Page 17 of Miss Dauntless
And she, being observant and astute, could gain that sense over the course of only a few discussions.
“You will work wonders, I am sure. Shall we confer again in a week’s time?”
“Of course, my lord. I’ll look for you Tuesday next.” She rose, and Tremont was obliged by manners to get to his feet as well. Why was adult life an unrelenting exercise in doing things a fellow did not want to do?
“Shall I look in on the boy?” he asked. “One has wondered how Tommie is faring.”
Mrs. Merridew’s smile shifted from polite to bewildered. “He speaks to me of nothing but skipping rocks, and hot chocolate, and making another trip to the bakery to choose our Sunday dessert. You have made quite an impression, my lord.”
And that, apparently, was not a cheering development. What boy would not want an earl among those taking an interest in his welfare? As Mrs. Merridew escorted Tremont to the library,it occurred to him that the problem was not the boy, the problem was the mother.
She was ambivalent about Tremont’s notice of her son. “Was your marriage happy, Mrs. Merridew?”
She halted six paces from the library door. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your marriage, was it happy? The question is doubtless impertinent—I do apologize—but you did remark about my sister’s union with Powell, and you seem inordinately wary of allowing me to form a connection with your son. Tommie is a delightful child, and I mean him no harm.”
Mrs. Merridew ran her hand over a deal table and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. The table wanted dusting. By the time Tremont paid his call next week, the whole house would have the sort of contented shine he’d seen in the guest parlor.
But would Mrs. Merridew be any easier in Tremont’s presence—wouldshehave a contented shine?—and why did he want that for her?
“I am supposed to tell you,” she said, “that Harry Merridew had many fine qualities. A wonderful sense of humor, charm, industry, ingenuity, determination… And I would not be lying.”
“But you would be prevaricating.” Tremont hated Harry Merridew in that moment, though if Harry had been a paragon, would Tremont have hated him more? “The late Mr. Merridew disappointed you.”
“When I got word of his death, I wept, my lord, with relief rather than grief. This doubtless makes me monstrous in your eyes—my father certainly regarded me as such—but if I’m to be a monster, at least I can be an honest monster.”
“Matilda Merridew, you are not now, nor have you ever been, a monster. Shame upon him who said you were, and shame upon him who disappointed you.” Tremont included both her father and her late husband among that number.
She smiled at him, a slow sunrise of warmth, pleasure, and feminine approval. The whole woman changed, becoming mysterious and lovely. Tremont did not know how to return such a smile, how to reflect her joy and magnificence back at her, but, oh, he wanted to.
“Do you have a list, my lord?”
Her question made no sense. “A list?”
“For your countess. The lady you will be seeking throughout the Little Season and beyond if necessary.”
Had Tremont’s horse been shot out from under him, he could not have been more disconcerted, but he rallied.
“I do, as it happens. One wants to go about the business with some sort of plan, and I did make a list.”
Mrs. Merridew made asay ongesture with her hand.
Such disclosures only ended in disaster, but Tremont would not argue with this lady. “She must be of sound mind, gracious, and well organized. Content with rural society, but capable of comporting herself well in Town. Prudent, but not miserly. Take care with her appearance without being vain. Well-read, but not a literary snob. Intelligent, not arrogant. Of good character and of good humor as well. Need I go on?”
Something loud thumped on the carpet in the library—a small boy leaping from a bookcase, perhaps.
“You describe yourself in a ball gown, my lord, and you leave out the most important factor.”
“I don’t much care about a dowry. We’re getting Tremont back on its feet, and rural Shropshire—”
Mrs. Merridew put her hand over his mouth, the scent a peculiar blend of dust and roses and her palm not exactly petal-smooth.
“She must love you,” Mrs. Merridew said. “She must love the man you are and hold you in honest, sincere esteem.” She dropped her hand, squared her shoulders, and faced the librarydoor. “Settle for nothing less. Not for her charm, her gracious wit, or her pretty smile, much less her perishing dowry. Demand her love and give her yours in return. Good day, my lord, and good hunting.”
Tremont had promised to drive Miss Caroline Pringle in the park that afternoon, a task which had shifted in the last two minutes from pointless to vexing. He had no intention of marrying Miss Pringle. She gossiped, she clung to his arm in public, and her father had made all manner of vulgar allusions to generous settlements.
Her mother was a chattering phenomenon designed to strike terror into the hearts of young bachelors, and Miss Pringle was said to have a brother on remittance in Rome. Tremont had offered to take her driving out of something akin to pity or duty or a confused mixture of the two, so tour the park with her he would—all the while praying for rain.
