like they were young loves.
The memory warmed Wentworth. “You miss father?”
“Every day.” She cast him a birdlike look of inquiry. “Do you?”
He jerked. “Mother?”
“I only asked because you rarely speak of him.”
Wentworth drew in a deep, steady breath. “I might not think of him every day or speak of him often, but he is in my heart, mother, and he lingers in the shadows of everything I do. When I am working on an equation, and it frustrates me, I can hear his voice in my head, a calm and encouraging force that has never failed me.”
How was he just realizing with his father gone, and Wentworth a grown man she could no longer fuss over, his mother desired someone to dote on—grandchildren. Now he understood why she spent so much time with Aunt Millicent and the girls. “And who are these ladies you think will make me a good match?”
His mother’s face brightened as if he’d handed her the keys to a kingdom.
“Oh, Wentworth,” she cried, clapping her hands together. “At first, I thought someone the opposite of your reserved nature would be perfect. And I thought Miss Mary, Lord Barton’s daughter, would be that person. She is incredibly beautiful, but not too bright. Miss Mary is also overly concerned with fashion and who’s who in society. I think you would tire of that soon. Miss Sheffield is a bit of a bluestocking, very bookish, and even formed a literary saloon right in her father’s home. She is a lovely girl, but I am not sure of the advantage of putting two people together who lose themselves in books and academic pursuits.”
“Is that not the same as putting two people together who like attending balls and social events? They will merely have pursuits in common, which is a good thing for any marriage, I might imagine.”
His mother smiled widely. “Wonderful, so I might rely on you to ask Miss Sheffield for a dance at the ball. Perhaps two. I will invite her to stay with us for a few days, you could be very discreet but take long walks with her, go riding around the lanes, see if you like her.”
Something in him recoiled at that notion, and his heart lurched. Wentworth took the time to recall the ladies his mother spoke about. “I’ve met these ladies?”
“You have, and this season you partnered Miss Mary in a quadrille and even a waltz. You made such a charming pair.”
“Mother,” Wentworth began thoughtfully, “I doubted I made an impression on these ladies.”
“Oh, pish, you are very charming when—”
“And mother, I do not recall these ladies, though I am sure they were lovely with fine qualities. But they are not the sort of ladies I would look to court. I will be quite fine in selecting the lady I want to be my wife,” he said, “with no interference from you, mother.”
Wentworth liked his ladies to have spunk, daring, charming wit, and if he wooed a lady, it would be a woman like Miss Juliana Pryce. But what traits should his wife have? Should they share similar interests, or be opposites, or should their compatibility be based purely on the heart? With every passing hour, the liking he felt for Juliana intensified, and she wasn’t even in the same room. To be wholly consumed by one’s wife must be a boon for matrimony.
“Of course, I would heartily approve whoever you select after whatever experiment you conduct,” his mother said with a cheeky smile. “Why do you appear so astonished? Do you not recall that even as a child to select the dishes you wished to eat, you wanted to run an experiment?”
Wentworth laughed, a surge of love for her going through his heart. He recalled how much she had indulged his whims and eccentricities. How proud she’d been of him when he’d been granted early admission into University.
“I have a most marvelous notion,” the countess said, coming to her feet. “I will send a letter to Miss Sheffield and ask her to visit. Perhaps once you see Miss Sheffield, you might remember her and that you had liked her.”
Wentworth stood and firmly said, “Mother, no. I will not hesitate to boot her from my home, and I daresay my rudeness might be considered another eccentricity.”
She scowled. “I—”
At her sharp inhalation, he went over to her, gently clasping her shoulders. “What is it?”
“You…you have someone in your heart,” she said, her eyes misting. “I can see it now. My dear son!”
Wentworth stiffened and