1
“How do I choose one?” Jo asked rhetorically as she looked around the ballroom.
There was a crush of people at the ball in the Thistleworth residence. It was one of the last balls of the season and infamous for the hasty matches that had been made there over the years. Jo had never thought she would be one of them.
“You have your list, don’t you?” her best friend Beatrice asked beside her.
Jo nodded and tried to recall the details from it. She had gone over the men most likely to be in attendance with Beatrice and her husband, but since Jo had never participated in the Season in London, she did not know any of the men by sight.
“Who is he?” Jo whispered to Beatrice as she spotted a handsome-looking gentleman with blonde curls and a cherubic face.
“Mr. Sedgewick? He is rumored to be a drinker,” Beatrice told her in a low voice.
Jo nodded as she recounted what the list said about him: Second son of a viscount. Allegedly good for about 5,000 pounds. Interests: Shooting, drinking and carousing.
As if Mr. Sedgewick wanted to prove Beatrice’s point, he turned partly from the crowd, found a flask in his coat and poured a liberal amount of liquor into his glass of watered-down punch.
“Definitely not then,” Jo murmured and turned her back to him.
When she had looked at the list before the ball, she had felt there were plenty of options, but as she surveyed the dance floor and the people around it, she felt more limited than ever.
“What about Mr. Harbord?” Beatrice muttered and nodded discreetly at a gentleman on the same side of the dance floor as them but too far away from them to overhear them.
Jo subtly studied the man: He was in his fifties as far as she could tell and had most of his hair. He was relatively slender, not like his friend who had a large round belly. Mr. Harbord was dressed in crème-colored breeches and jacket and a claret-colored waistcoat. He looked… pleasant.
From her list she remembered, he had his own estate in Kent, which he managed well, had at least 7,500 pounds a year and two sons from his first marriage. Interests: Hunting, history – especially his own genealogy – and botany. All in all, he seemed like a rather ideal candidate except…
“He reminds me of Uncle Horace,” Jo muttered as she turned away from Mr. Harbord and stared blindly at the men and women on the dance floor.
“Oh, Jo,” Beatrice murmured and patted her arm.
They were quiet for a moment as Jo’s gaze swept almost blindly over the room. How had she thought this would work?
Her gaze snagged on a familiar face: Ambrose. He was standing by the doors to the garden with a group of his friends. As if he could feel her gaze on him, he turned to look at her and offered her a smug smile.
Jo looked away.
“What?” Beatrice asked.
“Just Ambrose,” Jo muttered.
Beatrice made a sound of disgust.
Ambrose was two years older than Jo, and even though she had lived with his family for ten years, they had never been close.
Ambrose had been the leader in telling her how odd she was for always keeping her nose in a book and writing her lists.
Now he wanted her money – and by this rate, he was going to have it.
Jo pulled the small fob watch from her reticule. Ballrooms usually did not have a clock – you were meant to frolic and forget the world beyond the walls – but she had needed one to keep track of time.
A quarter till eleven. Just five quarters of an hour until she had to marry.
“This is impossible.” Jo fought the urge to hide her head in her hands.
“It’s not,” Beatrice comforted her.
But it was easy for her to say: She had been happily married for six years and had three children.
Jo had never felt more envious of her friend than at this moment.
She had always thought that she would marry – eventually.
But to someone she had known for years. A man who had grown from an acquaintance to a friend and then at some point over the years into a love so soft and steady that they would not see it coming until they one day realized they could not live without each other.
There was no time for that now though.
“Are you certain you want to rule all men with titles out?” Beatrice asked.
“You know I would prefer one without,” Jo muttered as she scanned the room. “Men with titles are too used to having their way…”
“All men are used to having their way,” Beatrice interrupted. “One way or the other,” she added with a small smile that told Jo there was some sexual innuendo she did not understand.
Jo shuddered slightly at the thought. Beatrice had made the act sound pleasant enough, but Jo could not believe how she should subject herself to it with a complete stranger.
“Who is he?” she asked and looked at a tall, slightly lanky man with dark brown hair. He was talking to a man beside him. The blonde man’s facial expression was calm, almost stony, while the dark-haired man talked animatedly, using his hands to underline his points.
“Which one?” Beatrice asked, then continued before Jo had a chance to reply. “It doesn’t matter. Both of them are married – happily. The blonde is the Duke of Camborne, the other is Viscount Winterbottom.”
At that time, two women joined the men; a short, curvy blonde whom the duke sent a soft look as she came to stand beside him and a taller, brown-haired woman whom the viscount tugged to his side with a hand at the small of her back.
He turned his head to whisper something in her ear which had her smiling beamingly.
Jo tore her eyes from them, even though she would have liked to study this display of affection between the two couples for a little longer. She needed to focus on finding a spouse for herself. Although she doubted he would ever look at her in such a manner.
Her gaze swept over the ballroom again and stopped when a gentleman across the room caught her eye.
Either she had missed him previously or he had just arrived.
He was standing with a friend who Jo discarded as a flirtatious dandy after one glance, before looking back at the other gentleman.
He had auburn hair and wore an expensive-looking, no-frills black evening jacket with a teal waistcoat and dark blue breeches.
From this distance she could not determine whether he was sunburned or extremely freckled.
Given his hair color, it might be the latter.
Oddly enough the idea that he might be freckled put her at ease. She had always thought that her greatest asset was her hair: it was thick and curled easily. Something Beatrice’s maid had been delighted over when she was doing Jo’s hair this evening.
It had a rather dull light-brown color though, but if Jo did not put her bonnet on in the summer, the outer layer would bleach into a lovely golden color which she liked better.
It meant her nose and cheeks would be spotted with tiny freckles as well though.
Her uncle had always told her that he thought it looked charming, but Ambrose had been relentless in his teasing.
Telling her that she looked like a peasant and it was yet another reason she would never attract a husband.
When her gaze swept back up the man’s body, Jo was startled to see that he was looking at her too.
His gaze was steady; he did not frown, smirk or give any other reaction that might indicate he found her attention laughable.
Her heart pounded faster as she held his eye for a couple of seconds longer before turning to Beatrice and whispering:
“Who is he? The one with the auburn hair.”
Beatrice followed her gaze across the room and said in a hushed voice:
“Robert Montgomery. The Duke of Riddlesmarsh.”
Oh.
Jo felt her shoulders sag at the information.
She looked at the floor while she recalled what her list said about him: Exceedingly rich.
A dutiful, although not enthusiastic member of the House of Lords.
Was interested in shooting (weren’t they all?), fencing, and horse riding. No vices to speak of.
“He could be interested in a quick match. He doesn’t have an heir, remember? Or he does but it is his second or third cousin or something of the sort,” Beatrice told her.
Beatrice had thought of him as an obvious candidate when they had talked about it earlier. If he was in attendance of course, which she had said he would likely not be. He was not actively searching for a wife, Beatrice said. Jo did not know how she could tell.
“But he is a duke of course. And you said you did not want someone with a title,” Beatrice continued with a teasing note to her voice.
“I know,” Jo muttered.
She briefly looked at him again. The duke was conversing with his dandy friend.
Lord Riddlesmarsh was leaning slightly toward him as they spoke.
The other man’s grin grew as the duke was speaking but the duke’s face remained serious until he had finished.
And then he smiled. It spread slowly. Steady and full of warmth.
And Jo had the odd idea that she wanted to be the one to make him smile.
Once again, she tore her eyes from him as she stared at a lavish flower arrangement on a pedestal along the wall. She needed to make a decision. Soon.
“Jo?” Beatrice asked quietly beside her and placed her hand on her arm. “It’s eleven.”
Jo’s eyes snapped to the small fob watch in Beatrice’s hand.
“Right,” Jo said and swallowed.
Her eyes once again strayed to Ambrose. He was not looking at her but speaking with his friends.
They were laughing loudly. Even though Jo could not hear what they were saying, she felt certain they were talking about her.
That her cousin was already celebrating the fortune he would soon receive from her.
Even though it would not be his money, Jo felt certain he would find a way to profit from it.
Invest it and then reap the dividends himself.
If he invested cleverly that was. Jo had no faith in her cousin’s ability to know a good investment from a bad one.
Heavens, would all the money that her father had labored so hard for be squandered away within the next few years because Jo was unable to find a husband?
She could not let it happen.
“Right,” Jo repeated, clenched her fists and started making her way around the dance floor to the place where the duke was standing. She tried to walk unhurriedly enough to not catch the attention of others but was not certain she succeeded.
Her heart was pounding, her fingers ached as she clenched her hands even tighter, but she could not let her nervousness show. She had a man to propose to.