own paths to happiness. I challenge you to find matches for your friends that can do the same.”
His dark eyes bored fiercely into her. “I say your young women would be happier married to my friends. I accept your challenge.”
“I will not see the dowries I provide go to your feckless friends, sir!”
A fiendish smile brightened his dark visage. “Would you care to make a wager?”
“I don’t gamble,” she said crossly. “That’s a fool’s game.” To which her father had been addicted, much to the despair and cost of his wife and daughters.
“We’ll exchange no money,” he agreed. “If one of my friends marries one of your heiresses, you will agree to provide one of my younger sisters entrée to society and the wherewithal to do it in style.”
She liked what little she’d seen of his sisters. Now that Edward wasn’t there to object, she would have sought them out anyway, so she could scarcely lose. “Agreed,” she said with a simpering smile. “But I warn you that I shall see my heiresses, as you style them, well prepared to fend off fortune hunters.”
“My friends are career hunters. I wish you well of your silly heiresses.” He tapped his hat and strode out.
Isabell felt exhilarated. She’d been left bored and all alone for far too long. Lord Quentin had shown her that she needed a project to occupy her. She finished her sandwich, shook out her skirt, and marched back to the office. It was time someone helped her husband’s neglected relations—the female ones.
6
Still wearing her robe, Abigail brushed out her curls, then touched her nose and wondered if Mr. Wyckerly had actually counted all her freckles. She didn’t think it possible.
Even more irritated that she’d let her thoughts drift, she brushed harder. If she was to spend the rest of her life as a spinster, she must not be led astray by idle men.
She had never planned on being a spinster. Although her father was the least ambitious man she knew, he’d been generous and loving in his own way. She had thought if she could find a man with a little more purpose, she would be very happy married. Unfortunately, there were few interesting single men available in her limited surroundings.
So she’d fallen for the wonderful new vicar who had ambitions to rise higher than a small village. She would have made a fine vicar’s wife. Men of the church were seldom wealthy, but she was good at pinching pennies. She was educated sufficiently to converse with the wives of bishops and squires. With some effort, she might have even learned to accept living in a town as large as Oxford. She would have made an excellent partner.
But then her father had died. And now she was losing hope. And patience.
She set down her hairbrush and rose to take off her robe. She was no longer a naive child who believed men would solve her problems. The law was such that she required their aid, but they weren’t to be relied on in domestic matters.
Mr. Jack Wyckerly was certainly evidence of that. As far as she was aware, he’d never come back last night.
Setting her lips in a tight line to hold back her temper, she tugged a dowdy brown morning dress over her petticoat and tied the drawstrings. It seemed she would have to tend to her strawberry patch on her own. Perhaps she should meditate on how to save Penelope from her dastardly excuse of a father.
She took the back stairs down to the kitchen. Since the children had been removed from her ineffectual female guidance , she’d begun taking all her meals in the kitchen, where she at least had stoic Cook and shy Annie for company. They weren’t great conversationalists, but they listened when she talked.
As Abigail entered the kitchen, Penelope squealed, and both child and kitten dived under the sideboard. A pretty pink gown and ruffled petticoat had been left out for her to wear, but it appeared that Penelope disdained petticoats. And her stockings were dirty enough to be yesterday’s.
Abigail bent
His dark eyes bored fiercely into her. “I say your young women would be happier married to my friends. I accept your challenge.”
“I will not see the dowries I provide go to your feckless friends, sir!”
A fiendish smile brightened his dark visage. “Would you care to make a wager?”
“I don’t gamble,” she said crossly. “That’s a fool’s game.” To which her father had been addicted, much to the despair and cost of his wife and daughters.
“We’ll exchange no money,” he agreed. “If one of my friends marries one of your heiresses, you will agree to provide one of my younger sisters entrée to society and the wherewithal to do it in style.”
She liked what little she’d seen of his sisters. Now that Edward wasn’t there to object, she would have sought them out anyway, so she could scarcely lose. “Agreed,” she said with a simpering smile. “But I warn you that I shall see my heiresses, as you style them, well prepared to fend off fortune hunters.”
“My friends are career hunters. I wish you well of your silly heiresses.” He tapped his hat and strode out.
Isabell felt exhilarated. She’d been left bored and all alone for far too long. Lord Quentin had shown her that she needed a project to occupy her. She finished her sandwich, shook out her skirt, and marched back to the office. It was time someone helped her husband’s neglected relations—the female ones.
6
Still wearing her robe, Abigail brushed out her curls, then touched her nose and wondered if Mr. Wyckerly had actually counted all her freckles. She didn’t think it possible.
Even more irritated that she’d let her thoughts drift, she brushed harder. If she was to spend the rest of her life as a spinster, she must not be led astray by idle men.
She had never planned on being a spinster. Although her father was the least ambitious man she knew, he’d been generous and loving in his own way. She had thought if she could find a man with a little more purpose, she would be very happy married. Unfortunately, there were few interesting single men available in her limited surroundings.
So she’d fallen for the wonderful new vicar who had ambitions to rise higher than a small village. She would have made a fine vicar’s wife. Men of the church were seldom wealthy, but she was good at pinching pennies. She was educated sufficiently to converse with the wives of bishops and squires. With some effort, she might have even learned to accept living in a town as large as Oxford. She would have made an excellent partner.
But then her father had died. And now she was losing hope. And patience.
She set down her hairbrush and rose to take off her robe. She was no longer a naive child who believed men would solve her problems. The law was such that she required their aid, but they weren’t to be relied on in domestic matters.
Mr. Jack Wyckerly was certainly evidence of that. As far as she was aware, he’d never come back last night.
Setting her lips in a tight line to hold back her temper, she tugged a dowdy brown morning dress over her petticoat and tied the drawstrings. It seemed she would have to tend to her strawberry patch on her own. Perhaps she should meditate on how to save Penelope from her dastardly excuse of a father.
She took the back stairs down to the kitchen. Since the children had been removed from her ineffectual female guidance , she’d begun taking all her meals in the kitchen, where she at least had stoic Cook and shy Annie for company. They weren’t great conversationalists, but they listened when she talked.
As Abigail entered the kitchen, Penelope squealed, and both child and kitten dived under the sideboard. A pretty pink gown and ruffled petticoat had been left out for her to wear, but it appeared that Penelope disdained petticoats. And her stockings were dirty enough to be yesterday’s.
Abigail bent
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