“And how will you explain this error to her father?” Marlow drew himself up into a mocking example of Townsend’s stature. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Mayhew, but I thought I was engaging myself to an entirely different sister for vindictive reasons.”
“No, I won’t tell him that. I’ll tell him I didn’t understand…” He stopped, realizing how impossible such an explanation would be. “Bloody hell. I must go see my parents. Perhaps they’ll have some ideas, some way to undo this mess. My father has a persuasive way of speaking.”
Marlow and August stared back at him, their expressions communicating doubts they were too considerate to express. To break an engagement for such a ridiculous reason, because he misunderstood who she was…and the poor woman so recently rejected by Lord Hobart?
Oh God, what had he done? He hadn’t the least desire to marry an insane naturalist known for picketing outside the Exeter Exchange.
“You’ll excuse me for quitting your company, friends,” he said, pushing away the brandy. “My life seems to have taken another turn for the worse.”
“Tell your parents we said hello,” said Marlow. August continued to grimace at him, mirroring the sense of doom he felt.
*
Townsend checked in at his house to be sure his luggage had arrived, then dressed to go to dinner at his parents’. He thought of hiring a gig to their Regent’s Park mansion but decided to walk instead to disperse some of his panic, not to mention the smell of brandy on his breath. The Duke and Duchess of Lockridge normally would have been in the country by now, preparing to celebrate Christmas amid the wooded beauty of Oxfordshire. It was his fault they were still in London, awaiting his return from the Continent.
He ought to have gone to them first, as soon as he’d arrived in London. He ought to have consulted them about his plan, proposing to Lady June, or Jane, whichever one Wescott had been meant for. His parents could have told him she’d already married another man. His sister Rosalind would have known, at least; at seventeen, she was an astute observer of the marriage market.
When he arrived at the Lockridge home and greeted his mother and father, he put on a cheerful face. His mother embraced him, bringing the first sense of comfort he’d felt in a while, and he held her close an extra moment. Rosalind appeared, sweeping down the stairs in a demure white gown, her chestnut locks piled up in an intricate chignon for dinner. She was his only remaining unmarried sister, and she looked more grown up each time he saw her. He teased her about her fanciful hairstyle only to avoid his mother’s searching gaze.
From a mere hug and a kiss on the cheek, she knew something was the matter. His mother had always been that way.
They proceeded to dinner at once, the servants having planned a special feast in honor of his homecoming. His favorite dishes were brought out: curried parsnip soup, roasted rack of lamb, swiss chard with leeks, and au gratin potatoes. It was comforting to be with his family in the gilded dining room, though he could feel his mother’s eyes on him.
“Did you have a pleasant journey home?” his father asked. His hair, dark as Townsend’s, barely showed any gray. “I suppose it can get choppy, crossing the Channel in winter.”
“It was sunny, with calm waters,” he assured them. “And France was peaceful and enjoyable, for the most part.”
“After so much upheaval,” his mother said. “I’m glad. And how do you do, Edward?” she asked gently, using his Christian name.
She feared he still nursed a broken heart over Ophelia. And yes, his heart was a wasteland since he’d lost her, but the entirety of his problem was so much worse. He put down his fork and faced his parents. “I’ve done something rash, I’m afraid. Something foolish.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said his father. “I hope it’s easily fixed.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He glanced at his sister, whose eyes had gone wide. “I’ve asked someone to marry me, but I think, now, that I ought to have consulted with both of you first.”
“A French woman?” his mother asked. “Has there been an…entanglement?”
Rosalind’s eyes went wider. His sister was known for being demure and polite, but he knew a secret part of her enjoyed mayhem. Her puppy-dog crush on his friend Marlow was proof enough of that.
“Not a French woman,” he assured her. “I visited the Earl of Mayhew as soon as I arrived in London. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be a wise and just course to propose to the young woman Wescott jilted. I had this idea that it might fix everything…everything that happened between us.” And exert a measure of vengeance. He didn’t admit that part out loud, but feared it was obvious enough.
“Oh, but Lady June has already married another,” said Rosalind. “Lord Braxton, a longstanding acquaintance. They left recently for his country estate.”
“I realize that now. Unfortunately, I didn’t know she’d already married when I arrived at her father’s home. And I thought…” He sighed. “I thought her name was Jane.”
His parents stared at him. The food on his plate, so recently warm and delicious, seemed less so as he forced a forkful of lamb into his mouth.
“So, you see,” he continued after he chewed it, “I have engaged myself to Lady Jane, the younger sister, by accident.”
“When did you discover this…accident?” his father asked. Townsend had the sinking feeling he was trying not to laugh.
“I met with August and Marlow just afterward and told them I’d become engaged to Wescott’s former marriage prospect. They let me know I was mistaken.”
“My goodness,” said Rosalind, her delicate whisper too loud in the quiet room.
His mother blinked rapidly. Rosalind had gained her commendable polish at the Duchess of Lockridge’s knee. His mother disguised her surprise—her dismay?—but the blinking said everything.
“I wonder now, in hindsight, if we will suit one another,” said Townsend. “I find myself in a situation.”
“I’d say so.” His father leaned back, resting his elbows upon his chair. “Didn’t you speak to the girl herself before you set forth your proposition?”
“No, sir. She’s in Berkshire, in Reading with her mother. I spoke to her father, though, and put my name to an extensive marriage contract.”
“Ah.” The faint hint of laughter faded from the man’s dark brown eyes. “It is, indeed, a situation. You are legally engaged to Lady Jane, then. And she is of an age…?”
“She is my age,” offered Rosalind. “A few months older, perhaps.”
“Lord Mayhew said he wished for a quick wedding, a holiday wedding, and I agreed.” He could feel the flush rise beneath his tanned skin. “But, learning later that I had proposed to the wrong woman, I wish I had not.”
“Oh, my dear.” His mother’s words were soft but full of feeling. “Of all the things to do impulsively.”
“I know. I regret it.”
“But you have done it,” his father pointed out. “You offered marriage, and your suit was accepted.”
Townsend took another bite of food, forcing himself to chew it. His mother fidgeted with her silverware. Rosalind waited, watchful and still.