Warming to her topic, Mother had then extolled the virtues of every young lady available for marriage this season. Her diatribe had utterly spoiled the excellent turbot in white wine sauce. She’d only paused in her recitation long enough to place a list before Ellis, written in a delicate, looping hand. Each young lady had been listed along with her lineage, best feature, and the potential of producing an heir.
How in the world Mother knew of a woman’s ability to bear male children was beyond Ellis. Did such a young lady smell differently?
For his convenience, Mother had kindly ranked each of these lucky girls in order of her preference, identifying those best suited to becoming the next Countess of Blythe.
Lady Anabeth Swift appeared to be Mother’s favorite. She had not one but two stars next to her name.
Ellis had pushed the list aside.
Mother had fumed, lips puckering into an angry rosette. She hadn’t cared to be ignored by her only son, particularly when she was being so helpful. Glaring at Ellis, Mother had tipped her head, eyeing him with determination.
“You cannot continue to flit about and merely be charming.”
No, Ellis could not. Granted, it had been amusing for a time, but well before he’d gone to Rome, Ellis had realized his own enjoyment at engaging in rakish behavior was beginning to wane. Or, semi-rakish behavior. His roguish reputation, though he’d never admit it to his mother, was largely fabrication.
Mostly.
Ellis had been blessed with a unique perspective on females owing to his complete immersion in their company.Fivesisters. The only male in his family. As a result, Ellis was far more patient and accommodating when it came to women than the average gentleman. Young ladies, as a whole, only wished to be heard.Seen. Ellis merely complied with their wishes. He encouraged their pursuits no matter how frivolous he found them. Admired their talents. Watched their cheeks bloom with color when he complimented them.
Women, in return, flocked to Ellis in droves.
He wasn’t a monk by any means, but overall, the tales of Ellis’s exploits among the fairer sex had been greatly exaggerated. He had had numerous indiscretions with widows and the unhappily wed, but never once had he compromised a young lady of good breeding. Or any woman who was innocent.
His sisters, three older than he, would box his ears were he to do so.
Still, lavishing his attention on every young lady he met went a long way in keeping Lady Blythe at bay. It served him well for his mother to assume him nothing but a flirtatious rake. If he didn’t show a marked preference for any female, Mother couldn’t scheme. It was much easier that way.
Or it had been until recently. Ellis really didn’t want to return to Rome.
“Middle age, my lord, rapidly approaches,” Mother had continued during their dinner. “You are not exempt from the march of time, as the silver at your temples announces.” The mountain of her lips had tightened. “No one cares for an aging rogue.”
Ellis had put down his fork. He was barely thirty.
He’d been quite certain if he didn’t get some...separationfrom the woman lording over his table, Ellis might well commit matricide. No wonder he’d stayed abroad.
The resolve of his mother to select the future Countess of Blythe the moment Ellis set foot on English soil had become nothing less than a military operation. One that rivaled the finest Wellington had used to defeat Napoleon. Come to think of it, Mother was a bit like the little general, except she didn’t speak a word of French and insisted on wearing yellow.
“Youmusthave an heir, my lord,” Mother had intoned, fist smacking at the table. “Had I known you would prove so difficult in this endeavor, I might have allowed you to wed that horrid Barrington girl.”
“Theodosia,” Ellis had intoned, “is not horrid. I happen to like her very much.” Theodosia Barrington had married Ellis’s close friend, the Marquess of Haven, some time ago after being compromised during a party given for Ellis’s birthday. The whole affair had happened well before he’d departed for the Continent. A scandalous event. Haven had done the honorable thing, though Ellis suspected his friend hadwantedto ruin Theodosia for some time.
Now, the pair were madly in love. A rarity in theton.
Mother had breathed out a puff of irritation, picking at the food on her plate. Lifting her chin, lips trembling, eyes filling with tears, she had murmured, “Do you not care at all for me, my lord? For your sisters? For the future of your title?” A tear had slid down one plump cheek. “Oh, to have raised a son so careless.”
Ellis reached down and threaded his fingers through Dante’s mane. What a scene Mother had made. So unnecessary. He’d barely had time to kick the dust of Rome off his boots before she’d begun her assault.
Could the woman not have any grace? Any patience with him? He’d been the Earl of Blythe since the untimely demise of his father when Ellis was barely fifteen. The responsibility for the entire family had been thrust upon him in an instant. Grief-stricken, Ellis had balanced the remainder of his studies at Eton with managing the estate and negotiating a marriage contract for his sister who was four years older than he. Thank goodness for Father’s solicitor, a kind gentleman by the name of Firestone. Mother had been inconsolable at the time and of little help.
And Ellis? He’d been drowning.
“I realize,” he said to Dante, tugging at the coarse hairs of the horse’s mane, “that it was cowardly to leave Mother and the girls in London, but I am not quite ready to throw myself into the marriage mart. It is rather like being a frightened fox just before the hunt. All those young ladies racing after me like hounds. Mother has made her choice clear in Anabeth Swift. I suppose she’s as good as any. Frankly, I don’t care either way.”
Mother and Lady Pierce, Anabeth’s mother, were close friends, and the estate of Lord Pierce bordered Ellis’s own, Larchmont. The match made sense.
Dante’s ears twitched.
“No, there isn’t anything wrong with her, at least I don’t think there is. She’ll suit as well as any other.” It was likely true, though Ellis didn’t feel even an ounce of desire for Lady Anabeth. He considered her and young ladies of her ilk to be all the same, like iced biscuits on a tea tray. Perfectly acceptable. Identical. Nothing at all to tell one apart from the other. You could sample several and not note the difference.
