This afternoon’s purported goal was to take his duty to select a bride more seriously. While this direction was new for Heath, the idea of becoming someone’s bride was the obvious intent behind the sea of bright-eyed debutantes throwing themselves into his path, as if sheer proximity would be enough to secure his heart.
Heath’s heart, however, had precious little to do with the matter. He had no wish to be swept away by passion. His reputation, his status, his livelihood, his very future depended upon careful selection of therightwoman.
Wealth did not signify. Looks did not signify. The one thing that mattered was strict adherence to unwaveringly proper comportment at all times.
What the determined debutantes with their rouged lips and artfully dropped handkerchiefs didn’t realize was that the very act of brazen flirtation took them quite out of the running. He was the gentleman who quashed gossip and vanquished scandals. He would never align himself with someone likely to become fodder.
Which mayhap explained why Heath was still unwed. Thus far, he had been perfectly content to enjoy his bachelorhood until he met someone who could change his mind. The only woman to interest him had turned out to be a paid companion. But he had sworn never to settle, much less disgrace his family with scandal.
Unbidden, the memory of the pretty, red-haired young lady from the other day sprang to his mind. Miss Eleanora Winfield. She of the flying lemonade and beautiful smile.
Last night, lying alone in his bed, Heath’s thoughts had not been filled with images of pale, insipid debutantes, but rather of sparkling blue eyes and shining red curls. The strict societal rules prohibiting him from asking her to dance had unfortunately done nothing to rid him of the desire. If anything, the thought crept into his mind more and more.
No matter how hard he tried to focus on propriety and duty, the strains of the orchestra would whisper from his memory and suddenly Heath would be right back at the refreshment table.
In the make-believe version of events, he would not have been in such a godawful hurry to sweep someone else onto the dance floor that he nearly mowed down the rosy vision in pink and red. In this version, his time would not be promised anywhere at all. He could spend the next half hour—nay, the rest of the night!—getting to know Miss Winfield. Perhaps coax her into his arms for a moonlit waltz…
“Looking for someone special?” came an unsubtle female whisper at his shoulder.
Heath cleared his throat to hide his preoccupation and offered his elbow to his mother. “There you are! I wondered where you’d got off to. Shall we take a turn about the gardens before the sun sets?”
“Notme.” She folded her arms rather than accept his proffered elbow, and narrowed her eyes. “You promised. Not half an hour ago, you said the very words. ‘Yes, Mother, this year I’ll take a bride.’ All three of your sisters heard you.”
Heath bit back a sigh. As soon as the words had tumbled from his mouth, he’d known they were a mistake. But today’s carriage ride to the gardens had been claustrophobic with his mother’s unremitting despair about her recalcitrant daughters’ embarrassingly unwed states, all of whom cast beseeching eyes at Heath, imploring him to distract their mother before one of the younger two took matters into her own hands. The next thing Heath knew—
“I did indeed promise,” he agreed firmly, as he placed his mother’s gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. “What I did not imply was that the selection would take place this very day in the middle of a pleasure garden. Surely a son can spare a brief moment from intense bride-hunting to promenade a yard or two with his own mother.”
“You’ve already spared two-and-thirty years,” Mother rebuked him without hesitation. “If you would choose from the hundred or so suitable ladies present, we could finally have done.”
Heath clenched his jaw. “I’ve no wish to ‘have done’ by wedding the first young woman I stumble into.”
Although, the other night, stumbling into a woman had been the highlight of the evening. His far-too-brief conversations with Miss Winfield had been well worth the price of a lemonade-soaked elbow. She hadn’t thrown herself at him, flirting outrageously in the hopes of landing a future title. Miss Winfield had been open, honest, sweet. A refreshing change of pace.
“You’ve no wish to wedanyeligible young lady.” Mother pursed her lips in pique. “You’re as wretched as your sisters. How did this happen? Camellia is too quiet, Bryony too loud, Dahlia too headstrong, and you are too choosy. Go ahead and take your pick of any of the girls who have been presented to Court. What difference is there between any of them?”
“Have you considered that perhaps I mightwishto be able to distinguish my wife from all the other women?” he asked dryly. “A novel thought, to be sure.”
“Enough to make me tear my hair out,” Mother agreed with vehemence. “It’s absurd. You won’t take a wife because these debutantes are all the same, yet no gentleman will wed any of your sisters because they’re far too different. What am I to do with you?”
“Take a curtsey?” Heath suggested. “You’ve raised four children who know who they are, and what they want of life. Is that not the sign of a successful parent?”
“A successful mother is one who manages to marry off her brood,” she answered with a sniff. “I shall have to console myself with holding you to your word. This Season is the Season you take a bride. You said so this very morning.”
“Those are indeed the words I said.” Heath regretted them more with every passing moment.
Mother wrinkled her nose. “It cannot take long. If witless seventeen-year-olds can manage to make a match during the course of a single Season, certainly the heir to a barony can do no worse.”
Heath slanted her a sharp look. “You are not expecting me to wed a witless seventeen-year-old, are you?”
“As long as she has good bones and is from good blood, what should I care?” Mother’s sharp eyes gazed out across the forest of pastel gowns and fluttering fans. “Are you certain today isn’t the day?”
“The day for what?” asked a soft voice from behind his other shoulder.
Camellia, the eldest of Heath’s three younger sisters. He nearly melted in relief. Of his three siblings, stalwart Camellia was the reliable pillar who could be counted upon never to upset their mother.
“The day your brother selects his future baroness.” Mother narrowed her eyes toward the flocks of well-heeled passers-by. “It cannot be difficult. Half these girls would kill for a title.”
“Perhaps he would prefer one more interested inhim,” Camellia suggested softly.
