yet.
He’d expressed such for years, but Mother would not relent. Especially with Miss Oakley. Charles had to admit, though he loved his parents and knew they meant well, the constant pressuring had gotten to him.
He often ignored her letters, but after the eighth one delivered this year alone—and more than two dozen about Miss Oakley since the beginning of last year—he had finally responded in the only way he knew how.
With delightful satire.
Very well, you’ve convinced me. Arrange the marriage. Set the date. Order the flowers. Send out the invitations. Read the banns. Purchase a ring for her, will you?
But one simple request: might I meet my future wife first?
He’d ended his correspondence with the date he’d planned to return to Dorking, but Mother didn’t respond for nearly a fortnight.
She was obviously unamused by his sarcasm and had chosen to ignore it.
She’d merely told him she’d set the date and location for their meeting, that she and Father would be there to alleviate any discomfort, and then ended with two simple statements.
Thank you for agreeing to this, son. I know you will love her.
He had very little hope that he would. Between Thomas’s letter reinstating their boyhood wager and Mother’s meddling, it felt as if all of England was pressing him toward bliss-less matrimony.
But all of that was no matter. He didn’t need to love Miss Oakley. Not for a minimal, quarter-of-an-hour visit.
He reached the front doors of Westburn where he dismounted, and a groom took the reins from his hands. Charles peered up at the house, then straightened his jacket with a deep breath.
Fifteen minutes. A simple introduction, pleasantries exchanged, then he would be free.
Time to get this over with.
Marie Oakley peered out of the window at the gravel drive, her eyes fixed on the gentleman who stood before Westburn’s doors.
Mr. Charles Shepherd.
She couldn’t see much of him from her viewpoint, but he was tall and had a thick head of hair that he was currently running his fingers through. Was he as handsome as Mrs. Shepherd claimed? Mothers weren’t particularly trustworthy when it came to being impartial to their sons.
He shook his hands out at the side of him, then walked toward the front door and out of sight.
“He has arrived,” Marie said simply, moving away from the window to rejoin Mother, Father, and Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd by the hearth.
They watched her with smiles and excitement, but Marie kept her eyes trained on the crackling fire.
If she made eye contact with Mother, Marie might voice just how very much she didn’t wish to go through with this.
If she made eye contact with Father, she might just beg him to reconsider her age of eight and twenty being so very “on the shelf.” And if she made eye contact with the Shepherds, she’d be filled with an all-encompassing guilt for contemplating reneging on her decision to finally agree to the arrangement.
It was too late to change her mind now. She kept her gaze averted until footsteps sounded just outside the door, signaling the arrival of the much-awaited gentleman.
Only then did Marie face forward with a deep breath.
It was time.
Time to meet her betrothed and to marry her betrothed.