A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

"She's a dragon," Miss Dalling informed the company, her big blue eyes huge, her distinctly squared little chin jutting aggressively. "No! I tell a lie—she's worse than that, she's a gorgon!"

"Is she truly insisting on marrying you to the highest bidder?" Cecily Mountford was no more bashful than her guests.

Lovely lips set in a line, Miss Dalling nodded. "What's more, she's set her heart on poor Ambrose here." Dramat­ically, she put a hand on the bright green embossed silk sleeve of the young gentleman on her right and squeezed meaningfully. "So now we're both being persecuted!"

Ambrose, who gloried in the title of the Marquess of Hammersley, was a pale, obviously nervous young gentle­man, short and slightly stocky; he blushed and muttered, and tried to smooth the creases Miss Dalling's strong little fingers had left in his sleeve.

Geoffrey frowned. "Can't you both just say no?"

The comment earned him a host of pitying looks.

"You don't understand," Miss Dalling said. "My aunt is set on me marrying Ambrose because he's a marquess and we haven't had one of those in the family before and a marquess is better than an earl, so she sees it as advancing the family's cause. And Ambrose's mama is pushing the match because of my inheritance, because his estates are not bringing in enough to dower all his sisters. And," she added, with a darkling look, "because I'm so young she thinks I'll be easy to manage."

Antonia couldn't help but wonder if the Marquess's mama was blind.

"It's all arranged for consequence and money," Miss

Dalling continued with undisguised contempt. "But it won't do! I've decided to marry for love or not at all!"

Her dramatic declaration drew approving nods from all around, particularly from the Marquess. Antonia inwardly frowned, wondering if they were all really so young, so untutored in society's ways—or if they were merely head­strong, trying their wings in vocal but not active rebellion.

Miss Dalling's championship of the gentle passion pro­voked argument on all sides, most, Antonia noted, thor­oughly supportive of the heiress's position while openly condemning her aunt's.

Her spirits clearly unimpaired by the browbeating she had assured the company she had endured en route to Brook Street, Catriona Dalling flashed her an engagingly confiding smile. "I understand you're in town for the first time, as indeed we all are, but you have doubtless more experience than we in searching for your one and only love. I do hope you'll forgive me for speaking so plainly and rattling on so, but I dare say you can see things have reached a pretty pass. Ambrose and I will have to make a stand, don't you think?"

Arguments raged about them, revolving about how to spike Lady Ticehurst's ambitions; Geoffrey, Antonia could hear, was urging the participants to check with their men of affairs. Looking into Miss Dalling's unquestionably in­nocent eyes, she felt the weight of her years.

"While I would certainly not condone your being co­erced into marriage, Miss Dalling, the fact remains that most marriages within our class are arranged, at one level or another. Some, perhaps, are underpinned by affection or long-standing acquaintance, but others are promoted on the basis of what I admit sound cold-blooded reasons. How­ever, in the absence of either party's affections being fixed elsewhere, don't you think there's the possibility that your aunt's suggestion might, in the end, bear fruit?" In making the suggestion, Antonia's gaze touched the Marquess; she felt an immediate pang of uncertainty.

"There is that, of course." Miss Dalling nodded sagely. “But you see, I have found my only true love, so the ar­gument does not hold."

"You have?" Antonia could not help eyeing her in con­cern. The heiress looked barely older than Geoffrey. "For­give my impertinence, Miss Dalling, but are you sure?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely sure." Catriona Dalling's decisive nod set her ringlets bouncing. "Henry and I have known each other since we were children and we're quite sure we want to marry. We had thought to wait for a few years— until Henry has proved himself in running his father's farms, you see—but Aunt Ticehurst stepped in."

"I see." The heiress's straightforwardness rang truer than any impassioned declarations. Antonia frowned. “Have you explained your attachment to your aunt?''

"My aunt does not believe in love, Miss Mannering." The militant gleam was back in Catriona Dalling's eye. "She might be more amenable were Henry a marquess too, only unfortunately he's simply a squire's son, so she's not disposed to acquiescence."

"I had not realized," Antonia admitted "that your situ­ation was quite so. . .awkward. To be urged to turn your back on love, given the connection is not ineligible and your attachment has proved constant, must be distressing."

Catriona gave another of her decisive nods. "It would be, if I had the slightest intention of giving in to the pres­sure. As it is, I'm determined to stand firm. Not only would marrying Ambrose ruin my life and Henry's, it would un­deniably ruin Ambrose's as well."

Viewing the determined cast of Miss Dalling's fair fea­tures, and seeing the Marquess, weak-chinned and timid, in earnest conversation with Geoffrey beyond, Antonia could only concur.

"One way or another, I'm determined to win out. It's not as though love matches are all that rare these days." Ca­triona gestured grandly. “Even in days gone by, such affairs were known. My very own aunt—not Ticehurst, of course, but my other aunt, her sister, now Lady Copely—she defied the family and married Sir Edmund, a gentleman of suffi­cient but not extravagant means. They've lived very happily for years and years—their household is one of the most comfortable I know. If I could have as much by marrying for love, I would be entirely satisfied." She paused only for breath. “And only last year, my cousin Amelia—my Aunt Copely's eldest daughter—she married her sweetheart, Mr Gerard Moggs." She broke off to point out a young couple across the room. "They're over there—you can see for yourself how happy they are."

Antonia looked, effectively distracted from Miss Dall­ing's concerns. This was, after all, what she had come to London to see—married ladies consorting in public with their spouses.

What

she saw was a young gentleman of twenty-five or six, standing by a chaise on which a pretty young lady was seated, angled around and looking up to meet her husband's gaze. Mr Moggs made some comment; his wife laughed up at him. She laid a hand on his sleeve, squeezing lightly, affectionately. Mr Moggs responded with an openly adoring look. Reaching out, he touched a finger to his wife's cheek, then bent and whispered in her ear before straightening and, with a nod, leaving her.

Antonia noted he went no further than the refreshment table, returning with two glasses.

"Miss Mannering, is it not?"

With a start, Antonia turned to find a gentleman of much her own age bowing before her. He was neatly if fashion­ably dressed, having avoided the excesses to which the younger generation had fallen prey.