2. The Failed Proposal
The Failed Proposal
That Lord Sinclair should find himself the object of every matchmaking mama’s ambition was neither remarkable nor unexpected.
The more determined among these formidable ladies had long since marked him as a most eligible prospect—only to be thwarted by Alex’s tactical maneuver: his arranged marriage.
It was not, as sentimental minds might presume, a contract forged by affection, but rather a deliberate gambit, upheld with unflinching resolve in the name of duty and honor.
Since his father’s demise, Alex’s steadfast aversion to enlarging the Sinclair estates in Kent through matrimony had begun, imperceptibly, to waver. Not from a deep love for the wishes of his late father, but rather the increasing warmth of his regard for Sir John Harrington.
The admiral, always a welcome visitor to the Sinclair townhouse, proved a most congenial companion, his visits marked by laughter, good port, and the easy camaraderie of long-standing friendship.
Indeed, Sir John had been as near as family since boyhood, and the notion of rendering that bond irrevocable—say, by marrying the man’s daughter—was not without its appeal.
Meanwhile, his friend Benedict’s invitations, to join him on the Grand Tour were increasingly persuasive.
The allure of adventure tugged at Alex, but he was mindful of his father’s wishes.
Before embarking on this journey, he resolved to at least formalize his betrothal in September as contracted, thus fulfilling his father’s expectations.
His decision was further encouraged by a shrewd suggestion from his lawyer, Smithers.
“If you desire a lengthy engagement period to pursue your…your aspirations, sir,” the solicitor noted, “there would be no hindrance in scheduling your nuptials as far into the future as you see fit. Provided your intended bride is agreeable, of course.”
But Miss Harrington was not agreeable. Lucinda was in love.
Alex Sinclair was the boy next door who could do anything.
Climb any tree, swim further and dive deeper than anyone else, make whistles from leaves, outrun predatory bulls, and sail his horse over any fence in Kent she dared to name.
Armed with all these admirable boyish traits, what naturally followed was the deepening of his voice, the pantaloons, fitted coats, the thinning of his boyishly rounded cheeks, and the close shaved stubble that darkened his chiseled jaw.
By the time Alex left for Oxford, he was the young man next door that she was utterly smitten with, and would gladly seal her future to.
Lucinda’s partiality perfectly matched Lady Sinclair’s maternal pride.
So when her firstborn departed to follow in his father’s footsteps, in gaining an Oxford education, Lady Evelyn Sinclair drew the sweet little rough-cut diamond to her bosom.
The tomboyish girl that Sir John allowed to roam free was taken under her wing to be mothered and educated in lady-like pursuits.
In part, to ready her for the future day of being Lady Sinclair, but also to provide her son with a wife to be proud of.
Despite their closeness, Lady Evelyn knew well, no gentleman wished to take someone he considered a fellow chum to be his wife.
Polishing Lucinda to a ‘first water’ status was surprisingly easy, in the absence of her sons distracting her with schemes for adventure.
With Sir John’s blessing, and privately bestowed gratitude, Lady Sinclair took Lucinda in hand, taming not only her wild red curls but the hours she spent in direct sunlight, which had the effect of diminishing her freckles.
She was shown the benefits of good posture and well-laced stays, and countless other feminine enhancements her governess had long since abandoned hope to impart.
By the time her seventeenth birthday approached, she was the very picture of elegance, and as devoted to Alex as ever.
As for Lucinda’s seventeenth, the event had been planned more with the Dowager Lady Sinclair than with Sir John.
Since his daughter had no materialistic desires and rarely asked for anything, Sir John always gave her what she wanted.
The large reception room was at her disposal and, according to the dowager, the only proper room in Harrington Manor in which to celebrate both one’s birthday and engagement in front of all one’s friends.
A new gown had been commissioned for the occasion and Lady Evelyn had sent her French maid on loan for the afternoon so that Lucinda could be primped and preened to her best.
However, Alex’s hesitation over matrimony with his tomboy companion of youth refused to be fully dispelled.
The thought of proposing to Lucinda was about as appealing as a cold bath in December.
To fortify his wavering spirit, he enlisted the companionship of his friend Benedict, who, with his easy manners, was a constant reminder of their impending journey across Europe—a far more enticing prospect than nuptials.
As the day of reckoning approached, Alex proposed a plan to Benedict: they would venture into Kent for the fateful proposal, attend Lucinda’s birthday ball, spend a few days with his mother, and then make a swift escape to the continent.
The journey to Kent, however, was not without its charming diversions.
In a moment of whimsical necessity, the two gentlemen found themselves drawn to a quaint tavern, where the allure of Dutch courage beckoned them within.
There, they partook of several tankards of ale, perhaps a few more than were prudent, and by the time they resumed their journey, they were decidedly merry.
Upon reaching the Sinclair residence, Alex abandoned his companion at the threshold, instructing Benedict to convey his warmest regards to his mother.
“Convey to her that I musht away to Harrington ere it growsh any later,” he slurred, offering a wink that resembled more a blink. The effects of the ale still lingered within him as he set off to meet his fate.
Arriving hours later than expected, Alex found his father-in-law to be, absent.
In expectation of Alex’s two o’clock proposal, Sir John had delayed as long as he could before going to a dying tenant’s bedside.
This left the Harrington household in a state of eager anticipation for the joyous occasion without the master present.
Alex’s disheveled appearance unsteadied the doorman, but he deemed it inappropriate to deny him entry or delay what was expected to be a blessed event.
Thus, announced into the front parlor, where Lucinda’s patience ebbed, Lord Sinclair offered his hand in marriage to Miss Harrington—unsteady on his feet, with a slur and a hiccup.
Lucinda, regal in white muslin, a green sash about her waist, and her auburn curls tamed and piled high, looked aghast at the man she thought she knew. The hurt in her eyes was evident. “What has befallen you, Alex?”
“Thatsh not an answer Lu. Faith, when did you get sho pretty?” He reached for her without success.
Lucinda, avoiding his grasp, protested, “Alex! This is no way to propose.”
Lord Sinclair tried to focus on her face, unable to comprehend her dismay. He had always thought of her as his spirited companion, the girl who could keep up with his adventures and one who never faltered. This poised beauty before him was a stranger—an alluring one—but a stranger nonetheless.
“Your hair is s.s.so much darker now, and you…are you taller Lu?”
Lucinda crossed her arms. “My height should bear little on whether or not you love me, Alex.”
“Love you?”
“Yes…do not you love me?”
“Shweetheart,” drawled Alex, coming forward, hands outstretched.
“Had I believed my mother’s reports of your beauty, I would have been at your side sooner.
” Alex was permitted to take hold of her elbows, but the pretty crease between her eyes deepened.
“I had no idea you had become sho lovely.” He looked her up and down with indecent longing.
“I don’t see what my height, hair color, or any part of my appearance has to do with it, Alex.”
“Don’t you, my shweet? What a shimpleton you’ve become.” He promptly pulled her to him and placed his beer-scented lips on hers. She had a delicate scent of roses wafting about her, a heady combination with her soft lips beneath his.
Disgusted, Lucinda pulled free, grappling with her conflicting emotions.
Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she looked at him, horrified.
“I thought we loved each other!” Tears welled in her eyes, but she would not dignify them to be released.
“I will not entangle you in an engagement that will only serve to…to…to make us both unhappy.” She turned and departed with as much dignity as she could muster.
For a moment, Alex remained motionless, his lips parted, his arm outstretched, fingers grasping where moments ago warmth and promise had lived. “Lucinda!” he called out. The word broke free, but she was gone, and in the parlor doorway stood a disapproving footman.
Too professional to betray his indignation at seeing his mistress flee the room in tears, it was his privilege to close the door on Lord Sinclair’s back as he left Harrington Manor. And though sorely tempted, he did not slam the door.