He dropped his gaze to her and frowned, then tapped his cane on the floor.
Her eyes widened, then she winced. "What a goose I am. Of course, you can't dance. It matters not, I'm not very skilled at it myself."
Had she always been this talkative? He didn't think so. She was obviously nervous. He made her nervous. He likely scared the hell out of her as he seemed to do most people. She was willing to overlook her aversion to him because she was desperate, or because her mother was forcing her.
Well, he would not marry a woman for her money. He would rebuild the family fortune himself. His gaze moved back to Catherine and her husband. He had no intention of marrying anyone, ever. He didn't give a damn if the title died with him or went to some distant cousin who lived in the country with pigs and sheep.
He'd never subject himself to that kind of rejection again, which meant he had to end this ridiculous plan of their mothers before it went too far.
Harriet was finally quiet for several moments before she spoke again. "It would appear that our mothers are doing a bit of matchmaking."
"Indeed." He grabbed a flute of champagne off a footman's tray and drained the glass. Then he turned and faced the attractive, yet annoyingly cheerful, woman before him. "It won't work."
"Sorry? What won't?"
How was it possible for her eyes to be that round and that blue? "This." He motioned at the space between them. "I am not interested."
She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, leaving her rosebud lips in an O shape. And his disinterest wasn't the entire truth. She was far too attractive, boasting curves that a girl of ten and nine should not possess. In fact, he'd found that most women in London lacked such lush curves. But the things he'd want to do with Harriet Wheatley involved her mouth being otherwise occupied; the only sound emitting from her lips would be cries of pleasure.
"I realize I am not your first choice. I'm certainly not beautiful in the fashionable way, but I do have a hefty dowry. And you are in need of funds. It seems as if we could solve each other's problems."
"No," he said flatly.
"Don't you want better for your mother?"
"Even that isn't enough to tempt me." He leaned in slightly, not too close, but enough that she could hear his lowered voice. "I don't want your money, and I don't want you."
…
Harriet fell backward onto her bed. Humiliation burned in her stomach. Tonight was supposed to be a guaranteed match, a union brought about by two people who couldn't find anyone else to marry. Yet he'd rejected her. It was official-no man wanted her. Well, she wouldn't ever do that again. She would rather die alone than feel like this again.
She certainly didn't want to marry the Marquess of Davenport, either. He was far too bleak and taciturn for her tastes. It mattered not that he was so handsome, she'd had a difficult time formulating coherent sentences when she looked at his face. Instead, she'd prattled on about the weather. He must think her the silliest of females.
That was the most humiliating thing she'd ever endured. She'd practically begged him to marry her. He had been horribly rude coming right out and saying he wasn't interested in her. All the while his eyes had slid over her entire person so thoroughly she'd felt exposed, felt every last flaw in her flesh. She'd always been a plump girl, but her mother had assured her that she'd grow out of it. Instead, it had gotten worse, since she'd never grown much taller than she'd been when she was ten and five. And shorter than average meant that her body couldn't spread out as much as others could. What resulted was a more than ample bosom, but also a soft belly and too round of a bottom.
She didn't need an arrogant man to remind her she wasn't attractive. No, she'd never endure again what had happened tonight. Tomorrow she would tell her mother, in no uncertain terms, she would only ever consider marriage for love. If there ever was a next time, she wanted to be certain the man truly wanted her.
Chapter One
London, May 1851
Oliver stepped into the smaller dining room they used for breakfast and informal dinners, and his mother nearly choked on her eggs. He ignored her reaction and made his way over to the sideboard and fixed himself a plate. He'd learned long ago how to balance anything with his left hand while keeping his right hand on his cane so as to not fall over. It had taken practice, and he'd stumbled many times, not always in private, either.
"Good morning," she said, not hiding the surprise in her tone. "I had thought you'd forgotten breakfast was a customary task."
"I do eat breakfast, Mother," he said, taking his seat adjacent her at the table. "I tend to do so after you."
"Because you are out so late."
He shrugged. "Benedict's doesn't open until later in the evening. You left me a note last night expressing a desire to speak with me, so here I am."
"And so compliant." She frowned at him. "What has gotten into you this morning? Are you ill?"
"Can a son not enjoy a breakfast with his mother without it meaning anything dastardly? I can leave and go back upstairs if you prefer."
"No, of course not, darling. My apologies. I'm thrilled you joined me for breakfast." She eyed his plate piled with food. "Eat; I can see that you're hungry."
He did as she bade, and she even allowed him to eat in peace for several moments before she began regaling him about all the gossip from last night's party. He vaguely caught comments about the latest fashion trends and the excitement about the Crystal Palace exhibits. He'd already been a handful of times. The structure itself offered hours' worth of enjoyment even without the exhibitions inside.
"And I think it is past time for you to select a wife," she said.
"What did you say?" he asked, wanting to make certain he hadn't imagined her words.
"You have brooded long enough. You've rebuilt the family fortune, regained everything your father lost, plus amassed a great fortune yourself. Yet you have allowed a slight limp to prevent you from doing so many things." All of her words rushed out as if she'd been holding them in for far too long. "So, this is my proposition. Select a wife, or I shall do it for you."
He raised his eyes to look at her. His mother was a handsome woman, aging well despite her hair beginning to gray and laugh lines accenting her eyes and mouth. He'd often wondered why she had never remarried. She'd gotten close once, and then he'd had his accident.
The gentleman had then left for the Continent, but Oliver heard he'd returned from his adventures. Perhaps their affections could be rekindled. He didn't want his mother to waste any more of her life taking care of him. Shortly after the accident, and after Catherine had made it abundantly clear she had no plans of marrying him, he'd needed his mother's assistance. He'd had to rely on her and Benedict for nearly everything until he'd healed enough to walk with a cane.
She was right. It was time for him to marry, if only to grant his mother permission to have her own life. He knew his mother would never marry and leave him unless he, himself, found a wife.
He continued chewing his bread, eyeing her thoughtfully. She'd obviously given this a lot of thought. A quick swipe at his mouth with the linen napkin and then he tossed that on the table and nodded. "You're absolutely correct, Mother."
She opened her mouth, then shut it. Her head tilted, and confusion marred her brow. "Wait, you're not going to argue with me? I had more to convince you."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Unnecessary. You are, of course, right, that it is past time that I marry. I'm assuming you have a list of women you want me to approach."
She eyed him warily. "Yes."
"Well, who's at the top, we'll just go with her." That would be easier than him trying to decide. He'd been out of polite society for years with the exception of Benedict's and a few other gentlemen's clubs. Though one could argue the merits of how polite those establishments are.
She shook her head. "No, you should select someone yourself."
"But you just said you would pick for me."
Her eyes narrowed. "And I meant it. I'd prefer, however, that you select a partner yourself. It is you, after all, who will be living with her, building a family with her."
"I have long been absent from polite society, Mother. I know no one, save a bunch of men. If you have a list in mind, simply tell me and I shall do my best to get an introduction."
"Attend the ball with me tonight. Then we can see what sort of girl you have an inclination toward," his mother said. "I'd prefer not to select a girl for you myself, if possible. The last time I did wasn't successful." She gave him a wry smile.