Weary of the weight of the ton’s expectations, of balls and routs and breakfasts, and the throng of young ladies in their pastel gowns, with their sharp-eyed mamas scouring every ballroom for stray fortunes and titles.
On his worst days, Johnathan was weary even of being the Earl of Melrose.
It was a wearying business, being Lord Melrose. He’d been Lord Melrose for eleven years now, since he’d turned eighteen, and he was ready to drop with exhaustion.
Being Lord Melrose hadn’t left him time for much else. His wild oats had been left to squirm around inside him, unsown and simmering like a pot on the boil, just waiting for their chance to overflow.
Or perhaps that was the brandy.
But of all the things that wearied him, Lady Christine Dingley was the most wearisome of them all.
Johnathan’s mother had been dear friends with Lady Dingley, and it had been her fondest wish that he would one day marry her daughter. Johnathan hadn’t had any objection when one day was a point in the far distant future, but somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention, one day had become today.
Lady Christine had not improved in the intervening years between their last meeting and the start of this season, and Johnathan liked to think his lovely, kind mother wouldn’t wish to see her only son doomed to a lifetime with an ill-tempered, spoiled belle whose only interests were shopping, gossip, and petty rivalries.
Of course, as far as the ton was concerned, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with Lady Christine. She was beautiful, accomplished, and her family’s reputation and lineage were both impeccable. That she was rather like a cricket game—that is, far pleasanter in theory than in practice—did not, in the opinion of the ton, disqualify her from becoming the Countess of Melrose. It did, however, disqualify her from becoming Johnathan’s wife, which was damned inconvenient, given they were one and the same thing.
He’d already made up his mind to wed this year. He’d just turned twenty-nine, and Margaret, the eldest of his three younger sisters was now fifteen years of age. She’d abandoned her pinafores and youthful curls, and soon enough would be embarking on her first season, with her younger sisters right behind her.
He needed a wife.
The devil of it was, marriage had always meant Lady Christine Dingley, or, if not her, then another lady very much like her.
Hence, the brandy.
Just once, he longed for something for himself, something he’d chosen, instead of having it thrust upon him. Something, or someone, that was his alone—
“If you want this dance, Melrose, you might endeavor to look as if you’re anticipating a cotillion, rather than a trip to the gallows.”
Johnathan shot a resentful look at Cross. “Yes, all right. I’m going.”
“Get on with it, then.” Cross plucked at his wilted cravat. “I’ve never seen such a crush, and it’s as hot as Hades in here.”
“It’s always hotter than Hades in a ballroom, Cross, and every ball is a crush. Must the ton always move in a herd? Aren’t there any other entertainments on offer tonight?”
“Certainly, but none so fashionable as this one, and none with such an enticing hint of scandal about it.”
Johnathan frowned. “Scandal? What scandal?”
“Haven’t you heard, Melrose? Lady Fosberry has dragged one of the Templeton sisters back from the dead.”
“Not from the dead, Cross. Only from Buckinghamshire. Lady Fosberry spends a good deal of time at her country estate there. What, are people still going on about the Templeton girls? It’s not their fault their mother was an adventuress, and ran off to the Continent with the Marquess of Bromley.”
“No, but the mother is dead now, Melrose, and someone must be blamed, or else the ton won’t be satisfied, and so it falls on the daughters. Lady Fosberry and her misfits.” Cross’s mouth turned up in a rare smile.
“Lady Fosberry has always cared more for intrigue than propriety.” The ton flocked to her balls for that very reason. One never knew what might happen at one of Lady Fosberry’s entertainments.
“Quickly, Melrose, before some gallant steals Lady Christine out from under your nose.” Cross nodded toward the other side of the ballroom, where Lord Cudworth, Lady Christine’s last partner had just returned her to her parents. “I refuse to wait through another interminable country dance.”
Johnathan’s lips twisted in a grimace, but he gave the hem of his coat a sharp tug, resisted the urge to twitch the folds of his cravat, and began to make his way across the ballroom.
If he’d had one fewer glasses of brandy, or been a trifle less agitated he might have arrived at his destination, but as it was, he never made it as far as Lady Christine.
Instead, he spied Lady Susanna Exeter, a discreet but delectable widow with whom he’d enjoyed more than one pleasurable encounter. Indeed, if he hadn’t made up his mind to wed this season, he’d still be enjoying her now.
Johnathan glanced from Lady Susanna to Lady Christine, then back again. Once, twice, then again, back and forth, one lady a reminder of a recent, pleasurable past, and the other a thorn in the side of his filial duty.
He took a hesitant step toward Lady Christine, his mother’s wishes regarding his marriage battering at his bruised conscience, but then paused, his gaze wandering back to Lady Susanna.
