“Quite a number, I am told. Perhaps her reason for arriving on our shores in search of a match is the same reason as the other women from America. We have what the men in America lack. We have a title.”
“Miss Mercer does not appear that superficial,” he said absently, watching her swirl around the room in the arms of one of his neighbors. Charles was the Marquess of Wentworth. An amiable sort, good equestrian, in possession of an estate in Sussex and a townhouse in London. He detested the man.
“Indeed, she does not,” Jeremy said. “A puzzle, then. You should ask the lady what she truly desires. If you dare.”
Robert thanked the servant when he returned with a whiskey. “What is your meaning?” he said to Jeremy.
“You always place the needs of others before yourself. You are ruled by duty. Duty to your family. Duty to your country. When you choose a bride, you will choose the person your family recommends, without thinking of what you want. In your case, you accepted the bride your brother chose for you. Lady Montgomery is well mannered, even tempered, fashionable, and attractive. She is also wealthy. The perfect match for a man in need of a wife who could restore the depleted treasury, a depletion caused by his father’s gambling debts.”
“I believe your wife approaches,” Robert said evenly.
“Right you are, and I recognize her expression. She desires a dance. Before I married, I was a fool. I believed I understood women. I believed there was little more in their pretty heads than the desire to arrange shopping excursions for ribbons and lace or trapping a man into marriage. If you are fortunate enough to marry a woman such as Molly, you will learn of their depth of caring and desire to protect all whom they hold dear.” Jeremy clapped Robert on the shoulder. “I only wish the same for you, old friend.”
Molly joined Jeremy with a broad smile that shone in her eyes. “The most handsome men in the room are hiding away like hermits. Shame on you both. I intend to dance with my husband, and the duke, since Lady Montgomery is dancing with Devonshire, should choose an unattached single lady. Might I suggest Miss Mercer?”
Chapter Nineteen
The next day, Madeline roamed aimlessly through the castle. Her thoughts were clouded and confused, and her emotions flying in a hundred different directions. According to Molly, Madeline’s first ball had been a success. Madeline danced every dance. A few men had asked to dance with her twice, which meant they were interested.
Her mother was thrilled.
But the only person Madeline had wanted to dance with was the duke.
She rounded a corner and headed down a back staircase. She was lost, but she didn’t care. This obsession with how a person looked and the number of dances a person danced was new to her. In America, she had a purpose. In England, she was bored out of her mind.
When living in America, she had attended school and, when she was home, helped her mother with the ledgers and with overseeing the wellbeing of the women in her mother’s employ as well as those who came asking for charity.
She was starving. Agitation and frustration had that effect on her.
Madeline had roamed aimlessly through the castle and been lost a few times, but the smell of baking bread was like a beacon, so she knew she was going in the right direction. Along the way to the kitchen, she passed separate rooms, each dedicated to storing fish, poultry, or game meats. In addition, there were larders that stored fruits, vegetables, spices, and flour. She had stopped for directions and was told the castle had its own dairy larder and smokehouse, also. She had never seen so much food in her life. They had enough to feed an army.
She passed the scullery, where servants were chatting to each other while hard at work washing dishes. Across the room, others prepared and cleaned vegetables and fruits on clean counters or in sinks.
The kitchen was a few doors down and buzzed with activity. Laughter and conversation combined with the smells of baking bread and the fragrance of spices. Bread and pies were removed from brick ovens, while additional bread and pastries were being prepared. At a door that led outside, one of the cooks handed a woman and small child a small basket of bread and cheese.
When the cook closed the door and turned, she noticed Madeline. Startled, she curtsied. “Miss Mercer. Can I be of assistance?”
All conversation ceased.
The half dozen cooks in the room all turned toward Madeline at the same time, all curtseying. Too late, Madeline realized her presence would be viewed as an intrusion. England was more formal than America, with a separation between servants and nobles that felt at times as wide as the Atlantic.
“I apologize. I did not mean to intrude. I was lost,” she stammered out the last, truly sorry she had bothered them.
“Name’s Mary,” the cook who had been the first to notice Madeline said. “Would you like something to eat? We pulled hot cross buns from the oven, and they are a good batch, if I say so myself. The ones from the oven are too warm to frost, but I have a few remaining from the ones we made this morning.”
Madeline shook her head. “I am not hungry,” she said, even as her stomach betrayed her and grumbled.
“You don’t say.” Mary’s eyes twinkled in a face full of smile lines. She tucked wisps of salt-and-pepper hair into her cap and reached into a cupboard for a plate rimmed with delicate blue flowers. “Back to work,” she ordered the other cooks as she set the plate on a table by the window. “Sit, Miss Mercer, if you please. The duchess does not abide her guests going hungry. Servants as well, if, truth be told. Not like the old lord who believed hunger was a good motivator. The old nipcheese was as stingy with a coin as a pinchpenny.”
Her last comment drew a collective gasp which Mary ignored.
Madeline settled down in front of a frosted hot cross bun, which smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. Her mouth watered. “Thank you. Can you join me?” Madeline said to Mary.
Mary folded her arms across her waist. “Would not be proper, Miss Mercer.”
“Please, can you call me Madeline? If it’s only just you and me. All this formality is, well, annoying, if you must know.”
“The duchess said we’d like you, didn’t she, gals?”
