The Colonel bowed deeply. “My lord.”
The Marquess stood to return the gesture. He was a man of not quite sixty, with an aquiline nose and eyes that, though hooded by age, held alert intelligence. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. A pleasure.”
“I understand,” Lady Catherine continued without delay, “that you are unacquainted with one another, though that is soon to be remedied. His lordship and I have been in most productive conversation concerning the future.”
The Marquess sat again, though his manner suggested a mind still preoccupied by the officer’s arrival.
Fitzwilliam lowered himself into the seat indicated. “Indeed?” he said, cautious but composed. “May I inquire what aspect of the future we are addressing?”
“The most essential one, my dear nephew,” Lady Catherine said crisply. “Your marriage.”
“Oh, my marriage. I didn’t foresee that.” The Colonel turned slightly to face the Marquess. “My lord, I must beg your indulgence. This is unexpected.”
“Of course,” said Lord Ashford, his tone milder than Lady Catherine’s. “Let me assure you that no decisions have been made, nor shall be made without your full acceptance. My daughter Mary is five-and-twenty—a sensible age, and quite free to make her own judgment. Her ladyship proposed the conversation, and I agreed to explore it.”
“Miss Fletcher is,” Lady Catherine cut in, “a young woman of the highest breeding, excellent education, gentle manner, and—most importantly—modest expectations. She would suit you admirably.”
The Colonel blinked, then cleared his throat lightly. “That is generous praise. I cannot but feel I ought to meet the lady before forming any notions of compatibility.”
Lord Ashford nodded in approval. “And so you shall, sir. We were both invited, so she is here at Rosings with me. If you are willing to meet her informally, we may arrange it at once.”
“That would be best,” Fitzwilliam said, still surprised by how swiftly events were proceeding. “I do not speak out of disregard, but only out of fairness to her. The lady’s opinion of me should count too.”
Lady Catherine gave a stiff nod. “Very well. Her father shall fetch her. I expect you will not find fault with what you see.”
The Marquess rose with dignity. “I shall return shortly, your ladyship.”
As he left, Lady Catherine leaned toward her nephew. “Colonel, do not make this difficult. You have no entailment, no lands of your own. This match would settle you in every way. I have chosen carefully—and I cannot believe I had not thought of them sooner. Her father is a widower; her mother’s death marked the young lady deeply, and she refused every offer for years. This marriage would provide you with a fine mansion, a generous dowry, land, servants—and a sweet-tempered wife. Trust me.”
“I do not dispute the advantages,” he said evenly. “But I have never been one to be led blindfolded into any arrangement.”
“You are three-and-thirty,” she snapped. “Do you imagine you have endless time to consider your options?”
“I imagine,” he replied mildly, “that one conversation will not bind me for life.”
Before she could press the matter, the door opened again, and the Marquess returned—this time with a young lady on his arm.
Miss Fletcher entered with a grace that needed no embellishment. She wore a soft green gown that flattered her pale complexion, and her chestnut hair was pinned in a style both elegant and unassuming. She was not tall, nor possessed of showy beauty, but her presence was calm, collected, and quietly lovely.
She curtsied to Lady Catherine, then to the Colonel. Her gaze did not linger long on their hostess. Instead, she looked first to her father for encouragement, her eyes softening with quiet gratitude at his reassuring nod, and then to Fitzwilliam, who stood to greet her with courteous warmth.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” the Marquess said, his voice carrying paternal pride as he presented his daughter, “may I present my daughter, Miss Mary Fletcher.”
She dipped once more, her curtsy graceful and composed. “Colonel,” she said softly, her voice gentle yet clear as she lifted her eyes to meet his with a subtle spark of interest.
He bowed with easy gallantry. “Miss Fletcher. I trust you are enjoying your stay at Rosings?”
“I am, thank you, sir,” she replied, offering a gentle smile that lit her features with quiet charm, drawing a corresponding warmth in his expression. “The grounds are beautifully kept. I spent an hour in the gardens with my father.”
“I am fond of them myself,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone light yet sincere as he regarded her with appreciative interest. “They offer the only serenity her ladyship has not fully regimented.”
Her eyes widened slightly, then sparkled with a flicker of amusement that betrayed her quick wit, a soft laugh escaping her as she inclined her head in playful acknowledgment. “Then we must be grateful for her restraint,” she replied, her voice carrying a note of gentle mischief that elicited a faint, approving smile from the Colonel.
Lady Catherine sniffed, her posture straightening with imperious dignity. “I consider all parts of my estate a reflection of its proper order,” she declared, her tone conveying mild disapproval though her gaze rested upon the pair with calculating approval.
Miss Fletcher only inclined her head politely, her composure unbroken though a subtle twinkle in her eyes suggested shared amusement with the Colonel, but her next glance was clearly meant for Fitzwilliam.
Lady Catherine pressed her hands together, her expression reflecting satisfied determination. “Now that introductions are made, I am confident we may consider further acquaintance suitable.”
