Everywhere he turned, another hopeful miss gazed at him from behind her fan or blushed furiously when he caught her staring. The more brazen among them sought him out in the drawing room, dropping their handkerchiefs, their conversation peppered with poorly concealed compliments and subtle invitations. One forward widow—a Mrs. Stanhope—had abandoned all sense of propriety, allowing her gloved hand to rest on his arm longer than was necessary and leaning in to whisper risqué comments under the din of the room.
If anything, Nathaniel had begun to prefer his work in the fields to the oppressive company of his mother’s guests. Thank goodness the demands of dealing with the crops kept him away from the house most of the day. The daily toil of conferring with Mr. Fletcher, inspecting crops threatened by the barley blight, and dining with his tenants out in the fields was refreshingly straightforward. Honest. The soil had no ulterior motives, nor did it look at him with mooning eyes or calculating smiles.
But at dinner there was no escape. Each night he presided over the massive dining table, its twenty seats a stage for subtle power plays. The place of honor at the other end seemed to have become a private battleground for the two Dowager Viscountess Greystones. His mother invariably prevailed, pulling rank to oust his sister-in-law from the position she had appropriated during her widowhood.
It struck Nathaniel, with bitter clarity, how untenable the situation in this household had become. He had every intention of bringing his wife here. But Alice was right. There were already two dueling viscountesses occupying the position. Two women, both styling themselves as the true mistress of Greystone, their claws buried deep in the estate’s running, neither inclined to relinquish their hold.
He had been too blinded by his responsibilities and grief over his brother’s death at first, and too distracted by Alice’s departure later, to care about the household politics. But now he saw it. The subtle snipes. The tightly held reins. Even he found the atmosphere oppressive. For Alice, who was never bred to this rarefied world, it would have been intolerable.
And he would not allow it to continue.
This conviction hardened as the evening dragged on. He endured conversation with a debutante so painfully shy she nearly expired when he spoke to her, and on his other side, the irrepressible Mrs. Stanhope, who pressed her bosom perilouslyclose as she suggested she might “assist” him with estate matters—or indeed, any matters he required.
When at last he rose to retire to his room, his mother was waiting for him like a spider in her web.
“Nathaniel, darling,” she cooed, sweeping forward in a rustle of black satin. Her smile was a mask of practiced charm. “You must tell me your thoughts on Lady Blanche. Such a lovely girl. So accomplished. Her father tells me she is an excellent horsewoman and speaks flawless French.”
“How very accomplished,” Nathaniel replied curtly, resisting the urge to glance toward the door.
“And Mrs. Stanhope, of course. Such a vivacious woman. A little older, yes, but seasoned, experienced. I should think you would find her…stimulating.”
His mother’s eyes glittered as if daring him to deny the implication. Before he could cut her off, Lady Blanche herself materialized at their side, cheeks flushed with excitement.
“My lord,” she began breathlessly, “I wondered if you might ride with me tomorrow morning? The weather promises to be fine.”
Nathaniel gave her his most diplomatic smile. “That does sound tempting. However, I must decline. I expect to be busy with estate matters.”
“Nonsense,” his mother broke in, laying a proprietary hand on his arm. “You mustn’t neglect your social obligations. Lady Blanche would make an excellent riding companion. Perhaps more.”
Enough.
Nathaniel turned his head slowly, his expression hardening as he regarded his mother. His voice, low and dangerously polite, cut through the air.
“Mother, I need to speak to you. In my study.”
She blinked, a flicker of surprise breaking through her facade. “Oh, I’ll have to consult my calendar. We have such a full schedule this week—the picnics, the card parties—I’m sure we can find a moment after the musicale tomorrow.”
“Now, Mother.”
His tone left no room for argument. With a smile that did not reach his eyes, Nathaniel took her arm and threaded it through his own, placing his hand firmly over hers. To the guests, it was a picture of filial devotion. To his mother, the grip was a warning.
“Please excuse us,” he said smoothly to Lady Blanche. “I must borrow my mother for a moment.”
As soon as the study door closed behind them, he released her arm and turned, his face inscrutable but his eyes sharp with barely contained fury.
“Explain the purpose of this charade.”
To give her credit, his mother rallied with commendable speed. Only the barest flicker of surprise showed on her face before she lifted her chin and put on her haughtiest expression.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that.”
He glared at her. “I’m sure you do. This farce of a house party, with unattached women being paraded in front of me like mares at a livestock auction.”
His mother’s lip curled with disgust. “Don’t be vulgar, Nathaniel. I invited a few ladies of quality to show you that you have options.”
“Options for what, pray tell?” Despite the softness of his voice, or perhaps because of it, his mother took warning. As well she should. He was hanging on to his temper by a thread.
“For a wife, of course. Any of the unattached ladies here would make you a fine viscountess. If none of them are to your liking, I guess we could cast a wider net, but really, this is the best of this year’s marriage mart.”
