‘Yes, that was very enterprising of you, Mrs Whitmore,’ Jacob said, and sent Miss Whitmore a quick wink to let her know she had his complete sympathy.
He thought he’d at least get a smile in return. Instead, those lips once again pursed and the brows drew together. It was evident she would tolerate no insults from him towards her mother, no matter how frightful the woman was.
He shrugged that off. If she was loyal to her mother, that presumably was an admirable trait. He wouldn’t know about such things. He could barely remember his own mother, but from what he’d been told she’d been a cold woman who had never wanted her only child and had no attributes that would illicit loyalty from anyone.
‘Mr Whitmore even tried to talk me out of accepting the Earl’s kind invitation to this weekend party, saying he was only doing so to appease my brother, the Earl of Ledbury,’ the mother twittered on. ‘He said that Margaret would have to suffer enough during the Season so I should refrain from inflicting further suffering on her with this party.’ She laughed loudly, a sound unfortunately reminiscent of a honking goose.
But her statement did explain their presence at this party. Henry had only invited young women he was considering as a future bride, and Miss Whitmore did not fit any of his friend’s criteria for an ideal wife. She was far too headstrong, intelligent and candid. But Ledbury and Henry were both notorious gamblers. No doubt Henry was in debt to Ledbury, and was indeed trying to appease him by helping his niece find a husband.
‘Suffer?’ I said to Mr Whitmore,’ the mother continued. ‘How could anyone describe the Social Season as suffering?’
If it had been possible to get a word in edgeways, Jacob could say that both he and Miss Whitmore would describe it thus, and the drawing in his pocket was proof of that.
‘I told him he was talking nonsense,’ she went on, oblivious to the fact that this was a one-sided conversation. ‘And I was right. Now my little girl is to become a duchess.’
She once again took her daughter in her arms and squeezed her tight. Despite this rather embarrassing display, it was apparent the mother did love her daughter and wished the best for her. A small part of him envied such affection from a parent. Averysmall part.
‘So, when do you intend to marry?’ the mother asked, turning to Jacob and this time waiting for him to reply.
‘We haven’t discussed—’
‘As a duke you can get a special licence,’ she interrupted. ‘There’s no need for a long, drawn-out engagement. You could be married by the end of the month. Even by the end of the week.’
‘Mother,’ Miss Whitmore said in a commanding tone, ‘for propriety’s sake I believe a long engagement would be more suitable, otherwise people might wonder at the rush. Tongues might wag.’
‘Nonsense,’ the mother shot back, her panicked gaze moving swiftly from her daughter to Jacob and back again. ‘Tongues won’t wag, and if they do it will probably be because they’re all envious. You may have had three disastrous Seasons but once you are a duchess you will be the toast of London.’
She leant towards her frowning daughter. ‘I really do advise you to marry the Duke as soon as possible, my dear.’ Her tone lowered a little, as if hoping Jacob would not hear, despite standing a few feet away. ‘You don’t want this one to slip through your fingers.’
Miss Whitmore’s posture stiffened and Jacob suspected there was a story behind that statement.
‘Mother, we either have a long engagement or we do not marry at all,’ Miss Whitmore stated slowly through clenched teeth.
Jacob looked at the mother, curious to see what the comeback would be.
There wasn’t one. The daughter’s insistence had seemingly taken the wind out of Mrs Whitmore’s sails and for once she was lost for words.
Miss Whitmore continued to glare at her mother, who quickly gathered herself and stared back at her daughter with narrowed eyes, in a silent battle of wills. If Jacob had been a betting man he knew which one he would back. Mrs Whitmore might be the one who made the most noise, but the daughter had such a defiant look in her eye he could not see her backing down.
‘Yes, perhaps a long engagement might be for the best,’ Mrs Whitmore finally said, albeit with an uncertain note in her voice.
‘Good, that’s settled,’ Jacob said, clapping his hands once with finality. ‘A long engagement so we have lots of time to really get to know each other,’ he added, threading his arm through Miss Whitmore’s, and drawing another reproachful look from the young lady.
‘Ye-es,’ the mother conceded reluctantly. ‘I believe three months would be long enough.’
‘Or three years,’ Miss Whitmore responded, removing her arm from his.
‘No,’ the mother gasped.
‘Yes,’ the defiant daughter insisted.
‘Ladies, shall we compromise?’ Jacob suggested, rather enjoying this sparring. ‘We’ll announce the engagement immediately, with the intention of marrying at the beginning of next Season. So, an engagement of one year.’
The two women held each other’s gaze as if waiting to see who would flinch first, then both nodded at the same time, accepting the compromise.
‘Oh, I must go and tell Lady Chedmore,’ Mrs Whitmore said, almost singing the words. ‘She will be green with envy. She was so smug when she told me her daughter was to marry a viscount. Hmph, a viscount is nothing compared to a duke.’
With that, the beaming Mrs Whitmore bustled off, leaving Jacob behind with his future bride.
