Neville tried. He tried his hardest, really. Even though the stiffness of his winged collar chafed at his neck and the fit of his newest evening trousers could have been more generous at the waist (a tad, surely!), Neville did not so much as flinch as chaperone after chaperone, matron after matron descended on him that evening, like they had on previous evenings, hoping that the dashing (their words!) Lord Merton would offer more than just a dance for their charges. Neville was uniformly charming and gallant, qualities he had inherited from his late father, the fifteenth Earl who had passed on two years prior.
Lady Merton, who was out in Society for the first time as a widow, gave her only child the eye every opportunity she got. Neville could only hope that Mater could see that he was trying. The ton was astute. It was not his fault that all the chaperones and the matrons who approached him were rather middling in Lady Merton’s estimate.
For, the Merton fortunes had been rather brilliantly and almost resolutely squandered away by earls numbering eleventh through the fourteenth. That last worthy had died without issue and the debt-laden entails had landed with a solid thump on the lap of the eldest surviving male member – Neville’s father, to wit – of the only remaining line of Ashquils.
Edward Ashquil had been an old-fashioned man who believed in decency and doing a job well. And so, he had, from age twenty-two to age fifty-five, worked assiduously to build up the fortunes once again. Being a lawyer helped immensely for he had the best contacts available – a quarter of the peerage at least and having a brilliant mind for investments saw to the rest.
The fortune was now sizable but nothing like what it had been once. Unlike his father, Neville was more cautious and he did not think that in the next thirty years the fortune would grow by the same margin as it had under his father’s care. It would grow, perhaps only ploddingly but Neville would ensure his heirs would not have to be ashamed in front of crown and parliament. Neville had been twenty-five when his father had passed on and even now, on some days when he worked quietly in his office, Neville got the feeling that his father would have been happy if Neville were more enterprising or if he there was a younger son who had inherited that side of Edward’s personality.
Neville was simply a decent chap (even those who didn’t count him as a friend would pay that testimonial) who never shirked work (the stewards at entailed estates in Lancashire and the private ones in Northumberland both agreed on that). And so, or perhaps despite that, it was impossible for the present Lord Merton to attract the top echelons of eligible marriageable women. For those women, the Devonshires, the Merrills, the cream of the aristocrats was the attraction. Even the gentry featured in that cream now, the ones with the biggest fortunes.
Neville’s playing field was populated by daughters of rich barons looking to rise a notch on the social ladder, female offspring of earls whose fortunes were dwindling, those of the lesser dukes and marquesses who could not aspire to find husbands among the greater ones. Baronets with sizable fortunes were also in the sphere and that evening in particular he had been snared by at least three chaperones who had daughters of baronets in their charge. He had listened, ever politely, made a charming remark or two and offered his name on the dance cards of one of the young ladies whose face he promptly forgot. Unless the chaperone found him on time, it was unlikely he would be able to locate his partner when the dance was announced.
Ancilla Merton did not look pleased at the prospects that Neville seemed to be attracting. Even across a ballroom and regardless of the company she was with, Neville could sense her disapproval of each possibility. It led Neville to wonder if his mother had always been so conscious of society. She was the granddaughter of a baron and the daughter of a landed farmer and had married his father months before the Merton title had been bestowed on him. If Edward Ashquil had simply remained Esquire, would Ancilla Ashquil still have frowned the way she was frowning now as the dozenth matron of the evening engaged Neville in conversation with her charge by her side.
Neville made his bows, put on his gallant smile, made another charming remark or two before gracefully exiting without a commitment about dancing. He turned to go for refreshments and came to a halt, dumbstruck.
For his eye was caught by the most exquisite woman he had ever seen till that evening and having seen many he could testify with confidence that he had seen none quite like her.
She must not have been more than nineteen, for her youth was in full bloom in the rose of her cheeks and the sparkling gold of her hair. She was dressed like the majority of the women in a concoction of layers and lace but every other color, every other cut, every other frippery paled in comparison to hers. The small sleeves of her dress only accentuated the slenderness of her shoulders, the short gloves covering her fingers only served to pay tribute the delicacy of her wrists. The satin ribbons around her neck only sought to highlight its sleekness, the bulk of her bustle only made her waist look more exquisite. And the charming embellishments in her hair only brought out the color of her eyes more. For they were the kind of aquamarine blue that a man could lose himself in forever.
Apparently, Neville was not the only man in the room who had taken note of these facts, for, before he could fully recover his wits, Neville was jostled at least twice by men making a bee line in the direction of the most delicious flower to have graced a London season till date. Within minutes of her entry, the beautiful girl was surrounded by swains of every variety.
Something stirred in Neville’s chest then.
He cast his eye about. Ah, there he was, the redoubtable Percy. The Marquess of Felton was a formidable social force and had been Neville’s dearest friend since their first day in the first form at Rugby. Two fourth formers had seen it perfectly acceptable to have a joke or two at Neville’s expense. Percy had stepped in, even though he looked like a blond waif than anything else, and with mere words had reduced the bullies to squirming worms on the floor. At least that is what it had felt like to Neville then. In any case, Percy and he had become thick as thieves ever since.
Percy was no longer a blond waif. Blond giant was the apt description now, for he was one of the few men in tails that evening who were taller than the footmen in livery. He had at least a dozen inches on Neville, who himself was above the average height. Percy turned from his companion when Neville walked up to them. Percy’s smile was broad and genuine and his companion seemed as smitten by him as Neville was feeling at the moment of that glittering miss across the room.
“Merton!” Percy said, clapping a large paw on his oldest friend’s shoulder, “This is Mrs. Philpott, who is aunt to Lady Miranda Hawkridge whose favor I hope to gain this evening. Mrs. Philpott, my oldest and dearest friend, Lord Merton.”
Neville tried not to look surprised as he bowed over Mrs. Philpott’s hand. The lady did not look old enough to be anyone’s aunt and this was the first time he was hearing anything about Percy’s intentions for gaining favors from a maiden female. Unlike Neville, Percy had developed a finely-honed skill of avoiding every eligible woman pushed in his direction. In a party, it was a rare sight to see Percy with anyone who had even the remotest connections to eligible females. Percy spent most evenings in social gatherings – which he attended because Percy’s business interests depended on being seen with the right people – being utterly charming to women already ensconced in matrimony and especially attentive to women whose husbands had departed this world for the next. Else he kept to the men who were always game to be seen with one of England’s richest heirs.
“Mrs. Philpott,” Neville said, “would it be entirely remiss of me to ask Felton to walk away from your delightful company to assist me in a matter most urgent?”
Mrs. Philpott’s eyes grew wide at that and she said with a smile, “Oh no, Lord Merton, please do not inconvenience yourself on my account. I have spotted my niece and would be happy to head over to her.” She leaned forward a little and said in a stage whisper, “I hope it is not a matter relating to the crown?”
“Er, no!” Neville was quick to reassure her, “You are most kind.”
Mrs. Philpott gave him a conspiratorial smile before bowing from the neck at Percy and walking away. Percy looked at her swaying hips appreciatively before turning to Neville.
“You, my friend, are agitated,” he observed dryly.
“Are you really thinking of marrying the niece,” Neville asked what was on top his mind at the moment.
Percy let out a huff of breath.
“Pater is on my back every day threatening to announce my engagement with one of the daughters or one of the nieces of one of his cronies,” Percy said with a shudder as he retrieved a glass of refreshment from the tray held aloft by a passing footman who didn’t seem to realize his burden had lessened, “Lady Miranda is tolerable when compared to the others.”
“Well,” Neville said, “I have just seen a young woman who can be safely described as more than tolerable. And I need you to make introductions.”
Percy slowly turned and looked at the crowd over the rim of his glass. His superior height gave him a clear view for miles, surely.
“The dainty blonde who looks like a rosebud waiting to bloom?”
Neville did not stop to marvel at his friend’s acuity. “Yes, will you? I am guessing you know the chaperone.”
Percy swallowed his drink and let out a soft whistle.
“What?” Neville asked, almost afraid.
“My dear friend,” Percy said looking down at Neville with gleaming blue eyes, “the elderly lady whom I perceive next to the object of your interest, is the dowager duchess of Ware. And her blonde charge is undoubtedly her granddaughter Lady Caroline Spencer. I see no harm in paying our respects but I shall be frank with you since I have known you as long as I have. I strongly suspect that the currently diminished coffers of the Ashquils of Merton will not be deigned good enough for the exalted Spencers of Ware.”
Neville squared his shoulders.
“Nothing ventured and all that old chap,” he said, although he could not stop a sudden onset of nervousness. His hands felt clammy.
“You are quite smitten aren’t you, Scones?” Percy said with a twinkle in his eye, “I have never known you to be quite so brave before.”
He looked around the room. “Ah, I have spotted one of Lady Caroline’s cousins – Sir Algernon Foxworthy. We shall avoid Lady Caroline’s close blood male relatives; you might as well be a fly on the wall for all the chance you will get if we ask them. But Foxworthy is a chum and always in need of a sovereign or two.”
A smile played at Percy’s lips when he looked at Neville again. Percy cocked his head to the right and said, “Shall we?”
Neville took a deep breath and they ventured forth.