One
“My lord.”
Nicholas looked up in surprise. The footman must have stepped into the drawing room and moved across it so unobtrusively that Nicholas hadn’t even realized he’d entered until the servant stopped beside the couch to lean down and murmur near his ear. Not that Nicholas minded. His mother and the marquess had been lecturing him for over an hour.
He turned his head slightly. “What is it, James?”
“There is a woman crying in the stable.”
Nicholas raised a brow
“Thirty is a very good age to marry,” his brother the marquess was saying. “I married at nine and twenty, only a few days shy of thirty.”
“Who is she?” Nicholas asked the footman.
“I am not certain, my lord. The groom came to tell us.”
“Did the groom say what was the matter?”
“No, my lord.”
“Why doesn’t the groom ask her to leave?”
“Nicholas,” the dowager said loudly, her voice echoing off the walls of the drawing room. “Are you attending? Your brother makes a very good point.”
“I am listening, Mama,” Nicholas said, smiling at her. He’d been listening for almost an hour now, but he didn’t mention that. He’d known what this afternoon was about as soon as his sister and the marchioness went off together for a walk, leaving him alone with his brother and mother for a friendly chat.
But this chat was more reminiscent of his time in the army and a general giving him his marching orders. He had been listening, even as the footman relayed his message, even as the pain in his leg grew from uncomfortable to unbearable. Both of his legs had been crushed when his horse fell on him during the war. The right leg had healed for the most part, though it still hurt and was terribly stiff in the morning or when the weather was damp. His left leg was mostly unusable. He could put a little weight on it and had some range of motion, enough that he could walk if he leaned heavily on a cane. His left knee, in particular, had suffered the worst of the damage and it pained him any time he had to bend it for very long. He’d now been sitting with it bent for almost an hour and he’d been in agony for approximately forty-five minutes of that hour. He desperately wanted to prop it up on the couch and stretch it out, but if he did so in front of his mother, she would look at him with that awful pity her in her blue eyes, and his brother Henry would look away as though embarrassed.
“Henry, do go on. You were saying thirty is a good age to wed.” Nicholas inclined his head toward the footman. “Does she refuse to leave?”
“No one can get close enough to her, my lord. She has a pig guarding her.”
Nicholas almost laughed at this, but the footman’s expression was deadly serious. “I see,” Nicholas said, forcing his expression to remain somber. “Assure the groom I will be there as soon as I can to deal with the situation.”
“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed and made his exit.
“As I was saying,” his mother continued, “I think a house party is just the thing. We will invite a half dozen or so of the most eligible young ladies to come to Battle’s Peak for a week of games and riding and the lovely summer weather. At the end of the week, you will choose one to marry.” She produced a sheet of vellum. “I have made a list of the ladies I think we should invite. Your dear sister-in-law was kind enough to add her own suggestions.” She held the vellum out to him. “Would you like to peruse it?”
Nicholas liked anything that would allow him to move from his present position. He stood awkwardly, grasped his walking stick, and made his way across the room to his mother. Though it was only a few steps, it seemed to take hours. His mother looked away as he moved toward her, pretending to take in the newly remodeled drawing room. His sister Florentia had done it in the Greek style, with columns in white and white plaster and moldings on the walls and ceilings. Groupings of chairs and couches, all upholstered in pale cream and gold, were placed throughout the long, rectangular room.
Nicholas took the paper and stood in front of his mother, forcing her to look at him.
“Are all of the ladies from London?” the marquess asked. “None are local?”
Undoubtedly, he was thinking of the daughters of Mr. Kentworth, whose land bordered Battle’s Peak on the south.
“Your dear Mary made inquiries there, but the eldest girl is only eight,” his mother said. “There is the Blackstock family,” she said. “Mr. Blackstock was a gentleman, but he passed away a few months ago, and I’m afraid Miss Blackstock has been allowed quite shocking freedoms since then.”
Nicholas could only wish he’d be allowed the freedom of escaping from this room. He finally looked down at the list. He recognized the family names but none of the ladies. Even without knowing them, he knew they would be gently bred girls who were accomplished in all of the feminine arts—drawing, singing, playing pianoforte, and embroidery. They would speak French and wear the latest fashions and they would pretend they didn’t mind that he was a cripple, but inside they would be completely disgusted. No lady of Society would consider marrying him unless her parents were desperate for a good match or in need of money. Without thinking, Nicholas crumpled the list into a ball and tossed it in the hearth. His mother gasped and his brother sputtered, “What’s this now?”
“I’m not marrying,” Nicholas said.
“But we just discussed—” his brother began.
“You talked, and I listened,” Nicholas interrupted. “I did listen,” he added before they could protest. “Not once did either of you mention the most important consideration. I am a cripple.”
“Nicholas, do not speak that way,” his mother chided him.
“Why?” He leaned heavily on his stick to make a point and also because he needed to take some of the pressure off his left leg. “Because if we pretend I do not have an injury it will go away? I have unfortunate news, Mother. I am will not be miraculously healed, and you know as well as I that every lady on that list will pity me and pray to God her parents don’t force her to marry me.”
His mother opened her mouth but didn’t seem to know what to say. Henry stepped in. “They’re young and foolish. Mary and I didn’t wed for love. That’s something that comes in time.”
“Mary also didn’t feel pity and disgust for you.”
“What are you saying, Nicholas?” the dowager demanded. “You have been back from the war for over three years. I have been patient. I have been understanding. You wanted to come here and recover, we allowed it. You did not want to travel to London for the Season, we allowed it. But if you will not come to London, then I must bring the eligible ladies here.”
“No,” he said.
She waved a hand. “You cannot possibly mean that you will never marry.”
“Plenty of men don’t marry—”
“But you are the son of a marquess. You must marry.”
“Third son and, as Henry pointed out, I am thirty years old. I don’t have to do anything.”
Now would have been the time for a dramatic exit. And if he could have walked faster than a snail, he would have made one. As it was, he hobbled across the floor and was able to hear all of his mother’s muttered insults, including how he was spoiled, willful, and stubborn.