Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 9
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Annabelle shook her head. “We may as well not bother with dukes, as I’m not aware of any eligible ones who are under seventy years old and have any teeth remaining.”
“So intelligence and charm are negotiable, but not teeth?” Lillian said slyly, making Annabelle laugh.
“Teeth are negotiable,” Annabelle replied, “but highly preferred.”
“All right, then,” Lillian said. “Passing over the category of gummy old dukes, let’s progress to earls. I know of Lord Westcliff, for one—”
“No, not Westcliff.” Annabelle winced as she added, “He’s a cold fish—and he has no interest in me. I practically threw myself at him when I came out four years ago, and he looked at me as if I were something that had stuck on his shoe.”
“Forget Westcliff, then.” Lillian raised her brows questioningly. “What about Lord St. Vincent? Young, eligible, handsome as sin—”
“It wouldn’t work,” Annabelle said. “No matter how compromising the situation, St. Vincent would never propose. He has compromised, seduced, and utterly ruined at least a dozen women—honor means nothing to him.”
“There’s the earl of Eglinton,” Evie suggested hesitantly. “But he is quite p-p-portly, and at least fifty years old—”
“Put him on the list,” Annabelle insisted. “I can’t afford to be particular.”
“There’s Viscount Rosebury,” Lillian remarked with a little frown. “Although he’s rather an odd sort, and so…well, droopy.”
“As long as he’s firm in the pocketbook, he can be droopy everywhere else,” Annabelle said, causing the other girls to snicker. “Write him down, too.”
Ignoring the music and the couples that swirled in front of them, the four of them worked diligently on the list, occasionally making each other laugh so hard that they drew curious glances from passersby.
“Quiet,” Annabelle said, making an effort to sound stern. “We don’t want anyone to suspect what we’re planning…and wallflowers aren’t supposed to be laughing.”
They all attempted to assume grave expressions, which set off fresh spasms of giggles. “Oh, look,” Lillian gasped, regarding their ever-growing list of matrimonial prospects. “For once our dance cards are full.” Considering the roster of bachelors, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that some of these gentlemen will probably be attending Westcliff’s end of-season party in Hampshire. Daisy and I have already been invited. What about you, Annabelle?”
“I’m acquainted with one of his sisters,” Annabelle said. “I think I can get her to invite me. I’ll beg, if necessary.”
“I’ll put in a word for you as well,” Lillian said confidently. She smiled at Evie. “And I’ll have her extend an invitation to you, too.”
“How fun this will be!” Daisy exclaimed. “The plan is set, then. In a fortnight we’ll invade Hampshire and find a husband for Annabelle.” They all reached out and clasped hands, feeling silly and giddy and more than a little encouraged. Perhaps my luck is about to change, Annabelle thought, and closed her eyes with a brief prayer of hope.
CHAPTER 2
Simon Hunt had learned at an early age that since fate had not blessed him with noble blood, wealth, or unusual gifts, he would have to wrest his fortune from an often uncharitable world. He was ten times more aggressive and ambitious than the average man. People usually found it far easier to let him have his way rather than stand against him. Although Simon was domineering, perhaps even ruthless, his sleep at night was never troubled by pangs of conscience. It was a law of nature that only the strongest survived, and the weakest had better get the hell out of the way.
His father had been a butcher, providing comfortably for a family of six and enlisting Simon as his assistant when he was old enough to wield the heavy chopping blade. Years of working in his father’s shop had given Simon the massive arms and brawny shoulders of a butcher. It had always been expected that he would eventually manage the family business, but at the age of twenty-one, Simon had disappointed his father by leaving the shop in search of a different livelihood. Upon investing his small accumulation of savings, Simon had quickly discovered his true talent in life—making money.
Simon loved the language of economics, the elements of risk, the interplay of trade and industry and politics…and he had realized immediately that before long the growing British railway network would be the primary means for banks to conduct their business efficiently. The remittance of cash and securities, the creation of fast-developing investment opportunities, would depend heavily on the service of the railroad. Following his instincts, Simon invested every cent he had in railroad speculation, and was rewarded with an explosion of profits that he immediately parlayed into a diverse range of interests. Now, at thirty-three, he owned controlling portions of three manufacturing companies, a nine-acre foundry, and a shipyard. He was a guest—albeit an undesired one— in aristocratic ballrooms, and he sat shoulder to shoulder with peers on the boards of six companies.
After years of relentless work, he had gotten almost everything he had ever wanted. However, if someone had asked whether he was a happy man, Simon would have snorted at the question. Happiness, that elusive result of success, was a sure sign of complacency. By his very nature, Simon would never be complacent, or satisfied; nor did he want to be.
“So intelligence and charm are negotiable, but not teeth?” Lillian said slyly, making Annabelle laugh.
“Teeth are negotiable,” Annabelle replied, “but highly preferred.”
“All right, then,” Lillian said. “Passing over the category of gummy old dukes, let’s progress to earls. I know of Lord Westcliff, for one—”
“No, not Westcliff.” Annabelle winced as she added, “He’s a cold fish—and he has no interest in me. I practically threw myself at him when I came out four years ago, and he looked at me as if I were something that had stuck on his shoe.”
“Forget Westcliff, then.” Lillian raised her brows questioningly. “What about Lord St. Vincent? Young, eligible, handsome as sin—”
“It wouldn’t work,” Annabelle said. “No matter how compromising the situation, St. Vincent would never propose. He has compromised, seduced, and utterly ruined at least a dozen women—honor means nothing to him.”
“There’s the earl of Eglinton,” Evie suggested hesitantly. “But he is quite p-p-portly, and at least fifty years old—”
“Put him on the list,” Annabelle insisted. “I can’t afford to be particular.”
“There’s Viscount Rosebury,” Lillian remarked with a little frown. “Although he’s rather an odd sort, and so…well, droopy.”
“As long as he’s firm in the pocketbook, he can be droopy everywhere else,” Annabelle said, causing the other girls to snicker. “Write him down, too.”
Ignoring the music and the couples that swirled in front of them, the four of them worked diligently on the list, occasionally making each other laugh so hard that they drew curious glances from passersby.
“Quiet,” Annabelle said, making an effort to sound stern. “We don’t want anyone to suspect what we’re planning…and wallflowers aren’t supposed to be laughing.”
They all attempted to assume grave expressions, which set off fresh spasms of giggles. “Oh, look,” Lillian gasped, regarding their ever-growing list of matrimonial prospects. “For once our dance cards are full.” Considering the roster of bachelors, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that some of these gentlemen will probably be attending Westcliff’s end of-season party in Hampshire. Daisy and I have already been invited. What about you, Annabelle?”
“I’m acquainted with one of his sisters,” Annabelle said. “I think I can get her to invite me. I’ll beg, if necessary.”
“I’ll put in a word for you as well,” Lillian said confidently. She smiled at Evie. “And I’ll have her extend an invitation to you, too.”
“How fun this will be!” Daisy exclaimed. “The plan is set, then. In a fortnight we’ll invade Hampshire and find a husband for Annabelle.” They all reached out and clasped hands, feeling silly and giddy and more than a little encouraged. Perhaps my luck is about to change, Annabelle thought, and closed her eyes with a brief prayer of hope.
CHAPTER 2
Simon Hunt had learned at an early age that since fate had not blessed him with noble blood, wealth, or unusual gifts, he would have to wrest his fortune from an often uncharitable world. He was ten times more aggressive and ambitious than the average man. People usually found it far easier to let him have his way rather than stand against him. Although Simon was domineering, perhaps even ruthless, his sleep at night was never troubled by pangs of conscience. It was a law of nature that only the strongest survived, and the weakest had better get the hell out of the way.
His father had been a butcher, providing comfortably for a family of six and enlisting Simon as his assistant when he was old enough to wield the heavy chopping blade. Years of working in his father’s shop had given Simon the massive arms and brawny shoulders of a butcher. It had always been expected that he would eventually manage the family business, but at the age of twenty-one, Simon had disappointed his father by leaving the shop in search of a different livelihood. Upon investing his small accumulation of savings, Simon had quickly discovered his true talent in life—making money.
Simon loved the language of economics, the elements of risk, the interplay of trade and industry and politics…and he had realized immediately that before long the growing British railway network would be the primary means for banks to conduct their business efficiently. The remittance of cash and securities, the creation of fast-developing investment opportunities, would depend heavily on the service of the railroad. Following his instincts, Simon invested every cent he had in railroad speculation, and was rewarded with an explosion of profits that he immediately parlayed into a diverse range of interests. Now, at thirty-three, he owned controlling portions of three manufacturing companies, a nine-acre foundry, and a shipyard. He was a guest—albeit an undesired one— in aristocratic ballrooms, and he sat shoulder to shoulder with peers on the boards of six companies.
After years of relentless work, he had gotten almost everything he had ever wanted. However, if someone had asked whether he was a happy man, Simon would have snorted at the question. Happiness, that elusive result of success, was a sure sign of complacency. By his very nature, Simon would never be complacent, or satisfied; nor did he want to be.
