Page 5

“A Titian red.”

“And spotted!”

“Delightfully freckled.”

“Mama was an elegant auburn, Papa. I am a gangly, spotted ginger!”

Her father shook his head in denial. “You are glorious, and your mother would agree.”

Gwen fell silent, biting her lower lip. She wished her mother were here with them now to settle their argument. “Mama did not like to waste money.”

“You are not a waste of money. The right man will recognize your worth and value. We shall join forces with another family and grow our resources, for your future and for Gareth.”

Gwen smiled at the mention of her younger brother. Having him home for the summer had revealed how quickly he was growing up with his trousers too short by the end of the month. It had been a poignant moment to wave him goodbye from the stone steps when he returned to Eton to continue his studies. “Gareth’s grasp of Latin and Greek is impressive. Mama would be delighted.”

“As you will be one day when you have children of your own.”

Longing rose in Gwen’s chest. A raw, unspoken ache that she squashed down ruthlessly. If the past few years had taught her anything, it was that no man would ever wed her. Nay, she was to be a spinster. Her only hope of progeny was to adopt a foundling to dote on. A child to whom she could pass on the love of learning, just as her mother had done with her and Gareth.

Since recent events had brought home the fragile, fleeting nature of life, and the pressing need to pursue one’s dreams while still able, Gwen had undertaken a careful evaluation of what truly mattered. She planned to seek a foundling to adopt once her father admitted defeat. His lofty visions of her grand union were merely dreams. Frederick Smythe was tilting at windmills if he thought an honorable gentleman would ever take notice of Gwen, Gwen, the Spotted Giraffe.

The few men who had displayed interest were not to be considered. It was not Mr. Spalding’s thinning hair or receding chin that ruled him out, but the many times he had misattributed Socrates that ensured she could never marry him. The thought of being irritated by his intellectual failings for the rest of her days was simply too much to bear.

Mr. Rutledge had been pleasant, courteous even, if a bit on the older side, but his sole topics of conversation were fox-hunting and hounds. Gwen found both subjects tolerable only in moderation. She had once endured an entire afternoon tea in Hertfordshire listening to the merits of different types of hunting horns, and she had not recovered since.

Gwen wanted what her parents had shared, a meeting of the minds as much as the hearts. And if hearts were out of the question, then at the very least, she required a sharp mind. An intelligent husband to father her children. Otherwise, she would prefer to remain alone.

“No wedding, no children.”

Her tone was sharp, clipped by frustration and cool resolve. Frederick Smythe was a dreamer, and she could not afford to be drawn in by his illusions. She would not don armor and take up a lance to joust the sails of a wind machine, convincing herself there were giants where only harmless contraptions creaked in the wind.

Her father turned to her, his sympathetic blue eyes gentle. He stood no taller than Gwen herself, both of them reaching a formidable five feet nine inches, an inheritance from some long-legged Smythe ancestor whose portrait still hung in the stairwell. “You are lovely, Gwendolyn. The right man will appreciate you and provide you with the security you deserve, while you will provide him with a worthy and challenging partnership.”

Gwen looked down at the toes of her kid-leather slippers, their soft blue bows barely visible beneath the hem of her dove-gray morning gown. Her shoulders heaved with a heartfelt sigh. She wanted to believe her father. She truly did. But hard-won experience told her he was deluded, blinded by paternal love to her many perceived shortcomings. Mama had been a great beauty and an excellent scholar. Gwen had inherited one of those traits, and it was not the one that could be seen in the reflection of a looking glass.

“Papa, we cannot waste money on such extravagances.”

Her father strolled over to his desk, a man dapper for his years. His youthful energy, barely diminished by time, radiated from his every movement. A reflection of the strong interests that animated his days. The sharp cut of his charcoal superfine coat and matching trousers, along with his pristine white linen neckcloth and gleaming shirt cuffs, spoke to his fastidious nature. Yet he possessed an easy manner that endeared him to most people, be they tradesmen or titled lords.

The desk itself, a handsome pedestal model in polished walnut, bore neat stacks of correspondence and a half-written letter in his elegant copperplate hand. Though he managed their finances with considerable care, as the third son of a baron he had inherited no great fortune. They were not a wealthy family and could scarcely afford the lavish ball he insisted on holding each year in her honor, even as the male members of the ton continued to overlook her presence with almost comical regularity.

This brought to mind the women who tittered behind their fans, their high-pitched amusement barely muffled by lace and feathers, giggling at her unfashionable appearance, her statuesque height, and her frankly unrepentant intellect.

Gwen sighed, wondering how to explain to her idealistic father that she was a poor investment. How her mother had managed to be a graceful beauty despite her scarlet locks remained a mystery to her only daughter.

Mama was unique. Special.

And Gwen was merely an oddity.

A fact that Frederick Smythe refused to accept.

“Please, Papa. The money can be used for Oxford when Gareth is ready. It has been seven years, and I am still a wallflower. What could possibly happen this year that would be different from any other year?”

Her father cocked his head, his lips quirking into his characteristic grin. The amber paperweight on his desk caught the sun as it shifted, casting a flicker of golden light across the green leather blotter. “This year you could encounter the right man. The one who recognizes the perfection of my only daughter and falls at her feet, defeated by her magnificence.”

Gwen burst into laughter despite her resolve to steel herself against her father’s whimsies. She finally found the breath to respond.

“You are incorrigible, Papa.”

His blue eyes twinkled in the late-afternoon light. “Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae fuit … There is no great genius without a touch of madness.”

Gwen shook her head. “Aristotle will not sweeten my temper, old man.”

“Ah, but we both know that is a lie.”

She bit her lip to prevent a smile, unable to argue with her father’s claim. It appeared there would be no dissuading him. The ball would proceed, as declared over breakfast, and her visit to his study had not achieved a single, solitary thing.