The number reminded Rose that most young men in the aristocracy waited until sometime between their twenty-eighth and thirtieth birthdays to take a wife. That gave them time to sow their wild oats, drive coach-and-fours at break-neck speeds on the road to Richmond, and drink and gamble until the wee hours at their clubs. The age also allowed those who returned from their Grand Tours to have some time to carouse and become reacquainted with their fellow heirs.
A few years ago, there had been a spate of marriages among her friends. The men weren’t anywhere close to twenty-eight. Once the first one married, it was as if a game of marriage dominos had been set in motion, and before she knew it, seven of her male friends had fallen and said their vows, many of them to friends of hers.
That had been in the spring of 1839.
Five years ago.
There were babies now, their mothers young matrons who were now part of a completely different social group. Although she desperately wished to feel welcome when she was invited, Rose never felt comfortable among those who spent the time discussing their children and husbands.
What could she contribute to such a discussion?
“Do you have someone in mind you’d like as a husband?” her father asked in a quiet voice.
Rose gave a start. “The three I had in mind have all married,” she replied before she sniffled.
James winced. “Do you have someoneelsein mind? I could… make some inquiries—”
“Don’t you dare!” she replied, shocked he would use his title to influence a potential suitor.
“I am a duke. I have some clout. I should hope I could use it for something as simple as finding you a suitable suitor,” he reasoned. “Not that it’s…simple,” he quickly added, once again wincing at how his comment must have sounded. “You have the reputation of a rose.”
Rose crossed her arms and stared at him in annoyance, the effect momentarily ruined when she hiccuped. “What’sthatsupposed to mean?”
Unable to hide his sudden mirth, James was too late in lifting a hand to cover his mouth. “Apologies, but you looked exactly like your mother just then,” he said, his eyes crinkling in delight. “The night I first met her.”
Curious, Rose uncrossed her arms and regarded her father with furrowed brows. “When was that?”
James inhaled to answer and raised a finger to scratch his brow. “Let’s see. Lily was still alive, but not many knew we were essentially living together. I kept her in the townhouse in Green Street, you see. Daisy was a toddler, and Lily was already expecting Diana.”
Rose sat very still as he spoke, fascinated he could remember details from what had to be fifty years ago. She made sure to keep very quiet as he continued with his recollection. “I was introduced to Helen at a ball, as I recall. She was betrothed to some nincompoop, and I might have said something to that effect—”
“Father!” Rose scolded, even as her face lit up in delight.
He chuckled. “I think I must have known back then we would eventually end up together. I teased her mercilessly. And then she challenged me to do better.”
Rose blinked. “Better?” she repeated. “Do better at what?”
James lifted his gaze to hers and made an odd sound. “Just… better.” He cleared his throat. “It was the first time in my life someone called me out for my poor behavior,” he said quietly. He paused a long time before he added, “My assessment was correct, though. Helen’s first betrothed was a nincompoop—”
“Father,” Rose whispered, but she dared not say more. She had never heard her father speak of the time before he had married Lady Helen Harrington.
“A second son who was an officer in the British Army. He was on the Continent… probably for two decades,” he murmured.
“Did he ever marry Mother?” Rose asked in wonder.
James made a rude sound in his throat. “Never. He was shot and died of his injuries at Quatre Bas.” He allowed a huff. “I proposed a month later.”
“Father!”
“Oh, don’t ‘father’ me,” he said as he waggled a crooked finger. “By then, I had her convincedIwas the better choice. Even if I was old.”
“You couldn’t have beenthatold,” Rose countered.
“I was over forty, but I had a good role model for a late marriage.”
“What do you mean?”
“More likewho. Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington,” he replied with a huge grin. “He didn’t marry until he was six-and-forty. Waited for the woman he had loved since he was a young boy to become a widow, and he still managed to sire twins.”
