A Regency Match by Elizabeth Mansfield

would then comply, of course, but with a soft-spoken, non-contentious manner which seemed to suggest that the listeners could accept or reject his views as they pleased. Those who didn’t know him often asked why a man so obviously gifted by nature and so highly placed in the world would behave in so self-effacing a way. His intimates, however, knew that he was far from self-effacing. He was very much his own man and knew quite well how to please himself. If they could have witnessed the little scene between Marcus and his mother-in-law-to-be, they would have found it a case in point. For Marcus had no intention of subjecting himself to a grandiose pre-nuptial party which he would thoroughly dislike, and if a small deception were necessary to extricate himself from the situation, why then it was a price he was willing to pay.
    So he had invented the story of his mother’s letter, and Lady Bethune had been caught up short. She’d choked, and her mouth had dropped open. In fact, she’d almost goggled. “At Wynwood?” she’d repeated, awed. “You don’t mean it!”
    She had fallen back against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. What a dilemma the boy had faced her with! She was quite aware that invitations to Wynwood Hall were very much prized by the ton . There were two reasons for the value set on those invitations: the first was that Wynwood was one of England’s great estates, and the second that invitations to visit there were offered only rarely—and then only to Lady Wynwood’s most special friends. Lady Bethune’s mouth fairly watered at the prospect of having her daughter’s betrothal announced at Wynwood. On the other hand, she had quite looked forward to parading her daughter’s “catch” (for it was universally agreed that the Earl of Wynwood was a very big fish indeed) before half of London society. If the affair were held in Sussex, the number present would be very small.
    Lady Bethune had never met the mother of her prospective son-in-law, but she looked forward to the meeting with an eagerness bordering on awe. For Lady Wynwood was a somewhat legendary figure among the Londoners of her generation. Charlotte Harvey, Lady Wynwood, had been a great beauty in her youth. She’d been described as having “enchanted” eyes, an ethereal expression and an aloof manner. Even in those days, she’d kept the world at bay, permitting only a select few to enjoy her company. Thus her reputation for exclusivity had begun. When she’d married the taciturn Earl of Wynwood, a man fifteen years her senior and more at home on horseback than in a drawing room, she had set society’s tongues wagging. Lord and Lady Wynwood had ignored the comments, had retired to the country and had lived there in apparent contentment. They were seldom in London. The few close friends who were invited to Wynwood Hall came back to town with tales of lovely surroundings, warm hospitality, lavish meals, good sport and stimulating conversation, and those who were not privileged to share in those pleasures listened with growing envy. And the value of an invitation grew. After the old Earl died, the invitations became even more rare and more desirable.
    All this was quite well known to Lady Bethune. Although she had not yet set foot in Wynwood Hall, her friends already envied her. From the moment she’d whispered (to a mere eight or nine of her closest friends) that a match between her daughter and the desirable Earl of Wynwood was a settled thing, she had seen it in their eyes. If she could tell them now that her daughter’s betrothal was to be announced at a small, select party at Wynwood Hall, they would be positively green.
    Marcus had watched in unholy amusement as Lady Bethune’s face reflected her inner turmoil. Her lust for a large ostentatious ball battled with her desire to mingle with the elite society of Wynwood. Elitism (as Marcus