Page 25 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
“Horribly. How did you know?”
“Because George once ate nearly half a joint of mutton. He was so miserable afterwards, we could not be angry with him, even though it meant the week’s stew had no—” She stopped abruptly.
Whiddon leaned forward, his gaze intent.
She looked away.
“There’s not enough money for meat for your table?” he asked quietly.
“Of course, there is,” she protested.
“Once a week?”
She pressed her lips together.
“Once a month?”
She did not want to answer.
“Let’s be honest with each other today, Miss Mayne.”
He was right. No matter what the outcome, this was the time to be honest, so they both would know what they were getting into . . . or not. But it was a blow to her pride.
“Every fortnight I balance the village butcher’s books.” Her chin lifted high. “In return, he gives us a nice joint. We have learned how to make it last.”
“Thank you for telling me.” He sat brooding for a moment, and she thought he was going to comment further on her shameful admission, but instead he asked, “How is it that you have managed a Season? Your aunt has paid for it?”
“Yes. She had a decent income, once. A small bequest from her mother and a quarterly allowance, and she lived at the estate where she grew up. But when her father passed and my uncle inherited, his wife did not wish her in the household. My uncle moved her into a cottage and felt justified, as she was not responsible for rent, in cutting her allowance in half. We manage, with her income and the small amount I have from my own mother’s will, but there is nothing for extras—”
“I hardly call decent food an extra.”
“The worst part is that there is nothing to see to Anne and George’s futures. They deserve so much more. It wouldn’t even take much to set them each on a better path. I thought that if I could find a decent and kind man for a husband . . .”
“Yes, I see. You took the chance. I commend you, but it must have been a dreadful expense for you.”
“Aunt Bernadine sold one of the most valuable specimens of her ancient coins. It was bad enough that she’d not been able to add to her collection since she took us in, but I thought that if I was successful, I should be able to get her coin back, once I was married.”
“It was not a bad plan, considering your circumstances. So, you sold the coin, gambled all and came looking for a husband, leaving Anne to her books—and George? Is he a budding young scholar as well?”
She held her expression steady, though this was nearly as painful a subject. “Heavens, no. George is all action, I’m afraid. He can scarcely sit still long enough to finish his lessons. He is full of curiosity, energy and industry, but he needs focus.”
The earl sat back. “You worry for him.”
Perhaps it would be better if he left her here today. It might not be easy to live with so perceptive a man. “Yes.”
He let loose a long sigh. “I know the feeling, exactly. I worried for my brother, as well. He was a little wild at that age and only grew more so.”
“Yes. That is one of my fears,” she confessed. “George, he is so active, so restless. What will his future be? He needs a man’s influence, the guidance of a steady, kind hand.”
“Well, that is no point in my favor, I’m afraid.”
She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He stood and went to the window. “Honesty, Miss Mayne. It’s important to me. My father, you see, came to London as a young man, when he was ready to seek a bride. My mother was in her second Season. Beautiful and lively, she was the toast of theton. He wooed her, won her, and took her home to Devonshire—where she proceeded to live miserably.”
“Why?”
“Because she was a social creature. She pined for people, gaiety, friends and activity. But Broadcove is quiet and rural, with only a small village nearby. My father had promised they would return for the Season. They didn’t. She’d thought she could host house parties—he wouldn’t allow it. In short, he lied. He wanted her and her money. He lied to get it and he never cared if she was unhappy.”
