“Yes.” Papa moved a small, wrapped package from one side of the massive oak desk to the middle of the desk between them. “You know I want you to look for a wife this Season?”
It wasn’t the estate. Disappointment almost made Giff leave the room. “I agreed.”
“Indeed.” Papa focused on the package and nudged it closer to Giff. “You will need these. Your mother pointed out that it would be . . . ah . . . that you would be more eligible if you were the Marquis of St. Albans.” He indicated the package. “Those are your new calling cards.”
Giff stifled his disappointment. It wasn’t the estate, but it was something. Papa had been made to wait until he was married to be elevated to the courtesy title of marquis. Giff took the package. He’d like to know what argument his mother had made. “Thank you, sir.”
“We will meet you in Town in a few days. Your mother is planning a ball and other activities.”
Where eligible young ladies would be available for Giff to meet in the hope he’d like one of them enough to wed her. “Please thank Mamma for me. I’m sure the title will help.”
“I still don’t understand why it’s so important. Earl or marquis, you’re still the heir to the dukedom.”
Giff shrugged. “Who can understand how ladies think.”
Papa rose and held out his hand. “Have a good trip up to Town.”
Giff took his father’s hand and shook it. “I’ll see you soon. And thank you. I’m sure Mamma is correct about the title.”
“She usually is,” Papa grumbled.
Giff nodded in sympathy. Once, several years ago, he’d decided to challenge his mother. He never did it again. “I’ll see you in Town.”
When he had gained the corridor, he grinned to himself, giving silent thanks to her, and headed to the hall. Gunn, his valet, had already left and would meet him at the George in Darlington where they’d spend the night before starting the almost week-long journey to Town.
Six days later, he entered Cleveland House on Park Lane. Not quite one hundred years old, the house was fancifully built in three sections with half-rounded facades that reminded him of towers. The front consisted of long windows with balconies on the upper floors. The inside had two wings. One built especially for the heir, his family, and servants. Due to some forethought on the part of his great-great-grandmother, the house had a circular drive in the front with gardens to the sides, and a large garden in the back. The stables were located on the other side of a high stone wall. The garden was so secluded one could almost forget one was in the metropolis. When Giff married, he and his family would live in the heir’s wing whenever they were in Town. The rest of the year, they’d reside at Whippoorwill Manor near St. Albans. That was the property he would control after he wed. By the end of this Season if he found his bride.
Giff strolled into his parlor and glanced through the cards on his desk. Some were invitations. Others were personal cards left by friends who had already arrived in Town. One of them from a school chum he hadn’t seen for a few years, John, Marquis of Montagu, caught Giff’s attention. It would be good to see Montagu again. The last time had been at his father’s funeral. Perhaps they could take a ride tomorrow morning before there were too many people in the Park. Giff pulled a piece of paper from the drawer and scribbled a note, then tugged the bell-pull.
A footman entered the room. “Yes, my lord.”
Griff handed the man the message. “Have this taken to Montagu House.”
“Straightaway, my lord.”
After the servant left, he wandered into his bed chamber. His evening kit was already laid out. As was his custom, he would dine at home his first evening back. Aside from that, he needed to develop a strategy to find a wife. In addition to depending on his mother, that was. In the past he’d ridden his horse during the Grand Strut. But now he should consider taking his curricle. He glanced at the ormolu mantel clock. It was just after five o’clock. He had time to visit the stables before changing for dinner. And it was better to do it now than after he’d bathed.
Muffled noises from the dressing room informed him his valet was there. “Gunn, I’m going to the stables. I’ll be back within the hour.”
“Very well, my lord. I’ll have yer bath ready.”
Giff grinned. All the household servants in London and most of them at Cleveland Castle might be English, but his mother had insisted his personal servants be good, reliable Scotsmen from the various parts of her family. Another battle his father had lost.
An hour later, after having been rebuffed by the stablemaster, who insisted on having Giff’s carriage sent around, he was dressed for an early dinner. He’d been pleased that his curricle had been newly painted, and the cushions had been replaced. He didn’t even have to ask whose idea that was. Mamma was going to do her best to see him wed this Season.
* * *
The next morning, after having received confirmation of his invitation to Montagu, Giff rode to Montagu House and found his friend on the pavement next to his horse. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you.” Montagu grinned. “Thank you for your note. It’s been so many years since I’ve been to Town, I wasn’t sure how to begin.”
Giff studied his friend. “Wife hunting?”
“Exactly.” Montagu grimaced.
“As am I. Perhaps we can help each other.” Although Giff really didn’t think he’d need much help convincing the lady he chose to marry him. He was, as his father had said, the heir to a dukedom, not bad looking, and had been told he made love charmingly.
Montagu mounted and gave Giff a dubious look. “How, if you’ve never searched for a wife before?”
“Ah.” He turned Horace, his horse, toward the Park. “This might be the first time I’m willing to be leg shackled, but it’s not my first time enticing a female. Surely a young lady will be much the same. I imagine it will be even easier than with a more experienced women. Not only that, but how many Mammas would want their daughter to reject the heir to a dukedom?”
“I suppose you’re right.” Montagu rode next to Giff. “Young ladies are disposed to do what their families wish.”
At least English ladies were. His mother and older sisters hadn’t had that attitude. But that was the Scot’s side coming out. In a way, it was a pity. He’d like a lady more like his mother. Come to think of it, the lady he chose would have to show a strong strength of will in order to please his father. “We shall see.”
* * *
Lady Alice Carpenter stared at the list she and her sisters had made.
Intelligent
Kind
Like house animals
Like children
Make us laugh, and think we are funny
