Page 20 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He turned from the window, looking at the fireplace rather than her, not certain how to announce his thoughts without shocking her. Perhaps it was likely a lost cause, despite his mental rehearsals, given that his mind was still sorting out the reasons behind his decision.

Best to get on with it. “I think she could make a fine baroness.”

His mother grew still. Then she moved from the corner of his eye, closing the rose catalog.

“Roman.” She kept her voice gentle, in that motherly way of speaking to him about a small misunderstanding rather than his entire future. He knew that tone. It was the one she thought was the best way to get answers out of him. “Have you fallen in love?”

“No.” He replied with neither hesitation nor defensiveness. It was an easy enough fact to admit. “No. I have tried, three times now, to engage myself to a woman I thought well of, building affection between us. Each time, the lady turned away in favor of someone else. I do not say this with bitterness—each of them did what was right for herself, and I hold no ill will.” He paused, untangling his thoughts. “But I have been practical about a great many things in my life, and I think it is time I was practical about this as well.”

Lady Hartwell waited, hands folded in her lap, staring at him with a seriousness he had not seen in her for some time. “Have you spoken to the young woman yourself? Do you know anything about her?”

“We have spoken at length,” he admitted, “only today.”

“Today.” She touched her temple. “And you believe she would accept you?”

“Yes. I do.” In truth, the thought of her declining had not occurred to Roman.

She shook her head slightly, brow furrowed. “Why her, specifically?”

“Miss Mayweather is from York. She is a gentleman’s daughter, of humbler means than our family, but that is no obstacle. She strikes me as practical. Frugal. Honest.” He pictured her in the meadow. Wisps of hair loose from her bonnet, that quick smile as she watched her brothers and sister enjoy themselves. “Pleasant-looking, too. She is being courted by no one and has no prospects I am aware of, so she will not turn away from a reasonable offer in favor of someone else.” He paced away from his mother to the other side of the hearth. “Her family is in some difficulty at present—financial mismanagement, no scandal. I could do some genuine good there, for the younger children especially.” He straightened. “Everyone would benefit.”

Lady Hartwell looked at her son for a long moment. Roman could not hold her gaze, so he let his own fall to the carpet. It had been much easier to meet his own eyes in the looking glass.

“Do you truly believe that?” his mother eventually asked quietly. “A reasonable offer that benefits everyone… Is that really enough for marriage, Roman?”

Roman took in a deep breath. His mind turned over her words, but he did not immediately have the ability to mount a defense.

He was not uncertain, exactly. Marriages of quality had begun with less. “I believe she will accept the offer. I believe you will like her.”

“I am not worried about liking her. I am concerned about you tying your life to hers, forever.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “I wish you to be happy, Roman.”

He opened his mouth to answer as the door opened.

Lyness came in, adjusting the hem of his waistcoat. “I apologize. A meeting ran late and I…” His voice trailed away, eyebrows raised as he took in the air of the room. He looked at his mother. He looked at his brother. He looked at the closed catalog in his mother’s lap and Roman standing at the fireplace with his hands behind his back. “What did I miss?”

Lady Hartwell picked up her catalog. “Your brother, being painfully practical.”

Roman winced. “Mother⁠—”

The butler entered the room. “My lord, my lady, sir, dinner is served.”

Well. He would have to finish the discussion with her later.

Chapter Eight

With a small divided tray on her lap, Tamsin carefully picked up several small beads with her needle. She had not touched the beads in ages, thanks in part to the attention the younger children needed—but with their current sartorial dilemma, beading an older piece of frippery to make it new again was an excellent reason to take up a favored past-time. It required enough concentration to distract her, yet she could still take part in the conversation of her stepmother and sisters.

No one could fault her for idleness or being uncommunicative.

“I cannot see how I am expected to go about my life as though everything is perfectly normal,” Daphne muttered, sitting at the table in the room, turning pages in a fashion journal. “I will have to wait until I am twenty for a proper coming out.”

“Father only said you could not have the gown, not that you had to delay your first public ball.” Seraphina drew in her sketchbook, attempting to amuse them by illustrating a cat wearing a waistcoat and tall hat. “We can certainly make over something well enough that no one notices the gown was worn before.”

“No young lady should have to wear a made-over gown for her first official ball.” Tamsin’s stepmother huffed and paced from the window to the table and back again with a scowl. “Oh look. A horse and rider. Likely another debt collector asking your father for the very food from our mouths.”

Tamsin winced, and she glanced at her sisters to see varying shades of distress on their faces. Quickly, she said, “I believe those usually come by normal post, Mama. It is more likely from a friend of father’s, inviting him somewhere. Or perhaps a note from Charles about expecting him for dinner. It is Wednesday, though.”

“Chocolate cake,” Pearl and Daphne said at the same moment, then grinned at each other.