Don’t Get Your Viscount In A Twist (London Ladies’ League #4)

Chapter 1

“Idon’t understand.” Seated across from her eldest brother in his study at their home in Kent, Anne Weatherby held his eyes in a beseeching gaze. Surely, she hadn’t heard him correctly.

Andrew, the head of their family since their dear papa had passed away over ten years ago, shook his head and exhaled a heavy sigh. He sank back against the chair at his desk. “It’s simple, Anne. Now that you’re officially on the shelf, I’m going to actively seek a husband for you.”

At twenty-six, Anne could not deny she was well past the marriageable age for most young ladies.

But she didn’t feel old. Quite the contrary.

As to why she hadn’t married, it wasn’t for lack of trying to find a husband.

Some people, like Lady Charlotte, commented that Anne was a little too persistent.

As if that were possible.

What was wrong with flirting and having fun?

Still, something about Andrew’s announcement set her on edge. She glanced at her sister-in-law Alice, the more reasonable of the two. “He can’t force me to marry anyone I don’t like, can he?”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Andrew said.

In the chair next to her, Alice gave Anne’s hand a gentle squeeze, then sent her husband a disapproving look before directing her full attention on Anne.

“Of course not, dearest. We want you to be happy. But perhaps with Andrew’s .

. . um . . . encouragement, the right gentleman will make an offer. ”

“Encouragement?” Anne frowned. Unease tickled its way up her spine at what encouragement might imply.

“I’m going to increase your dowry to fifteen thousand, Anne.”

Contrary to the belief of her contemporaries, Lady Charlotte in particular, Anne was not a ninnyhammer. “Won’t that attract fortune hunters?”

“Not the way I intend to handle it. They won’t know the precise amount of your dowry until I’ve had ample opportunity to, let’s say, determine their integrity and suitability.”

“You’ve determined?” Anne was not easily riled, but once again, her brother’s choice of words poked a warning. “You make it sound so businesslike. As if you will be arranging interviews for the position.”

It was Andrew’s turn to cast a beseeching gaze. “A little help here, Alice.”

“It’s not as dreadful as all that, my dear. Andrew has compiled a list of prospects.”

“A list?” As if finding a husband were as simple as going to the market. An inadvertent chuckle escaped with the acknowledgement that most people referred to events during the Season as the Marriage Mart. Similar but certainly not simple.

Andrew hitched a red brow. “You find a list amusing, Sister?”

Waving the question away, Anne asked her own. “And who are these prospects? Are they hiding in the woodwork? Because from my own estimation, Juliana snapped up one of the last decent men three years ago.”

Andrew pulled a parchment from his desk drawer and placed it before him. “Well, there’s um.” He cleared his throat, not meeting her gaze, and the hair on the back of Anne’s neck prickled. “Stanley Ludlow. I understand his father has been pressing him to make a match.”

“The man with the nasally voice who looks like a scarecrow?” Anne shivered. She’d danced with him at Juliana and Mr. Pratt’s engagement ball. “He complains about everything.”

Andrew’s finger traveled down the paper. “Very well. What about Oscar Fairchild? He’s just returned from an extended stay on the continent after receiving the news of his father’s death. You would be a baroness, Anne. Lady Fairchild.”

“I could have been a duchess,” Anne mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping in her chair.

Apparently, Andrew overheard her comment. “And deprived Burwood of complete happiness with Her Grace? Now, Anne, don’t be petty.”

Petty? Yes, Anne admitted. The Duke of Burwood had only gone through the motions of an attachment due to his guilt over her accident at his house party four years ago. His heart had been committed to Lady Honoria before Anne had ever met him.

Was it wrong to want a title? To be respected? To have status among society? To be taken seriously? Although Andrew was landed gentry and as rich as Croesus, not to mention best of friends with the Duke of Ashton, there were still those in the ton who turned up their noses at the Weatherbys.

But a simple baroness? Anne considered the possibility. At least a baron was part of the peerage. “What does this Lord Fairchild look like?”

Andrew and Alice exchanged another glance, but it was Alice who responded. “Appearances aren’t everything, my dear. A man with a good heart, who will treat you well—”

“So he’s hideous? Is that what you’re so careful to avoid saying?”

“He is not hideous,” Andrew scoffed. “He’s simply . . . mature.”

“You mean he’s old. How old?”

Andrew refused to meet her eyes, instead staring down at his desk and pretending to brush off a piece of dust. “I believe he’s in his forties. Which, I would remind you, I’m forty myself, and I’m still in prime condition.”

Forties! The fact Andrew didn’t specify Fairchild’s exact age most likely meant the man approached fifty.

“No.”

“Anne.” The pitch and volume of Andrew’s voice rose. “You will be twenty-seven in two months. Fairchild will need an heir. Did you think he might not consider you?”

She blinked, the revelation unsettling at the least. “You’re saying he might think I’m too old?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Although Andrew’s voice softened considerably, his message was clear. She couldn’t be too picky. Not if she wanted to marry.

And good gracious, she hadn’t even been kissed yet!

Alice sent her husband a disapproving glance. “You will always have a place with us. Won’t she, my dear?”

“Of course,” Andrew said. “I just want to see you happy.”

Anne’s heart, along with her hopes, plummeted to her toes. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to meet Lord Fairchild.”

Two weeks later . . .

Anne watched what—presumably—was her last chance at wedded bliss storm out the door. Of course, bliss might have been too kind of a descriptor for what she might have experienced with Lord Fairchild.

Anne’s estimation of his age had been more accurate than Andrew’s.

The man’s hair—what he had left of it—was streaked with gray, and he was missing several teeth.

A pleasant enough fellow, he had laughed and complimented Anne on her beauty, then had asked politely when he would meet her younger sister.

When informed she was Andrew’s only sister, the man’s countenance had fallen as if she had announced the impending end of the world. Then, after a lengthy explanation stating he had hoped for numerous children, he hastily removed himself from their presence.

In a huff, Anne fell into the chair behind her. “If he wanted so many children, why did he wait so long to get married? It’s just not fair!”

As Andrew and Alice’s nine-year-old twins, Indira and Eleanor, raced in, full of questions, Anne held on to a thread of hope that she would have her own family one day, rather than only being a loving aunt, dependent on her brother’s kindness for the rest of her life.

Somerset, England, June 1833

Seven-year-old Elinor tugged on Colin’s arm. “What does it say, Papa?”

Colin tore his gaze away from the invitation, but the words house party remained emblazoned on his mind.

Other than the christening of his sister’s son that past November, he hadn’t made an appearance in society since his wife’s death three years prior.

And now, Honoria tried to draw him out of his melancholia yet again.

Elinor waited patiently, a Herculean feat for the normal bundle of energy. Her big brown eyes momentarily melted his dead, frozen heart.

“It’s from your Aunt Honoria.”

“And?” She tugged his arm again.

Unbidden, a rare smile teased his lips. “For a house party at Burwood’s country seat in Dorset.”

Elinor’s eyes widened even further. “A party? I love parties!” No longer able to contain her enthusiasm, his daughter bounced on her toes. “Am I invited?”

Colin’s attention jerked back to the personalized invitation written in Honoria’s precise, elegant hand. Bring the girls. It will do you all good.

“Yes, but—”

Before he could explain he intended to send his regrets, Elinor raced off, calling for her sister. “Cassie! We’re going to a party at Auntie Honoria’s!”

“Ellie,” he called, but she had already fled the room, the flash of her blue skirts and chestnut-brown hair only a memory.

He sighed. How could he disappoint three of his favorite females at the same time?

Colin hung his head. A house party meant people, and knowing Honoria, eligible women. She’d been hinting—not so subtly—that he should consider remarrying. That was the problem with happily married people; they wanted everyone else to join them.

Moments later, Ellie raced back in, bringing reinforcements with her in the person of his nine-year-old daughter, Cassandra.

“Is it true, Papa, or is Ellie bamming me? Are we truly going to a party at Aunt Honoria’s and Uncle Drake’s?”

“We’ve been invited. That’s true.” Perhaps he could still wiggle his way out.

“Please, Papa. Please may we go?” A much younger image of his late wife, Cassandra pierced him with her dark-brown eyes. “Uncle Drake promised to give me riding lessons.”

“You already know how to ride,” he reminded her. He’d taught her himself.

“But Uncle Drake knows tricks! And I do like Mr. Beckham. He’s so funny.”

“Don’t forget Uncle Drake’s Aunt Kitty,” Ellie added.

“She is Lady Gryffin to you, Ellie. You too, Cassie. You both must show the countess respect.”

“Aunt Kitty told us to call her that.” Ellie crossed her arms over her thin body. Had she always been so delicate? A shiver slid down his spine. Unusual for midsummer. Visions of Margery wasting away with consumption, becoming so frail he feared she would break in two, bombarded his mind.

Was Ellie becoming ill, too? He pushed the unthinkable aside.

He’d been careful to protect the girls, only allowing them to see their mother for brief periods and only on her better days.

Toward the end, when Margery’s coughing spells had lasted hours, against the girls’ protests and under the Duke of Ashton’s advice, he’d kept them away entirely.

But it had been three years. Three long years. Surely, the disease had released its death grip on his family.

The girls waited—patiently. How could he deprive them when their lives had been so fraught with grief?

“Please, Papa,” Cassie pleaded again.

Fine. He couldn’t fight them all. He would make an appearance with the girls, stay a few days to satisfy Honoria, and then find a legitimate—or perhaps a contrived—excuse to return home to his sanctuary.

“Well, I suppose we can go for—”

Both girls launched themselves into his arms, smothering his face with kisses.

“You’re the best papa in the whole world!” Ellie said, then placed one final kiss on his cheek.

“The whole universe!” Cassie said.

The idea his daughter understood about the universe elicited a rare chuckle, the sound foreign to his ears.

Ellie climbed onto his lap. “When can we go?”

“The party is in two weeks.”

At Ellie’s pout, he added, “But I suppose I can write to your Aunt Honoria and ask if we may arrive early. Once Parliament has ended its session, they should arrive at Hartridge House shortly after.” He gently slipped Ellie off his lap. “Now, off with you both! I have work to do.”

As his daughters scampered off to plot more mischief, Colin sank back in his chair.

Perhaps a house party wouldn’t be too terribly bad.

If Honoria began throwing eligible misses his way, he would seek either Burwood’s or Mr. Beckham’s assistance to rescue him.

And surely he wouldn’t be the only eligible man attending, would he?

It might actually be pleasant being around people again. Perhaps there would be a fox hunt, or some fencing practice with one of the other gentlemen. Or a rousing game of cards.

Yes, he could do this.

What’s the worst that could happen?