Lady Foxworth pursed her lips and set her teacup aside, making Mary aware of how long her mind must have been absent from the conversation, because she didn’t recall her aunt ever picking up the teacup in the first place. “I may be getting on in years, but I am not a fool, Mary. I would much prefer it if you did not treat me like one.” Before Mary could argue, her aunt said, “It’s that man again, isn’t it? You are still thinking about him.”
Mary cringed with the shame of knowing what she’d done. Her aunt had always been good to her, yet Mary had deliberately lied to her time and time again. First, by convincing her aunt that she liked to retire early in the evenings in order to read, when in fact, she was sneaking off to the opera instead. Now, she was being deceptive once more, going against her aunt’s specific wishes in order to meet Richard in secret.
“It is impossible for me not to,” Mary confessed, offering Lady Foxworth some small amount of truth.
Her aunt snorted. “I cannot say that I blame you, all things considered. After all, people do tend to be drawn to the mystery of the unknown, and that gentleman you keep on thinking about does seem to be something of a puzzle, though I do hope you realize that there is little point in continuing your ponderings over him.” Reaching for one of the sweetmeats sitting on a plate between them, she held it delicately between her fingers, studying it as she said, “Now, I have it on good authority that the Duke of Lamont will be arriving tomorrow. Word has it that he is actively seeking a bride.” The sweetmeat went straight into Lady Foxworth’s mouth.
Mary slumped. “But—”
“Mary,” Lady Foxworth said sternly, “I do believe I have been extremely patient with you, particularly since your parents asked me to give you the time you require to make a love match.” Mary opened her mouth to speak, but her aunt held up a staying hand. “However,” she added, “they also made it perfectly clear to me that they want to see you settled when they return to England, which is why I must insist that you start considering your options more seriously. Take Belgrave, for instance. By all accounts, including your own, he is an amicable gentleman—titled, no less—who possesses the means by which to offer you a comfortable life. Most young ladies would be thrilled to make such a coup.”
“You are right. They would be, Aunt, but I am looking for more than wealth in a husband. I want a companion, a friend, and a confidant—someone with whom I can share every aspect of my life. But in addition to that, I want a spark. With Belgrave it simply was not there.”
Lady Foxworth pressed her lips together and frowned. “Do you hear what you are saying? The sort of expectations you have? They are impossible, Mary. Nobody finds that sort of compatibility in marriage, least of all among the aristocracy where the only true purpose of a wife is to produce an heir. It is a harsh truth perhaps, but it is reality, and I daresay it is time for you to face it.”
Unwilling to back down, Mary said, “Youmarried for love, and so did Mama and Papa.” Seeing her aunt’s pained expression, Mary quietly added, “I believe they have precisely the sort of relationship that I would like for myself.”
Sighing, Lady Foxworth leaned back against her seat, her eyes steady on Mary. “Perhaps you are right, but that does not change the fact that we are running out of time. You have had three Seasons already. One more and you will be on the shelf. The longer you wait to form an attachment, the harder it will be for you, not only because you lose the advantage of being a young bride, but also because everyone will start questioning why you have not been snatched up yet. They will start wondering what is wrong with you.”
“Everyone knows that I barely have a dowry worth talking about. My only asset is my father’s title and the possible connection that a suitor might gain by association—a connection that is of little value to a peer of higher rank than viscount.” Mary picked up her teacup, took a sip, and winced. The drink was only lukewarm.
“Which makes it even more important for you to socialize while you are here at Thorncliff. Given the chance, I have every confidence that your positive demeanor, intelligence, and wit, will achieve what your limited dowry will not.”
“In other words, I must make every effort to socialize with the duke when he arrives.” Mary could scarcely think of anything less appealing, not because she disliked the duke in any way, but because he wasn’t the one who’d captured her heart. Trying to attract his attention and gain his favor would not only seem false, but like a betrayal of her feelings for Richard.
“I see no other option at this point. You have dismissed everyone else.”
“Everyone with a title, that is,” Mary said as her brain worked to find a way out of this mess. “What if I chose to encourage the attentions of an untitled gentleman? A second or third son perhaps?”
Lady Foxworth’s gaze grew pensive. “I see no issue with that,” she eventually said. “Not as long as he comes from a respectable family and has the means to support you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you have someone particular in mind?”
Yes!
“Perhaps.” Seeing the change in her aunt’s demeanor—the flash of interest in her eyes—she quickly added, “Mostly, I am just trying to figure out what my options are at this point.”
Nodding, Lady Foxworth agreed with the wisdom of that before returning Mary’s attention to the subject that they’d been discussing earlier—before Mary’s concentration had slipped to Richard—and continued elaborating on Charles Bonnet’s conclusion regarding the relationship between the spiral arrangement of leaves on a plant and the Fibonacci sequence.
Later, as Mary ate her dinner, her apprehension over Rotridge and the comment that he’d made earlier in the day resurfaced as he continued to look at her from further down the table. She’d left a note for Richard before returning downstairs, informing him of her suspicions just in case the situation with Rotridge grew less tolerable.
“It does not seem as though his interest in you has diminished,” Lord Belgrave said. Seated at Mary’s left, he’d been regaling her with stories of his boyhood exploits, most of which had ended with him getting hurt in one way or other.
“Quite the contrary,” she agreed, her tone grim with trepidation. Rotridge was like a predator waiting for just the right moment in which to attack.
“Spencer, Chadwick, and I have been trying to keep an eye on him, just in case you ever need us to step in, but it is difficult for us to do so at all hours of the day without his knowledge.”
“And I would never expect you to ruin your holiday in such a way on my behalf,” Mary said, “though I do appreciate the gesture. It is most kind.”
Leaning closer, Belgrave lowered his voice to a whisper. “Has he done anything recently to upset you? Because if he has—”
“No,” she said, panicked by the thought of Belgrave discovering what Rotridge clearly knew. Her hand trembled as she reached for her wineglass, raised it to her lips and took a fortifying sip. “As uncomfortable as I feel in his presence, I am sure that he is quite harmless. His pride has been hurt by my rejection. That is all.”
“I hope you are right,” Belgrave said as he straightened himself in his seat.
So did Mary.
It wasn’t until she made her way upstairs to her bedchamber later, that she realized just how wrong she’d been to do so. Turning down the hallway that would lead her back toward her bedchamber, Mary listened to the accompanying sound of her footsteps tapping lightly against the floor. Carefully, she undid the ties on her reticule and reached inside to retrieve her key. But as she rounded a corner, a man stepped out of an alcove, blocking her path.
Rotridge.
