2
Maxwell Dean had seen too many of his friends fall in love with the wrong women.
It wasn’t that the ladies were unprincipled or ill-tempered or possessed some other negative character trait that made them unsuitable. No, the obstacle to these matches was one that the women could not be blamed for, but that indisputably made them the wrong choice: they were poor. And while that might not be an impediment for some gentlemen, Maxwell and many of his friends were younger sons with no fortune of their own, and thus a poor wife was a luxury that they, quite literally, could not afford.
Max was not in such dire financial straits himself, as he had received his mother’s modest dowry as an inheritance; but his income just covered his own expenses. Of course, he was not accustomed to practicing strict economies, and lived the life of a society bachelor with all that it entailed, but children almost inevitably followed marriage, and while he could afford to take care of a wife (though perhaps not in the degree of luxury she might desire), his income could not stretch to include any progeny that might come along. Poets and romantics might rail against a marriage undertaken for anything but love alone, but Max had a more practical view of the matter. He believed that it was just as possible to love a woman of fortune as it was to love a penniless woman; a woman who should be looking elsewhere for a match, as well.
He himself was in no great hurry to wed, though he’d recently begun to think it was time he started looking for a bride. His brother had been married for five years already by the time he was eight-and-twenty, Max’s current age, and now had four children under the age of six. (Max took a moment to pity his sister-in-law and wonder that since his brother now had an heir, a spare, and two extra for good measure, he didn’t leave off breeding for a while.) Maxwell had met his sister-in-law before she’d married his brother, and she’d been the one woman who had inspired Max to consider matrimony. But when she had used her acquaintance with him to pursue his brother instead, Maxwell had learned a valuable lesson about his own eligibility, or lack thereof. He had quickly recovered from any infatuation he had felt for his sister-in-law, but the caution she’d inspired in him about courtship and marriage had remained these past seven years.
Maxwell’s thoughts had recently turned again to marriage, not because a certain young lady had captured his fancy, but because he’d witnessed a friend of his, Jack Winston, another younger son, suffer a similar disappointment in love. He and Max had been guests at the wedding breakfast of one of their more fortunate friends, a rich young earl who had had his pick of women and had married a lady whom Jack was enamored of.
“I wish I’d never met her,” Jack had muttered sadly, as he watched the couple accept the congratulations of their friends.
Maxwell wondered why Jack had paid court to someone who could never bestow her hand on a man just as poor as she was. Wouldn’t it be better, Max reasoned, for younger brothers, like themselves, to confine their attentions to women who could afford to marry them?
And he had been struck by a brilliant notion: What if there were a directory of all the single wealthy women in and near London that younger brothers, such as himself, could peruse before beginning a courtship? It would save any number of young men—and women—the heartache of a doomed love affair.
He had never considered that a lady would not want her name in such a directory, supposing that she would be pleased to find herself the object of his friends’ attentions, all of them very good chaps. And, he reasoned, the information was accessible to anyone who made an effort to discover it, so it wasn’t as if he was revealing anything of a confidential nature.
Perhaps he’d felt some qualms, even if he was not conscious of it, as he had been reluctant to sign his name to the document, limiting himself merely to his initials. But his primary reason for doing so was because he had been rather proud of his work and did not want to be accused of blowing his own trumpet. He never imagined his altruistic action would—instead of accolades—reap scorn, animosity, and blame.
Max was living in rooms in the Albany and could count on one hand the number of times he had received visitors there. He was rarely at home; preferring to spend the day at his club or at his older brother’s townhome in Grosvenor Square, where he made frequent use of the library. So he was quite surprised when the porter knocked at his door as he was preparing to leave and informed him he had a caller. The boy handed Max a card, turned down at the corner.
Max read it, but the name meant absolutely nothing to him.
“Should I tell her you’re at home, Mister, or would you rather give her the slip?” the porter, Jim, asked in a loud whisper. He apparently assumed Max was involved in a clandestine affair, and though he had never done anything more than bob his head at Max in passing, he was now looking at Max conspiratorially and with newfound respect. As it was usually considered socially unacceptable for a lady to call upon a gentleman, Max wondered if this woman, Mrs. Boyle, was from a lower class of society. She did possess a card, however, which indicated that she was from the middle classes, at least. Mysteries like these didn’t present themselves on his doorstep every day, and Max’s curiosity was roused.
“I will receive the lady,” Max said, as grandly as he could, in an attempt to deflate Jim’s impertinence. It was a wasted effort, however, because the boy merely nodded and winked, as if he had now been made an equal partner in whatever intrigue was taking place.
Max looked around his sitting room, picking up a discarded cravat from the night before and hurling it through the open door into his bedroom. He closed the bedroom door just as the porter returned.
“Madam and her maid to see you,” Jim announced in a carrying tone of voice. He apparently had ambitions of becoming a butler. Max just hoped his neighbors were not at home to overhear this pronouncement and discover he was entertaining a woman in his rooms.
The two women entered, and Max nodded his head at Jim in dismissal, as he seemed disposed to linger. The boy finally left, casting curious and admiring glances at Mrs. Boyle as he did so. Now that Max had seen her for himself, he could understand why Jim had assumed there to be some mystery involved with their meeting. She was dressed from head to toe in unrelieved black and had a lace veil draped over her bonnet. However, even though her face was somewhat obscured, it was obvious from what could be seen of it and of her figure that she was a young woman, not an elderly crone, despite her choice of attire.
That she was a lady Maxwell no longer doubted; the very fact that she’d veiled herself and was accompanied by a maid showed that she understood she was breaking a social taboo and did not want to be recognized while doing so. But if she was also attempting to conceal her attractions, she had failed; the glimpses Max caught of her features through the lace caused him to suddenly wish that the porter’s suppositions were correct and that he did have a romantic relationship with the lady. Provided she was a widow, of course.
Max’s captivation was complete when she lifted her veil, exposing the loveliest countenance he’d ever seen. Or at least it seemed that way to him, though her full lips were compressed tightly, and her golden-brown eyes seemed to spark with an angry light.
“Mr. Dean? Mr. Maxwell Dean?” she asked, and though she spoke in a firm tone, it struck a discordant note when uttered in her soft voice.
“At your service,” Maxwell replied, with a bow and a wide smile. Mrs. Boyle seemed surprised at his cordial response and paused, so Max took the opportunity to invite her to take a seat. She looked further confused—apparently she hadn’t planned on making a long visit—but finally sat gingerly on the edge of a chair. It was obvious she did not want to make herself too comfortable.
Max sat on the sofa across from her, after directing her maid to a seat in the corner.
“Mr. Dean,” the lady said, fumbling in the reticule she carried and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “I believe you’re the author of this document, are you not?” She pronounced “document” with a distinct curl of her pretty lips, as if it were an obscene word.
Max was astounded to see she was holding his directory, and it never even occurred to him to try to deny authorship. “Why, however did you discover that?”
“It’s true, then? You admit you are its author?” Mrs. Boyle asked.
Her attitude was beginning to affect Max, and his welcoming smile faded in the face of such obvious hostility. “It is not a crime, Mrs. Boyle, and neither is this a court of law. I have no hesitation in admitting I prepared that document, though I am at a loss as to why you are in my rooms demanding that I do so.”
“Well, Mr. Dean, I would never want to discompose you in any way, so allow me to make it completely clear why I had the audacity to violate your privacy by appearing, without warning or permission, in your rooms,” Mrs. Boyle said, her tone fairly dripping with sarcasm. She then flipped a few pages forward in the directory and stood up to walk over to where he sat on the sofa.
Max jumped to his feet immediately (as a gentleman he couldn’t remain seated while she was not), but he had finally understood the source of her displeasure during her accusatory speech, even though he hadn’t initially recognized her name. There were dozens of ladies listed in his directory, so he couldn’t be expected to remember every one.
And at the moment he could barely remember his own name, so close was she standing to him. Apparently she wanted there to be no possibility of his missing what had so enraged her, and was therefore holding the directory right in front of his face. Her proximity was causing him to feel short of breath, and he looked unseeingly at the page for a long moment as she waited, her finger pointing to the relevant entry. Her skirts were brushing his leg and a faint scent of lavender wafted up to him from her person, and he had great difficulty marshaling his thoughts. He was not sure how long they stood there in silence—it might have been seconds or minutes, it felt like time was both rushing by and standing still—until the maid sneezed and broke the spell that had held them in thrall. Mrs. Boyle finally stepped away, and after she’d resumed her seat, Max dropped back down onto the sofa.
“Well? Have you nothing to say?” Diana asked indignantly, though she’d had to stoke her anger by reminding herself how despicable Mr. Dean was and what a terrible thing he’d done. She hadn’t thought much about what her archenemy would look like, except to suppose that his outward appearance would be in keeping with his fiendish character. However, this was one of the most attractive men it had ever been her misfortune to meet. His hair was neither light nor dark but had shades of both and fell in disordered waves above gray-blue eyes. Nor was he an oily, uncouth oaf; his manners were pleasing, and his smile had caused an unfamiliar tingling sensation in her stomach. His rooms, while simply and sparsely decorated, were clean, as was his person, and when they’d been standing so close to each other, she’d been amazed at the feeling that seemed to have sparked between them, an exhilarating tension she’d never before experienced.
But she reminded herself that the devil himself could transform into an angel of light, and that she had absolutely no interest in men, even handsome ones. Especially handsome ones.
“I gather you’re not happy about your inclusion in this document,” Mr. Dean said mildly, as if it were a trifling matter. Diana was pleased by this response, because of how greatly it displeased her. She no longer had to pretend she was angry; her anger had returned in full measure.
“Not happy? Not happy? That might be the most egregious understatement I’ve ever heard in my life! Would you be happy to find perfect strangers on your doorstep, angling for a dinner invitation, in pursuit of a wealthy bride?”
“Did that happen to you?” Maxwell asked, surprised.
“What did you expect to happen when you published my bank balance, marital status, and direction for the world to see?” Diana said, congratulating herself on having finally brought the man to a realization of his shameless behavior.
“I sincerely beg your pardon for the inconvenience, Mrs. Boyle, but couldn’t you simply have told them you were not at home?”
Since this was an unanswerable question, Diana didn’t attempt to reply, but returned to the main point of the discussion: “Why would you do such a thing, Mr. Dean, without first asking permission?”
“It just never occurred to me . . . I mean, I thought I was performing a service . . .” His sentence trailed off, and he ran his hand nervously through the wavy hair that fell on his forehead, before beginning again. “Impoverished young ladies come out in society every year with the obvious intention of finding a rich man to marry, and I thought, ‘What’s sauce for the goose—’ ”
“Please tell me you aren’t using a nursery rhyme to justify your behavior!” Diana interrupted him.
“It’s a respected proverb,” Mr. Dean said defensively.
“That a man wrote!” Diana replied.
There was a chuckle, quickly suppressed, from the corner, and Mr. Dean and Diana looked over at the maid, surprised to be reminded yet again that they were not alone.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” the girl said, and gave a fake cough. “Had a tickle in my throat.” Diana thought it was a good thing Sally had no ambition to take up a career on the stage, because she was a terrible actress.
But the interruption had given Mr. Dean an opportunity to gather his defenses. “Mrs. Boyle, haven’t you ever known someone who was the victim of an ill-fated love affair? Who gave their heart to someone to whom they could not offer their hand? It would spare so much heartache if one could know before embarking on a courtship if it had any hope of succeeding.”
“I do not feel a marriage based on how much money a person has in the bank has much hope of succeeding in any case,” Diana said, grateful she was able to form a coherent response. She felt it very unfair that she had to argue with a man who spoke so passionately and eloquently about love, and who was so annoyingly attractive while doing so.
“Is that so? Can you tell me then, with no pang of conscience, that you married your husband purely for the sake of sentiment, with absolutely no consideration of his financial situation? If you can, then I will cease publication of my directory immediately, and even try to retrieve as many copies as I can of those that have already been purchased.”
Diana looked down, seemingly unable to meet Mr. Dean’s challenging gaze, before rising from her seat and gesturing to Sally. The girl got up and crossed to stand behind her mistress. Mr. Dean rose from his seat as well, and Diana, who had regained her composure, looked him straight in the eye.
“I have no need to tell you anything, Mr. Dean,” she said, holding out her hand to him.
He was surprised, but reached out to grasp her hand, thinking she had offered it to him to shake. However, when his hand touched hers, she jumped back as if she’d been scalded.
“I merely desired you to return my property,” she said, a little breathlessly, and he realized he still held the directory.
“Oh, of course,” he said, and was too gentlemanly to taunt her for asking for the despised document or inquire as to why she wanted it. He gave it to her and she turned to leave, her maid trailing at her heels.
“Wait!” Max called suddenly, and she paused in the doorway and looked back at him, raising her eyebrows in inquiry. “I am sorry, Mrs. Boyle, for offending you. I had no desire to cause anyone . . .” He paused for a moment, searching for the correct word. “. . . distress when publishing that directory. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
She nodded regally, as if she wished to acknowledge his apology without signifying her acceptance of it. “Unfortunately, I am not the only person to whom you owe an apology, Mr. Dean,” she said, and quickly left the room. Sally, who was not quite as swift as Mrs. Boyle, in more ways than one, stood gaping at Max for a moment before she followed her mistress into the hallway and closed the door behind them.
Max stood there, staring at the closed door, conscious that Mrs. Boyle had left a faint hint of her perfume behind to torment him with the thought that the amorphous scent was as fleeting and unattainable as she was.
Diana had taken a suite at the Clarendon Hotel, which was a short walk from the Albany, made even shorter by the brisk, angry pace she set when leaving Mr. Dean’s rooms. She was eventually forced to slow down, however, as Sally was falling too far behind, and the foot and carriage traffic was increasing considerably.
She waited impatiently for the maid to catch up, and then made a conscious effort to walk more slowly the rest of the way. She had already defied convention once that day by bearding a single gentleman in his rooms; she had no wish to call attention to herself by taking manly strides instead of mincing ladylike steps.
After entering the Clarendon and going to her suite, she changed from her black dress and bonnet into a sprigged muslin, relieved to be out of her widow’s garb. Her mourning period had ended only a few months previously and wearing so much black had made her feel like a hypocrite, as she was conscious that she did not grieve for her husband as much as a good wife ought. Indeed, she did not grieve his death at all, try as she did to think well of him.
She would remind herself that, though at times he had been unkind and ill-tempered, he had never actually abused her; in fact, his offer to marry her had removed her and her mother from a desperate situation after the death of Diana’s father. Finding themselves penniless and about to be cast out of their lodgings, they had approached Mr. Boyle, whom they had never met but who was a distant cousin of Diana’s father, and the only one of his relatives they’d been able to locate. Mr. Boyle had come up with the notion of marrying Diana in order to give her and her mother a home. (Diana never referred to Mr. Boyle by his Christian name, even in her thoughts.) Diana’s mother had repeatedly told her how grateful she should be that a man of means wanted to marry her, providing her with wealth and security, something Diana’s mother had never had. However, Diana had had the mutinous thought, though unexpressed, that if Mr. Boyle had truly been motivated by charitable feelings, he would have proposed marriage to her mother instead, who was, after all, closer to him in age than Diana, while still twelve years his junior. Or, barring that, Mr. Boyle could have provided them with a home, or assisted them in finding one, without requiring either of his female relatives to marry him.
Instead it was Diana’s duty to sacrifice herself on the marriage altar, and perhaps it had been the better plan, as her mother was dead within a few weeks of the ceremony.
Diana, grief-stricken by her mother’s death, found no comfort in the arms of a man born a decade before her father. She also found her new duties as chatelaine of a large estate at the tender age of eighteen a very unwelcome and difficult burden. It would have been challenging even at the best of times, as she had been raised in a modest dwelling in Plymouth, the daughter of an improvident sailor, and had never been trained to manage a grand household. But it was almost too much to bear when she was forced to assume such duties, as well as live as a wife to a man who was a stranger to her, while trying to cope with the tragic loss of her mother, who had been her constant companion and the mainstay of her young life.
As unhappy as those years had been and as much as she’d wished she’d been able to find a different solution, she could no longer regret her marriage, as she had grown very fond of Whitley House (however little she might feel for its master), and with her husband’s death had achieved the independence her poor mother, and so many other women, never possessed. Diana no longer needed a man to provide her with food, clothing, and shelter; she had all of that and more.
There was absolutely no reason for her to marry again and she had no intention of doing so. Why give up the independence she had endured so much to attain? And why give away ownership of her beloved Whitley House, which she had finally learned to manage very well, to a charming wastrel like her father, or a bad-tempered autocrat like her late husband?
The visit of Mr. Pryce and Lord Jerome had merely strengthened her determination never to wed again. She saw how they viewed her: as a necessary evil in the way of their possession of her house and fortune. Of course, she realized that they had found her handsome (at least handsomer than her poor sister-in-law, which was not necessarily a compliment). And the very fact that they had looked Mildred over first made their true priorities evident.
Diana had imagined if she told Mr. Dean how he’d wronged her, it would calm her and she could continue with her placid existence at Whitley House, working in the gardens and decorating the rooms and calling on the few friends she’d made since her marriage. But she found herself even more agitated after her brief visit to Mr. Dean.
Godfrey had been able to track down Mr. Dean’s identity after visiting the publisher of the directory, whose address was printed on the title page. Diana, grateful for Godfrey’s help, had considered asking him to accompany her when she confronted Mr. Dean, but after further thought decided to take Sally instead. Though Godfrey had proved himself helpful in this affair, Diana was still ill at ease in his presence. He seemed to be too observant, to see too much. She would have felt much more nervous conversing with Mr. Dean had Godfrey been there. Even Sally, with her sneezes and snickers, disturbed her far less than Godfrey did with his silent disdain.
She did wonder, though, what Godfrey would have thought of Mr. Dean had he accompanied her. Diana, though she’d expected to detest the gentleman, found it difficult to do so and was annoyed with herself for letting his good looks affect her opinion of him. Although it was not merely how he looked; he’d had such an appealing way about him as well. Then again, she had made a call on him instead of him upon her. If he had come to Whitley House in a blatant attempt to pursue her as the other two men had, surely she would have recoiled in horror from him as well. However, Mr. Dean had no need to go to Twickenham; there were dozens of women listed in his directory, and he had probably already begun courting a different young lady who lived close by. The thought of Mr. Dean taking some poor young woman totally unaware, flashing that charming smile at her in a devious attempt to separate her from her fortune, riled Diana to anger once again.
She sat down at the escritoire in her suite at the Clarendon and began writing to the ladies in Mr. Dean’s directory.