“Being Harry’s heir is not something I covet,” Alexander said. “Perhaps I am peculiar, but I am perfectly happy with who I am and what I have. He cannot be expected to marry soon, of course. He is not even of age yet. But I devoutly hope he marries young and fathers at least six sons in as many years to put the succession beyond doubt. In the meanwhile I hope he remains in perfect health.”
Elizabeth laughed and reached out to pat the back of his hand. “It is not peculiar at all,” she said. “You have worked hard to restore Riddings Park to prosperity after Papa ran it into the ground—pardon my bluntness, Mama—and you have succeeded and can be proud of yourself. You are much respected there, even loved, and I know you are contented. I know too that you are not overfond of being dragged to London just because it is the Season and you knew Mama and I fancied sampling some of the frivolities it has to offer this year. You did not really need to come with us, but I appreciate the fact that you did, and that you have leased this very comfortable house for us.”
“It was not entirely for your sakes I came,” he admitted after sipping his wine. “Mama is always urging me to live a little, as though being home on my own estate, which I love, were not living. But occasionally even I feel the urge to set aside my manure-encrusted boots and don dancing shoes instead.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “You dance well,” she said. “And you invariably cause a stir among the ladies whenever you set foot inside a ballroom, for you are always the most handsome gentleman in attendance.”
“Is there any hope,” their mother asked, looking at her son in some despair as though this were not the first or even the twenty-first time she had posed the question, “that somewhere among all those ladies you will find a bride, Alex?”
He hesitated before answering, and she looked hopeful enough to set down her knife and fork across her plate and lean slightly toward him.
“Yes, actually,” he said. “It is the next logical step for me to take, is it not? Riddings is prospering at last, everyone dependent upon me is well looked after, and the only thing lacking to make all secure is an heir. My next birthday is my thirtieth. I came here with you and Lizzie, Mama, because I cannot like either of you being here without a man to lend you countenance and offer escort wherever you wish to go, but I came too on my own account to . . . look about me, if you will. I am not in any hurry to make a choice. It may not even happen this year. But I do not need to marry money, and I am not so highly ranked that I am obliged to look high for a bride. I hope to find someone who will . . . suit me.”
“Someone with whom to fall in love?” Elizabeth suggested, leaning slightly to one side so that the footman could refill her water glass.
“I shall certainly expect to feel an affection for the lady,” he said, flushing slightly. “But romantic love? Pardon me, Lizzie, but is that not for females?”
His mother tutted.
“Like me?” Elizabeth sat back in her chair and watched him eat.
“Ah.” His fork remained suspended halfway to his mouth. “I did not mean it that way, Lizzie. I did not mean to offend.”
“And you did not,” she assured him. “I fell head over heels in infatuation with Desmond the moment I set eyes upon him, silly girl that I was, and called it love. It was not love. But the experience of a bad marriage has not made a cynic of me. I still believe in romantic love, and I do so hope you discover it for yourself, Alex. You deserve all that is good in life, especially after all you have done for me.”
Sir Desmond Overfield, her late husband, had been a charming man but a heavy drinker, the sort who turned uglier the more he drank and became verbally and physically abusive. When Elizabeth had fled back to her childhood home on one occasion, her face scarcely recognizable beneath all the swelling and bruises, her father had sent her back, albeit reluctantly, when Desmond came for her, with the reminder that she was now a married lady and her husband’s property. When she had fled there again two years later, after her father was dead, this time with a broken arm as well as bruises over most of her face and body, Alex had taken her in and summoned a physician. Desmond had come again to claim his property, sober and apologetic, as he had been the first time, but Alex had punched him in the face and broken his nose and dislodged a few of his teeth. When her husband had returned with the nearest magistrate, Alex had blackened both his eyes and invited the magistrate to stay for luncheon. Desmond had died less than a year after that, stabbed in a tavern brawl in which ironically he had been only a spectator.
“I will choose a bride with whom I can expect to be comfortable and even happy,” Alex promised now, “but I shall ask your opinion, Lizzie, and Mama’s too before making any offer.”
His mother gave a little shriek of horror. “You will not marry just to please your mother,” she said. “The very idea.”