Page 29 of War of the Wedding Wagers
Amelia pushed her dark hair out of her eyes and blinked as she tried to clear her head. “Who is Mrs. Perry?”
“Why, only the season’s most delicious and desirable widow. Tiny, golden-haired, and vivacious to boot. I don’t know why Ididn’t consider her. Perhaps because I assumed Sir Frederick liked the young and innocent ones. But we don’t all have the same taste, do we?”
“We do not,” said Amelia, not sure she liked what Edward was telling her.
“Anyway, as soon as you told me that Sir Frederick likes ladies with more experience, my eye was caught by Mrs. Perry who, I will tell you now, was angling the most meaningful glances in Sir Frederick’s direction of which he appeared quite oblivious until I ingeniously cried out, ‘Why, Sir Frederick, I believe Mrs. Perry has dropped a pearl earring.’ At least, she’d solicited help in finding it earlier—which she had, sister dear, though I heard she since had found it. Nevertheless, I went on, ‘I dare say you haven’t found it?’ And then, suddenly, the pair were in conversation and the last I saw them, had their heads bent towards each other and were enjoying the most delightful coze. Why, I do believe I have found his perfect match. Mrs. Perry has something of a dubious reputation. She’s a tremendous flirt and—”
“Not a grieving widow, then?”
“Good lord, no! It’s an open secret she’s been waiting for her aged husband to quit this mortal coil from the moment he shuffled her down the aisle two years ago. It’s also no secret she’d been holding out for a peer, but old Mr. Perry was so fabulously rich and so very ready to die, it would have been foolish to refuse him. Now she’s independently wealthy and only needs a title to secure her wildest dreams.” He looked smug. “And I’ve neatly arranged that for her conveniently after her twelvemonth of mourning is over. Pity I don’t get a fee for my efforts, though my reward will be seeing you happy.” He frowned. “Though you don’t look as happy as I thought you would.”
“Of course I’m very happy at the prospect of marrying off Sir Frederick as required.” Amelia forced a smile and tried to understand her flat and heavy mood, which she put down to lack of sleep. But the more she thought about Sir Frederick’s head close to that of a captivating blonde widow, the greater the heaviness of her mood. She’d not felt that way when she’d obviously dangled Miss Playford beneath his nose as a marital contender. Or was that because she clearly did not appeal to him in any way other than a sweet and unformed child—and Amelia knew that was not what he was looking for in a wife? “You are very clever, Edward.”
“I am, aren’t I?” he congratulated himself. “I could see what Sir Frederick wanted. Vivacity, wickedness, a certain empty-headedness that would make him feel superior.”
“Oh, you are good, Edward,” Amelia murmured, thinking not of her brother’s words but of Sir Frederick’s kind eyes when he’d almost commiserated with her disappointment at discovering that Lady Pernilla was a fabrication.
“—Just as I know you like serious, brooding fellows with copious amounts of courage and it is a tragedy there will never be another Thomas for you because your heart is as loyal as the stone foundations beneath a cathedral and that is why I berate myself every day for being so foolish that I nearly jeopardized that which would make you happy, dear sister. But I am atoning, and I believe Mrs. Perry may be the answer to your happiness, for she is everything Sir Frederick wants in a wife—”
“Vivacity, wickedness, a certain empty-headedness that would make him feel superior,” intoned Amelia, not feeling the smile she managed for her brother’s benefit.
Chapter Sixteen
Vivacity. Wickedness. Thewidow Perry had managed to adopt that vacuous empty-headedness designed to make him feel superior. Sir Frederick sighed. How he did despise women like that. And yet, good manners required that he first engage. And then he did what he always did: collude.
No wonder he was a draw card for vivacious, vacuous, empty-headed women, young and old.
No wonder serious women of substance like Miss Fairchild turned the other cheek when he made overtures.
Not that he’d exactly made overtures to Miss Fairchild though he had found himself, on more than one occasion, unable to keep his distance. She was so very regal and self-contained. And intelligent. So very intriguing.
She, however, clearly held him in contempt though he was encouraged that he did have the ability to make her laugh.
As for that sweet child Miss Playford, Sir Frederick made a mental note to keep a brotherly eye on not just his sister.
A short rap on the door heralded Dombey, the new valet supplied to him by Lord Pendleton.
As Frederick waited to be dressed for the morning’s activities, he wondered if he could prevail upon Miss Fairchild to aid him in his endeavors. She’d done marvelously by casting Mr. Greene a lure, one that would put him off his sister. Miss Fairchild certainly understood a great deal she did not convey.
What she had no hesitation in conveying, however, was her disparagement of him.
“Your shirt, if you please, sir.”
Sir Frederick raised his arms so that a fresh linen shirt could be donned.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Sir Frederick realized he’d been musing over Miss Fairchild and had neglected to either prime his new valet or don his own shirt.
Now the valet was frozen, his eyes fixated on the latticework of scars that criss-crossed Sir Frederick’s back.
“A youthful injury. Long healed and nothing to concern yourself over,” Sir Frederick said brusquely.
“You winced, sir.”
“I did. But I am perfectly capable of putting on my own shirt every morning.” He tried to keep the annoyance out of his tone. It wasn’t often that he was so careless.
“The injury still pains you, sir?”
