“He isnothideous,” Andrew scoffed. “He’s simply . . . mature.”
“You mean he’s old. How old?”
Andrew refused to meet her eyes, instead staring down at his desk and pretending to brush off a piece of dust. “I believe he’s in his forties. Which, I would remind you, I’m forty myself, and I’m still inprime condition.”
Forties!The fact Andrew didn’t specify Fairchild’s exact age most likely meant the man approached fifty.
“No.”
“Anne.” The pitch and volume of Andrew’s voice rose. “You will be twenty-seven in two months. Fairchild will need an heir. Did you think he might not consideryou?”
She blinked, the revelation unsettling at the least. “You’re saying he might thinkI’mtoo old?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Although Andrew’s voice softened considerably, his message was clear. She couldn’t be too picky. Not if she wanted to marry.
And good gracious, she hadn’t even been kissed yet!
Alice sent her husband a disapproving glance. “You will always have a place with us. Won’t she, my dear?”
“Of course,” Andrew said. “I just want to see you happy.”
Anne’s heart, along with her hopes, plummeted to her toes. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to meet Lord Fairchild.”
Two weeks later . . .
Anne watched what—presumably—was her last chance at wedded bliss storm out the door. Of course, bliss might have been too kind of a descriptor for what she might have experienced with Lord Fairchild.
Anne’s estimation of his age had been more accurate than Andrew’s. The man’s hair—what he had left of it—was streaked with gray, and he was missing several teeth. A pleasant enough fellow, he had laughed and complimented Anne on her beauty, then had asked politely when he would meet her younger sister.
When informed she was Andrew’sonlysister, the man’s countenance had fallen as if she had announced the impending end of the world. Then, after a lengthy explanation stating he had hoped for numerous children, he hastily removed himself from their presence.
In a huff, Anne fell into the chair behind her. “If he wanted so many children, why didhewait so long to get married? It’s just not fair!”
As Andrew and Alice’s nine-year-old twins, Indira and Eleanor, raced in, full of questions, Anne held on to a thread of hope that she would have her own family one day, rather than only being a loving aunt, dependent on her brother’s kindness for the rest of her life.
Somerset, England, June 1833
Seven-year-old Elinor tugged on Colin’s arm. “What does it say, Papa?”
Colin tore his gaze away from the invitation, but the wordshouse partyremained emblazoned on his mind. Other than the christening of his sister’s son that past November, he hadn’t made an appearance in society since his wife’s death three years prior. And now, Honoria tried to draw him out of his melancholia yet again.
Elinor waited patiently, a Herculean feat for the normal bundle of energy. Her big brown eyes momentarily melted his dead, frozen heart.
“It’s from your Aunt Honoria.”
“And?” She tugged his arm again.
Unbidden, a rare smile teased his lips. “For a house party at Burwood’s country seat in Dorset.”
Elinor’s eyes widened even further. “A party? I love parties!” No longer able to contain her enthusiasm, his daughter bounced on her toes. “Am I invited?”
Colin’s attention jerked back to the personalized invitation written in Honoria’s precise, elegant hand.Bring the girls. It will do you all good.
“Yes, but?—”
Before he could explain he intended to send hisregrets, Elinor raced off, calling for her sister. “Cassie! We’re going to a party at Auntie Honoria’s!”
“Ellie,” he called, but she had already fled the room, the flash of her blue skirts and chestnut-brown hair only a memory.
