It irked him that the first person he thought of that morning was the Abomination. Of course, it made sense. It would take all of his skills in diplomacy to ensure he both courted her and made certain she had no expectations.
He wasn’t cruel, after all; he just wished to successfully complete his assignment so he could return to India and never have to see any of these people again. Be useful again.
So meanwhile, even though the thought of it either made his skin crawl or made him want to yawn, he had to attend every single event to which he was invited, make himself innocuously pleasant, and become a model citizen.
David craved being useful. The second son often was not useful, except to be present in case of some horrible tragedy affecting the heir. Thankfully, his older brother James remained in good health, and James now had his own sons, rendering David’s position in the family entirely redundant.
Meanwhile, David had found something to do that didn’t feel irrelevant. He thrived on the intrigue and delicate negotiating skills he’d developed. He couldn’t let that just drift away because of some indiscretion with a woman who cared as little for him as he did for her. He and Louise had both known their affair had been one of convenience. There was no talk of love.
Of course, when the lady’s husband had gotten wind of it, it didn’t matter what their intentions were; they had done wrong, and David had been sent away until the matter blew over or the general calmed down.
But now he had another assignment. A task that required him to be as diplomatic and delicate as possible.
He flung his covers aside and pulled the bell for his valet. It was only a matter of minutes before Gotam arrived, carrying a blessedly full carafe of coffee.
“And what are our plans today, my lord?” Once he’d heard they were heading to London—his first time away from India—Gotam had developed the very irritating habit of speaking as he imagined most traditional British valets spoke.
David took a large swallow of the too-hot coffee. It burned down his throat. “I have no idea what you are doing, but I intend to go riding, see about some new boots, and—God help me—pay some social calls. Tonight I’m attending the theater. I don’t know what the play is. Nor will I even afterward. Nobody goes to see the performance, anyway.”
He knew he was being especially grouchy, but with Gotam, at least, he could be himself.
“And in what order will we be doing these spectacular events?” Even Gotam couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “We will need to be properly attired.”
“Can’t you just ask me, Ox?” David complained, setting the cup down on the tray as he stood. Naked. He loathed wearing nightshirts to bed, they always rode up to mid-chest by the morning, so he refused to wear anything at all. Thankfully, Gotam didn’t have enough of a concept of how British men were supposed to dress to think David was doing something utterly shocking. Or maybe he knew, but didn’t care.
Gotam—Ox, he’d told David it translated to—went to the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and withdrew David’s undergarments. He held them out, his expression blank, but David caught a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. “What order?”
“Boots, riding, social calls, theater.” He put on his smallclothes and reached for the coffee cup again, draining it in a single swallow.
“Excellent, my lord.” Gotam beamed at him as though he were a star pupil. “Sounds precisely what a gentleman in our situation should be doing.” Gotam was far more than David’s valet; he was David’s confidant and closest friend and as determined that David succeed in whatever it was he was doing as David was. “I shall lay our clothes out while you finish breakfast.”
Properly attired, and only half an hour later, David descended the staircase to the main hallway. He’d written to James as soon as he knew he’d be returning, and James had been happy to allow him to stay in the family’s London house. It was far too large for a single gentleman, but if it meant David didn’t have to find his own rooms or stay in a hotel, he would deal with the cavernousness of the house.
As the consummate head of the family, James was off being as useful as he possibly could. So useful, in fact, he hadn’t been able to make it to London to see his vagabond brother. Which meant it was very, very empty.
“The carriage is ready, my lord,” James’s butler, Wellesley, informed him. David could tell that Wellesley wasn’t entirely certain about the new occupants, but thus far he’d been polite, even though he’d likely never met an Indian valet. Or likely any Indian person, regardless of his occupation.
“Thank you, Wellesley,” David said, taking his hat and clapping it on his head. “I will be home for lunch, but not for dinner.”
“Excellent, my lord,” Wellesley replied in unconscious imitation of Gotam’s earlier comment.
***
“Why are we stopping here?” The carriage had drawn up to Marbury and Thornton’s Most Excellent Haberdashery.
“There are single bachelors there, Charlotte,” her mother said. Charlotte doubted her mother would appreciate it if she pointed out that it was hardly likely they would find married bachelors at the shop.
“They do not sell them, do they?” Because if they did, that might solve her problems—she could purchase one, not use him, and be done with the whole issue of being married.
Choosing a partner for life was even more daunting than deciding what to wear—and clearly she had enough trouble with that. She was only beginning to realize that she was unlike other ladies in more than just her taste in clothing; she would rather be an EB forever than settle. Either on a husband, or a gown.
“No, I believe they specialize in boots,” her mother said in a distracted way, not noticing her daughter’s wry question.
Which begged the question—Charlotte did not wear boots, and her brother could buy his own boots. Christian was always off engrossed in some old book or another, anyway. He would probably just stare if anyone asked if he wanted to purchase new boots. She saw no point to it, unless the point was to show how desperate you were to find a single bachelor. Of course, it would be a good place for researching the column. Emma had sent around the note, as promised, and told Charlotte she would be expected to cover both men’s and ladies’ clothing.
Because it wasn’t horrible enough she had to write about one gender’s choice of attire, she had to write about two.
And Christian would be no help. She’d written him about doing the column, of course, but she knew his response would be to frown and then laugh hysterically, not offer anything constructive to help her.
“And there is also …” Her mother cleared her throat. Uh-oh. Throat clearing, in Charlotte’s experience, seldom resulted in anything good. “Well, you see, I have heard of a Mr. Goddard, a gentleman of excellent family. He and I played whist together, and I happened to mention you, and he happened to mention he is a widower with two children, and he …”
No. Her mother was not trying to get her married so she could be a surrogate mother, was she?
“He mentioned also that his two children are in need of some maternal love and care …”
She was.
“And he had heard of you, and he really is an excellent whist player. You know, your father likes to play whist,” she added, as though that would be something to consider in a potential husband. The basis for a good marriage.
Although for her mother, perhaps that was true; she and Charlotte’s father seldom spent time together, and when they did, they most often spent it in silence. Playing whist.
That this was what marriage could be expected to be was entirely depressing. Just once, Charlotte would like to hear of some couple or another who were still in love, years after marriage. That was what she wanted, deep in her heart. To be loved by someone who could see past her terrible fashion choices—even if she didn’t think they were terrible—to view the woman within. To know that she was cherished and desired for more than her fortune.
The upside to Mr. Goddard was that he would desire her for more than her fortune—he wanted her for her ability to be a mother, as well.
She hadn’t realized how desperate her mother was. How desperate her mother thought she was.
Was it so hard to expect to be loved? For herself?
Her father loved her, at least, that much she knew. He didn’t think of her as the EB, or anything other than the reason he got to go to London once a year. Her brother loved her, when he could pull his nose away from his studies. Her mother loved her, but that love came with obligations.
At least her family loved her.
Depressing. Entirely depressing.
Perhaps, she thought, desperately looking for a bright side, she could find something to write about for Emma’s column at the haberdashery.
Besides the plethora of single—not married—bachelors.