Turning toward her charge, Juno gently touched the young woman’s arm. “Just think, you’ll have a chance to practice everything we’ve worked on. A house party is the perfect place to gain confidence and hone your skills.”
“I barely have any of either,” Marina said quietly, shooting a perturbed look toward her mother. “But I suppose I have no choice.”
“That is correct,” Lady Wetherby said firmly. “We leave in a fortnight.” Her expression gentled once more. “The duke doesn’t care for the Marriage Mart either. Perhaps the two of you will find an accord. I think this could be just the match you’ve been waiting for.”
“I haven’t been waiting for any match,” Marina muttered. “May I go now?”
“Yes.” The countess looked rather despondent as her daughter stood and shuffled from the room.
Juno tensed as she readjusted herself on the settee to face her employer. “She’ll be ready for the house party. She just needs to acclimate herself. We’ve plenty of time to prepare.”
“I hope you’re right, considering what I’m paying you. In fact, if you can ensure this betrothal occurs, I’ll increase your pay twenty percent.” Lady Wetherby stood. “Do not let us down, Mrs. Langton.”
The countess swept from the room, and Juno narrowed her eyes in contemplation. A fortnight to not only ensure Marina was ready for a house party, but that she could snare a duke. It would be Juno’s most daunting challenge yet.
She leapt to her feet, eager to get started.
Alexander Brett, Duke of Warrington, stalked into the drawing room at precisely a quarter of an hour before six. His mother, seated serenely on the dark red settee, came from the dower house most evenings to dine with him.
She surveyed him as he went to pour a glass of her favorite madeira and a brandy for himself. “How was your day?”
After handing her the wine, he sat in the chair near her settee. Same drinks, same seating arrangement, same question to begin their conversation. He liked same.
“Productive.”
“As always,” she murmured. “I don’t suppose anything exciting happened?”
“The post was greater than usual.” He sipped his brandy.
“Anything of interest?”
“Not to me, though you would probably find the invitation to a house party notable.”
His mother, in her early fifties with still-dark hair, save a few strands of gray at her temples, sat a bit taller. “What house party? When?” Her sable eyes sparked with enthusiasm.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going.”
She pursed her lips at him before relaxing. He could see she was choosing her words, lining up her soldiers for the coming battle. “But you should. I realize you don’t care for social situations; however, this is a small gathering, not at all like the events of the Season.”
Dare, the name he’d been called his entire life, which was a shortened version of the courtesy title he’d held—Marquess of Daresbury—before his father’s death three years earlier, narrowed his eyes at his mother. “You’re behind this invitation.”
“What makes you think that?” She tried to sound innocent, but her gaze darted to the side and her voice rose. When he said nothing, she looked back to him and exhaled. “Fine. Yes.”
“Am I to understand you convinced Lady Cosford to host a house party so that I might attend?”
“Of course not. I merely made a few well-placed comments to friends in recent months.”
“What sort of comments?”
“That you are in search of a wife.” She gave him an exasperated look. “Well, you are.” Frowning at him, she took an irritated sip of madeira.
“And that somehow led to an invitation to a house party that I have no desire to attend.” He made a sound low in his throat before taking another drink of brandy.
“Don’t growl. It’s so off-putting.”
“I don’t growl.”
His mother arched a thick, dark brow, then shook her head, apparently deciding that was a battle she didn’t care to wage. “You should accept the invitation. You do need a wife, and I should think finding one at a small house party in Warwickshire would be far more appealing than attempting the Marriage Mart in London come spring.”
Dare shuddered. He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less. His mother was, unfortunately, correct. He did need a wife. Furthermore, he’d been lamenting how he might find one given that he hated, as his mother had put it, social situations.
What if there wasn’t anyone at the house party he would consider marrying? He scrutinized his mother and gave her the credit she was due. “What is the young lady’s name?”
She looked at him in surprise, as if he couldn’t guess she was scheming a particular match. Faint pink brightened her cheeks, but the color was fleeting. “Lady Marina Fellowes, eldest daughter of the Earl of Wetherby. I’m sure you know him.”
They worked together in the House of Lords. Wetherby didn’t care for idle chatter and always got right to the heart of things. Dare hadn’t even realized he had a daughter. Or a family, for that matter. Perhaps his daughter wouldn’t be the typical prattle basket that most young ladies were.
“What’s she like?” he asked cautiously.
The vigor with which his mother answered almost made him sorry he’d expressed even the slightest interest. “Very pretty and quite accomplished at needlework.”
“That tells me nothing. Is she a featherbrain or not?”
“I doubt it.”
That was not a promising answer. Perhaps his mother didn’t know her. “Has she even had a Season?”
“Yes, just this past one.” His mother’s features brightened. “You should like this bit. She returned to the country early. I’m not sure London—rather, the social whirl—is to her liking.”
“You should have started with that,” Dare muttered. If Lady Marina was cut from the same cloth as her father—and why wouldn’t she be?—this house party actually had potential. “I’ll go to the party to meet Lady Marina.”
“To see if you will suit?”
Dare glowered at his mother’s obvious glee. “Yes.”
She laughed. “You always try so hard to be brusque, even when presented with an opportunity that could help you achieve your aims without suffering that which you find utterly bothersome.”
Loathsome was a better word. Shopping for a wife made him itch.
Some of his mother’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Should I come with you? I think I sh—”
“No.” He didn’t let her finish. If she accompanied him, he’d go mad under her attempts to see him betrothed.
She glared at him, but only for a moment. “So dour,” she murmured. “Can you at least try to be charming? Perhaps smile a little?”
Smiling was for insincere people. When Dare smiled, he meant it. “Why pretend to be someone I’m not? My future wife should know precisely whom she’s marrying.”
His mother exhaled. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She paused, rallying her troops once more before she entered the breach. “If you can’t be charming, you’ll need to be…something. You can’t expect to win Lady Marina’s hand if you don’t engage her somehow.”