“I expect so. Unless she’s in love with another.”
“Bah,” his father said. “Love.”
“Quite,” George drawled. If he could have contrived to marry for love, he would have done, but he thought it was unlikely he would be so lucky. In recent years, the only lady to have captured his attention for more than a few weeks had made it plain she had no interest in marriage.
“You’ve been dragging your feet too long. Pick a girl and have done with it.” His father hacked and coughed. “I don’t have time for your dilly-dallying.”
Keeping his irritation from his face, George removed his snuffbox from his coat pocket and inhaled a pinch. It had therather pleasing consequence of inducing his father to scowl, so he did so again. “You know I owe it to the family name to choose the right lady,” he said lazily.
His father’s eyes narrowed, but as this was a sentiment he had himself said several months ago, he could find nothing to object to.
“But I hardly see the rush,” he continued. “I’m thirty, hardly an old man yet. Give me time, Father.”
“Time for what? Am I to pass from this world having not seen my son married?” He tapped his stick impatiently against the carpet. “I think not. I will have Forbes write you a list of families I consider eligible. Pick one. And soon.”
“I take it you have nothing else to say to me?”
“Not until you find a wife.”
“Charmed.” He gave a mocking bow. “I shall see myself out.”
“I mean it, George. My patience is running thin.”
“This was, as always, a productive meeting, Father.” George reached the door and had almost escaped before his father sighed.
“If you would not do it to oblige me, do it in memory of your mother. She would have wanted this.”
What a vilely low blow. George shut the door with a slam and leaned against it, dragging a hand down his face. While his relationship with his father was strained, he had adored his mother until the day she died, several years ago.
Well, he’d known this day was coming, whether he liked it or not.
“Good day, Forbes,” he said as he descended the stairs again. “I’ll see myself out. I believe you shall be instructed to shortly send me a list of eligible brides.”
The butler inclined his head regally. “Very good, sir.”
If only, George thought wryly, it was.
#
Caroline read the letter in her hand, a crease forming between her brows. After a few moments, she reached up and pressed her fingers against the groove, smoothing it out again. Her looks were her primary currency, and she couldn’t afford for something as trifling as a little destitution to hurry time along. This was, after all, nothing particularly new. Ever since her husband’s untimely death, she had been accustomed to living life somewhat . . . precariously.
And now this additional call on her purse.
We received no answer to our last missive, so forgive my impertinence in writing again. You are behind on your payments for Jacqueline, and there is the matter of her dowry. You understand that we will be presenting her next year, and if she is to take, she must have a sizeable dowry.
We await your response.
There was no signature. Mrs Smith rarely left her name at the bottom of her letters; she had consented to accept Jacqueline as her own, to give her a home and a roof over her head and clothes on her back—for a price, always for a price—but she did not approve of Caroline.
Then again, few did approve of a girl who had lain with a man outside of marriage, conceived his bastard, and given the child away.
Her father had been the one to negotiate the arrangement, and when he had died almost ten years ago now, Caroline had taken over the monthly payments. After her husband’s death—he had left his fortune elsewhere—it had been a struggle, but she had contrived it.
The matter of the dowry, however.
Caroline sucked at her teeth.
Usually, when she worried about going short, she would dip her pen into ink and write a cajoling letter to the man—or men—paying for the delights of her company, requesting a gift.
