In the county of Herefordshire, far removed from the
exotic delights and windblown sands of Arabia, Lord
Nicholas Faringdon opened a letter with utmost reluctance,
a letter that was destined to disrupt the unchanging
predictability of his life.
His lordship had spent the morning, unaware of the devious
workings of fate, in the company of George Dinmore, agent
to the estate of Burford. A fine sense of optimism warmed
his blood, as satisfying as the first real heat of early
summer that brushed his skin. It was too early to tell if
the harvest would be good but the crops were coming on
well, the arable fields sheened with bright green. Now it
was up to sun and rain and the will of God. There had been
too many cold and wet summers of late. But the cattle and
sheep were thriving, as were the horses on his own estate
at Aymestry Manor. It could not be said that Lord Nicholas
neglected his duty to his family in his role as trustee
for Tom, his young nephew, who held the title and
inheritance as Marquis of Burford.
The little town of Kingshall, its wood-and-plaster
dwellings clustered around a central market square, hummed
with life. Outside the Red Lion, Lord Nicholas had paused
to listen to the landlord, who could be relied upon for
knowledge of any local happenings. Nicholas made it his
business to enquire and keep abreast of developments or
hints of unrest. The local cottage industries were
thriving well enough. There was no serious competition
here from machines. He knew that if he rode down Back
Lane, he would see the women who made the beautifully sewn
gloves from the palest, finest of leathers, sitting
working on their doorsteps in the sun. But another bad
summer, another autumn beset by storms and heavy rain,
would push up the price of grain. Lack of food, as
Nicholas well knew, led to mutterings in the Red Lion over
a draught of ale. The lord would be the easiest target for
such discontent when tempers ran high. Lord Nicholas
Faringdon had no intention of allowing his nephew's
inheritance to be destroyed or compromised in any way,
even if his nephew was living in New York with Nell, his
mother, and nearly four years old.
As soon as the pasture had opened up on the edge of the
town he had urged the young chestnut mare out of her
somnolence into an easy gallop. She had willingly extended
her stride until they'd flown across the grassland in
perfect unity, disturbing a small flock of Ryeland sheep.
He rode well, could never remember not being at home on
horseback. The speed, the breeze which had ruffled and
tugged at his dark hair, the sun which had glittered on
the still waters of the mere, had all served to lift his
spirits, banishing the niggling worries that had plagued
him of late.
He did not know why he had been so beset. There was no
obvious cloud of concern on his horizon, nothing which
could not be managed between himself, Dinmore and Hoskins,
the family lawyer in London. Nicholas had frowned as he
breasted a rise and the lovely, familiar view of Burford
Hall had opened up before him, its mellow stone glowing in
the sharp midday light. For some reason life was a little
flat. Even a little lonely. The house was empty apart from
himself and the servants and would be so as far into the
future as he could see. His brother Hal and Nell, now his
wife, were firmly settled in New York where the firm of
Faringdon and Bridges occupied Hal's business acumen. His
eldest brother Thomas had been dead now more than three
years. So the Hall was empty. As was his own attractive
manor at Aymestry.
Perhaps a visit to town was the remedy for this vague
sense of ennui. It was a year or more since he had last
taken up residence for any length of time at Faringdon
House in Grosvenor Square. The Season would be at its
height with all the Polite World in town. It would not do
for him to rusticate completely, to become nothing but a
county squire, buried in soil and hunting with pretensions
to neither fashion nor style. Nicholas smiled at his own
harsh judgement. There was little chance of that. He could
rise to the occasion as well as any and play the
sophisticated man of fashion.
Lord Nicholas's arrival on the sweep of gravel before the
steps of Burford Hall had coincided with that of the post
boy from Leominster, so that now he stood in the library,
wine glass in hand, having leafed through the letters
before casting them on to the desk. But not all. One of
them, the fatal one, had caught his attention — he had
recognised the handwriting immediately. It caused him to
groan quietly. He might have wished for a change of pace
and scenery, but that did not include the interference of
Aunt Beatrice. He could guess at the content before he
even unfolded the thin sheets of paper with Lady
Beatrice's distinctive scrawl. Carrying it to the window
seat, he sat and prepared to read.
My dear Nicholas, Although the Season has been under way
for some weeks, it has come to my notice when visiting
Judith in Grosvenor Square that Faringdon House has
remained closed up with the knocker off the door and we
have not had the pleasure of your company. I took the
liberty of calling to ask Elton if he had any knowledge of
your sudden arrival — which he had not. I am sure that it
is not good for you to bury yourself in the country. You
need to come to town, my boy.
I know that it will be no surprise to you if I suggest
that matrimony should play a significant part in your
planning. You are young, well set up with your own income
and property, both of which are substantial, and I do not
hesitate to say that you are not unattractive to the
opposite sex. It is time that you took a wife — indeed, I
consider it to be your duty. Now that Henry and Eleanor
are settled in New York — although why that should be I
cannot imagine — it behoves you to consider setting up
your own nursery. I am sure that you take my meaning. I
believe that life can be considered cheap Across the Sea.
How can you expect to meet anyone suitable if you are
buried at Burford Hall? Not that it is not a delightful
place — I remember exceptional house parties there in your
dear mother's day — but not in April when you should be in
London for the Season.
I cannot insist that you come to town, of course —
Really! Nicholas's lips curled in appreciation of his
aunt's forthright style, against which few members of the
family were ever prepared to take a stand.
and I am sure that you can find any number of excuses why
your time at Burford is invaluable, but it would please me
if you would present yourself in Berkeley Square for my
own ball in three weeks. I will take the opportunity to
introduce you to this year's crop of débutantes. Some very
pretty well-bred girls, who would be valuable additions to
the Faringdon family.
There is no need to reply to this letter. Merely arrive!
Your loving aunt
Beatrice
He cast the letter on to the desk to pour a glass of
claret from the decanter, which the footman had brought in
whilst he read.
Merely arrive!
Well, he had thought of going, had he not? But not if he
was to be an object of Beatrice's interest. Like a rare
insect under a magnifying lens.
Marriage. Of course she would interest herself. Her advice
in the letter was nothing new. But Beatrice — damn her! —
had pricked at his sense of duty and he could not but
acknowledge the weight of her argument. Even so, the
prospect of dancing attendance on any number of young
girls at Almack's and other fashionable squeezes filled
him with something akin to horror. Eyed, assessed,
gossiped over by their avaricious mamas, his income, rank
and future prospects a matter for public speculation. The
daughters hanging on his every word, hoping for a
declaration of undying love or at least the invitation to
accept his hand in marriage and take up residence at
Aymestry Manor. Or, even more enticingly, at Burford Hall
in the absence of the Marquis. Thomas, with considerable
aplomb and good humour, would have laughed it off and
enjoyed the flirtation and the female fluttering for his
attention. Hal would have simply made himself scarce. He,
Nicholas, in the circumstances, could do neither. The
bonds around him, the silken ties of family responsibility
and duty, tightened around him even more. Unbreakable,
even though constructed from love and care.
Nicholas poured another glass of claret and frowned into
it. Hal had the right of it when he took himself off to
New York. But, of course, he had Nell with him now, the
love of his life.
He supposed he could simply stay buried here, as Aunt
Beatrice had so tactfully phrased it. Offer for the hand
of Amelia Hawkes, daughter of the hard-riding, hard-
drinking baronet whose land marched with the Faringdon
estate in the west. She would like nothing better than to
be Lady Nicholas Faringdon, and many would see it as a
good match. An excellent rider to hounds, well connected
locally, Amelia would take over the running of Aymestry
Manor with the same style as she had run her father's
establishment since her mother's death. She had probably
been waiting for an offer from him for the past half-dozen
years, he decided, with more than a touch of guilt. Not
that he had ever encouraged her to believe that marriage
was in his mind — but neither had he discouraged her. With
some discomfort he saw the situation from Miss Hawkes's
perspective. They met frequently in the hunting season. He
stood up with her at local assemblies in Ludlow and at
private parties. Her father, Sir William, certainly would
have no objection to such a match. Why not offer for the
girl and tell Beatrice that she need dabble no longer — it
would be comfortable, easy, familiar?
No, he could not do it. He put down the neglected
wineglass with a sharp snap. Poor Amelia. He had not been
fair with her. The plain truth was that he no longer
wanted comfortable, easy and familiar. She was an
attractive girl and would no doubt make some man an
excellent wife. He liked her well enough. But love? Amelia
never caused his blood to run hot or his eyes to spark
with the possessive emotion that he had seen in Hal's when
he turned his gaze on Nell. Nor was the lady blessed with
a well-informed mind. They could exchange views on horses
and hunting, the desirability of pheasant at the end of
the season when stringy could be something of a
compliment. But if he ever took the conversation into any
other channels — the new ideas on farming — or, God
preserve him, the political situation — her eyes glazed
over and she had no opinion or knowledge to volunteer.
And, he realised as the image of Miss Amelia formed in his
mind, she had absolutely no interest in clothes and her
appearance, spending most of her days in a riding habit.
Nicholas, he discovered with some surprise, since it had
never crossed his mind before, was sufficiently fastidious
that his future wife must look and play her part with
style, whether it be in a fashionable drawing room or on
the hunting field.
No. Miss Amelia Hawkes would never be mistress of Aymestry
Manor. He supposed it would have to be Aunt Beatrice and
the débutantes. He hoped to God that since it was
undoubtedly his duty to marry and his heart was clearly
not engaged elsewhere, he could meet someone suitable,
someone intelligent, stylish and conventional, within a
few weeks of his arrival and get it over with. As long as
he did not repeat the experience he'd had with Georgiana
Fitzgerald. He'd thought he had been in love. The lovely
Georgiana Fitzgerald had flirted and smiled, had led him
to believe that she would look for more than a light
friendship — indeed, a deeper, lasting relationship. For
his part he had been entranced by a lively and confiding
manner and lovely face. And then, when he had been on the
point of declaring himself, she had thrown him over to
become the object of interest to an extremely wealthy
Viscount on the trawl for a wife. She had wanted a title
and fortune, not the heart and devotion of a younger son
with a mere easy competence. Nicholas, distinctly
disillusioned, had been left to consider the folly of
allowing his heart to become engaged when considering
matrimony. But that did not make Miss Amelia Hawkes any
more acceptable!
On which negative note, Lord Nicholas tossed off the
remainder of the claret and left the haven of his library
to give instructions for his visit to town. With perhaps,
in spite of everything, a lightening of his heart.