Chapter Two
The morning Jack intended to set out on his journey, his cousin Grant paid him a visit at his rooms in Piccadilly.
Jack liked him, always had. If the dukedom were to go to anyone, it should be to Grant.
A decent fellow, he would take infinite care of his inheritance.
Even as a lad, he had been of a serious mien and considered ancestry to be of great import.
He’d make as good and fair a duke as Jack’s father had before him.
Jack admitted Grant to his bedroom while he continued to pack. He deliberated over adding another shirt. Every item needed to be carefully selected, as there was very little room in his portmanteau. “Take a seat, Grant. Can I offer you a drink?”
His tall, fair-haired cousin folded himself into a chair. “No, thank you. I see you mean to go on this journey. I thought it might only be talk. You know, a reaction to that business with my aunt.”
“There is nothing that lot can do or say to upset me. Although they do keep trying.” Jack looked up from folding the shirt. “So, you thought I was all piss and wind.”
Grant sighed. “Let’s just say I hoped you would change your mind. Mr. Simms, the family solicitor, is to read the will this afternoon. You’ll stay for that, surely?”
Jack shook his head. “Whatever it contains will keep until I return.”
“You’re heading north to your estate?”
“In a roundabout fashion. Thought I’d go via Ireland.”
Grant uncrossed his legs and sat up. “‘Ireland’?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Neither have I. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Just have a hankering to see it.” He’d been thinking it for a while, after discovering letters of his mother’s in a drawer of his father’s desk.
Grant nodded, light dawning in his gray eyes. “Your mother’s people were Irish.”
“Yes, but I’m a stranger to them. Can’t see they’d want that to change.”
If Grant thought seeing Ireland would cure Jack’s restlessness, he was barking up the wrong tree.
It was curiosity that drew him, pure and simple.
Jack squeezed his toiletry bag containing soap, toothbrush, and a hairbrush into his portmanteau.
He added a slim box holding his razors. Difficult to find those on the road, and since being in the army, he disliked disorder of any kind.
In the side flap of the saddle, he’d add the currying brush to keep Arion in the best condition.
The horse would enjoy this trip as much as he.
The stallion had been a wonderful asset to Jack during the war and appeared to relish the adventure.
He eyed his cousin. “I expect you’ll tour the ballrooms now to select a bride from the current crop of debutantes,” he said with a grin. He knew Grant would prefer to remain closeted in his study with his history books and tomes on heraldry. “Time you married, anyway, at thirty-two.”
Grant didn’t look too eager as he smoothed back his fair hair with both hands. “I’m prepared to do my duty.” He watched with obvious unease as Jack checked his pistol.
“‘Duty’?” Jack chuckled. “If it’s not to be a love match, find a woman you want to bed. One who makes you laugh. You’re going to be together for a long time, God willing.”
He did up his portmanteau and gave it a pat. “Well, I believe if I can’t offer you a drink, I’ll be off.”
Grant’s eyebrows furrowed together. “You’ll stay clear of any trouble, Jack. Or is that a waste of words? Trouble tends to find you.”
Jack laughed and slapped him on the back. “It’s the spice of life, Grant. Along with the ladies. You should venture out and see for yourself.”
Grant grinned. “I’ll live vicariously through you when you return with a tale or two to tell.”
“Ah, shame,” Jack said as they headed for the stairs.
At the stables in the mews behind Jack’s lodgings, Grant pulled him into a brief hug. “You will be missed. Don’t stay away too long.”
“I hope you’ll have some news for me when I return.” Jack leaped onto the saddle and took up the reins. “Fare thee well, Duke.”
Grant smiled and raised his hand as Jack trotted Arion away down the lane.
*
“Wear your best gown to the ball tonight, Erina,” her father said. “The white with pale-green satin ribbon looks well on you. I expect to see you dance with young Mr. Feather. And smile at him.”
“I doubt he’ll be smiling at me,” Erina said. “I don’t think he likes to dance with taller women.”
Her father scowled. “He’ll get used to it. There are men who like taller women, although not many, I grant you.”
“Yes, you obviously liked tall women, yourself, Papa.” Her mother had been an inch or two taller than he.
It was uncharitable to think that it might have been Mama’s dowry that had attracted him.
Erina could not remember them showing affection to each other, but her mother had died when she’d been eleven.
Her father banged his pipe against a bowl then began to fill it. Intent on his task, his face looked strangely vulnerable. “I overlooked it. Your mother was a fine woman.”
Erina’s throat tightened. Would Mr. Harold Feather be prepared to overlook her height?
That evening in the Moncrieffs’ hot, crowded ballroom, Mr. Feather approached her and bowed. “Would you grant me the waltz, Lady Erina?”
When she rose from her curtsey, Erina studied his expression.
Mr. Feather’s jaw looked rigid, his expression bleak.
How unflattering. He wasn’t unattractive in his black-and-white evening clothes, with chestnut-brown hair and eyes the color of melted chocolate.
But even if he had been a bit taller, she wouldn’t marry him.
He was an obedient son. Of sober character.
The type of man women might admire. But he didn’t excite her.
When the musicians struck up, Mr. Feather returned and led her onto the dance floor with a polite smile.
He placed his gloved hand at her waist, and they began to waltz in the light flooding down from two massive chandeliers.
The dancers whirled around them over the floor, a blur of color amid the men’s dark evening clothes and the debutantes’ white gowns.
In her flat-soled ball slippers, she and Mr. Feather were of a similar height. He was a neat and adequate dancer, guiding her safely over the floor with an absence of thrilling flourishes.
“You are glaring at me, Lady Erina,” he said as they reversed.
“Am I? I hope you don’t think it’s because I’m angry with you, sir.”
“I quake at the thought.”
“You don’t wish to marry me, either,” she said bluntly.
He smiled for the first time. It improved his appearance. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
“I like to call a spade a spade, as the saying goes. And we have no time for niceties if we are to put a stop to our parents’ ridiculous scheme.”
Her father stood watching them from the edge of the floor. To appease him, she turned the full force of her smile on the baronet’s son.
“Those green eyes of yours certainly flash,” he said. “When you look at me like that, I am sure we are unsuited. You have wildness in you. You’re a passionate woman.”
“Is that so very bad?” she couldn’t help asking.
“You’d turn my quiet life upside down.”
It was all very well for her not to want to marry him. But he so obviously didn’t want her, she felt piqued. “How cowardly,” she said with a grin, aware of being perverse.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I admit it. After years in the army, I fancy a simple life. An enjoyable book, a brandy and a cigar, my wife with her embroidery by my side. Just looking at you, I can foresee riding to hounds, jumping tall hedges, and dancing till dawn. It fatigues me to think of it.”
Erina laughed. She glanced over her shoulder. Her father smiled and nodded. “You describe me well, Mr. Feather. I admire your clear-sightedness. So, what will you do to help me put an end to this madness?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What will I do? Precisely nothing.”
She frowned. “‘Nothing’?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “My father will grow tired of the idea. He does that, you know. Tends to flit from one thing to the next.”
She tightened her lips. “I don’t see how you can be so confident. My father sets a course and sticks to it.” And some of his courses are better cast aside.
The musicians were coming to the end of the Mozart concerto, the refrain dying away.
He offered her his arm after the dance ended. “Let us not be too impatient.”
They joined the line departing the ballroom floor. “But I am. My father plans a house party in you and your father’s honor, Mr. Feather. You shall be in my company for three or four days. And at the ball my father plans to hold, he will announce our engagement.”
He rubbed his brow with a gloved finger, looking pained. “Who else is invited?”
“Some forty or so guests,” she replied. Her father had complained about the cost. But he’d put it down to an investment.
Mr. Feather’s gaze settled on a small, fair-haired young woman who sat quietly alone in one of the chairs along the wall. “Can you gain an invitation for Miss Florence Beckworth?”
Erina had met Miss Beckworth once and found her difficult to converse with. So dreadfully serious. Perhaps better suited for a simple life by a fire. So that is how things are, she thought gleefully. “I shall send the invitation myself.”
He nodded. “Good. And leave the rest to me.”
“You have hidden depths, Mr. Feather,” Erina said with an impish smile as they approached her father. “I’m in half a mind to snap you up myself. Once I break things off with my father’s pick for me first.”
Mr. Feather bowed. “You are a most frightful tease, Lady Erina.”