A fact. “Yes, Mother.”
“That is far beyond the age a respectable young woman should take a husband.”
That depended upon what one considered respectable, didn’t it? It also depended on whether one’s goal was respectability. “Yes, Mother.”
“You’ve spent the last five Seasons running about with the Duchess of Claringdon, playing matchmaker for other young ladies.”
True. “Yes, Mother.” Delilah managed to stop her foot from tapping, but her toes continued to wiggle in her slipper.
“You don’t seem to have given so much as a thought to your own match.”
Also true. “Yes, Mother.” Was it her fault if it was much more diverting to find matches for other people than to worry about a courtship for herself? When she was a girl, she’d looked forward to being courted by handsome gentlemen. But that had been years ago, before she’d grown up to be entirely unmatchable. She’d always known she would have to try to make her own match eventually, however. Someday. Apparently Mother’s patience was at an end.
“I daresay your friendship with Huntley hasn’t been a good influence. He also refuses to make a match. And he’s a duke, for heaven’s sake. He’ll need an heir someday.”
Delilah winced. It was never good when Mother mentioned Thomas. The two could barely stand each other. “Thomas doesn’t exactly believe in marriage.”
“Yes, well, you’d better start believing in it.” Mother’s highly judgmental eyebrow arched again. “This is your sixth Season, and it’s nearly over.”
Yes, but who was counting? And why did Mother have to pronounce the word sixth as if it were blasphemy? She sounded like a snake hissing.
“I insist you secure an engagement this year,” Mother continued. “If you do not, I shall be forced to ensure one is made for you.”
Delilah shot from her chair. “No! Mother!” Her fists clenched at her sides.
Mother’s brow lifted yet again, and she eyed her daughter scornfully until Delilah lowered herself back into her seat. She managed to unclench her fists, but her foot resumed the tapping.
Mother pursed her lips. “You fancy yourself the ton’s matchmaker, my dear. It’s high time you made your own match.”
Delilah took a deep breath and blew it out. Then she took another one for good measure. Aunt Willie had taught her that little trick when dealing with her mother. How Aunt Willie and Aunt Lenore, her cousin Daphne’s mother, had grown up with Mother and been so different, so happy and nice and pleasant, Delilah would never know. The three sisters couldn’t have been more dissimilar.
After the third steadying breath, Delilah forced herself to think. Marriage. Very well. This was actually happening. She would have to make a match by the end of the Season. She gulped. Next month.
“Of course, you’ll have to find someone who is willing to put up with your ...” Her mother eyed her up and down again. “Eccentricities. But there are plenty of young men of the Quality who are in need of a hefty dowry. I suggest you set your sights on one of them.”
Delilah blinked back tears. She refused to let her mother see her cry. She hadn’t allowed it since she’d been a girl. When Papa died. That was when Mother had informed her that crying was for people who had no control over their emotions, something Delilah had always struggled with. Her emotions tended to immediately register on her face. That was just one of the many reasons she had always been a terrible disappointment to her mother. It was obvious, and had been for years.
But Delilah had always intended to make a good match. She had. She’d merely been ... distracted. Why, together, she and Lucy had made splendid matches for all of Delilah’s friends. Lady Eleanor Rothschild, Lady Clara Pennington, and Lady Anna Maxwell. Those young ladies had made their debuts with Delilah, and one by one they’d been married off to charming, handsome, titled gentlemen of the aristocracy ... in love matches, no less.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Mother continued, passing a perfectly manicured hand over her perfectly pressed skirts. “I don’t expect you to make the match of the Season.”
Delilah blinked. “The match of the Season?” Surely, her mother didn’t mean—
“I’ve heard the Duke of Branville is looking for a bride this year.”
Drat. That’s exactly who her mother meant. And it was true. The Duke of Branville had long been the most coveted bachelor on the marriage mart. Until this year, he hadn’t shown an interest in finding a bride. She and Lucy had already spent the better part of the Season avidly discussing his prospects. It was one of their favorite pastimes actually. “Yes,” she murmured in response to her mother. “The Duke of Branville is certainly eligible.”
Her mother’s lip curled. “As I said, I’ve no expectation that you could secure an offer from the likes of Branville, for heaven’s sake. No. I think someone a bit more, ahem, reasonable would be best.” She sat up even straighter if that were possible. “To that end, I already have chosen someone for you.”
Delilah’s stomach performed a somersault. “Who?” Cold dread clutched at her middle.
“Clarence, of course.”
Delilah’s jaw dropped and her brows snapped together. “Clarence ... Hilton?”
Her mother directed her gaze skyward for a moment. “Of course, Clarence Hilton, who else?”
“Oh, Mother, no!” Delilah couldn’t help the disdain in her voice. “I’m certain I can do better than Clarence Hilton.”
“Oh, really?” Mother drawled, crossing her arms over her chest and regarding Delilah down the length of her nose.
“Yes, really.” Delilah nodded vigorously. She’d rather marry a good-natured goat than Clarence Hilton. The man was portly, smelly, and rarely spoke, and when he did, he had nothing interesting to say.
“Very well.” Mother stood from her seat and made her way toward the door. “I’ll give you until your birthday to secure a better offer.”
Delilah clenched her jaw. Her mother didn’t think much of her. She certainly didn’t think Delilah was capable of attracting a worthwhile suitor, and she obviously didn’t think Delilah could attract anyone better than Clarence Hilton.
Anger bubbled in Delilah’s chest. Normally, she did her best to keep it at bay. Anger was an emotion, after all. But sometimes, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep such thoughts from throbbing in her brain. She was a butter stamp of her father in more ways than one, and the current way involved being madly stubborn and ridiculously determined once she set her sights upon something.
By God, Delilah would show her mother. She would prove to her that she wasn’t the lost cause Mother thought. Besides, who better to make the match of the Season than she herself? She was an excellent matchmaker, wasn’t she? She had done it before. More than once.
“You’d do well to remember that Clarence Hilton is the heir to an earldom,” Mother intoned.
“I’m well aware.” Delilah tried and failed to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“Don’t be impertinent. You truly believe you can secure an offer from someone with better connections than that?”
Delilah raised her chin and met Mother’s glare. She would die trying. Because her mother had just issued a challenge of sorts, and unfortunately, Delilah—emotional, too-loud, eccentric Delilah—had never been able to pass up a challenge.
Besides, her odds of success had to be better than average. Her best friend, Thomas, was always talking about odds. Numbers leaning this way or that. He put great stock in them. Delilah rarely gave odds much thought, but now she had to believe they were in her favor. After all, Delilah had the infamous Duchess of Claringdon, Lucy Hunt, in her corner, and that woman was undisputedly the best matchmaker in the land. “Yes,” she declared. “I believe I can.”