Page 5 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“You are neither of those things,” her mother insisted.
But with the prospect of having to re-enter the Marriage Mart hanging over her like an axe, Anne had spent the past year musing upon the many things that rendered her unmarriageable, and now they came pouring out. “I’m boring. I’m plain. I spend too much time on my charity work. I didn’t produce a child in three years of marriage—”
“No one will hold that against you. Everyone knows Lord Wynters didn’t father a single child in any of his three marriages.”
“—I’m a virago—”
The countess huffed. “I, for one, would consider that a compliment.”
“—and I’m too tall,” Anne concluded.
Her mother scowled. “You most certainly are not.”
“Of course I am.” Anne laughed. She was only two inches shy of six feet. How her mother could even suggest—
The countess fanned herself dismissively. “Your figure is elegant.”
“I’m taller than most of the men in that ballroom!” Anne hissed.
“Many men don’t care about that, Anne.”
Anne shook her head. A lifetime of experience had taught her differently. “No man wants a wife who makes him feel unmanly.”
“Well,” her mother said, snapping her fan closed, “you don’t have to marry every insecure fool in that room. You just need one man smart enough to know a thoroughbred when he sees one.”
“A thoroughbred? I’m not a thoroughbred—”
“That is exactly what you are.” Her mother peered at her. “Really, Anne, I don’t understand what happened to you. You were always so confident growing up.”
Anne sighed. It was true. Growing up in the Cotswolds, she had been best friends with the boy next door, Michael Cranfield, and had spent most of her childhood riding hell-for-leather across their fathers’ adjoining lands, climbing trees and having adventures. Anne had been an unrepentant tomboy, and it had never occurred to her to doubt herself.
She sometimes wondered where that confident girl had gone. Perhaps Michael had taken her off with him when he left for Canada. He’d never returned, and Anne hadn’t heard a single word from him in four years.
Of course, as soon as she had arrived in London, she’d realized that the rules were all different here. The qualities she used to prize in herself, the same ones Michael had valued in her as a friend—her courage, her determination, and her sense of adventure—were the worst sorts of liabilities on the Marriage Mart.
So she had adopted a new identity, as the most respectable woman in all of England. It had been necessary to get her charity off the ground, as no one would donate to an organization run by a hoyden. That was what made her rare slip this morning especially galling—she had more on the line than just personal embarrassment. If people stopped donating to the Ladies’ Society because she had lost her temper—
Her mother interrupted her train of thought. “You, my dear, are about to be pleasantly surprised. Besides, you want to find a new husband, do you not?”
“I do.” And that was the rub of it. Anne needed a husband if she was to have children. And Anne wanted children. She wanted them just as much as she wanted the air that filled her lungs.
And Lord Wynters had not given her any.
“You’re dressed to find one tonight,” her mother said, seizing her by the shoulders and steering her across the foyer. “Do look for someone more stimulating this time, dear.”
Anne bristled. “As I mentioned, you were the one who said I needed to marry an earl—”
“I know I did. But you married the wrong earl, darling.”
“Surely the words wrong and earl do not go together. They are inherently nonsensical.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m sure you’ll do better this time. Now, quit slouching, and for God’s sake, smile,” her mother said, all but shoving her into the ballroom.
Well, there was no helping it. Anne threw her shoulders back and cocked up her chin. Two gleaming marble staircases curved down to the parquet floor below. The Falmouth ballroom, normally sedate in tasteful shades of cream and gold, had been transformed into a lush fantasy for the occasion of the masquerade. Purple velvet flounces draped the balconies overlooking the ballroom below. Wine-red roses overflowed from vases perched on pedestals. The candelabras had been draped with wisps of gold netting. Even the stand where the musicians were setting up had been transformed into a sumptuous grotto. Half the guests had come in full costume—Anne saw Helen of Troy, Oberon, and the usual assortment of nuns and friars—and the other half had simply added a mask to their usual evening finery.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, a gentleman wearing a green Highland kilt passed in front of her, bearing two glasses of lemonade.
She watched his jaw drop. He swiveled his head so he could continue to gape at her as he crossed the room…
