Chapter Seven
What the devil am I going to give a woman as a gift?
No matter how many hours James spent wandering his estate—the woods, the path running beside the lake, the long, drafty corridors of Bedford Hall—he couldn’t summon even the smallest spark of inspiration.
What might a lady want that would make her choose him over the likes of Mr. Vernon or Sir Matthew Tainton, or, indeed, any of the braying bucks who frequented the Lyon’s Den?
The Lyon’s Den! An apt name for an establishment where the patrons were wild beasts, roaring their prowess and vying with each other in tests of masculinity to claim an unsuspecting woman and her fortune.
The Beast’s Boudoir would be a better name.
What sort of woman might the prospective bride be?
Perhaps if James unlocked the key to that, he’d find inspiration.
But the woman he’d encountered in his life—his sisters, aunts, the wives of his father’s friends, and lately the beautifully painted debutantes who graced London’s ballrooms—all seemed to take delight in the same thing.
Jewels, trinkets, and silk gowns. The costlier the better.
Jewelry was the most expensive, and therefore the most prized.
But surely he couldn’t be expected to deepen himself in debt to purchase a trinket that may ultimately be spurned?
How would he choose something to rival that which his more sophisticated male counterparts might procure?
James had always preferred the countryside to London.
His rivals, who doubtless spent every Season in Town, would be better versed in the latest fashions and tastes.
Many of them would have mistresses. Therefore, they would have accumulated a wealth of experience in what material gifts were required to woo females into their beds. And into matrimony.
So, the item purchased need be fashionable enough to attract a female, and expensive enough to outrank its rivals.
Or, at least, it would need to look expensive enough.
But how the devil could a man tell how expensive an item of jewelry was merely by looking at it?
Some of the most costly items of jewelry were the most hideous.
Perhaps, then, an appropriate strategy might be to select the ugliest necklace he could find.
Or a gown—gaudy with bright, unnatural colors. The young ladies who’d prowled around Mayfair’s ballrooms resembled birds of paradise who’d been dipped in paint in contrasting, clashing hues that gave a man a headache so bad that he wanted to pluck his own eyes out.
A gown would leave a smaller dent in his funds compared to a necklace.
But women came in different shapes and sizes.
A gown too tight would shame a woman into believing that her suitor thought her overly portly.
But if the gown were too large, the woman receiving it might think her suitor had sized her up and deemed her whalelike.
Devil take him! This damned challenge, which had seemed so simple at first, was proving impossible.
How did some men know exactly what women wanted? Women were complex creatures who fooled men into making complete arses of themselves by saying the opposite of what they believed so that, if a man agreed with them, he found himself in a decidedly uncomfortable situation.
Take the Honorable Felicia Enderby, who, at Lady Winters’s dinner party, said that she disliked her gown because every other young lady’s outfit outshone hers.
And what had James said in response? Not Oh no, Miss Enderby, your gown is quite delightful, rendering your beauty that which cannot be surpassed.
No—he’d nodded and agreed with her, sympathizing over the color that was a little too bright and pointing out a tear in her hem.
But his faux pas had, at least, rendered him free of Miss Enderby’s company for the remainder of the evening.
“Afternoon, Lord Bedford,” a male voice said.
The gardener stood at the far end of the rose garden, clippers in hand.
“A fine day for it, sir.”
“That it is, Heslop,” James replied.
He glanced about the garden. Perhaps the blooms might give him inspiration with their myriad colors and soft scents. How was it that a simple flower could vary in color and tone, from the palest yellow to a red so deep that it was almost black?
Might she like a bouquet of roses?
Perhaps so, but what was to prevent his rivals presenting her with a larger, grander bouquet?
And, in any case, a woman with a fondness for silk gowns and diamond necklaces would doubtless spurn a bouquet of roses.
Sweet heaven! It was enough to drive a man insane.
The gardener, having finished trimming the hedge, touched his cap and exited the rose garden, whistling. James resumed his attention on the roses, fingering the delicate blooms.
What sort of woman valued diamonds, soulless crystals fashioned by men into hard, angular shapes, over something so perfect as a rose, the little flaws in the petals giving it life and a soul?
Could he bear having such a woman in his life—for the entirety of his life?
He fingered the stem of the rose then winced at the stab of pain. A tiny red dot appeared on the pad of his finger, swelling to a fat droplet.
Footsteps approached and Georgiana appeared at his side.
“Your valet will admonish you if you spill blood on your shirt, brother.”
James slipped his finger into his mouth, grimacing at the metallic taste, then removed it.
“All gone—see?”
“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose, then gestured to the roses. “You should have asked Heslop to cut them for you. Though perhaps not those—they’re already withering. The yellow ones over there are much better. I’ve asked him to cut some for my chamber.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Have you decided, yet?”
“Decided?”
“On what gift to purchase to win your rich bride.”
“No.”
“I must say, it’s a rather odd thing to do—win a bride by presenting her with a gift. Whose idea was it? One of your London friends, I suppose.”
James’s cheeks warmed. At all costs, Georgiana must not learn about his visits to the most notorious gaming hall in London—where he’d lain with doxy and was returning to vie for a bride of doubtful reputation. Fortunately, Georgiana was too occupied in her own thoughts to take any notice of his.
“You haven’t much time to choose your gift,” she said.
“A little under a week, Georgiana. That’s plenty of time.”
“Not if you want to find something worthy of a lady. You’ll hardly find it hereabouts. I’d advise you to return to London and make your purchase there.”
“Purchase what?”
She gestured to her throat. “All ladies like a necklace. With diamonds, of course, and…”
She glanced over her shoulder and huffed.
“For heaven’s sake, Margaret! Can’t you leave me alone for more than a minute? Go and”—she made a dismissive gesture—“oh, I don’t know…climb one of your wretched trees. Better still, jump into the lake!”
James’s younger sister approached at a run.
Her hair had already worked loose and her cheeks were red with exertion.
She reached them and stopped, panting, then pulled a face.
“I’d rather push you into the lake, Georgie.
The cold might do you good. Better still if it ruins your dress—it might make you realize that, beneath your pretty gowns, you’re no better than me. ”
“There’s little point in your having a pretty gown, given that within five minutes of wearing it you’ll have mud splatters all over it, soup spilled down the front, and a torn hem,” Georgiana huffed. “I only hope James’s new bride won’t take one look at you and run screaming back to London.”
“There’s no guarantee I’ll win,” James said.
“You will if you heed my advice,” Georgiana said. “Buy her a necklace. The most expensive one you can find.”
Sunlight illuminated the garden as the clouds, which had been hidden behind the sun all day, moved aside. The roses seemed to shimmer with color and James drew in a lungful of air.
Was there anywhere more beautiful than here? If he won the bride, would she love the garden as much as he?
“Oh no!” Georgiana cried, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I must return inside.”
“What for?” Margaret said. “The sun’s just come out.”
“I’ve not brought my parasol. Heslop’s disappeared, so I can’t ask him to fetch it for me. Most inconvenient of him.”
“Ooh, how dare he!” Margaret cried, a glint of wickedness in her eyes.
“Every lady knows that the sun will ruin her complexion,” Georgiana said. “Though I daresay that won’t concern you—you’re already tanned, and your face is covered in freckles.”
“I like my freckles,” Margaret said. “And you have an enormous spot on your nose that no amount of powder can cover. It looks like a great red beacon! What do you say to that?”
Georgiana set her mouth into a firm line.
“Nothing,” she said. “I know you wish to rile me, but I’ll not dignify your nonsense with a response.”
Then she turned and strode back toward the house.
“You shouldn’t tease your sister, little ferret,” James said with a sigh. “You know she speaks sense.”
“Oh, poo!” Margaret said, pulling a face. “You don’t believe that any more than I. And you wouldn’t want to marry a fine lady who’ll plague you in a sharp voice with demands for fine gowns, demand I sit up straight all the time, punish me if I don’t, and prohibit me from having any fun at all.”
James opened his mouth to respond, but she turned her face to him and he caught a gleam of fear in her eyes.
“You wouldn’t…w-would you?” Margaret’s lip wobbled and James reached for her hand.
Reason told him that just such a woman was necessary for the sake of propriety, reputation, and to secure respectable husbands for both his sisters.
But, as he looked into the eyes of his younger sister, his heart conquered reason. He shook his head.
“No, Meg,” he said, ruffling her hair. “But if I cannot bring a worthy gift when next I travel to London, then I’ll have to return to the Society ballrooms to find a wife.”
“Can’t you think of a worthy gift?”
He shook his head.
“That’s because you’re not choosing the gift for the right reasons,” Margaret said. “You’re trying to think of what a fine lady might want—a gift that says something about her. Why not, instead, choose a gift that says something about you?”
“For what purpose?”
Margaret folded her arms and huffed. “Must I explain everything to you?”
She regarded him with the watchful intensity of the intelligent, precocious child he knew her to be—a child who did not deserve to be constrained by the rules of Society, enforced by a governess, an elegant older sister…
…nor the future mistress of Bedford Hall, whomever she might be.
She reached for his hand, and her warm fingers interlaced with his.
“Don’t you want to marry someone who’s right for you, James?”
“Are you telling me that I must choose a gift such that a woman would only accept it if she were right for me?” he said. “A gift that a haughty lady wanting a glittering match would spurn?”
Her lips lifted into a smile and she nodded and released his hand.
“Ugh,” he said. “Is your hand sticky?”
She inspected her fingers, then slipped them into her mouth. “It’s only jam,” she said. “I’m always getting covered in it.”
“That’s because you spread it too thickly on your toast.”
“I like toast and jam.” She tilted her head to one side again. “Give the lady something that only you can give,” she said. “Not toast and jam, though. Mrs. Vaughan made the jam, so it wouldn’t be coming from you. It would be coming from Mrs. Vaughan.”
“Then what?” he said, smiling at the notion of presenting a pot of jam at the Lyon’s Den.
“Something that cannot be bought,” Margaret said, “but the right lady will love more than anything else. Like…” She paused.
“I know! It’s like those tiny flowers in my book of botanical studies—the ones that can only be found high up in the mountains in Europe.
A man wanting to woo a woman will risk his life climbing to the top to bring her a flower.
That way, she knows he truly loves her.”
James shook his head. “I can hardly go to Europe and climb a mountain.”
“Of course not! That would be silly. But there must be something you can do that shows you’ve taken a great effort.
Any fool can visit a jeweler and buy a necklace.
But a wife doesn’t want her husband to buy her necklaces and leave her alone.
She wants him to spend time with her. At least, that’s what I want when I marry. ”
He glanced at the roses, their vibrant colors shimmering in the sun. A flower was a fleeting gift, giving a moment’s pleasure before it withered and died. But what if he were to attempt to render it immortal?
“Meg,” he said, “may I borrow your paintbox?”
She glanced at the roses, then her mouth curled into a grin.
“They’re in the schoolroom—or maybe my bedchamber. Miss Flight’s always admonishing me for not putting my things away.”
“Run along and find them, then,” he said. “Will you take them to my study?”
“I’ll take them to the parlor in the west wing,” she said. “The light in your study is dreadful. The parlor’s much better.”
He smiled. Precocious, stubborn, and strong-willed—that was his little ferret of a sister.
“Margaret, when you marry,” he said, “do you intend to answer your husband back, instead of obeying his orders?”
“Of course!” She laughed. “And I would hope that the wife you choose is the sort of woman to answer you back. She wouldn’t be any fun if she obeyed you at every turn, would she? And if she is too obedient, I’ll teach her how to defy you.”
He lunged at her and she darted away, laughing.
“Can’t catch me!” she cried, then she skipped back toward the house.
What must it be like to be so carefree! Margaret knew little of having to conform to the rules of Society, to manage an estate and its ailing finances, or the need to maintain the honor of the Bedford name.
But she was right in that, despite the need for propriety, every soul—including an impoverished viscount—deserved a little happiness.
He drew out his pocketknife and wandered about the rose garden, cutting a handful of blooms of varying colors.
Then, posy in hand, he returned to the main house.
He paused as he passed a cluster of dahlias in a border and caught his breath.
But not even he could entertain the notion of seeing her again.
He would be ever grateful for her having awoken him to the joys of sharing his body with another.
But the gulf between them stretched too wide to ever be bridged.
A woman of doubtful reputation, won at the Lyon’s Den, might be a suitable wife for a viscount provided she act appropriately.
But he could never have married a whore.