To which his father would squint his eyes and say, “It is, my boy, it is.”
His father’s earnestness had amused him at times, but Hugh had obediently mastered all the lessons brought before him—the art of war, politics—a deep intensive study of the Whigs and Tories, their policies, weaknesses and strengths, literature, philosophy. His father had taught him about honor, friendship, how to think like a businessman, and even how to analyze cunningly, and of course, ballroom dancing.
The old earl had attempted to teach him the delicate art of wooing and courtship, but those many lessons had been about the treachery and duplicitous nature of a beautiful woman, and how to best avoid actually marrying anyone “too enchanting, bold, and too decided with her thoughts and opinions”—simply put, the opposite of Hugh’s mother.
“Did you hear me?” the old earl snapped, a hard edge to his tone. He shifted slightly and peered at him. “You are my son…and my heir, Caroline and William are my beloved children, and never shall we speak of this again.”
There was no shame in his father’s eyes. Only a fierce pride and such burning love that a lump formed in Hugh’s throat. He signed, “I will select a lady from the list, and I will marry her within the month.” This he could do for the man who had given up everything for him—even the fierce and unwavering pride of the Winthrops.
His father smiled, his first in days. “I am very pleased to hear that.”
That half smile slipped from his father’s lips and his dark green eyes grew distant. “Remember,” his father cautioned, “love has no place within a marriage. That useless, trite, and overly bothersome concept has been the downfall of many fine families. Including ours. Do not ever forget.”
“I am not likely to, considering how often you’ve mentioned it over the years.” Hugh once again looked toward the crashing waves against the cliffside.
His father wasted his breath in warning him that he must not love. Hugh truly had no expectations in regard to anyone. If the lady who was supposed to love him more than anything else had left to simply live a life as unfettered as possible, why would he have any expectations of love or loyalty from anyone? The entire notion was laughable and did not even merit a discussion.
Hugh was indifferent to the idea of such sentiments, never having sat down and yearned after the blasted thing. Despite his father’s many warnings over the years, Hugh possessed a very determined will, and if he truly wanted something, nothing could prevent him from seeking it. He suspected it was this that his father worried about, that one day he might want this love that had the power to ruin him. Rubbish. What sort of fool would he be to allow an intangible idea to inflict havoc with his life?
“Love has a way of creeping upon you when it is least expected,” the old earl said with a probing stare. “You must be on your guard at all times.”
“Truly? Based on your ramblings, I believe it can strike with the ferocity of lightning and thunder, and I’ve wondered why you’ve bothered to caution me against something that will come at me without warning,” he rejoined.
His father scowled.
It was difficult to explain to the man before him that he did not hunger for any particular connection. He wasn’t seeking love. Nor was he running from it. He was just not…interested. “I’ve far more important things to occupy my mind than an attachment with a lady…even the one I intend to marry.”
Such as your impending death and the dark hole it will leave. And situating my family for a life of happiness and prosperity.
His father appeared contemplative for a while, and Hugh’s gut tightened at the way he stared at him.
“What is it?”
“It cannot be her.”
The words fell between them, a fiery arrow piercing his affected calm, and an unexpected tension mounted in Hugh. He did not have to ask for clarity as to who the “her” belonged to. He had entered his private study only this morning to see his father reading the letters and words that had been indelibly seared onto Hugh’s memory.
Her—the lady who had been bold enough to berate his actions in advertising for a wife. The one who had responded to each of his eleven letters over the course of several weeks. The one who made him anticipate seeing that rider racing up the lanes of his home, black coat flapping behind him as another of her replies was delivered. The missives enlivened his days, and he slept with the sometimes caustic, other times lonely, then curious words rolling through his mind.
It had been a matter of honor that he’d not used a devious tactic to uncover her identity. She wanted to remain a mystery, and it was important to him that he honor that request. Many times, he had fiercely suppressed the need to set his man of affairs to find out exactly to whom his responses were delivered.
The first tones of her letters had implied the quill had been dipped in acid, so fiery and scathing her words had been. Something had changed over the course of their interchanges, an odd friendship of sorts, if he could dare to label it as such. But he looked forward to those letters even when she queried if he had found his wife in her dry, mocking, and often amused tone.
What did she look like? What did she sound like…and what could she possibly taste like? Sweet or tart like her words? Oftentimes, it bemused Hugh that he wanted to kiss a lady he’d never seen. In the nights, he stood atop this very cliff and spoke to her.
Do you like to read? he would ask and then silently offer to her, I enjoy Mencius, a master philosopher who lived in the Zhou dynasty.
That dream woman would lift her face to his and her lips would curve.
How do you smile? With your lips only or with your eyes as well? Despite her bold and provocative replies to his letters, he believed her to be a lady who saw and enjoyed the humorous idiosyncrasies of life. Many of their exchanges were indelibly seared into his memory, especially the one that had led him to believe her heart had been recently broken.
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
I think perhaps your remarks might be right. Love has nothing to do with marriage. I am a bit wiser in that regards. I do hope you find your helpmate.
A Curious Lady.
He had seen her, sitting at a small writing desk, her chest tight from the hurt she must have endured. The bright, passionate words that had declared so ferociously that love was necessary had gone, and in its place, he’d heard the jadedness and the pain. Hugh had wondered if he was being fanciful.
Dear A Curious Lady,
I am sorry you were hurt. Please avail yourself to my listening ear if you wish to speak of it.
A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
…
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
A very thoughtful offer from a man who seems to lack any refined sensibilities. Have I experienced enough of the world to be betrayed by love? I even wonder if what I had felt was love…and truly how does one measure such a sentiment? Is it real, do you think? Someone who I thought loved me has hurt and disappointed me most terribly.