ward of the Hero of Missionary Ridge.
Their comments grew more personal. Quite something to look at. Hard to keep your eyes off her, in fact. But a dangerous sort of wife, don't you think? Older. A bit wild. Wager she wouldn't take the bit well at all. And how could a man hope to keep his mind on business with a woman like that waiting for him at home?
If she waited.
Gradually the gentlemen from Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore learned the rest of it. In the past six weeks Miss Weston had captured the interest of a dozen of New York's most eligible bachelors, only to reject them. These were men from the wealthiest families—men who would one day run the city, even the country—but she didn't seem to care.
As for those she did seem to favor… That was what galled the most. She picked the least likely men. Bertrand Mayhew, for example, who came from a good family but was virtually penniless and hadn't been able to make a decision on his own since his mother died. Then there was Hobart Cheney, a man with neither money nor looks, only an unfortunate stammer. The delicious Miss Weston's preferences were incomprehensible. She was passing over Van Rensselaers, Livingstons, and Jays for Bertrand Mayhew and Hobart Cheney.
The mothers were relieved. They very much enjoyed Miss Weston's company—she made them laugh and was sympathetic to their ailments. But she wasn't quite up to scratch as a daughter-in-law, was she? Forever tearing a flounce or losing a glove. Her hair was never entirely neat, always a lock tumbling about at her ears or curling at her temples. As for the bold way she looked one in the eye… refreshing, but at the same time discomposing. No, Miss Weston wouldn't make the right sort of wife for their sons at all.
Kit was aware of the opinion the society matrons had of her, and she didn't blame them for it. As a Templeton Girl, she even understood. At the same time, she didn't let it distract her from entertaining her partners with the breathless Southern conversation she'd perfected by calling up memories of the women in Rutherford. Now, however, her partner was poor Hobart Cheney, who was barely capable of maintaining a conversation under the best of circumstances, let alone when he was counting dance steps so vigorously under his breath, so she remained silent.
Mr. Cheney stumbled, but Elsbeth had coached her well for the past three years, and Kit led him back into the steps before anyone noticed. She also gave him her brightest smile so he wouldn't realize he was actually following her. Poor Mr. Cheney would never know how close he'd come to being her chosen husband. If he'd been a trifle less intelligent, she might have picked him because he was a sweet man. As it was, Bertrand Mayhew presented the better choice.
She glimpsed Mr. Mayhew standing off by himself, waiting for the first of two dances that she had promised him. She felt the familiar heaviness that settled over her whenever she looked at him, spoke with him, or even thought of him.
He wasn't much taller than she, and his belly protruded below the waistband of his trousers like a woman's. At forty, he'd lived his life in the shadow of his mother, and now that she was dead, he desperately needed a woman to take her place. Kit had decided she would be that woman.
Elsbeth was upset, pointing out that Kit could have any of a dozen eligible men who were both richer than Bertrand Mayhew and less distasteful. But Elsbeth understood. To get Risen Glory back, Kit needed power from her marriage, not riches, and a husband who expected her to behave like a properly submissive wife was of no use to her at all.
Kit knew it wouldn't be difficult to persuade Bertrand to use the money in her trust fund to buy back Risen Glory, nor would she have trouble convincing him to live there permanently. Because of that, she suppressed the part of her that wished she could have found a husband who was less repugnant. After the midnight supper, she would take him to
Their comments grew more personal. Quite something to look at. Hard to keep your eyes off her, in fact. But a dangerous sort of wife, don't you think? Older. A bit wild. Wager she wouldn't take the bit well at all. And how could a man hope to keep his mind on business with a woman like that waiting for him at home?
If she waited.
Gradually the gentlemen from Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore learned the rest of it. In the past six weeks Miss Weston had captured the interest of a dozen of New York's most eligible bachelors, only to reject them. These were men from the wealthiest families—men who would one day run the city, even the country—but she didn't seem to care.
As for those she did seem to favor… That was what galled the most. She picked the least likely men. Bertrand Mayhew, for example, who came from a good family but was virtually penniless and hadn't been able to make a decision on his own since his mother died. Then there was Hobart Cheney, a man with neither money nor looks, only an unfortunate stammer. The delicious Miss Weston's preferences were incomprehensible. She was passing over Van Rensselaers, Livingstons, and Jays for Bertrand Mayhew and Hobart Cheney.
The mothers were relieved. They very much enjoyed Miss Weston's company—she made them laugh and was sympathetic to their ailments. But she wasn't quite up to scratch as a daughter-in-law, was she? Forever tearing a flounce or losing a glove. Her hair was never entirely neat, always a lock tumbling about at her ears or curling at her temples. As for the bold way she looked one in the eye… refreshing, but at the same time discomposing. No, Miss Weston wouldn't make the right sort of wife for their sons at all.
Kit was aware of the opinion the society matrons had of her, and she didn't blame them for it. As a Templeton Girl, she even understood. At the same time, she didn't let it distract her from entertaining her partners with the breathless Southern conversation she'd perfected by calling up memories of the women in Rutherford. Now, however, her partner was poor Hobart Cheney, who was barely capable of maintaining a conversation under the best of circumstances, let alone when he was counting dance steps so vigorously under his breath, so she remained silent.
Mr. Cheney stumbled, but Elsbeth had coached her well for the past three years, and Kit led him back into the steps before anyone noticed. She also gave him her brightest smile so he wouldn't realize he was actually following her. Poor Mr. Cheney would never know how close he'd come to being her chosen husband. If he'd been a trifle less intelligent, she might have picked him because he was a sweet man. As it was, Bertrand Mayhew presented the better choice.
She glimpsed Mr. Mayhew standing off by himself, waiting for the first of two dances that she had promised him. She felt the familiar heaviness that settled over her whenever she looked at him, spoke with him, or even thought of him.
He wasn't much taller than she, and his belly protruded below the waistband of his trousers like a woman's. At forty, he'd lived his life in the shadow of his mother, and now that she was dead, he desperately needed a woman to take her place. Kit had decided she would be that woman.
Elsbeth was upset, pointing out that Kit could have any of a dozen eligible men who were both richer than Bertrand Mayhew and less distasteful. But Elsbeth understood. To get Risen Glory back, Kit needed power from her marriage, not riches, and a husband who expected her to behave like a properly submissive wife was of no use to her at all.
Kit knew it wouldn't be difficult to persuade Bertrand to use the money in her trust fund to buy back Risen Glory, nor would she have trouble convincing him to live there permanently. Because of that, she suppressed the part of her that wished she could have found a husband who was less repugnant. After the midnight supper, she would take him to
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