Once word got out that he was no longer a bachelor, the matrons, mamas, matriarchs, ladies, and debutantes of thetonwould take him off the marriage list, and that would be a good thing.
Then he could spend the rest of the Season pursuing his own interests without anyone pestering him.
"So tell me, who is it?" Dunstan pressed. They'd left the club and were on their way to Boodles.
"Er, I say." Edmund was terribly short on names. "A lady."
"A lady," Dobberham repeated. "Really." He crossed his arms. "Doing it too brown, my friend. Why this reluctance to share this vital piece of information with me? I thought we were best friends," he added in a hurt tone.
Indeed they were. They had grown up together. After Edmund had broken with everyone from his old life, his parents, his siblings, even his twin, Dobberham had been incomprehensibly stubborn in his insistence on remaining his friend. He'd followed him to London, introduced him to the clubs, the tailors and the snuff makers. He'd even introduced him to Hetty. Dobberham was probably the only person who'd ever accepted him for who he really was. So Edmund felt a pang of guilt at lying to his best and only friend.
He patted Dobberham on the shoulder. "I say, old friend, prudence! Prudence is the better part of value."
"I think you mean 'prudence is the better part of valour'—which makes no sense at all in this context. I dare say you meant to say 'patience is a virtue' or some such drivel."
"I say it is. You took the words right out of my mouth. 'Patience is a virtue,' so there." Edmund looked at Dobberham almost fondly. Yes, that was why they were friends. Dobberham understood him and didn't mind when he talked rubbish.
"You'll meet her in time." Edmund thoughtlessly rode deeper and deeper into his lies. "We were only married yesterday and not even my family knows. Not that they want to know. I mean, it's not like we're on speaking terms. Give us some room to breathe, old man."
"Yesterday!" Dobberham looked at him, thunderstruck.
Yesterday, Edmund had spent the entire morning in Jermyn Street mixing perfumes, but no one, not even Dobberham, needed to know, for he kept that part of his life a secret from everyone. "Yes, yesterday. At St George's. Father, er, James? Jones? Jacques? Whatever his name. You can check the register if you like." He waved his hand, knowing Dobberham would never do that.
He was right. "No, no, I believe you, old man, I believe you. But yesterday? Zounds." He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. "How long have you been planning to marry? How long have you been engaged?"
"It was rather hasty," Edmund began, painstakingly polishing his quizzing glass with his perfumed silk handkerchief. "It wasn't planned, I admit. But that's what love does to one, you know."
"Love." Dunstan gaped again. "Never tell me you're in love."
"Of course! Love." Edmund nodded earnestly. "'She floats with beauty through the day on the clouds with daffodils'—and all that. I say, you get my meaning."
Dobberham snorted. "If anyone can corrupt Byron and Wordsworth and smash their poetry together in one hideous quote, it's you, no doubt. But you know you don't have to play the fool when you're with me."
Edmund placed a manicured hand over his heart. "Cupid's bow pierced both our hearts and we could no longer contain our passion. We had to get married. It was urgent." Let him do what he wanted with that. Edmund stifled a grin.
"A love match! That's preposterous." Dobberham's eyes almost popped out of his face.
"Yes, passionately so. So you see, there is no need for me to attend your house party at all, for I am already firmly and irrevocably leg-shackled. I am no longer available for your lovely wife's matchmaking experiments. Alas."
Dunstan looked hurt and drew his hand to his balding head. "Louisa won't be pleased," he murmured. "She won't be pleased at all, because she was most insistent on pairing you up with—never mind, never mind. It will upset all her plans. It's the way it is. It can't be helped, and if you've made yourself a tenant for life, I suppose congratulations are in order." He patted Edmund's arm tentatively.
"Thank you." Edmund coughed. "Tell Louisa I'm afraid I'll have to pass this time, because you know, so newly married and so in love, it wouldn't be right to leave one's wife so soon after the knot is tied." Edmund felt himself relax. What a wonderful idea to put everything on his fictitious wife's shoulders.
But Dunstan frowned. "Old chap, Louisa will have my head if you don't come. I don't dare think of the consequences." Then his face brightened. "A-ha! I have it! You will come together, of course! You must bring your wife. Why didn't I think of that before? It's just the thing. Introduce your wife to society at Louisa's party. She will love it." He rubbed his hands. "Anyway, it's boring for everyone to be single. A married couple or two might mix things up."
Edmund stifled a groan.
"But like I said ... "
"Nonsense. Spend your honeymoon with us at Dunworthy House! You'll have plenty of privacy; we'll give you an entire floor, the house is big enough. And Louisa will have the party, and you will come, and you will bring your wife. Party saved. Wife's wrath averted. Mine, that is. And you can introduce yours to everyone else." He waved away any protests and raised his stick. "I'll have to tell the others at the club. They'll think I'm trying to run a rig on them. You scoundrel. Keeping your marriage a secret like that!"
Edmund cursed under his breath.Confound it! Now how was he to summon a woman out of thin air? He couldn't just pull her out of a hat. Nor would she materialise out of his head. How he wished it were possible!
Edmund sighed as he walked down the street. Surely there were plenty of damsels who would not mind being his wife. The nuts and bolts in his brains might work backwards sometimes, but all in all, he was a desirable bachelor, with a title and a fortune to offer. And—he flicked away a speck of dust on his sleeve—he wasn't half bad to look at. He prided himself on being an Exquisite, a Beau, a Pink of theton.
Thing was, he didn't want any of those damsels. None of those milk and water misses, pale and lisping and forevermore blushing. He did not want those thin, willowy figures with pale-blonde ringlets. They were all the same: colourless and dull.
No, the woman of his dreams was entirely different.
