Lord Exmouth's Intentions

It wasn’t that she had taken the Dowager’s son in dislike. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Lord Exmouth was a very personable gentleman. If he was not quite the dashing, handsome hero of storybooks, he was certainly most attractive, blessed with a good physique and noble bearing. Just because he happened to be the wrong side of five-and-thirty was not such a drawback either, for older gentlemen, she had been reliably informed, tended to be rather more dependable.

That he rarely smiled, had more often than not a cynical glint in those very attractive dark brown eyes of his, and frequently relapsed into periods of brooding silence were traits, she didn’t doubt, to which she would grow accustomed in time. What she knew she could never reconcile herself to, however, was always figuring as second best in the eyes of any man she agreed to marry. And that, she very much feared, would be precisely her fate if she was ever foolish enough to consent to a union with Lord Daniel Exmouth!

A sympathetic sigh escaped her this time as the many rumours concerning the very personable widower filtered through her mind. If half the stories circulating about him were true then the poor Baron was a mere shadow of his former self.

His heart, according to many, had died with his first wife in that tragic accident eighteen months ago. Many believed that, because he had been tooling the carriage when it had overturned, killing both his wife and the nephew of a near neighbour, the combination of both grief and guilt had changed him from the most companionable of gentlemen into a die-hard sceptic who now attained scant pleasure from life. Yet, for all his brooding glances and frequent periods of self-enforced solitude, he could still on occasions be both affable and charming. Sadly, that didn’t alter the fact that whoever agreed to become his second wife would always live in the shadow of the beautiful Clarissa, who, many believed, had taken her husband’s loving heart with her to her grave.

Her mother’s unexpected appearance in the bedchamber put an end to these melancholy reflections, and Robina automatically rose to her feet to continue her packing.

‘Great heavens, child! Haven’t you finished yet? What on earth have you been doing all this time? You know full well that Lady Exmouth’s servants will be here at noon to collect your trunk.’

Robina cast a glance in her mother’s direction, not for the first time wishing that she were more able to assess her moods. The tone she had used had been mildly scolding, but her expression betrayed no hint of annoyance.

Would now be an appropriate moment to admit that she, too, would much prefer to return to Northamptonshire at the end of the week? Could she possibly succeed in making her mother, who was not always the most approachable of people, understand her grave misgivings about spending the summer in Brighton? Or had she foolishly left it rather too late?

‘Mama, I have been having second thoughts about accompanying Lady Exmouth,’ she said in a rush, before she could change her mind. ‘I should much prefer to return with you to Abbot Quincey at the end of the week.’

The seconds ticked slowly by while Robina scanned her mother’s face in the hope of glimpsing some visual reaction to the belated confession, but as usual Lady Elizabeth’s expression remained as inscrutable as ever.

‘Why this sudden change of heart, child?’ Once again there was just the faintest hint of impatience in the beautifully cultured voice. ‘Not so very long ago you were overjoyed at the prospect of spending the summer weeks by the sea. No pressure was brought to bear when the suggestion was first put to you. It was entirely your own decision to accept Lady Exmouth’s very kind invitation.’

Robina could not argue with this. She had never made any secret of the fact that she had liked Lady Exmouth from the first moment they met, and the prospect of extending the period of frivolous enjoyment by spending several weeks as the guest of that delightful and highly sociable lady had been just too much of a temptation for the country parson’s daughter, who had discovered that she had rapidly acquired a taste for the finer things in life. It was only when she had paid that short visit to Hampshire to be amongst the select few who attended the small party to celebrate the engagement of the Duke of Sharnbrook to Lady Sophia Cleeve that grave doubts had begun to assail her.

‘In that case we shall not be seeing each other again until the autumn,’ her good friend Sophia had remarked, after Robina had casually divulged her intention of spending the summer in Brighton as the guest of the Dowager Lady Exmouth.

They had been standing outside the glorious ducal mansion, bidding each other a final farewell, and there had been an unmistakable teasing glint in Sophia’s eyes as she had added in an undertone, ‘So, do I congratulate you now, or wait until the announcement is officially made, you sly old thing?’

Even now Robina could recall quite clearly gaping like a half-wit at her lifelong friend. ‘I—I do not perfectly understand what you mean, Sophia. You are the one to be congratulated, not I.’

‘At the moment, yes,’ she had laughingly agreed, ‘but it is quite obvious to anyone of the meanest intelligence that it will not be too long before you also are sporting a splendid betrothal ring on your left hand.’

Robina clearly recalled also her friend’s teasing laughter before she had gone on to add rather tauntingly, ‘Why, you cannot possibly go about refusing reasonable offers of marriage, while encouraging the attentions of a certain party, and happily accepting an invitation to spend the summer with that favoured gentleman’s mother, without causing a deal of speculation. Surely you don’t suppose that people haven’t already put two and two together and realised that your affections are engaged! I have fallen desperately in love myself, and so am able to read the signs, my dear. But if you would prefer that I wait a little longer before offering my heartfelt congratulations, you only have to say so.’

Robina had been too stunned to say anything else at the time, and had been prey to the most guilt-ridden reflections and fearful conjecture ever since.

Had she in truth actively encouraged Lord Exmouth to suppose that a proposal of marriage from him would not be unwelcome? She had asked herself that selfsame question time and time again in recent days, and even now wasn’t perfectly sure that she knew the answer.

She couldn’t deny that, up until she and her mother had paid that short visit to Hampshire, she had not once refused to stand up with Lord Exmouth whenever they had happened to be attending the same party. Which, she now realised, had occurred far too frequently to have been mere coincidence. She could only marvel at how credulous she had been for supposing that pure chance had brought them together so often, and not, as she now strongly suspected, the designs of their respective mothers.

If her suspicions were correct then the Dowager believed that in the quiet and undemanding vicar’s daughter she had found the ideal person to care for her two motherless granddaughters, and make the life of her heartbroken son more bearable, without demanding too much of him in return. It was also fairly safe to assume that her own mother was of a similar mind, and that she had every expectation of her eldest daughter receiving a very advantageous offer of marriage in the not too distant future.

‘May I ask you something, Mama?’ She did not wait for a response. ‘Are you hoping that Lord Exmouth will make me an offer before the summer is over?’

Lady Elizabeth’s expression remained inscrutable, and yet Robina sensed that her mother had been momentarily taken aback by the directness of the question. In truth, she had rather surprised herself that she had summoned up enough courage to ask such a thing. She was wont to treat her mother with the utmost respect as a rule, and had never been encouraged to query any decision she had chosen to make.

Evidently Lady Elizabeth did not deem the question an impertinence, for she said after a moment’s quiet deliberation, ‘I certainly believe he is not indifferent to you, Robina. And I cannot deny that, should he decide to make you an offer of marriage, I would be delighted, yes. It would be a truly splendid match, far better than I could ever have hoped for you. Carriages, jewels, fine clothes would be yours for the asking. You would want for nothing, child.’

Nothing except love, Robina longed to retort, but remained silent as she watched her mother move in that graceful way of hers across to the window.

‘You must appreciate of course that if you did marry Exmouth, your sisters’ chances of finding suitable husbands would be vastly improved. By reminding you of this, I hope you realise that I would never expect you to forfeit your own happiness in order that your sisters might attain theirs. Nothing could be further from the truth! And if I thought that your feelings were already engaged, I would not suggest for a moment that you further your acquaintance with the widower…But your affections are not engaged, are they, Robina?’

‘No, Mama, they are not,’ she responded, scrupulously honest, but with a hint of wistfulness which Lady Elizabeth’s sharp ears had little difficulty in detecting.

She turned away from the window to look directly at her daughter once more. ‘But you wish they were, is that it? You wish that during your time here in London you’d met just one young man who had succeeded in sending your heart pounding…? A knight in shining armour who might have swept you off your feet?’ The sudden shout of laughter, though unexpected, lacked neither warmth nor sympathy. ‘Ah, child, I was your age once and know what foolish fancies pass through a young girl’s mind. Remember, my dear, that very few members of our class marry for love. And perhaps that is no bad thing…Love, after all, is a luxury few can afford.’

After a moment she moved slowly across to the door. ‘Your father and I would never dream of forcing you into a marriage with a man you could neither like nor respect. I do not believe for a moment that you are indifferent to Lord Exmouth, child. So I would ask you to think long and hard before you turn down what might well prove to be your one and only chance of making a truly splendid match.’

Robina, watching the door being closed quietly, realised that her mother had divulged far more about herself during the past few minutes than ever before.

She had long held the belief that her parents’ union had been a love-match. Lady Elizabeth Finedon, proud and aristocratic, the daughter of a duke, no less, had chosen to marry the Reverend William Perceval, a younger son of an impoverished baronet. If love had not been the reason for the union then Robina was at a loss to understand what it might have been. Maybe, though, during the passage of time, there had been occasions when her mother had regretted allowing her heart to rule her head.

Her father, a worthy man of rigid principles, had made no secret of the fact that it had been his wife’s substantial dowry which had enabled him and his family to live in relative comfort, if not precisely luxury. Even so, it had been only the practising of strict economies over the years that had enabled the Vicar of Abbot Quincey and his wife to fund a London Season for their eldest daughter.

Robina knew that her parents had every intention of offering her three younger sisters the same opportunity as she herself had received. The twins, Edwina and Frederica, would have their come-out next year, an even greater expense with two of them to launch. Little wonder, then, that her mother was wishful to see her eldest daughter suitably established before next spring.

Her conscience began to prick her as she gazed at the half-filled trunk. Her parents had found it no easy task to finance this enjoyable London Season. Her mother especially had deprived herself of so much over the years to ensure that each of her children possessed at least a small dowry to offer a prospective husband. Was it not time for the eldest daughter to show her appreciation by doing something in return?

She reached for the lovely gown which she had allowed to slip through her fingers a short time before and, folding it with care, placed it neatly on top of the other garments in the trunk.

Those perfectly matched greys which had momentarily captured Miss Robina Perceval’s attention were brought to a halt some twenty minutes later outside a fashionable dwelling in Curzon Street. The middle-aged groom, sitting beside his master on the seat, willingly took charge of what he considered to be one of the finest pair of horses he’d seen in many a long year, and watched with a hint of pride as the greys’ highly discerning owner jumped nimbly to the ground.

Although perhaps no longer in his first flush of youth, his master was none the less in the same prime physical condition as the animals he had purchased that very morning. Tall, lean and well-muscled, Lord Exmouth was still a fine figure of a man who, most people considered, was at last beginning to show definite signs of recovering from the tragic blow life had dealt him.

But there were those who knew better. There were those who knew the truth of it all and whose respect and devotion continued to hold them mute, Kendall mused, watching his master disappear inside the house.

Another prominent member of this touching band of loyal retainers was in the hall, ready to relieve his lordship of his hat and gloves. ‘Her ladyship’s compliments, my lord, and could you possibly spare her a few minutes of your time before incarcerating yourself away in your library.’ The butler permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Her ladyship’s words, sir, not mine.’

‘Where is the Dowager? Not still abed, I trust?’

‘No, my lord. But still in her bedchamber, supervising the—er—packing of her trunks, I believe.’

White, even teeth flashed in a sportive smile. ‘I didn’t suppose for a moment, Stebbings, that she was undertaking the task herself,’ his lordship responded and, swiftly mounting the stairs, did not notice the butler’s slightly stooping shoulders shaking in appreciative laughter.

Her ladyship, now well into middle age, was not renowned for exerting herself unduly, not if she could possibly avoid it. So it came as no great surprise to her lean, athletic son to discover her prostrate on the chaise longue, one podgy, beringed hand poised over the open box of sweetmeats too conveniently positioned nearby.

She paused before reducing the box’s contents further to turn her head to see who had entered her room. ‘Daniel, darling!’ She greeted him with every evidence of delight, proffering one soft pink cheek upon which he might place a chaste salute, and then waiting for him to oblige her. ‘I was informed you went out bright and early this morning. I sincerely trust you didn’t forgo breakfast.’

‘No, ma’am. You will be pleased to learn my appetite remains hale and hearty.’

‘Yes, you do take after your dear papa in that, as in so many other things. He was not one to pick at his food, and yet he never seemed to put on an ounce of superfluous fat.’ Her sigh was distinctly mournful. ‘And yet here am I, eat like a bird, and have a girth like a Shetland pony!’

‘Mmm, I wonder why?’ his lordship murmured, casting a brief glance at the half-empty box at her elbow, before lowering his tall, lean frame, the envy of many of his friends, and much admired by more than one discerning female, into the chair nearby.

‘You wished to see me, Mama?’ he reminded her.

‘Did I?’ She looked decidedly vague, but as her son knew very well the Dowager’s appearance was deceptive. She might have grown quite indolent in recent years, rarely bestirring herself if she could possibly avoid it, but little escaped the notice of those dreamy brown eyes. ‘Ah, yes! It was only to remind you that the trunks are being sent on ahead today. We don’t wish to be burdened with piles and piles of luggage when we set forth on Friday.’

‘I believe Penn has seen to everything in his usual efficient way.’