“It would,” Izzy said, rather startled. “I do not like to boast, but I had twelve offers in total, although to be fair, many of those were hopeless — fortune hunters and charming rogues. But three peers and an heir, although the baron was sixty if he was a day, and the earl was only an Irish title, so he was more fortune hunter than anything else. As for the heir…” She shuddered at the memory. “He was the ideal example of why one should not choose a husband solely for his title. No rank could compensate for the thought of meetingthatat the breakfast table every day.”
“Or in bed,” Olivia whispered, and giggled.
Izzy chuckled. “You should know nothing of such matters, sister. But still, twelve offers, and I should like to know, Miss Ambitious, how you plan to do better than that?”
“I cannot now, of course,” Olivia said, deflated, a tear trickling down her cheek. “It is out of the question. But it was not a matter of twelve — only one would be needed, if it was therightone. I had planned to be a duchess.”
“A duchess! That is ambitious indeed! Did you have a specific duke in mind, or would any duke do?”
“Well, most of them are in their dotage or married already, so there are few available, but my investigations have shown that there is one whose heir is as yet unmarried. The Duke of Bridgeworth’s eldest son, the Marquess of Embleton, is thirty, and that is the perfect age for a man to marry, is it not?”
“It is!” Izzy said, much struck. “But you should be aware, dearest, that when a man of such high rank is still unwed at thirty, there is usually a reason for it.”
“Oh,” Olivia said, instantly deflated. “Is he quite horrid?”
“No, not at all, but he has the most appalling stutter, and barely speaks. I am sure I have never had more than five words from him at a time, and that took him an age to manage, poor man. Most women do not want a husband with such an affliction.”
“I do not think I should mind that,” Olivia said thoughtfully. “It might be very restful to have a husband who is not constantly holding forth about this and that. I have been following him in the journals and newspapers for several years now, making note of all the events he attends in town, so I know his habits perfectly. I am sure we should suit admirably, and I should so love to be a duchess! It would make me the happiest creature alive!”
“Then if that would make you happy, sister, I say you should aim your sights at Lord Embleton and bend all your efforts towards that end.”
“But how can I, now? If I had been allowed to have my season this past spring, I should have snared him, I am sure of it. But of course we could not go with grandmama so near her end, and now… I do not know if I shalleverget a proper season, and even if I do, I can never aim so high again. My life is ruined, sister, quite ruined!”
She began to weep again, and Izzy wept too, in sympathy for her sister, and for her own trouble, and not even tea and cakes could raise their spirits again.
3: Harfield Priory
Ian made excellent time on his way north, arriving at Corland Castle for once, well before dinner. It was to no avail, however, for the butler informed him that Izzy had left the day before.
“Where has she gone, Simpson?” he said resignedly, wondering whether it was worth removing his coat and hat at all, or whether he should jump straight back into the carriage.
“We believe to Harfield Priory, my lord,” the butler said. “Lady Rennington is there at present, visiting her sister, and Lady Farramont was wishful to see her ladyship.”
Ian considered. There were still several hours of daylight left… but even if he were willing to press on tonight, the postilions would not allow the horses to do so. Corland was inconveniently distant from any coaching inns large enough to supply him with four horses instantly.
“See that my carriage is ready to leave first thing tomorrow… at six. That will be early enough.”
“Very good, my lord. We will put you in the south-western guest room this time.”
He grunted an acknowledgement. With a footman to guide him, he strode through to the great hall, with its ridiculous collection of swords and pikes on the walls, and up the stairs to the appointed room. He smiled as he looked at the familiar bed, already made up. The room had been redecorated, for Lady Rennington could never leave a room alone for long, so the hangings were different, but the bed itself was just the same. It was where he had passed the first nights of his married life, so it had a special place in his heart. He would enjoy spending the night here. Was there a hint of perfume in the air, one he knew well? Izzy had slept here, then.
Wycliffe was busy examining the small dressing room. He emerged with a smile on his face, which meant he approved. Ian cared nothing for where he slept, but his valet was far more conscious of his master’s consequence.
“Do you wish me to sleep in here, my lord, to make an early start?”
“No. We are only bound for Harfield tomorrow, not Throxfield. We will not leave before six.”
Two maids rushed in with sheets. “Have the bed changed for you right away, milord.”
Give him sheets smelling only of laundry soap, when he could sleep in Izzy’s sweet scent?
“No need for that. I should like a bath, though, if it can be managed.”
“Yes, milord. Be about half an hour, milord.”
They rushed off again, and, since his boxes were arriving, Ian took himself out of the way of the puffing footmen by wandering through to the sitting room. There, too, Izzy’s perfume hung faintly in the air. The room had been dusted, he suspected,but not polished, or that delicate scent would have been overpowered by beeswax or lavender.
A flash of colour behind a chair caught his eye. Izzy’s silk scarf! He smiled as he lifted it from its hiding place. No doubt she had tossed it carelessly onto the back of the chair and not noticed when it slithered to the ground. So sleek and soft, and yes, as he held it to his nose, there was that scent again, stronger this time. He breathed deeply, the perfume bringing Izzy’s image effortlessly to his mind.
