Page 62 of The Heiress's Daughter
“Not that, you fool. I said if you were a woman.”
“Oh, awoman.” Barney frowned in concentration. “Don’t think I’ve ever considered it. Why would I? Ilikebeing a man. If I were a woman…Lord, I couldn’t stand it. All those frills and furbelows, corsets, chaperones dogging your every footstep, can’t put a foot wrong without some old busybody pointing the finger and gossiping and—don’t shake your head at me—m’sisters had a devilish time of things before they were married.”
He took a deep draft of brandy and continued, warming to his theme, “And then there’s all the things I wouldn’t be able to do: drinking blue ruin with a few pals at Jackson’s after an invigoratin’ bout or two in the ring and—Lord! I just realized. No opera dancers or anything of that sort! Dammit, Race, you can’t ask it of me.”
“I’m not, you drunken sot. I was merely asking you if you were a woman, would you consider marriage to me as a desirable prospect.”
Barney gazed owlishly at him for a long moment. “A desirable prospect, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On the gal, of course. If she wants a title, a fortune and a complaisant husband, then you won’t have any trouble—”
“Not that sort,” Race said. He was only too well acquainted with that kind of woman. And he wouldn’t be complaisant in the way Barney was suggesting, either.
“Oh, you mean the romantic type?” Barney shook his head. “Can’t see you married to that sort. No, steer clear of romantic misses, I say. They cling, they sigh, they weep at you, and expect you to dance attendance on them at deadly dull events.Almack’s,” he said in a tone of horror. “And,” he added, shaking his finger at Race, “they’ll expect youto give up opera dancers! Well, I ask you—is that reasonable? No indeed. Race, my old friend, you stay well away from romantic chits, and avoid parson’s mousetrap while you can!”
“Do I understand from that rant that your mother is once more pressuring you to marry?”
Barney groaned. “Been avoiding her for weeks. She has some filly in mind. Some ‘suitable’ chit she met somewhere or other. Can you imagine me with someone ‘suitable’?”
“Not really.”
“Me, neither.” Barney drained his glass, signaled for another and once the waiter had delivered it, he sat back and smiled muzzily at Race. “This is nice, ain’t it? Exchangin’ views, givin’ advice. Not many people ask me for advice.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Race said dryly. Barney was a good fellow, but deep he was not.
But in his rambling discourse his friend just might have hit on something. Race didn’t keep any opera dancers, but his rakish reputation might well be a stumbling block to an idealistic and romantic young woman.
Ironic when he thought about how it had come about…
But the conversation, ridiculous as it was, had given him an idea. She and her sister had come to London just a short time ago. No doubt they’d barely tasted all the delights the metropolis had to offer. They had thoroughly enjoyed the outing he’d arranged to Astley’s Amphitheatre. Barney had given him another idea.
The next time he saw Miss Studley, Race knew just what to do. “Have you been to the opera lately, Miss Studley?”
She turned to him swiftly. “I beg your pardon.”
“The opera. Covent Garden. Mozart’sMarriage of Figaro. I’ve heard it’s quite delightful.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said coolly. She seemed oddly prickly.
“I think you’d enjoy it. How about I form a party withmy cousin Maggie and her husband, yourself and Mrs. Price-Jones, and perhaps—”
“No thank you,” she said crisply, and sailed away. Actually,stalkedaway was more the word. The gait of a woman in a bit of a huff. What on earth had he said to offend her now?
He went back over the conversation in his mind. Perfectly innocuous. Quite pleasant, actually. An invitation to a pleasant night out.
Perhaps she didn’t like music. She did, after all, regularly attend Lady Gastonbury’ssoirées musicale.
Zoë came skipping down the stairs. It was a beautiful day and she planned to visit Lady Tarrant and the children and, most especially, to talk to Lucy about art. It was such a joy to have someone to talk to who really understood, and would happily discuss things like perspective and angles and the light and, oh, all the things that she longed to understand more about. She hadn’t heard such matters discussed since Maman died.
And the best thing about visiting Lucy? They talked entirely in French. It was almost like having Maman back. Almost…
She made for Lady Scattergood’s favorite sitting room first, to ask the old lady’s permission, and to check that she didn’t want Zoë for anything.
