I’ve been thinking about uncle’s Christmas stipulation, and of course I’ll be at Darton for all the necessary shenanigans, but I’ve been thinking about Philip’s situation. He ought to consider gettingshackledmarried by now, don’t you think?
Not that I, as his younger brother, could mention such a thing. But as the matriarch of the family, you could wield your formidable influence along those lines. In particular, might you extend a holiday invitation to Lady Fortnum and her daughters? Her eldest, Catherine, is just the sort of young lady who would suit Philip.
It’s merely a suggestion, of course, and no doubt there are other eligible young women from proper families whom you might like to include in the festivities.
Just a thought. I’ll see you shortly!
Fondly,
Kit
“Would you like to go to West Sussex for Christmas?” Lady Heliotrope Randall, Viscountess Fortnum, asked her two daughters as they took their afternoon tea in the parlor.
“I’d love to,” Catherine, the eldest, said promptly. She was always ready for an adventure, and the prospect of being somewhere other than London for the holidays held a definite appeal.
Outside the bow window the rain drizzled depressingly down, and the clouds were a low cap of wool pulled over the city. Despite the room’s cheery palette of greens and golds and the coals burning in the fireplace, a drabness had wormed its way into Catherine’s soul.
She was weary of the same social circles where nothing interesting ever happened. Weary of her dwindling prospects, too, though she didn’t dare breathe a word of that to her mother. Now that she’d been out for several seasons, everyone seemed determined to push her into the company of the most boring unmarried men of theton. Which was definitely not amusing in the least.
“West Sussex?” Her sister Abigail took a cautious sip of her tea. “Do we know anyone in West Sussex?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Darton-on-Rye, as a matter of fact,” their mother said. “She has invited us to Darton Hall, along with a few others, to help celebrate the season. And I believe…” She paused, giving her offspring a pointed look. “Lord Darton will be in residence. He is a most?—”
“Eligible bachelor,” Catherine finished, trying not to sigh. “Yes, we know. He’s also a straightlaced bore. Might I change my answer?”
“You may not.” Her mother stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “Really, Catherine. I know you’d prefer not to consider such things, but it’s high time you secured your future. Besides, I’d like grandchildren. Sooner, rather than later.”
“There’s always Abby.” Catherine brandished her spoon at her sister and tried to ignore the fact that her mother was right.
Five years was a terribly long time to be on the marriage mart. Outside of one early offer of marriage, which she’d turned down with no regrets, she’d had no serious prospects.
At first, she hadn’t minded in the least. Being of an optimistic nature, she was certain the right fellow would come along. She simply hadn’t encountered him yet. Meanwhile, she’d had a marvelous time jaunting about to all the picnics and parties and balls.
Even the parties are becoming boring, her treacherous mind said. She swallowed the thought down with her next sip of tea.
“I’m still too young to marry,” Abigail said primly. “Mother’s right. You’re perilously close to being on the shelf.”
The viscountess gave Abby a quelling look. “I didn’t saythat. Still, I think we all might benefit from spending the holidays amongst friendly acquaintances.”
At this reminder of her mother’s loneliness, Catherine discarded any further protest. Not that Lady Fortnum ever complained, but the viscount’s death had been difficult for her. Although Viscount Fortnum had been a distant father, he’d been a suitably affectionate husband. Even though it had been three years since his passing, the holidays tended to exacerbate the fact of his absence. And his widow’s melancholy.
“As for you, Abigail,” Lady Fortnum said, turning to her younger daughter, “I understand that the duke’s brother will be at Darton Hall, as well. Perhaps you might consider making yourself agreeable to him.”
“Mother. You’d really recommend Abby to such a rascal as Lord Christopher Hartness?” Catherine set down her cup with a frown.
“You seem to find him amusing,” her mother said dryly.
“Yes, because he cares refreshingly little for what’s proper! But he’s not husband material.”
Not that his brother was any better, though the duke’s flaws lay in the opposite direction. Lord Philip was a tightly reserved fellow, known for his rigidity and harsh insistence on observing every propriety.
For the first time, the thought occurred to her that perhaps Lord Philip’s manner was a direct result of his younger brother’s relentless irresponsibility.
“Hm.” Their mother took a bite of biscuit and arched her brows. “One could do worse. And either way, there will be two eligible bachelors under one roof.”
“That will be entertaining, at least,” Catherine said, her spirits rising. “I don’t think they hold each other in very high esteem.”
The brothers were rarely seen in close proximity. Indeed, the last time she’d observed them together had been at Farrington’s Hunt Ball. As she recalled, Lord Christopher had balanced a glass of sherry on his forehead while juggling three pears. Lord Philip had watched his brother make a spectacle of himself with an expression of disapproval as cold as carved marble.
