Page 12 of The Trouble With Titles
Gritting his teeth was becoming a habit.
Miss Boyle was seated next to his mother, who did not stop herself from rolling her eyes in his direction. One of the few facial expressions that she allowed herself because there was no risk of forming wrinkles. The problem with Miss Boyle was, she was proper without judgment. She had assessed that feigning surprise at his visit was the correct gambit, despite Lady Blackwood being seated at her very side, sipping on their fine tea and looking bored, which disproved Miss Boyle’s declaration.
But, to be fair, his mother always appeared to be as stoic as a china doll. Simon knew she was bored because of their conversation in the carriage and his ability to read the minuscule shifts of her expression after years of experience. Her habit of adding laudanum to her day assisted with her aversion to lines on her face. A mixture of opium and alcohol, she claimed she needed it for female disorders, but Simon suspected it was more of a beauty treatment. Laudanum helped her to remain composed because emotions were aging.
Simon noted he was focusing on his mother in an effort to avoid the young lady seated at her side. It was difficult to stop himself from comparing Miss Boyle to Madeline, but he must refrain from such disloyal ideas.
He bowed in greeting. “Lady Boyle. Miss Boyle, you are ravishing.”
It was true. She was a pretty girl with a slim elfin face, a little button nose, and large blue eyes framed by lush blonde lashes. The perfect foil to his own darker appearance. It was the contents of her head that were … questionable.
“Oh, Mr. Scott! You are so kind.”
Simon seated himself on a spindly, rose-pink chair with a gilded frame. The entire room was decorated in pink and gold, causing his ballocks to retreat in protest.
It was his sincere hope that Miss Boyle would not attempt to cultivate her parents’ sensibilities in the Scott home—their extravagant tastes were difficult on the eyes. Perhaps his mother could rein her in and teach the young lady about elegance. Simon’s eyes fell on the cupids dancing across Lord Boyle’s clothing, prompting him to say a silent prayer.
“I was just telling Lady Blackwood that we went shopping a few days ago! I found a pair of kid gloves in the perfect shade of pink! Are they not beautiful?” Miss Boyle held up her hand for Simon to see. He leaned forward to peer at them before smiling in response.
“They are.” They were not. A peach-pink color, which suited her, so that was not the issue. It was the well-to-do couple, attired in the style of a century earlier, embroidered in intricate detail, which made him wish he was riding in the park. Anywhere but in this pompous parlor of pageantry. He longed for the rich red walls of his study, with neat white trim and skillful paintings of Italian masters within gracious frames. Visiting the Boyle home brought out his priggish inclinations.He supposed he was something of an art enthusiast—these rooms assailed his senses until he was dizzy from distaste.
“Have you and Papa reached terms?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
“So we are betrothed?”
Lord Boyle coughed into his hand, his eyes darting away to stare sightlessly into the center of the room, which contained nothing but a pink and gold rug on the floor.
“I am afraid not. Your father assures me that tomorrow we shall be so.”
“Oh, Papa! What is it this time? I so look forward to informing my friends that I am to marry!”
Lord Boyle tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, unable to face his daughter’s disappointment. Lady Boyle scowled at her husband. Apparently, she did not adhere to Isla’s strict code of living frown-free. “Lord Boyle! Olivia was hoping to inform Miss Simmons she is to wed. That little chitterling has been lauding it over our dear girl that she is betrothed for weeks now!”
Simon kept a straight face, but Lady Boyle had a habit of misusing jargon. He thought it likely she had meant to say chit, but instead had referred to the innards of a pig. He heard his mother’s sharp intake of air, her sole reaction as she sipped on her tea. When he looked over at her, he could see the mirth dancing in her eyes as she stared back at him with a challenging glint. He quickly glanced away lest he burst into laughter.
He decided it was time to remind himself why this was a good match, while the sound of the Boyles’ unbecoming family squabble continued on for several minutes.
Olivia is lovely.
From a good family.
Her eccentric tastes will mellow within the elegance of Blackwood House.
The lady is young and will form a more interesting personality over time.
As a married woman, away from her parents, she will find her own voice.
As I grow to know her, she will turn out to be quite delightful.
His tension eased. This was not what he had envisioned his life would be, but duty demanded a reckoning, and Simon had vowed to obey. His family was counting on him to do the right thing.
When they finally left the Boyles’, Simon shared his assertions with his mother on the drive back home. It took some time because the streets were congested, and Simon appreciated the opportunity to air his thoughts. He found himself desirous of reassurance.
His mother bestowed him with a rare smile, leaning forward to pat him on the knee until her face fell back into its customary benign expression. “It is true, dear. It is fashionable for young ladies of thetonto appear empty-headed. Once they wed, their true personalities are revealed as they mature. I hear Miss Boyle possesses quite a musical gift, which implies discipline, so I know her strength of character shall come to light after you wed.”
“What of our attachment? The young lady seemed more concerned with boasting to her acquaintances than our connection as husband and wife.”
