Page 10 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

As if that were the only consideration! What about compatibility? What about friendship? What about love?

Not to mention the fact that Stella would rather almost anything than end her days in Derbyshire, less than five miles from her brother, cursed to spend the rest of her life in the same deplorable state in which she’d entered it. A shadow. A secondary concern. And wed to a stodgy old farmer besides. A man who, on their marriage, would have rights to her meager funds. To her body. To her horse!

But Stella wouldn’t sour Anne’s moment with self-pity over her own situation.

“I expect it was inevitable,” she said, smiling. “We’re all of an age, and we are taking part in the London season. Marriage is the goal, is it not?”

“It never was for me,” Anne said. “Not to any other gentleman but Hartford, certainly. Once you’ve experienced true love, it’s impossible to settle for anything less.”

“Nor why should you?” Stella returned. No one should have to settle for a loveless match. Not even country girls with gray hair and no great fortune to speak of.

As ever, Anne appeared to comprehend the trend of Stella’s thoughts. “You won’t have to settle, either.” She clasped Stella’s hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve six more days left at Sutton Park. That’s ample time to meet a suitable gentleman. If it’s truly marriage that you want.”

“What I want,” Stella said, steering the conversation back on its proper course, “is to find but a fraction of the happiness you have, dearest. How well the state becomes you.” She summoned back a smile, even brighter than before. “Now, tell me again how Mr. Hartford proposed. I long to hear every romantic detail!”

The following evening, after dinner, Stella and the rest of the guests repaired to the Earl of March’s capacious drawing room. Papered in apple-green silk damask and furnished in grand rococo style, it was lit by a pair of magnificent Italian crystal montgolfière chandeliers. The whole of the room had been decorated for Christmas with pine boughs, garlands of holly and ivy, and a towering tree that glittered with blazing candles and gilded fruit.

A line of liveried servants awaited them, armed with trays of celebratory champagne, in anticipation of the earl’s formal announcement of his grandson’s engagement.

The news wasn’t exactly a secret. The assembled company had already been buzzing with whispers all day, stealing covert glances at Mr. Hartford, the earl, and the earl’s eldest son, Viscount Brookdale.

“I daresay people have already guessed what the announcement’s to be,” Stella said to Anne as they collected their glasses of champagne from a passing footman.

“It’s not the engagement they’ve guessed at,” Anne returned. “It’s the source of the drama that embroiled the family last night in the library.”

Stella’s brows lifted in inquiry. Though her friend had referenced familial chaos, she’d yet to go into the particulars.

But Anne was no more inclined to explain now than she’d been in Stella’s room last night. “It’s not my secret to tell,” she said.

Mr. Hartford stood on the opposite side of Anne, his hand resting rather possessively at the small of Anne’s back. He was a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman, with seal-brown hair and blue eyes that were forever alive with droll humor. “If it is still a secret,” he said mildly, “it won’t be for long.”

Stella looked between them. “What happened?”

“Do you see that gentleman standing next to my cousin?” Mr. Hartford asked.

Stella followed his gaze. Across the room, Mariah Spriggs, the stepdaughter of Mr. Hartford’s uncle, Viscount Brookdale, stood near the doors with a handsome, dark-haired young man. The two of them were holding twin glasses of champagne, smiling at each other as they conversed.

Mr. Hartford lowered his voice. “That gentleman is Marcus Neale. My half brother.”

Stella’s eyes jolted back to Mr. Hartford in immediate understanding. He didn’t have any siblings. Nor half siblings. Not that she was aware. Which meant—

“Exactly,” Anne said, reading Stella’s thoughts. “Mr. Neale was born on the wrong side of the blanket. His existence came as something of a surprise to the earl and Viscount Brookdale.”

It was an understatement if Stella had ever heard one. The Earl of March may be a genial, absent-minded botanist, perpetually tottering about in soil-stained clothing with his white hair standing half on end, but his son and heir, Viscount Brookdale, had a reputation for being one of the most severe, straitlaced, and morally upright members in parliament. The fact that Lord Brookdale’s equally moralistic late younger brother had sired an illegitimate child must have come as a profound shock.

“Has the earl acknowledged him?” Stella asked. “More to the point, has Lord Brookdale?”

“They will,” Mr. Hartford said with unwavering certainty.

But not tonight, it appeared. Tonight was for happy news, not for scandal.

Separating himself from the assembled company, the Earl of March moved to stand in front of the room. He raised his voice above the murmurs of the fashionably clad guests still milling about. “Ladies and gentlemen. Esteemed guests. I ask you to raise your glasses on this, the happiest of occasions.”

Stella obligingly raised her glass. She exchanged a giddy smile with Anne.

Anne was beaming. Beside her, Hartford wore a broad smile of his own. His face shone with warmth as he gazed down at his soon-to-be bride.

“I’m pleased to announce the engagement of my grandson, Felix Hartford, to Lady Anne Deveril, daughter of my dearest friend, the Countess of Arundell.” Lord March lifted his glass high. The champagne sparkled like liquid gold in the blaze of candlelight from the chandelier above him. “A toast to their health and happiness, and to a long and fruitful marriage!”