Page 4 of An Earl Like You
“Supposing he weren’t an idiot,” Papa said. “Would you have him then?”
She rolled her eyes again. He was in rare form this morning.
“You say you’re happy, but won’t you be jealous when your friends marry and have families? I hear Lady Georgiana is finally getting Sterling to the altar next spring. What if she no longer has time for your teas and shopping trips when she’s got a babe or two on her knee?”
Eliza buttered her muffin. She had thought about that. Georgiana had been engaged to marry Viscount Sterling for two years now. The wedding hadn’t happened because her brother, the Earl of Wakefield, was surly and reclusive, and had argued with Sterling over the marriage settlements for two years. Frankly it had begun to seem that Georgiana would be engaged forever, but of course that wasn’t true. Eventually she would be Lady Sterling, with Sterling’s heir in her arms. “I shall be very happy for her,” she said in answer to her father’s wheedling question. “She’s been in love with Lord Sterling forever.”
“And you should be in love, too! Your mother would say so if she were here.”
“Mama would not want me to marry someone simply to be married,” she returned. “I hope you don’t, either.”
He exhaled loudly. “Of course not. But I do want you to leave your mind open. There’s bound to be at least one decent chap with a title who would see you for the diamond you are.”
Eliza took a bite of her muffin. She thought that mythical man would have to look very closely at her to determine that, and none of the titled gentlemen she met looked twice at her. Nor did any of the common gentlemen. If she let herself dwell on it, it would be quite lowering, really; even with a large dowry, an elegant wardrobe, and every accomplishment a lady could have, Eliza rarely warranted more than a passing glance from a man of any standing. She knew she was plain and quiet, but she’d seen Lady Sarah Willingham, daughter of the Duke of Jarros, attract a few suitors despite being shy and having a squint.
“Perhaps someone will, someday,” she said, choosing to placate her father.
He nodded in satisfaction. “Someone will. The only question is whether he’ll take the dog, too.”
“If he won’t take Willy, I won’t take him,” she said at once. “I would never speak to anyone who didn’t like Willy.”
“Damned mongrel,” grunted Papa.
But Eliza saw the shilling-sized piece of bacon he stole from the platter and flicked at her dog. Willy caught it in midair and swallowed it in one bite. His tail wagging, he barked in thanks. Papa was already out the door, shrugging into his coat as he strode down the corridor without a backward glance.
Eliza glanced at her pet in reproach as she finished her muffin. “You’re horribly spoiled.”
Willy yipped in happy agreement.
“For that, you can go into the garden by yourself.” She rose from the table. “James, would you let him out?”
“Yes, miss.” The footman stepped forward and snapped his fingers at Willy, whose ears drooped as he realized Eliza wasn’t coming. She made a shooing motion, and the dog followed James.
She wondered when Papa would accept that she wasn’t the sort of girl gentlemen flocked to. In his eyes she was lovely, but Eliza knew he was the only one who saw her that way. Plain girls had made splashes in society, but usually by virtue of being vivacious and witty. Eliza tended to grow mute and hesitant in the presence of elegant strangers, and any wit she had vanished from her brain if one of them actually spoke to her. Undoubtedly Papa hoped her enormous dowry would outweigh her shyness, but Eliza would rather be that eccentric old lady with a house full of dogs than marry a husband who only wanted her money.
So Papa could dream, but Eliza was far less certain. Perhaps some day she would meet an affable country squire who didn’t need a beautiful, charming wife, but preferred a quiet girl content to play with her dog and tend her garden. And if not, she would just remain as she was.
Chapter 2
Hugh Deveraux was having a very good night.
It was about time. His luck had been lackluster for the last fortnight. Perhaps the last month. He hadn’t lost a vast sum of money, but neither had he won one. And despite playing ruthlessly and keeping his head clear, he hadn’t been able to make a sustained run of wins. Up one night, then down almost as much the next.
For the last year and a half, his London plan had worked reasonably well. Thanks to his luck at the card tables he’d been able to make the most pressing debt payments, open the town house, even provide some new gowns for his mother and sisters. Unfortunately, now he needed more than that. Edith was old enough to make her debut, and she needed a dowry.
At first he’d hoped he could give her land. He’d had his solicitors comb through every word of every deed, and they all said he couldn’t transfer property to either of the girls on her marriage. He could take out additional mortgages on the properties for the money, but that would leave him in even more desperate straits. He’d sold some artwork his father had bought, but everything he tried to get rid of set off a night of tears for his mother, who remembered when and how every item had been acquired, and deeply mourned the loss of each memento of her husband. She was sentimental and emotionally fragile; she could assure him she understood his intentions entirely at breakfast, and be prostrate in bed by dinner after the painting or statue was carted away to the auction house.
Hugh had long since realized that his family would be no help to him. The move to town had been hard on the countess, leaving his father’s grave and coming to the drab London house Joshua had despised so much. She accepted Hugh’s explanation, that it was to give Edith her Season and find a husband, but grief clung to her. His sisters were no better. Edith fretted about their inability to entertain properly, and Henrietta begged for her own new wardrobe, chafing at the sight of Edith’s stylish gowns. Hugh was beginning to think it would be easier to let himself be sent to the Fleet.
That would be surrender, though, and he refused to surrender. His father had left him a mess, but he was determined to claw his way out. All he needed, after all, was a reliable bit of luck.
His favorite gaming establishment had become the Vega Club, right in the heart of London. It was well kept and one needn’t fear being knifed on the way home. The owner was a hard but fair man, and he insisted on only two vows from his members: that they not tell gossip about the club, and that they pay their losses promptly.
Hugh might have gnashed his teeth a time or two about the last one, but he wholeheartedly appreciated the first. Before he’d joined the Vega Club, tales of his wagering—often wildly exaggerated—had reached his mother’s ears and set her all aflutter with worries that he was becoming wild and irresponsible.
His father had been dead for a year and a half, and Hugh still hadn’t told her how badly off they were.
If his luck held like this for a few nights in a row, though, he might not have to.
