Chapter Two
Michael Chance, eldest child and only son of the Viscount Pernrith and member of the notorious Chance family, did his best not to groan.
“So you are one of those Chances, then?” Mrs. Burton said eagerly, leaning forward and almost tipping out of her armchair. “Oh, the stories I have heard!”
Yes, and I know them all because they are my family’s actual lives, not fodder for your nonsensical gossip.
Those were the words that Michael dearly wished to say, but did not.
Instead, he smiled weakly and said something as vague as he could think of. “Yes. Stories.”
Unfortunately, Mrs. Burton did not understand that this was a silent request to speak of something else, anything else. Her dark eyes glittered with curiosity as she said in a mock whisper, “And is it true—”
“Can I help you to more tea, Mrs. Burton?” Michael asked desperately, glancing over at his mother, who was in deep conversation with Mr. Burton, the widow’s stocky, tiresome son, and who therefore could not rescue him. “Or cake—there’s always more cake?”
Anything to prevent her from talking.
Which was a little unfair. Mrs. Burton had been a good friend to his mother these last twenty years—at least, that was what Mrs. Burton had said to him the moment he had sat near her in the Pernrith drawing room.
The fact that Michael could not recall his mother ever mentioning the woman was neither here nor there.
“And your oldest sister,” Mrs. Burton continued, ignoring his suggestion for both tea and cake. “Is it true she married a man she hardly knew?”
Michael sighed. “Yes, Mrs. Burton.”
What was the point in denying it? Jessica might have been shy, but she was the Baroness Llyne now, and if she couldn’t put up with a bit of gossip, then she had no business going off and marrying a man who’d picked her from a list of eligible Chance women.
“Not that it’s that unusual,” he added, guilt searing through him as he attempted to justify his statement—and his sister. “Many daughters of nobility marry gentlemen they’ve hardly met before, especially if parents arrange the whole matter, which at least wasn’t the case with my sister.”
It appeared, however, that Mrs. Burton did not wish to hear about such blasé stuff as a completely respectable marriage.
“And your cousin Samuel?” Mrs. Burton said excitedly, her dimples on display, still in danger of falling off her seat and tipping, Michael realized with sudden concern, into his lap.
“He truly married the Dalton girl? The one everyone was told was in the countryside but whom we all thought actually went missing?”
Michael swallowed.
Gossip was not his forte. That was, he gained a great deal of enjoyment gossiping about his family with his family, but that was allowed. That was expected. That was practically mandatory.
But speaking of such things with other people…it just did not sit right with him.
Perhaps Mrs. Burton sensed some of his discomfort, for she flushed and leaned back in her chair. “I have no wish to pry…but the Chance family! You have no idea how much intrigue you generate in Society, my dear boy, none at all. The world, as they say, is watching!”
Michael smiled weakly. “Oh, good.”
And that was the trouble, wasn’t it? Not only was the world always watching, something he supposed he would just have to accept as the heir to a viscount, but it always seemed to be watching him.
Well, not him. Anyone with the surname Chance.
“After all, you Chances are all so adventurous, so fascinating!” Mrs. Burton was going on, her voice kept low as she spoke faster and faster. “And you’re the only son of the Viscount Pernrith, aren’t you? You must be excited to take your place in the family seniority!”
Michael blinked. “Are… Are you wishing my father dead, Mrs. Burton?”
The woman’s mouth dropped as she almost dropped her teacup and saucer. “No! No, I just meant—I mean, your uncles, they have retired from their titles and given them to their eldest sons, have—have they not? I am so sorry, I must have misunderstood—”
“Oh. Oh, I see,” interjected Michael, his shoulders slumping. “Yes. They have done that.”
And if he weren’t careful, his own father was going to do something stupid like doing the same.
Michael had seen it. The change in his father, the way his papa had looked at him differently the last few weeks.
It had all started just before Cousin Lucy’s wedding and Michael had a distinct feeling he was going to be lumbered not only with the surname of Chance, which was a millstone round his neck if anything ever was, but with the viscountcy too.
Heaven forbid.
“She’d dearly love to be a Chance, my daughter said,” Mrs. Burton said archly, or what she clearly thought was archly, in the midst of some babble Michael had missed. “To join such a family…”
Michael sighed.
It was always the same. Everyone looking outside looked in and saw a wonderful family, albeit an eccentric one, full of power and wealth and laughter.
And they were right—mostly. The Chances were respected, all four branches. The four brothers had married and had children, and all the Chance cousins had done well. They had money, they were high Society, and it was stifling.
Completely stifling.
“Not that I meant—I mean, you barely know my daughter,” trilled Mrs. Burton, her cheeks flushing as she glanced once more at the Viscountess Pernrith, valiantly continuing a conversation with her son about the weather.
“But if you were looking to marry, settle down, I would be more than happy to introduce you…”
The woman trailed off in what she clearly hoped was a suggestive, but not too suggestive tone.
Michael tried not to grimace.
Dear God, is this all life is? Waiting to be told what to do by his parents, waving off his sisters as they wed, and wondering which woman would be thrust into his path for matrimony?
Christ, he wanted to do something—anything! Be his own man, forge his own identity, his own path.
But the path that stretched before him was nothing but Chance responsibilities and Chance duties, attending Chance balls and hosting Pernrith parties, nodding at the right people and ignoring the wrong ones…
Was his life really going to be this dull?
“I do love an autumn wedding,” Mrs. Burton was saying, her cheeks still pink. “And there is plenty of time to plan such a thing, even if we do not pursue a special license…”
Michael sighed. “I suppose there is, Mrs. Burton.”
Well, what was the point in arguing with her? He wasn’t going to marry this Miss Burton, no matter what she was like or what she looked like. He didn’t want to marry anyone.
He wanted to leave.
Guilt blazing through him, Michael’s mind wended back to the pamphlets he had hidden in his bedchamber upstairs.
Immigration for the British Gentleman
Building a New Life in the New World
Immigration Overseas: What You Need to Know
It had been difficult enough to source them, and now he lived in constant dread that one of the housemaids would find them and reveal to his parents that he was decided.
Almost decided.
A new world. A new life.
Michael’s spirits rose. He would do it. He would leave. Journey to America or Australia or Armenia and create something of his own, on his own, off his own back. No Chance name to help him, no numerous Chance cousins and sisters to assist, no father or mother to have quiet words with him…
Despite himself, he glanced over at his mother, a great beauty in her day who looked just as lovely now with graying hair, whose shoulders were slumping. Well, who wouldn’t have been weary with young Mr. Burton as a conversational companion?
Perhaps Mrs. Burton noted the same, for she swiftly rose and said loudly, “Come now, Henry. We must not outstay our welcome.”
Her son blinked. “But—But I have not yet informed the Lady Pernrith of the very exciting rainfall in Wales.”
“A joy to look forward to at our next meeting,” Michael’s mother said with just a hint of relief as she rose. “How pleasant of you to call, Mr. Burton, Mrs. Burton. I do hope you’ll call again.”
And so it was with that with a little simpering and more than a little obsequiousness, the Burtons left.
The Viscountess Pernrith sagged back onto the sofa. “Oh, Michael, I thought they’d never leave.”
“Neither did I,” he said ruefully. “Oh, and Mama? Mrs. Burton has it in her head that I’m going to marry her daughter. Dissuade her, will you?”
There was a sharp look in his mother’s eye that Michael did not like. “Well now, Michael, why not consider such a thing?”
“No, Mama,” he said firmly.
“But Miss Burton is a lovely girl. Nothing like her mother or brother.”
“And that is to her credit, but I have no interest in marrying her,” Michael said in as strong a voice as he could manage. The last thing he needed, now that he had decided to leave the country, was to depart with a woman left behind believing they were engaged.
God’s teeth…
His mother looked disappointed. “Well, if Miss Burton does not suit, Michael, I would suggest—”
“I do not need any matchmaking—Lord, it’s 1841! I can find my own bride,” Michael found himself saying.
The Viscountess Pernrith’s eyes lit up. “You will?”
“I said I could, not that I will,” he said determinedly. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I… I have something to do.”
Up in his own bedchamber, Michael went to work, not bothering to summon his father’s valet or one of the housemaids to assist. This was his task. One of the first steps to a new life.
It was strange. When one was faced with a trunk, just one solitary trunk in which to fit all of one’s worldly possessions, it tended to sharpen the mind as to what was important.
Not the books. Books could be repurchased, Michael observed vaguely as he dropped his favorite pair of boots into the bottom of the trunk. But a good pair of boots, that was essential.
Underclothes, naturally. Who knew how cold whatever part of America place he landed in would be. And gloves, he would need gloves. And his favorite cane… Oh, but how on earth was that going to fit the damned thing amidst everything else?