Page 16 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
So why could he not stop reading it?
Edward thrust it back into the drawer, which he closed a bit more sharply than he had intended. This would not do.
He made a decision.
As he strode down the hallway toward the central rotunda that connected the four wings of the house, Edward reflected that the problem was not Elissa St. Cyr.
The problem was with him.
Specifically, that he was a virgin.
Edward held himself to a certain standard, one that did not entail cornering the housemaids or soliciting prostitutes. The fact that these were the usual methods by which young men divested themselves of their virginity had made things… complicated. Still, he hadn’t planned on being entirely without experience at the age of seven and twenty.
It turned out that having a reputation for unimpeachable honor in a world of rakes and cads did not always work to one’s advantage. People assumed he was the type of man who would come up to scratch rather than besmirch a young lady’s honor, regardless of the circumstances. And so, the scheming families of thetonbegan laying their traps.
He’d had his first kiss at eighteen. He had thought nothing of it when his dance partner complained of the overheated ballroom and asked to take a turn on the balcony. He had been surprised, but not entirely displeased, when she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him.
But the thrill had ended when her parents emerged from the shadows, demanding satisfaction for his having ‘ruined’ their daughter. As if that had not been bad enough, quickly following them onto the scene was his own mother, who had seen him leave the ballroom, anticipated the ruse, and watched the whole thing from the balcony doors. The countess routed the schemers, but Edward was left with the stinging humiliation of hismotherhaving witnessed his first kiss.
He was careful after that. He studiously avoided balconies, gardens, and any dark corners where a young lady might be lying in wait. But the young ladies of London were resourceful. He had been ambushed (there was really no other word to describe it) another half-dozen times. On one memorable occasion, Miss Araminta Grenwood, the daughter of one of his mother’s friends, actually leaped from behind a potted palm in a deserted corridor while he was in search of a chamber pot. How Miss Grenwood, who was as mean-spirited as she was haughty, had formed the impression that he would, under any circumstances, consider an alliance with her, he could not imagine. He had done his best to disabuse her of this delusion in a manner that was polite but firm.
That was when he began avoiding London. He was willing to take precautions, but asking his brother to accompany him to the necessary was a bridge too far.
And so, looking back on it, his distracted state probably had little to do with Elissa St. Cyr. Having any reasonably attractive woman in his lap would have elicited the same reaction, no doubt. The only cure he needed was a woman—any woman—in his bed, and he could have that.
All he had to do was marry.
As appealing as the idea of having a wife in his bed was (and for a twenty-seven-year-old virgin, the idea was very appealing indeed), it filled Edward with a certain amount of terror. A man who was a virgin on his wedding night wasn’t unheard of, but it was unusual.
As someone who prided himself on competency, the thought of his wedding night made him break out in a cold sweat. It would’ve been one thing to be a young man of eighteen, learning the finer points of making love from an experienced widow. But he was far past the age when he could be excused for fumbling his way through. And his bride was likely to be a virgin, too, and even more ignorant than he was.
The idea of admitting that he didn’t know what he was doing was unthinkable; the thought of trying and failing to please his bride, even worse. His only hope lay in his understanding that most men were indifferent lovers. He would have to pray that his future mother-in-law would set her daughter’s expectations nice and low. With any luck, his bride wouldn’t know what she was missing.
He entered the breakfast room. As one of seven siblings, meals at Harrington Hall tended to be crowded affairs. But today he found his mother seated alone at the table.
Perfect.
She smiled when he entered. “Good morning, Edward.”
“Good morning, Mother.”
He filled a plate and took the seat opposite her. He cleared his throat as he began to slice his ham. “I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”
His mother looked up from pouring her tea. “Of course, darling. Anything.”
“It’s regarding the house party you’re hosting next week. Could I add a few additional guests?”
“I don’t see why not,” she said, dropping a lump of sugar into her cup. “Whom did you have in mind?”
He strove to sound nonchalant. “I was hoping you could invite some young ladies. I have decided it is time for me to marry.”
She looked up from stirring her tea, smiling like the cat that had got into the cream. “And which fortunate young woman has prompted this decision?”
Edward resumed slicing his ham. “No one,” he lied.
When he chanced a glance at his mother, she had arched a skeptical eyebrow. “No one? You expect me to believe that?”
“I am approaching the age of thirty. It’s high time I produced an heir.” Seeing his mother’s quizzical look, he sighed and laid down his fork. “With Anne’s date drawing near, everyone has been commenting on how her child could use some cousins to play with.” Anne was his little sister and had recently married the heir to their neighboring estate, Michael Cranfield, the current Earl Morsley and future Marquess of Redditch.
