A Desirable Husband. Mary Nichols

we cannot find you a suitable husband by the end of the Season, I shall have failed utterly,’ Rosemary said.

      ‘Suitable does not necessarily mean desirable,’ Esme said. ‘I should like to desire the man I marry.’

      ‘Esme!’

      ‘What is wrong with that? Did you not desire Rowan?’

      ‘That is none of your business.’ Her sister’s face had turned bright pink. ‘And not a subject for an unmarried lady.’

      ‘Surely it is too late after one is married to discover that one’s husband is not at all desirable? Suitable would not mean much then, would it?’

      ‘You don’t know what you are talking about.’

      ‘No, I don’t and I wish I did. What is it like to feel desire, Rosie? Is it the same as love? Shall I recognise it?’

      ‘Oh, you are giving me a headache. Go and ask Miss Bannister your foolish questions.’

      ‘Oh, do you think she might know the answers?’

      ‘I do not know, do I? I never asked her.’

      Esme did not ask Miss Bannister because Rowan came in at that moment and a few minutes later luncheon was served.

      Lady Mountjoy did not believe in seating her guests unless they were very frail, on the grounds that they should move about and mix with each other. It also meant they did not become too comfortable and overstay their welcome, but for some reason her at-homes were very popular. Esme found herself in a crowded drawing room, trying to keep firm hold of a cup of tea in case it was knocked out of her hand by the constant stream of people who came and went.

      Nevertheless her ladyship made sure that every young lady who arrived with her mama or guardian was introduced to every other young lady and every young gentleman, whom they outnumbered by at least four to one. Esme found herself trying to memorise their names, while listening to Rosemary explaining who they were. ‘Toby, the son of old Lord Salford, very wealthy but something of a rake; James, Lady Bryson’s son and the apple of her eye, and Captain Merton. As an army officer he would never be at home, though his wife might travel with him; and there is Lord Bertram Wincombe, the Earl of Wincombe’s heir.’ She stopped speaking suddenly and gave a little gasp of annoyance. Esme, who had her back to the door, turned to see what had caused it. Lord Pendlebury, smart in a blue tailcoat and narrow matching trousers, was striding into the room and making for Lady Mountjoy.

      His entrance had caused a sudden lull in the conversation and everyone turned as the handsome stranger bowed to his hostess. ‘Lady Mountjoy, your obedient,’ he said, taking the hand she offered.

      ‘You are welcome, young man. Let me make you known to everyone. Take my arm and we will perambulate.’

      Esme giggled at her antiquated turn of phrase. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the lady did not think of herself as one of those old-fashioned matchmakers who did nothing but suit young men to young ladies and she wondered how successful she was. Everyone had stopped talking to watch the two proceed round the room and more than one mama nudged her daughter into showing some animation at being introduced to this handsome creature. He was charming, remembered their names, made some flattering comment to each and passed on. By the time he reached Esme, she had put her cup and saucer down to stop it rattling and was trying—and failing—to hide her laughter.

      ‘Lady Trent, may I present Lord Pendlebury,’ their hostess addressed Rosemary while looking severely at Esme.

      ‘We are already known to the gentleman,’ Rosemary said stiffly. ‘Good afternoon, your lordship.’

      ‘Lady Trent.’ He bowed. ‘Lady Esme.’

      She looked up into his face and realised he was also trying to control his laughter. It made it all the more difficult to keep a straight face. ‘My lord, I did not expect to see you here.’

      ‘Lady Mountjoy is an old friend of my mother. I came to pay my respects. It is a small world, is it not? You said we might come across each other and you were right.’

      ‘Yes.’ She wished he had not reminded her of that comment. She still smarted from the dressing-down she had had from Rosemary over it. When she said it, she had had no idea the significance her sister would put on it, nor that he would remember it.

      ‘Are you enjoying your stay in town?’ He did not take his eyes from her face, though some part of him registered that she was wearing a pale blue gown that was plain apart from a few narrow tucks and satin ribbon trimming, but its very plainness spoke of quality cloth and superb workmanship. It made her stand out from all the other young ladies in their fussy lace and flounces.

      ‘Oh, very much. We went to the National Gallery to look at the pictures yesterday.’

      ‘What did you think of it?’

      She was acutely aware of Rosemary standing beside her, unable to stop her speaking to him and thoroughly put out that he was undoubtedly acceptable in society when she had made up her mind that he was not. ‘Wonderful. It made me realise how poor my talent is.’

      ‘You like to paint?’

      ‘I draw a little and paint in water colours, but I am not very good at it. I envy people who can draw a few lines and produce a likeness without apparently trying very hard. It did not take you many strokes of your pencil to draw Rosemary and me the other day and we were instantly recognisable.’

      ‘You are kind, Lady Esme, but I cannot reproduce your animation on paper. I only wish I could.’

      She smiled at the compliment, but did not comment, being more interested in finding out all she could about him. ‘You are not an artist, then?’

      ‘No, a designer. I like to design things to manufacture.’

      ‘What sort of things?’ The noise that came from Rosemary’s throat sounded very much like a snort. Both ignored it.

      ‘Anything that takes my fancy—household articles, inventions, but particularly objects made of glass.’

      ‘Drinking glasses, bottles, that kind of thing?’

      ‘Yes, dishes, vases, ornaments. I have a small manufactory in Birmingham.’

      ‘Is that where you live?’

      ‘Just outside it. The estate is called Larkhills. I live there with my mother.’

      ‘Is your mother in London with you?’

      ‘No, she rarely travels these days. I came down for the Mansion House banquet.’

      ‘But that is over and you are still here.’

      He smiled, amused rather than annoyed, by her questions. ‘There are other attractions to keep me here.’

      ‘A lady?’

      ‘That would be telling.’

      She heard Rosemary’s sharp intake of breath and knew she had breached another of her sister’s strict codes. ‘Oh, I should not have asked.’ She saw his lips twitch and nearly laughed aloud. Instead she posed another—to her, less contentious—question. ‘What were you doing in the park when we saw you sketching? You spoke of the Great Exhibition. Are you an architect, too?’

      ‘No, but I thought I might try my hand at designing something to house the exhibits.’

      ‘Has that not already been done?’

      ‘There are architects working on it, but nothing has been finally decided.’

      ‘Then I wish you luck with it. Has it been decided where the building is to be sited?’

      ‘I think it is fairly certain to be in the corner of Hyde Park where we encountered each other.’

      ‘And that was why you were on that particular spot?’

      ‘Yes. No doubt I shall need to