“Unfortunately, neither of us have much choice in the matter if we want to continue our current style of living.” He nodded at Miss Rebecca Crowley, who was currently dancing. Her hair was indeed red, and already falling out of its curls. Her freckled face was flushed from exertion. Pretty, if not the current style, but he remained unmoved. “How large is her dowry?”
“Large enough.”
“Mother.”
“Ten thousand.”
Irritation coursed through him, worsened by the indignity of his position. He’d always looked down on fortune hunters, and look what he had become. “That’s not enough.”
“Dearest, I’m certain we could—”
“Anything less than twenty would only scratch the surface.”
His mother withdrew her hand from his arm. “I know your father—”
“We will not discuss the earl here, if you please.”
Her mouth pursed in disapproval, but she merely said, “If your standards are so exacting, you give yourself little choice.” She did not say the rest: that he would be lucky if one of those ladieswould consent to marry him. There were richer, more eligible gentlemen available.
“Have we come here in vain, then?”
“I recommend you—”
“Allow me to be the one to decide on this.” He huffed a short, bitter laugh. “Are there no unmarried ladies with a large enough dowry?”
“Well, yes. Most are I think already spoken for. But there is . . .” She sighed. “Miss Venetia Winton.”
“Excellent. Now tell me why you were so reluctant to offer her name.”
“She is . . . her family came into their fortune recently. Her father was amerchant, I believe.” She said the word ‘merchant’ as though it were dirty. “This is her third Season, and she is almost two-and-twenty.”
“You have given me no reason not to consider her.”
His mother gave him a look of pitying outrage. “She has not so much as been granted an Almack’s voucher this Season, despite her mother applying for it not once but twice.”
“Poor girl,” he said with a flash of something approaching sympathy. “All the more reason to consider her.”
“Henry! You are the Earl of Shrewsbury’s eldest son.”
“The destitute Earl of Shrewsbury’s eldest son,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Let us not deceive one another. My reasons for marriage are precisely the reasons why other young ladies might be reluctant to entertain my suit.”
“She would be a countess!” His mother sniffed, and rare amusement crossed his face as he watched her. “That is no small honour, I assure you.”
“No doubt my wife, whomever she may be, will not be insensible,” he said, patting her hand with wry fondness. “Now, will you introduce us?”
“I had much rather not,” his mother said, but she accepted his arm and directed him across the ballroom to where a tall, austere young lady stood watching the proceedings, an oddly impassive expression on her face.
Louisa snapped her fan closed as she strode into the ballroom, her head bare and warm air on her neck just above her pearls. Beside her, Caroline plucked a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray and took a healthy sip. “What a squeeze,” she said. “If my constitution were weaker, I would be tempted to faint.”
“You have the constitution of an ox. I don’t believe you’ve fainted in your life.”
“I nearly fainted when my maid told me Augustus was finally dead. I thought he’d never go.”
“A charming sentiment.”
“I am habitually charming, darling.” Caroline glanced at her. “Are youstillangry with me?”
Louisa did not deign to answer, taking a drink of her own and sipping it, the bubbles fizzing the back of her throat.
