The Bridal Quest. Candace Camp

not looking for one,” Irene replied tartly, looking the other woman in the eyes.

      “Not looking for a husband?” Mrs. Littlebridge said lightly, and gave a laugh. “Really, Lady Irene, what young girl is not looking for a husband?”

      “I, for one,” Irene replied flatly.

      Mrs. Littlebridge’s eyebrows lifted a little in disbelief.

      “Such words are fine for pride’s sake,” Maura commented, casting a knowing smile toward their trio of callers. “But you are among friends here, Irene. We all know that any woman’s true aim in life is to marry. Otherwise, what is she to do? Live in another woman’s house all her life?” She paused and turned her gaze to Irene. “Of course, Lord Wyngate and I would like nothing better than to have you as our companion for the rest of our lives. But I am thinking of you and your happiness. You really should talk to Lady Haughston about it. She is a friend of yours, is she not?”

      Irene heard the bitterness that underlay her sister-in-law’s sweet tone. It had always been a thorn in Maura’s side that she had come from a provincial family of genteel breeding but unimportant name, that she had not spent her life, as Irene had, among the ton, known to and received by anyone of consequence.

      “I know Lady Haughston, of course,” Irene replied. “But we are no more than social acquaintances, really. I would not call Lady Haughston my friend.”

      “Ah, but then, there are so few who could be called your friend,” Maura tossed back.

      There was a moment of startled silence at that cutting remark, but then Maura adopted an expression of embarrassment and raised her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my, how that must sound! Of course, I did not mean that you have no friends, dear sister. There are a number of them, of course. Are there not, Lady Claire?” She cast an appealing glance at Irene’s mother.

      “Yes, of course.” Color stained Claire’s cheeks. “There is Miss Livermore.”

      “Of course!” Maura exclaimed, her expression clearly stating her relief that Irene’s mother had managed to come up with an example. “And then the vicar’s wife back at the country house is so fond of you.” She paused, then shrugged, as though abandoning the futile search for friends, and leaned forward, looking at Irene earnestly as she said, “You know that I want only what is best for you, don’t you, dear? All any of us want is for you to be happy. Isn’t that true, Lady Claire?”

      “Yes, of course,” Claire agreed, glancing unhappily at her daughter.

      “But I am happy, Mother,” Irene lied, then turned back to Maura, continuing in a flat tone, “How could I be anything but happy, after all, living here with you, dear sister?”

      Maura ignored her words, going on in the same earnest, helpful way. “I want only to help you, Irene. To improve your life. I am sure you must know that. Unfortunately, not everyone knows you as I do. They see only your demeanor. Your sharp tongue, my dear, keeps people at bay. However much they might want to get to know you better, your, well, your acerbic wit, your bluntness, frightens people away. It is for that reason that you have so few bosom friends, so few suitors. Your manner is most unappealing to men.”

      She looked to her friends for confirmation. “A man does not want a wife who will correct him or who will ring a peal over his head if he does something amiss. Is that not true, ladies?”

      Irene’s eyes flashed, and she said tightly, “Your information, while no doubt well intentioned, is of little use to me. As I told you, I am not interested in acquiring a husband.”

      “Now, now, Lady Irene,” Mrs. Cantwell began, with a condescending smile that grated on Irene’s nerves.

      Irene swung toward her, and the light in her eyes made the other woman swallow whatever she had been planning to say. “I do not wish to marry. I refuse to marry. I have no intention of giving any man control over me. I will not meekly become some man’s chattel or let some man with less wit than I have tell me what to think or say or do.”

      She stopped, pressing her lips together, regretting that she had let Maura push her into revealing so much of herself.

      Across from her, Maura let out a little laugh and cast a wry look at the other women, saying, “A woman does not have to be under a man’s thumb, dear. She simply makes him think that he is in control. She just has to learn how to lead a man into doing exactly what she wishes. The trick, of course, is in making him believe that it was all his idea.”

      Their visitors joined Maura in her arch laughter, and Mrs. Littlebridge added, “Indeed, Lady Wyngate, that is the way of the world.”

      “I have no interest in such pretense and trickery,” Irene retorted. “I would rather remain a spinster than have to cajole and lie to be able to do what I should have every right to do.”

      Maura clucked her tongue, looking sympathetic. “Irene, my dear, we are not saying you should deceive anyone. I am merely talking about making the most of your looks and covering up…certain aspects of your character. You dress much too plainly.” She gestured with disdain toward Irene’s body. “That gown you are wearing, for instance. Why must it be that drab shade of brown? And you have no need to wear such a high neckline. Why not show off your shoulders and arms a little? Even your evening gowns have such an air of severity—it is no wonder men rarely ask you to dance! Is it not enough that you are so tall? Must you stand so arrow straight and hide your shape?”

      Irene could hear the real frustration creeping into Maura’s saccharine tones, and she knew that however much her sister-in-law might enjoy pointing out Irene’s defects under the guise of helpful advice, Maura was also honestly put out by Irene’s lack of suitors. Maura would love to be rid of her altogether, and marriage was the only option open to her, short of murder—which not even Irene would accuse Maura of being capable of. No matter how much Humphrey was under his wife’s thumb, even Maura must know he would not agree to turning his own sister out of the house, and in any case, the woman surely knew that such callous treatment of her husband’s sister would earn her the disapproval of the ton. No, as long as Irene remained unmarried, Maura was saddled with her—a fact that doubtless irritated her almost as much as it did Irene.

      “And your hair!” Maura went on relentlessly. “Heaven knows it is a trifle…unruly.” She frowned at Irene’s curling mass of dark golden hair, pulled back ruthlessly into a knot. “But the color is quite nice, really. And your lashes are long and luckily brown, not fair, so that you do not have that hairless look that one sees in some blondes.”

      “Why, thank you, Maura,” Irene murmured drily. “Your compliments overwhelm me.”

      Maura shrugged. “I am simply saying that you could make yourself look much more attractive if you would just try a little. Why, one would think that you are trying to drive men away rather than attract them.”

      “Perhaps I am.”

      There was a moment of stunned silence; then Miss Cantwell let out a nervous titter. “Lady Irene! One might almost suppose you are serious.”

      Irene did not bother to respond to the woman’s remark. Miss Cantwell would never understand, any more than any of the other women present, that Irene truly did not want to marry. Marriage was the goal of every woman’s life, as far as they were concerned. The pursuit of a husband was the focal point of a woman’s coming out—and of every Season thereafter, until she finally managed to snag one.

      Marriage-minded mothers mapped out campaigns for their daughters like war-hardened generals. Skirmishes were played out on the fields of ballrooms, opera boxes and open-air carriage rides through Hyde Park, and the weapons of choice were frocks, curls, flirtatious glances over the top of one’s fan and—most lethal of all—gossip. Victory lay in snapping up an eligible bachelor, and few considered the years that lay ahead after the all-important ring was placed upon their finger.

      No doubt Miss Cantwell and her mother were in the midst of that vital fray now. They would assume that any protestations Irene made were simply sour grapes for having lost that battle