Chosen by the Lieutenant. Anne Herries
not say. An officer in peacetime spent most of his life lounging around or parading his men for want of something better to do, which led to boredom and quite often excessive gambling or drinking. Phipps’s father might well demand some improvement in his situation—but how? Phipps knew that in his father’s eyes he was a disappointment, for which he felt deep regret, but it was not easy to match up to a brother who bestrode the world like a young god.
Calling for his valet to lay out his evening clothes, Phipps went into the dressing room to wash and shave. Maggs had put out his shaving things and there was warm water in the blue-and-white bowl. He was a good man and had served with Phipps in the army throughout the troubles with Napoleon.
It would be a huge wrench to let the man go, as it would his grooms—and his horses...
Lord! Surely things were not as bad as all that? Phipps felt slightly sick as he remembered that the sum of his debts was almost five thousand pounds. How had he allowed them to mount to such a sum?
Of course there was the generous wedding gift of silver for Jack and Charlotte’s wedding...but that only accounted for a few hundred guineas. Letting his thoughts drift away for a few minutes, Phipps remembered how happy his friend had been on his wedding day. He’d stood as Jack’s best man and it had been a real pleasure to make that speech and see the delightful pair emerge from church...of course Charlotte was beautiful.
Most of his particular friends were now either married or engaged, Phipps reflected as he scraped the soap from his chin, studying his face in the mirror Maggs had set for him. Phipps supposed marriage might be the answer to his problems, though he would have preferred some other way of settling his debts. It was rather demeaning to offer for an heiress, knowing that at some time soon after the wedding one would have to dip into her fortune to settle his wretched affairs. Although in theory a woman’s fortune became her husband’s on marriage, there was normally a contract securing an income to her and the most part of the capital to her children. To stipulate that a large portion be allotted for his personal use would make Phipps feel like a beggar.
Besides, having once offered for a lady he had believed to feel some affection for him and whom he had loved in return, only for her to marry a rich man twice her age, he was apprehensive of making an offer to any lady.
What had he, a mere second son, to tempt any lady of fortune?
Phipps had delayed looking seriously for a bride for months. Had he been able to find some gainful employment he would surely have done so before this, but it was not easy. He’d offered his services to Lord Piper, but his father had good agents and did not trust him to replace them. His army pay in peacetime was scarcely enough to keep him in boots and certainly not enough to set up a family.
Unless he could find employment as an estate manager—or perhaps a political secretary?—he must marry an heiress, Phipps admitted with a deep sigh. The devil of it was that he knew of only two who were likely to look on him with favour and were rich enough not to bother that he needed a large sum almost immediately.
Miss Cynthia Langton and Miss Amanda Hamilton: one beautiful and proud, the other a pleasant little dumpling who might have been passably pretty had she been a stone lighter.
He had formed a part of their court for the past two months or more. Miss Hamilton was always to be seen with her beautiful friend, which meant that most of Miss Langton’s suitors ended up sitting at her side and talking to her, quite often of her friend’s beauty. Phipps had found himself relegated to that position less often than most, for, wonder of wonders, Miss Langton seemed often to smile on him. She would accept a cup of iced lemonade from his hand, allow him to dance with her twice at balls, take her walking in the park—with Miss Hamilton and another gentleman—take her driving to various places of interest, with Miss Hamilton following behind in the curricle of another gentleman.
Had Miss Langton been less beautiful and not so universally admired, Phipps would probably have offered for her long ago, but he doubted that she would take him. Her fortune was sufficient not to look for it in her husband, but she did look for rank and it all came back to the fact that Phipps was a younger son. His brother Alex was just a year older and in the best of health, which meant that he had no hope of ever stepping into his shoes—nor would he wish to since it would mean his brother’s demise. They might not be bosom friends, but were fond enough as a rule.
Only by making a distinguished career for himself could he hope to engage the interest of a lady wealthy enough to pay his debts and keep them both in the luxury he and she would enjoy.
Phipps looked himself squarely in the eyes and admitted the truth. Miss Langton might flirt with him, she might encourage him to dangle after her, but she would not marry a younger son with few prospects.
Which left him with the alternative. Miss Hamilton might not be a beauty, but she had many fine qualities: a sense of humour, a ready mind and a generous heart. In short, Phipps liked her, but that was a part of the problem. He knew that he was not in love with either of the heiresses. He did not know of a lady who made him want to die for love of her, to swoon at her feet or fight to protect her. There had been that one unfortunate experience, when he was a green youth, but that had taught him to look beneath the surface, if one did not wish to be burned.
Indeed, rather like his friend Jack, he’d thought that romance was grossly overrated. A man should look for comfort in his home and take a beautiful mistress for his other needs. Given this, it hardly mattered what this proverbial wife looked like, providing she was good-hearted.
So, why had he not asked Miss Hamilton to marry him weeks ago?
Phipps was not a vain man, but he knew that her smile lit up her eyes when he went to sit next to her and she always seemed happy to dance with him—so why not ask her to be his wife? He was pretty sure she would take him if he asked.
A rueful grin touched his mouth. His wretched sense of honour had made him hold back. She might not be beautiful, but she was a thoroughly nice girl and it would be wrong to take advantage of her good nature. Had she been in need of protection from the fortune-hunters, Phipps might have persuaded himself that by asking her he was protecting her from men who would run through her fortune in a year and treat her abominably. He himself would do no such thing. If she gave him her hand, Phipps would do all he could to make her happy and try to increase her fortune—but would it be enough?
She was entitled to be loved for herself. Phipps was too honest to lie, and to admit that he would marry her because he could see no other way out of his debts would be to insult her. She did not deserve to be so shabbily treated! He believed that more than one unscrupulous fellow had already made the attempt and been sent away with his hopes dashed.
Phipps would find that extremely humiliating!
Suddenly, the funny side of it struck him. He could not insult Miss Hamilton by asking her to wed him, and, though he might attempt Miss Langton, he believed his efforts would be doomed to failure.
No, he must simply make some economies. Perhaps if he sold both his horses and his commission, and returned to the country for a few months he would come about—and who knew, he might fall in love with a girl who just happened to be rich. Jack had fallen in love despite the odds, why not Phipps?
He had no time to dwell on his problems now, for he was engaged to Brock for an evening at his house: dinner, cards and music was promised and it would be a popular event, for Lord Brockley’s elder son was much sought by hopeful mamas, though they hunted in vain. Brock was an avowed bachelor and had recently won a large bet with Jack Delsey over which of them would marry first.
Brock’s aunt was hosting the party at his large town house that evening. She was a cheerful, hearty widow who laughed loudly and resembled a horse, but was a good sort who neglected nothing in the comfort of her guests.
Emerging from his dressing room clothed in shirt and evening breeches, Phipps allowed his valet to help him struggle into a velvet coat that fit like a second skin. His hair combed into a style that was known as windswept and suited his dark locks to perfection, he allowed his valet to hand him snowy-white cravats that he then, by dint of lowering his chin, formed into perfect creases. It was not quite