“Certainly. Will my sister do?" Rutherford joked. His sister was a spinster and a bluestocking.
"Take mine; she is all too willing to marry," shouted another.
"Nah, begone. Your sister is still in the schoolroom," Dobberham objected.
"I have a cousin who might be available," someone else called from across the room. "Can I introduce you to her?"
Suggestions came hailing in from all sides. England seemed to be full of sisters, spinsters and single women desperate to find husbands, with their brothers all too eager to get rid of them.
Edmund knew where this was going. Once word got out that he was looking for a wife, he would be hunted down mercilessly. They would run down his doors. They would accost him in the street. There would be chance meetings that were anything but. Women would faint at his feet, stop his curricle in the park, pursue him in the ballrooms, hound him in the salons and at the opera. The time when he could sit quietly in his box would come to an end. He'd seen it happen to his friend Victor, who hadn't lasted a day under the barrage of matchmakers. He'd been dragged to the altar within a fortnight and was now living in the country with his wife, who was pregnant with their third child.
The last time he'd seen Victor, he'd seemed content, admittedly, but he'd grown a belly and whiskers, and was wearing a wrinkled coat that was hopelessly out of fashion; his sleeves decorated with stains of curdled milk and other ghastly substances he'd rather not know about.
He would not make the same mistake.
Dunstan's invitation to his country house party was the last straw. "Louisa can no doubt set you up with someone," he'd said. "She insists that you come to our house party next week. She'll be so pleased!"
Edmund shuddered. Lady Louisa Dobberham's notorious house parties left everyone so compromised that they were forced to marry. In fact, the lady was known to be so ambitious that she wouldn't rest until all her guests were married by the end of the event. Including the old maids and chaperones. Once, she'd locked Lord Emris and Miss Elliot, a spinster, in the library for an entire night. The next morning, they'd emerged rumpled and blushing. Emris had left immediately to obtain a special licence. To this day, Louisa was proud of this achievement, for both had had the reputation of being unmarriageable. Now Edmund was constantly in Louisa's sights, for as an eligible bachelor he was one of her favourite targets.
This was Edmund's tipping point. Which is why he thought it eminently sensible to raise his hand to stop the stone before it started rolling down the hill, crushing him, before it was too late. So when Dunstan announced that there was to be another such party, and Louisa expected him to attend, he'd blurted out: "But I'm already married!"
"You're not. Come to our party and let Louisa help you find someone."
"I tell you, it is unnecessary. The deed is already done. I've already tied the knot."
"Balderdash,” Dobberham stated. "Since when? Where? How? Who is she? I haven't seen you with a woman for months. By Jove.” Dobberham opened his eyes in horror. “You haven't married your Covent Garden doxy?"
"Hetty? No." He hadn't seen Hetty for over a year. She was fine and pretty and everything a doxy should be, but marry her? Edmund shuddered. Not in his wildest dreams.
"It would be just like you to do something like that," Dunstan muttered. "To get back at your family or some such nonsense. But even you wouldn't stoop that low."
Now there was an idea. Edmund thought about it for a moment. If he did what Dobberham said and married Hetty to spite his family, it would be a rich joke indeed. Then he shook his head. Dobberham was right, even he wouldn't go that far. Much as he liked Hetty, he couldn't stand her constant inane chatter, for all she cared about were bonnets. And she really had no table manners at all, the way she ate, with her mouth open and her elbows on the table.
No, he'd need someone with a bit more breeding, a bit more refinement. Someone with a bit more intellect than Hetty. Not that he himself had too much in his noodle, but it wouldn't hurt if at least his wife had some brains. Not a bluestocking, mind you, but someone who had a little more of what he lacked, which was common sense.
"Did you hear that?" Before Edmund could stop him, Dobberham rose to announce the latest news to all and sundry. "Tewkbury has married."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, there was silence.
He must have said it with such convincing confidence, for they all believed him.
"Wot? Tewkbury got married? When did that happen?"
"Poppycock!"
"You're roasting us!"
"Lost my bet with Monmouth," groaned another. "Placed a wager you'd never marry. Not you!"
"But damn you, Tewkbury. You're shockingly negligent. You never introduced us to your wife, did you?" Rutherford wiped his forehead with a cloth and tossed it aside.
"She is a very private person, and we both prefer to keep it that way. With good reason, it seems, since you are making such a drama of it."
"Wait. Is she the lady I saw with you at the opera the other night?" asked Viscount Enningford.
Edmund had gone to the opera alone, but he would not say so. He did not answer, which Enningford took as an affirmative. Edmund finished buttoning his coat, took his cane and, rather pleased with himself at having fooled everyone, took his hat.
The grapevine would do the rest.
