“I will not!”
Crispin sighed and made his way over to her, then stooped. “What is your aversion to the match?”
It felt baffling to explain how scary it was to commit her life and happiness to a man with whom she had no connection. Her throat ached with the need to yell as frustration bubbled inside her. “It is awful to not be able to make a choice for myself, Crispin! And what is the rush in me marrying?”
“You are already three and twenty,” he said gently. Her brother hesitated slightly. “Could a part of your objection be because of Stamford’s age?”
Maryann scoffed. “Can a lady not have a dream to be a happily independent spinster?”
Her brother appeared contemplative. “Even as a woman of some means and independence, you will be under the scrutiny of society.”
“Perhaps I shall live away from the eyes of the ton, or perhaps by then I won’t give a fig what they think.”
Crispin sighed. “Stamford is a good friend of Father’s. Do not let the age gap be a deterrent to you making such a good match. Papa is still very handsome and is in the prime of his life; perhaps Stamford will be just as charming to you.”
She waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. “We met once, Crispin, and I felt no warmth or connection between us. How do we move from that indifference to a marriage and intimacy? The earl does not invite me to ride with him in Hyde Park or even to stroll through Mayfair. We do not converse or dance at balls. This man does not care to know me, and I daresay this supposed courtship is an indication of how cold and loveless any potential union might be, and I am angry that my opinion was not considered. It is I who will be marrying the man, for heaven’s sake!”
At Crispin’s silence, she asked, “Do you approve of Lord Stamford as a match for me?”
“I do not disapprove. The earl seems to be a good sort. I only want your happiness, and poppet, I have suffered so many tea parties with you over the years and indulged in talks of the large family you were going to have someday. I know your dreams, and as you have said, no one has looked your way in the four years you’ve been out in society. I have heard the whispers calling you a wallflower. I am aware you have only danced with me this season.”
Her throat burned with the need to cry. “I see.”
He took her hands between his and gently squeezed. “I overheard Papa and Mama just now in the smaller drawing room.”
She met his eyes, alerted to the discomfort in his tone. “Tell me,” she demanded hoarsely.
“It seems there are plans to announce to the newspapers that a match has been made.”
Maryann jerked. “When?”
“In a few days. The marriage negotiations are almost finalized.”
She pulled her hands from Crispin and surged to her feet, walking over to the wide sash windows. The press against her heart grew even heavier. “How can they ignore my wishes in such a manner?”
“Perhaps they are thinking of your happiness. You are three and twenty,” he reminded her again.
“Yes, I am such a hag,” she said with biting sarcasm. “You are seven and twenty, and I am not seeing you being pressured into a match that will only make you miserable.”
Her brother stood beside her and placed his arm around her shoulder. “Give him a chance, Maryann. Tonight, take the opportunity to speak with him. Mama said she has it on the highest authority he will ask you to partake in at least two dances, signaling his intention to the polite world. So you must attend, I am afraid; our mother will not accept any excuses that will muddle her plans.”
“I suppose I must go.”
“You must,” he said gently. “But when you converse with him, be very mindful of your tongue.”
“Crispin!”
“Come now, poppet, in the early days of your come out you were too free and decided with your opinions, and what did that lead to? A rumor that you will not be a biddable sort of wife but one who believes herself equal to her lord. A lady who is too uncompromising with her tongue is considered a shrew.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand and had the grace to flush. “I do not believe it to be so, you know that. I simply urge you to be mindful with Stamford.”
Maryann folded her arms below her bosom, unable to sort out the emotions tumbling through her. At her come out she had been so thrilled and eager to meet the young lords who had also seemed eager for her attention. After all, she was the daughter of an earl and possessed a handsome dowry.
The first time she had given her opinion on the misery of orphaned children and widows of war, ladies had tittered, and men had acted as if she committed a faux pas. The gentlemen had been discussing it freely, but she had learned that was not an invitation for the ladies to join their conversation.
She’d come to realize her disconcertingly direct manner of speaking was an affront to the gentlemen’s arrogance and conceit at their supposed innate superiority. This knowledge had really been driven home when at a picnic at Kensington Gardens, she’d given an opinion of a farming technique she had read about in an Agricultural report on her father’s desk some months prior. It hadn’t been an expert opinion, but it had not been valued.
With distress, Maryann had realized the indulgent ear her father granted her whenever she spoke on diverse subjects was because he loved her. He valued her. He had cherished the time they spent walking in the gardens in Hampshire chatting and laughing, or when they rowed on the lake and she read to him. And in that moment, when other debutantes had tittered, the gentlemen had looked suitably irritated.
That very night, the honourable Nigel Huntington, who had been paying her attention for the season, informed her that a lady did not own the intellectual capacity to understand politics and matters men discussed. Maryann still recalled the shock and discomfort she had felt upon overhearing a gentleman she found amiable and charming referring to her as “too plain to inspire any true attachment, too mouthy to be marriageable, but her dowry was tempting.”
She had only been eighteen at the time, but Maryann had known she could not marry a gentleman of wealth and connections if he, too, did not treasure her. For what would such a marriage be like? One without genuine affections and a willingness to laugh and speak on any matter that came to the heart?
She closed her eyes against the memories, and the reasons society had contrived to stack against her in order to render her unfit to marry in the opinion of their best and brightest.
But Lord Stamford is interested.
Her heart ached, and she leaned forward to press her forehead to the window. The coolness of the glass centered her. “There was a time I dreamed of marrying a handsome gentleman, being courted with poetry, long walks, and perhaps stolen kisses,” she whispered.