Antonia had been radiant, while Sebastian had never—ever—looked and acted so besotted over any other being, not even his beautiful wife.
Christopher knew that last for a fact; among their group, he and Sebastian had spent the most time together throughout their lives. They’d seen less of each other in recent years as their involvement in managing their respective fathers’ estates had increased, but prior to that, they’d moved in the same exclusive circles and, having similar interests and attitudes, had been largely inseparable.
As for the rest of the group, Michael and his wife, Cleo, were expecting their first child in a month or so, while Louisa, pregnant with her and Drake’s first child—very possibly Drake’s heir and therefore another future duke—had been trying her best to downplay her condition, difficult given she’d started to swell about the middle and had Drake hovering constantly at her side.
While Pru’s state was not as far advanced, the glow in her cheeks had left little doubt of her condition, but Deaglan—a wise man even if he was Irish—was doing his level best not to hover like Drake.
In multiple ways, Christopher’s visit to Somersham Place and the Cynster Summer Celebration had proved the last straw. The joy and happiness that had radiated from his peers…
I want that.
Consequently, after dealing with estate business that morning, after lunch, he’d settled in the comfortable surrounds of the library-cum-study to confront his need to acquire a wife and embark on what, therefore, loomed as his most urgent personal task.
Finding the right wife.
The concept remained nebulous; he accepted that much of his difficulty in defining what he wished for in a wife stemmed from his refusal, until now, to even think about the future he had, so belatedly, realized he actually wanted. He hadn’t made any reasoned decision to remain a bachelor; he’d simply assumed that was what he would prefer and had fallen into that rut, which, until recently, had suited him well enough.
It no longer did, so…
“What sort of wife do I want?” He narrowed his eyes. What manner of wife did he need?
He thought of the ladies with whom he’d dallied over the last decade and more; as with other gentlemen of his ilk—of his wealth, social status, and age—their number was not insignificant. Yet virtually all had been married ladies of the haut ton with whom he’d enjoyed short-lived affairs; he’d never envisioned marrying any of them—he’d never assessed their attributes in that light.
Likewise, his belief that he had no reason to consider the numerous young ladies paraded before him by society’s hostesses had led him metaphorically to turn his back on the entire genus of marriageable females; consequently, he had no yardstick—no frame of reference or list of qualities—to guide his choice.
It was easier to list the traits and characteristics he could not abide, such as silly, frivolous females, those ninnyhammers with more hair than wit who, these days, bedecked themselves with ribbons, bows, feathers, frills, and furbelows. The ton was currently littered with such females, and their tittering and vapid conversations never failed to abrade his nerves.
He needed a wife with whom he could share an intelligent conversation. Beyond that…?
I really have no clue.
Where to look for her, his ideal wife?
At present, the ton were dispersed throughout the country. In mid-September, the major families would return to London for the autumn session of Parliament and the concurrent social round; the balls and parties of the haut ton held through those weeks would, he suspected, be the most useful hunting ground…
He shied at the vision that thought evoked. The instant he appeared at more than two events, the hostesses would realize what he was about, the matchmakers would descend, and his life would become well-nigh unbearable.
He locked his jaw and forced himself to consider the prospect; he felt as he imagined a horse might in refusing a fence.
And it wasn’t just his dislike of the inevitable brouhaha that was holding him back.
It was galling to admit that cowardice played a large part in fueling his antipathy toward marriage. Family lore stated that for a Cynster, with no exceptions, falling in love was a requirement for a successful marriage. From all he’d seen, that rule held true, no matter the resistance of the male or female involved.
Falling a victim to love wasn’t an outcome he had wished to embrace. Being in love meant being close to another, sharing thoughts, hopes, and dreams, and most pertinently, leaving oneself open to hurt. To betrayal and rejection, loss and grief.
He had never been in love, so couldn’t speak from experience, yet he could see how it would be. He could imagine the pain. He’d seen it in non-Cynster friends.
Other acquaintances had avoided the snare by marrying, but not for love. Those marriages seemed to rattle along well enough, but Fate had decreed that particular path was not one he would be allowed to take.
The Cynster curse, as he thought of it, was inviolable and unavoidable; as a Cynster, if he wished to marry—as he now accepted he did—he would have to embrace love and risk the consequences.
He tapped the pencil he held on the blotter once, twice, then nodded. He would slip back to London in September and see whether any of the current crop of unmarried ladies would suit. Or more specifically, if Fate deigned to steer him toward one; when it came to it, he had no idea how Fate and love might strike.
With his way forward decided, he refixed his gaze and his attention on the accounts spread before him.
The restlessness inside him swirled and seethed, unappeased; his inner self wanted to forge ahead, find the right lady, marry her, and get on with building his desired future. He’d never been the sort to overthink things; he much preferred action, yet in reality, what else could he do?
“Wait until September,” he muttered, then forced his mind to concentrate on the plan for the next round of crop rotations.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on. It had just whirred and chimed for the half hour when Christopher heard firm footsteps rapidly nearing.
A sharp rap fell on the door.
He looked up. “Come.”
The door opened, and George Radley, the estate manager, looked in.
At the sight of Radley’s tight-lipped face, Christopher dropped the pencil and pushed back his chair. “What?”
“Goats. The Bigfield House herd have got into one of our hop fields.”
Christopher cursed, rose, and strode for the door. He waved Radley ahead of him. “I take it you mean the field bordering the lane?”
Grimly, Radley nodded. “And the plants there are just coming into flower.”
“Naturally!” Equally grim, Christopher strode with Radley for the stable.
Ellen Martingale sat behind the desk in the study of Bigfield House and stared at the sheets of figures spread before her. She felt like tearing out her hair. Hopper, the estate manager, had left her to wrestle with the projected harvests from the estate’s grain fields; it had taken her a good half hour to realize she needed to know which grains were grown in which fields to make any use of the information.
“Argh!” She tossed down the pencil she’d been using in an attempt to estimate the crops’ total worth. She glared at Hopper’s sheets. “Who would imagine that managing a ‘straightforward farming estate’ would be so complicated?”