Page 28 of The Luckiest Lady in London

As his coach pulled away once more from the curb, however, it was not their naughtier interaction that dominated his thoughts, but the determination—and melancholy—with which she assured him that she would survive marriage to just about any able-bodied man.

His entire plan had depended upon her failure to secure a man of her social station. But he had not counted on her willingness to marry beneath her. A butcher was an upstanding member of any community, but by becoming the wife of one, she could count on never again calling on Lady Balfour or the Tenwhestles.

Or friends she had made during her time in London. Or just about anyone else she knew from home. It was cruel, but until the world changed, the gentry would always hold themselves apart from butchers, greengrocers, and the like.

He imagined her in this new life, always making sure she appeared extra cheerful, because she never wanted her husband, her epileptic sister, or her new friends and in-laws to think her less than content. He imagined her coming occasionally across an old acquaintance and the awkward conversation that would ensue, especially if she happened to be accompanied by her husband. He imagined her reaching for a sheet of stationery, the beginning of a letter on her mind, and then hesitating, and finally giving up the idea altogether—she would not want to agonize the recipient with the decision whether to respond; nor would she want to anticipate a reply and then finally have to admit to herself one was never coming.

Not to mention the stars. The girl who wanted a telescope of that particular description wasn’t content merely to view the craters of the moon or the rings of Saturn. She wanted to see the mountains of Mars. The very outer reaches of the solar system.

Why would she deprive herself of everything that mattered to her, when she could easily—

He stopped his thoughts from going any further in that direction.

Instead, he hurled his walking stick onto the seat she had vacated and cursed her obduracy and stupidity.

Chapter 6

Louisa had not told Lord Wrenworth everything about Mr. Charles, the butcher who fancied her.

Mr. Charles was indeed a good man and an excellent butcher, but he had a brother who drank and gambled and often came to him with one hand outstretched. He also had a widowed sister who depended heavily upon him to support her and her two young children. So even if he were desperate to marry Louisa, he would have to think twice—thrice—about taking on an invalid sister-in-law who needed looking after round the clock.

And suppose Mr. Charles somehow overcame his own qualms—could Louisa really marry him? There was an enormous difference between marrying a man one did not love wildly and marrying a man while wildly in love with someone else.

Who’d have thought, at the beginning of the year, that she had such a capacity for trouble? Everyone, herself included, had believed her the most placid, most levelheaded girl on earth, or at least in their part of the Cotswold. Had anyone told her that she would be brought low by romantic love, she’d have snickered. Had that sage prophet warned her about sexual infatuation, she’d have laughed hard enough to crack a rib.

And yet here she was…

“Louisa, won’t you do us the honor?” asked Lady Balfour.

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” Louisa rose from her corner and poured tea for the latest batch of callers.

Wednesday was Lady Balfour’s at-home day. This afternoon, callers were particularly numerous due to the large dinner Lady Balfour gave two days ago. The women in their fine afternoon dresses stayed precisely a quarter of an hour, barely sipped their tea, and rose to pay their respects at the next house.

Louisa’s embroidery needle moved slowly, absently. Five days had passed since the carriage ride with Lord Wrenworth. It was now the second week of July, and words like Cowes and Scotland were being thrown like grains of rice at a wedding.

People were making plans for the end of the Season, for where to go next to amuse themselves.

The end of the Season.

She ought to worry about the future, but like a lovesick girl half her age, she thought of Lord Wrenworth instead. Would she ever see him again after she left London? Ten years, five years, or even twelve months down the road, would he remember her with a pang of regret or a mere shrug?

Whether anyone else noticed her distress she could not say. In the middle of June, Lady Balfour had confidently predicted proposals by the first week of July. That particular week had come and gone with no matrimonial commitment from anyone; Lady Balfour, however, remained as ebullient as ever about Louisa’s eventual success.

“Have I told you our story from last week?” she smugly asked her guests. “No, of course I haven’t—I’ve been saving it for today.”

It was past four o’clock. Those now occupying the drawing room were Balfour intimates whose long-standing friendship with the hostess gave them license to stay a bit longer than the allotted fifteen minutes.

“Recall, if you will, the torrential downpour of a few days ago,” Lady Balfour continued.

“Quite ruined the hemline of my walking dress, it did,” said Lady Archer, who had known Lady Balfour since before the queen was on the throne.

“Precisely. That afternoon, my dear Tenwhestle needed to bring Miss Cantwell home from the bookshop. But rain came all of a sudden. He was stranded at his club without a conveyance, there were no hackneys to be had, and of course, in a cloudburst of that magnitude, he couldn’t simply pitch an umbrella and walk.”

“Indeed not,” concurred Mrs. Constable, who had gone to finishing school with Lady Balfour.

“Tenwhestle fretted. You know how seriously that man takes his obligations. But no sooner had he spoken aloud Miss Cantwell’s name than a knight in shining armor stepped forth—or perhaps I should say, a knight in a shining town coach.”

Mrs. Tytherley, Mrs. Constable’s sister, exclaimed softly, “My goodness, do you mean to tell us that it was Lord Wrenworth again?”