“Why? Because he’s not a peer?” Isaac dropped a spoonful of sugar into his cup and stirred. “You surprise me, Aldous. I’ve always considered you to be more forward thinking than the rest of us. In fact, I recall a conversation we had not long ago. These industrialists will be the ones to shape this country’s future, I believe you said.”
“Hmm.” Aldous frowned at the dregs in his cup. “I did say that didn’t I.”
“Assuming they do marry, it means Louisa will be living at the manor,” Eleanor, Lady Hutton, pointed out, “which in turn means she’ll be close to Highfield. That is a good thing, surely.”
“There is that, I suppose.” Aldous exchanged a glance with Grace, whose bleary eyes gave testimony to a sleepless night. He conjured up a smile intended to soothe.
Grace returned the smile, though it held no joy. “Louisa’s biggest fear is that the scandal will reflect on the entire family,” she said. “She was inconsolable last night. Blames herself entirely.”
“Oh, I doubt any of this will amount to much, especially with a marriage on the horizon.” Isaac retook his seat. “Besides, there’ll be a fresh scandal somewhere else tomorrow, or the day after that, or next week, and this incident will quickly become old news. In fact, I suspect people will be more outraged—and many falsely so—by the existence of this bawdy ceiling.” He waggled a brow. “Richmond will be receiving a lot of private viewing requests over the next while, I should think.”
“And the artist responsible will be likely to find himself with some new commissions,” Eleanor said.
Isaac chuckled. “Indeed. In any case, I’ll deal with anything that needs to be dealt with, including Mama.”
“Ah, yes. Mama.” Aldous grimaced. “I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it. Should I not be the one telling her?”
“No, leave her to me.” Isaac shrugged. “She’ll be suitably appalled at Louisa but will lay all the blame solidly at Harlow’s feet. You may tell my niece, however, that despite her lapse, we are not likely to become pariahs. And, in a show of support, we will, of course, attend her wedding.”
“That might mean a journey to Yorkshire in the not-too-distant future,” Aldous said. “I should imagine Louisa will want to marry at our village church.”
“Then a journey to Yorkshire we will take,” Isaac said. “Eh, Eleanor?”
“Unquestionably,” Eleanor replied. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m sure that will greatly ease Louisa’s mind,” Grace said, a quiver in her voice. “Thank you, both.”
Eleanor, who was seated beside Grace on the settee, took her hand. “Grace, my dear, we are family. You need never doubt or question our support. Now, will you have a drop more tea?”
Chapter Seven
Morning sun slantedthrough the leaded windows of Highfield’s main parlor, teasing little glints of red and gold from Louisa Northcott’s hair. Maxwell, seated opposite her, had not noticed them previously. Meanwhile, the light he’d oft times observed in her eyes appeared to have gone missing. Pale-faced, the lass sat in rigid silence on the settee, skirts of emerald-green perfectly arranged, slender hands resting in her lap.
She regarded Maxwell with an expression that surpassed solemn. If asked, he’d have guessed her disposition to be somewhere between wretched and remorseful.
A fine start to a potential lifelong union.
His marriage proposal had been accepted, and the legal processes, financial and otherwise, had already begun. The banns would be read at St. Paul’s church in Morthwaite, on the Highfield estate, where the wedding date had been tentatively set for the seventh day of June that year, a Saturday.
Of course, due to her eavesdropping escapade, the lass already knew some of what marriage to Maxwell would mean. But he needed to reiterate. She had to understand, fully, that he had no intention of staying home to play lord of the manor. He had a business to run, an empire still in the process of being built.
Their meeting this morning was the first since Lady Richmond’s party a week earlier. And it would be their lasttill the day of their wedding a little over two months hence. Maxwell was planning to leave London within the hour, heading for Scotland, and Glasgow specifically. Before he left, however, there were things to be said.
He’d already voiced his appreciation of Miss Northcott’s time and given the weather its customary mention. She, in turn, had responded with expected decorum. Now, with the niceties out of the way, Maxwell needed to get to the crux of the matter. Parameters had to be laid out and expectations established.
He cleared his throat, which prompted the lass to lift her chin, as if she was preparing to hear what else he had to say.
“I have no regrets, Miss Northcott,” he began. “That is to say, I see no reason why this marriage cannot be fulfilling for both of us. I believe you are already aware, however, that my business interests are likely to take me away from home frequently and for days at a time.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, Mr. Harlow,” she replied, “but since we’ll be living close to Highfield, I doubt I shall lack for company.”
“My thought also, but I simply want you to understand the way of things.” He smiled. “That’s assuming, of course, that my absences bother you at all. The opposite might be the case.”
“I cannot imagine that to be so,” she replied, her face brightening a little. “Despite the circumstances, or maybe because of them, I truly want this marriage to work.”
“As do I,” he replied, and allowed his gaze to briefly wander over her. Physically, he’d already compared her to Sybella—how could he not? Neither woman lacked appeal. The difference lay, primarily, in their character.
Sybella, fastidious to the point of priggish, took propriety to the limit. To begin, their arrangement had been purely financial. Little more than a true business agreement, in fact, suggested by a viscount burdened with debt. A widower who’dreceived no mercy from his peers and no wealthy suitors for his sole offspring, a dowerless daughter. Desperate, Lord Dent had lowered his sights and taken aim at a middle-class tradesman who had money to spare.
