Chapter One #2
Sally was eight-and-twenty. Sitting in her chair, the bright morning light illuminating her pale, clear skin and its copious freckles, she looked straight from the bright, sentimental illustrations of country scenes that rich London readers adored—even though they would never stoop to speak to Sally if they saw her in the flesh.
Still, his sister appeared every inch the blooming matron that she was.
The only caveat for that sentimental London reader would be his sister’s domestic arrangements—she had not just one husband but two.
Well, not in the eyes of the church or the law.
But she lived with two men and her family knew both should be regarded as her spouses.
Malcolm often thought Sally was the boldest of them all, Severn and Beatrice be damned.
“We are hoping for a girl with a nice fat dowry as the next mistress of Parkhorne, yes? Or am I mistaken?” Severn quipped.
“Dear lord, Severn,” Mrs. Salisbury said, her color rising. “You speak of George’s future bride as if we were trying to bilk her. He may have anyone he chooses, regardless of fortune. We all care most for his happiness.”
Because of Mrs. Salisbury’s intimate relationship with Severn’s mother—she and Mrs. Westmore were lovers and had been for years, despite the fact that Mrs. Westmore had once been the lover of her late husband—she often treated Severn as something closer to her own child than the rest of them.
Which, in Mrs. Salisbury’s case, essentially meant that she scolded him more openly.
Well, in fact, between her special relationship with Mrs. Westmore, and the fact that Sally and Philip were orphans, Mrs. Salisbury essentially treated everyone besides himself as something close to her own child.
She was always scrupulously kind to Malcolm.
But they didn’t have the easy familiarity that she had with her dead husband’s other by-blows.
In fact, Malcolm could never shake the feeling that he carried unique pain for Mrs. Salisbury. He suspected that his long-ago appearance was what made Mrs. Salisbury realize that her husband was an unfaithful, unscrupulous blackguard.
It also didn’t help that—besides his green eyes—he looked exactly like his bastard of a father. He could never shake the thought that it pained Mrs. Salisbury to have him haunting her home day in and day out, year after year.
He couldn’t blame her for not warming to him.
“But, still, Mother,” George said. “We shan’t lie. A large dowry is, if not a prerequisite, then a salutary qualification.”
“A salutary qualification? Are you taking a wife, brother,” Severn interjected, “or hiring a valet?”
“George, if that is how you feel,” Mrs. Salisbury broke in, her soft voice going as high as it ever went, “then perhaps we should cancel the party. Because you are not mature enough to marry, if you take that view of it.”
“I apologize, Mother,” George said, holding up his hands in surrender. “It was a jest.” He dropped his hands and looked down at them for a moment. “And I am, perhaps, also trying to put in another good word for Miss Perkins. She is already my choice, you know. This party isn’t necessary.”
At those words, everyone in the room—including Malcolm—groaned.
“If I hear you say those words again!” Sally complained.
“Please, George,” Beatrice lamented. “Not again.”
“As your mother, I won’t have you rush into marriage,” Mrs. Salisbury supplied, her speech on the topic having not lost its alacrity, despite overuse, “without looking about yourself—”
“Yes, yes,” George said. “I know. Looking about myself, etcetera. But I’ve had three London seasons to do that. And I have no appetite for more. I want to marry a good girl and retire to the country. And Tilly is the one I want.”
“If she is right for you,” Beatrice said, “then you’ll be even more confident after a month spent in her company, here at Parkhorne, where you propose to live with her.”
“Yes,” Severn said dryly. “Because no one would want to do anything hasty in this family, Beatrice, when it comes to marriage. Or reckless.”
Ten years ago, Beatrice had married her husband, Lord Leith, in under a month—and, from all that Malcolm understood, and didn’t want to understand, they had known each other a far shorter time than that when they became as intimate as man and wife.
“Don’t you dare, Severn Westmore, take such a tone with me,” Beatrice said. “Not when those hasty nuptials have provided you the fine fare, fine dwelling, and endless fine society invitations that you enjoy so much.”
Severn gave the knowing, rakish smile that was apparently now his signature.
“We cannot all have your unerring wisdom, sister,” Severn retorted, with a laugh. “It is not everyone who can marry a marquess without even trying.”
“Or, in George’s case, snare an heiress,” Philip chimed in.
“Stop! Stop this at once!” Mrs. Salisbury demanded. “Do not encourage Philip, Severn! You will make him as bad as yourself.”
“I am not being encouraged,” Philip said. “I am not a child. Not that anyone around here remembers it.”
“I do, in fact, remember that,” Mrs. Salisbury said, her tone softer now. “Which is why I have made you a crucial part of every aspect of the next month.”
Philip was not so much of an adult, at two-and-twenty, Malcolm noted, as not to appear pleased by this assurance.
“We have everything set,” Mrs. Salisbury continued.
“The house is sparkling. We have all the extra servants from town that we could entice into Somerset. Every room is turned out. We have five very eligible young ladies and their chaperones coming to reside here until halfway through July, and every provision has been made for their entertainment and comfort.”
“The farm has laid by everything you have asked for,” Malcolm interjected. “We should have every country amenity that our guests could expect. They will not get a gloomy view of living here on the account of the table you will present, ma’am.”