The Ideal Wife
1
IF YOU COULD SET BEFORE ME THE PLAINEST, dullest, most ordinary female in London,” Miles Ripley, Earl of Severn, said, “or in England, for that matter, I would make her an offer without further ado.”
Sir Gerald Stapleton laughed and drained off the final mouthful of brandy left in his glass.
“It would be better to be like me, Miles,” he said, “and just tell the world in no uncertain terms that you will remain a bachelor as long as you please, and that that will be for a lifetime, thank you kindly.”
The earl sighed and hooked one leg over the arm of the chair on which he sat. “There speaks a mere baronet,” he said. “A man without a care in the world. I was one myself until fifteen months ago, Ger. And I used to complain about lack of funds and consequence. I was living in heaven and did not realize it.”
His friend hauled himself to his feet with an effort and crossed the crowded and rather untidy bachelor room that he rented close to St. James’s Street to the brandy decanter. His neckcloth had already been abandoned, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. It was late at night, the two men having left White’s a few hours before.
“If that was heaven, you could be living now in a far greater paradise,” he said. “You have inherited an earl’s title and the three estates to go with it. You have more money than a whole army of princes should decently possess. You are thirty years old—in the very prime of life. And of course you still have those looks, which have been throwing females into the flutters and the vapors for the past ten years or so.”
“You have forgotten my most important possession,”Lord Severn said gloomily. His brandy was still untouched in a glass at his side. “My mother and my sisters. They are going to be here within the week, Ger, all three of them, and I am going to be leg-shackled within the month. I can hear the chains rattling already.”
“Nonsense,” Sir Gerald said. “All you have to do is say no. You are the head of your family, aren’t you? The man of the family?”
“Ah,” the earl said. “There speaks a man with no female relatives. Things are not nearly as simple as that, Ger. They worshipped and coddled me all through my growing years, especially after my father died when I was twelve. They have worshipped and loved me through my adulthood. And now they are preparing to show me the ultimate sign of their love. They are going to give me away to another female.”
Sir Gerald yawned and sipped on his fresh glass of brandy. “You have to stand up to them, old chap,” he said. “Listen to the advice of someone all of one month your senior. You have to make clear to them that they cannot have your life in exchange for their love. You can’t get married, Miles. What is she like, anyway?”
“Frances?” The earl thought for a moment. “Exquisitely lovely, actually. All blond ringlets and wide blue eyes and pouting rosebud lips. Has her father and her brothers and all their manservants and the village vicar eating out of her hand. She is eighteen years old and about to descend on London to be the belle of the Season and carry off the man of most impressive rank and fortune available—me, as it turns out.”
His friend grimaced. “Let’s run off to America,” he said, “to seek our fortunes. But of course, you already have a fortune. Don’t do it, Miles.”
“A man does not know how weak he is until confronted by a parcel of determined and well-meaning female relations, I swear,” Lord Severn said. “Am I a weakling, Ger? Am I a doormat? I spent a month at Galloway’s before coming here two months ago—I went with my mother and Connie. The Galloways have always been particular friends of my mother’s. And I found myself lifting Frances up and down from saddles and in and out of carriages—she could never seem to use the steps—and carrying her gloves and her psalter in and out of church, and plucking posies of buttercups and daisies for her to bury her pretty nose in, and doing so many other things that I cringe at the very memory. They are going to have me married to her before the Season is out. And there is not a mortal thing I can do about it.”
“I think we had better run off to America, fortune or no fortune,” his friend said, downing the remaining contents of his glass and getting to his feet again.
“I could feel the noose tightening almost as soon as I had set foot in Galloway’s house,” the earl said. “It was glaringly obvious why I had been invited there and why Mama had brought me there. It’s amazing I escaped at the end of the month without being trapped into some declaration. But now my mother insists in her letter that there was a tacit understanding and that she can scarce wait for it to be made official. Tacit, Ger! What does the word mean, pray?”
IF YOU COULD SET BEFORE ME THE PLAINEST, dullest, most ordinary female in London,” Miles Ripley, Earl of Severn, said, “or in England, for that matter, I would make her an offer without further ado.”
Sir Gerald Stapleton laughed and drained off the final mouthful of brandy left in his glass.
“It would be better to be like me, Miles,” he said, “and just tell the world in no uncertain terms that you will remain a bachelor as long as you please, and that that will be for a lifetime, thank you kindly.”
The earl sighed and hooked one leg over the arm of the chair on which he sat. “There speaks a mere baronet,” he said. “A man without a care in the world. I was one myself until fifteen months ago, Ger. And I used to complain about lack of funds and consequence. I was living in heaven and did not realize it.”
His friend hauled himself to his feet with an effort and crossed the crowded and rather untidy bachelor room that he rented close to St. James’s Street to the brandy decanter. His neckcloth had already been abandoned, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. It was late at night, the two men having left White’s a few hours before.
“If that was heaven, you could be living now in a far greater paradise,” he said. “You have inherited an earl’s title and the three estates to go with it. You have more money than a whole army of princes should decently possess. You are thirty years old—in the very prime of life. And of course you still have those looks, which have been throwing females into the flutters and the vapors for the past ten years or so.”
“You have forgotten my most important possession,”Lord Severn said gloomily. His brandy was still untouched in a glass at his side. “My mother and my sisters. They are going to be here within the week, Ger, all three of them, and I am going to be leg-shackled within the month. I can hear the chains rattling already.”
“Nonsense,” Sir Gerald said. “All you have to do is say no. You are the head of your family, aren’t you? The man of the family?”
“Ah,” the earl said. “There speaks a man with no female relatives. Things are not nearly as simple as that, Ger. They worshipped and coddled me all through my growing years, especially after my father died when I was twelve. They have worshipped and loved me through my adulthood. And now they are preparing to show me the ultimate sign of their love. They are going to give me away to another female.”
Sir Gerald yawned and sipped on his fresh glass of brandy. “You have to stand up to them, old chap,” he said. “Listen to the advice of someone all of one month your senior. You have to make clear to them that they cannot have your life in exchange for their love. You can’t get married, Miles. What is she like, anyway?”
“Frances?” The earl thought for a moment. “Exquisitely lovely, actually. All blond ringlets and wide blue eyes and pouting rosebud lips. Has her father and her brothers and all their manservants and the village vicar eating out of her hand. She is eighteen years old and about to descend on London to be the belle of the Season and carry off the man of most impressive rank and fortune available—me, as it turns out.”
His friend grimaced. “Let’s run off to America,” he said, “to seek our fortunes. But of course, you already have a fortune. Don’t do it, Miles.”
“A man does not know how weak he is until confronted by a parcel of determined and well-meaning female relations, I swear,” Lord Severn said. “Am I a weakling, Ger? Am I a doormat? I spent a month at Galloway’s before coming here two months ago—I went with my mother and Connie. The Galloways have always been particular friends of my mother’s. And I found myself lifting Frances up and down from saddles and in and out of carriages—she could never seem to use the steps—and carrying her gloves and her psalter in and out of church, and plucking posies of buttercups and daisies for her to bury her pretty nose in, and doing so many other things that I cringe at the very memory. They are going to have me married to her before the Season is out. And there is not a mortal thing I can do about it.”
“I think we had better run off to America, fortune or no fortune,” his friend said, downing the remaining contents of his glass and getting to his feet again.
“I could feel the noose tightening almost as soon as I had set foot in Galloway’s house,” the earl said. “It was glaringly obvious why I had been invited there and why Mama had brought me there. It’s amazing I escaped at the end of the month without being trapped into some declaration. But now my mother insists in her letter that there was a tacit understanding and that she can scarce wait for it to be made official. Tacit, Ger! What does the word mean, pray?”