Page 63 of Wager for a Wife

“Oh, and just look at you!” Mrs. Holly exclaimed. “You’re as pretty as I hoped you’d be. Prettier! But where have my manners gone? Gracious me!” She quickly curtsied to them both before clutching her hands to her breast. “Goodness, but you are a dream come true after all these years! When our dear boy—”

Grimshaw cleared his throat.

“There I go again,” she said. “What I mean to say is, when Lord Farleigh sent word for us to prepare for the arrival of a new viscountess, we were beside ourselves with joy. But now that you’re here, seeing you . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she searched in her apron pocket, retrieving a handkerchief that she used to dab at her eyes.

“Please forgive Mrs. Holly,” Grimshaw said. “She was that fond of his lordship as a lad. We all were, come to that.” He gestured for them to enter Farleigh Manor ahead of himself and the housekeeper.

The Ashworth butlers, Gibbs and Buxton, would never have spoken in such an informal manner, especially to utter strangers, nor would the housekeepers. It simply wasn’t done. But Louisa thought their candid comments surprisingly sweet, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep a serene look on her face.

Alex couldn’t hide his amusement, however, and chuckled as they preceded the others into the house. “What a place,” he whispered in Louisa’s ear.

Indeed, she thought but not quite for the same reasons as Alex.

* * *

Notwithstanding the best of intentions, William had a difficult time leaving his house Monday morning. He’d planned on seeing Louisa first thing—well, as soon as it was socially appropriate to call upon her. Ladies had particular hours for such things, he knew, not that he knew precisely what hours were considered appropriate.

He’d decided, therefore, to call at one o’clock. It was early enough to be considered a morning call, and late enough not to be seen as gauche. He thought.

He really had no idea.

It hadn’t helped that he’d barely slept a wink. He must have repeated the utterly mortifying conversation he’d had with Louisa in his head hundreds of times during the night. He’d viewed his words from every conceivable angle, and his conclusion had always been the same: they had been gut-wrenching, ludicrous, and wholly inadequate.

He’d hunted down Mrs. Gideon and asked her with extreme politeness if she would put his best suit of clothes into the best order possible. Normally, she had a girl who saw to William’s shirts and linens, considering it beneath her role as housekeeper to do laundry. But after a bit of cajoling and pressing a few quid into her palm, she’d agreed.

It took her an hour or so to brush his clothes and iron a few neckcloths while he polished his boots, and she did it without too much grumbling, for which William’s aching head was truly grateful. He was definitely going to consider the pluses and minuses of hiring a valet in the future—it might be worth the expense after all.

He bathed, took his time shaving so he didn’t miss any stubble lurking in the corners of his jaw or by his ears, dressed, and tied his neckcloth.

He pulled off the neckcloth and tossed it aside, taking another.

He pulled that one off as well.

After the fourth neckcloth, which resulted in an irate Mrs. Gideon stating unequivocally that if he removed this neckcloth, she would not iron another for him for the rest of her days, no matter what, he decided—reluctantly—that it would have to do.

He checked himself one last time in the mirror by the front door and left home . . . only to return when he realized he’d forgotten his hat and gloves and pocket watch.

Blasted fool.

Finally, at two minutes after two o’clock—he checked his pocket watch to be sure of the time—he arrived at Ashworth House, silently hoping no one had seen his approach yet so that he still had the option of changing his mind. Then he mentally kicked himself for wanting to change his mind. He was a coward as well as a fool.

He straightened, walked to the door, and knocked.

The door immediately opened, but it wasn’t the Ashworth butler standing before him. It was Lord Anthony.

“Ah, Farleigh, I thought that was you I saw through the window,” he said in an overly gregarious tone. “Never mind, Gibbs, I got the door,” he called over his shoulder. But instead of inviting William inside, he came outside and pulled the door shut behind him.

“I’m here to call on your sister,” William said, although, really, it needed no explanation. Lord Anthony would deduce the fact by William’s simply being here. If his head didn’t throb like a beast, he would be able to think more clearly.

“She’s not receiving visitors today,” Lord Anthony replied.

“Is she unwell? Is everything all right?” The idea that their conversation last night may have distressed her made William’s head throb even harder.

“She was rather upset last evening . . . after you left.” Lord Anthony let his words linger on the air for the few moments, but even so, William couldn’t come up with a reasonable response before Lord Anthony continued. “Say, Farleigh, I was just on my way to take in a few rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s. Are you a boxer, by any chance?”

One didn’t survive boy’s school without quickly figuring out how to use one’s fists, yet William couldn’t precisely recall the last time he’d actually done any boxing. “Well, I—”

“Excellent! You must join me, then. What finer way for future brothers-in-law to become better acquainted than a few gentlemanly rounds of boxing.” He threw his arm around William’s shoulders and led him rather aggressively back toward the street.

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