“You will marry Clarice, William, and you will do it Monday next. I have the special license.”
William pitched his cheroot into the fire, though he’d taken only a few puffs, and good cheroots were dearly bought.
“I don’t care if you have a bloody decree from the king, Papa. You can’t make me shackle myself to a cold, Frenchie bitch.”
That was a little harsh—Clarice was practical, and her parents were calling the tune—but William’s parents responded to hyperbole. He’d learned that before he’d been breeched.
“Language, son. Language. A married man learns to choose his words. You will wed Clarice, and you will do so happily. Her father has offered to modify the settlements.”
“Her father can sod himself.”
Papa winced. “Truly, your mother’s fears that I have let you fall in with low company have some basis in fact. If you marry Clarice, you’ll be a wealthy man, William. Clarice’s parents understand that you’re a nervous groom—”
William snorted and helped himself to another cheroot.
“—and they would like to reassure you with an additional sum, to be used to establish your own household.”
“I won’t have to live with you and Mama here at Tidemarsh?” William liked the sound of that very much. Tidemarsh—which Papa referred to as the family seat, though he’d purchased it only twenty-five years ago—was a rambling old manor in Exactly Nowhere, Surrey. William hated the place and hated even more the idea that his marriage would unfold under his mother’s judgmental eye.
“You can set up housekeeping in Town, or find a little property of your own. A landed gentleman knows a life of ease and independence, William. Have a look at what Clarice’s papa is willing to do to sweeten the pot.”
A landed gentleman. To not have to wait for Papa to stick his spoon in the wall, to know that Mama wouldn’t be poking her nose into William’s married business, to have a place to stash Clarice when a fellow wanted to spend some time in Town…
“Show me.” William blew another cloud, while Papa produced some folded pages covered with tidy script. William scanned the words, mining a lot of Frenchie blather for the specific figures. The sum proposed was beyond William’s wildest imaginings.
“You don’t suppose Clarice is breeding, do you?” A pleasing thought, to consider he could have got her with child on the first go. She would be breeding soon enough in any case, for if William had to marry, he’d take full advantage of his rights once the vows had been spoken.
Perhaps he could provoke Clarice into slapping him next time. That would take matters in a very interesting direction, and breeding women were known to be randy.
“Clarice is a good girl,” Papa said, “but, my boy, I believe we are up against an example of female determination. Your mother and Clarice’s mama conceived of this match, and it’s a fine match. The ladies will not be denied the satisfaction of seeing you two youngsters wed.”
William had put aside youngster-dom at the age of fourteen, when he’d caught a willing maid alone in the dairy. He’d been indulging in an adult male’s diversions ever since and did not look forward to the nuisance of explaining his little indulgences to a wife.
Though, as Papa had said, a landed man enjoyed independence. He could go up to Town whenever he pleased, lodge at his clubs, and leave the wife stitching samplers and tending her brats back in the shires.
William passed the epistle back to his father. “Tell Papa-in-law to add another thousand pounds, and I will marry the woman. I’ll want a traveling coach and some teams to haul it, and those don’t come cheap.” Funds were always a problem, though for an enterprising fellow like William, a modest sort of solution was never that difficult to devise. He was tired of modest solutions and pinchpenny tradesmen, though. If he was to get leg-shackled, he’d at least get leg-shackled in style.
William expected his capitulation to inspire hearty good cheer from his father, but Papa remained perched on the corner of the desk, exuding nothing heartier than long-suffering.
“William, do you understand why Clarice is willing to marry you?”
William blew the next cloud straight up. “Because I am devilishly good-looking, charming when I want to be, and received everywhere. I am an excellent whip, I have scads of chums, I cut a handsome figure on the dance floor, and I am a dead shot. Besides, I am heir to a tidy sum and a handsome estate. Why wouldn’t any woman short of a duke’s daughter marry me?”
“Ladies aren’t as impressed by those attributes as you might think. They want cosseting, doting, and flattery. Your mother is never so pleased with me as when I ask her opinion on mercantile matters, and her advice is usually sound.”
Papa was trying to be subtle, and he wasn’t very good at it. He was also holding himself out as an expert on ladies, when he was himself a rather short, dull-witted, portly, aging cheese nabob whose uncle had distinguished himself in some war or other. Papa had lucked into his father’s cheese fortune and his uncle’s little title, then lucked into Mama’s generous settlements. That made the old boy no expert on anything except being lucky.
And tattling to Mama at the worst possible time. “I’ll give Clarice babies,” William said. “I’m good at that too.”
Papa’s smile was pained. “Part of what you will give Clarice is connections, William. She’s the daughter of émigrés, desperate for acceptance. Your lineage can be traced back to the Conqueror on your mother’s side, and Clarice craves that evidence of English respectability.”
William nearly told his father, Then you marry her, except Mama would take a dim view of bigamy. Besides, a brand-new traveling coach was delightful to contemplate. The fancy ones had benches that folded out into sleeping arrangements, and the possibilities that presented to an enterprising and charming fellow were marvelous.
“I’ve said I’ll marry her.” William stubbed out his cheroot on the sole of his boot. “I would rather have married Della Haddonfield.”
“From the looks of things when I came upon you in Alconbury, her ladyship was having second thoughts.”
“I love it when the ladies have second thoughts,” William said, flicking the stub of his cigar into the fire. “Convincing them to see things my way is great fun for all concerned.”
“I’m glad you’re willing to put some effort into charming Clarice,” Papa said, pushing away from the desk. “Perhaps you will be glad to show off your pretty new wife at your godmother’s house party.”
“A house party?” William liked house parties. The food and drink were free, the opportunities for romping plentiful. He also enjoyed the evening card games, where a whole flock of pigeons who seldom frequented London gaming hells were available for plucking. “Godmama’s estate is ever so pretty this time of year. I could do some shooting.”
“Think of it as a wedding journey,” Papa said, tucking away the settlement proposal. “Clarice will be introduced to our circle of friends, and you can get to know each other better in pleasant surrounds.”
“Tell Godmama the happy couple must have separate bedrooms. A connecting door will do, but Clarice will need her rest.” William would make sure of that. Begin as you intend to go on, Mama always said. For once, her advice was worth following.