Mr. Hunt, I Presume (Playful Brides, #10.5)(36)

Mother delivered another long-suffering sigh. She touched one perfectly manicured fingertip to each of her temples. “I don’t even want to know what you meant by that. But no, it’s not about any of those things.” Her mother’s hands returned to settle motionless in her lap.

Delilah watched with awe. She’d never been able to master the art of sitting perfectly still. She also hadn’t mastered the arts of speaking fluent French, being patient, pouring tea without spilling it, keeping her clothing clean and rip-free, or any of a number of other things she’d tried. And all of her shortcomings were a source of unending shame to her mother.

Delilah pressed her lips together, but she couldn’t keep her slipper from tapping the floor. When would she learn it was always better to allow Mother to speak first? The conversation tended to be less incriminating that way. “What would you like to speak to me about, Mother?” she forced herself to ask in the primmest voice she could muster. Mother had always valued primness.

Mother straightened her shoulders and pursed her lips. “It’s about your marriage.”

A sinking feeling started in Delilah’s chest and made its way to the bottom of her belly, where it sat, making her feel as if she’d swallowed a tiny anvil. She’d known this day would come, known it for years, but she had merely hoped it wouldn’t arrive quite so ... soon.

“You’ll be three and twenty next month,” Mother continued.

A fact. “Yes, Mother.”

“That is far beyond the age a respectable young woman should take a husband.”

That depended upon what one considered respectable, didn’t it? It also depended on whether one’s goal was respectability. “Yes, Mother.”

“You’ve spent the last five Seasons running about with the Duchess of Claringdon, playing matchmaker for other young ladies.”

True. “Yes, Mother.” Delilah managed to stop her foot from tapping, but her toes continued to wiggle in her slipper.

“You don’t seem to have given so much as a thought to your own match.”

Also true. “Yes, Mother.” Was it her fault if it was much more diverting to find matches for other people than to worry about a courtship for herself? When she was a girl, she’d looked forward to being courted by handsome gentlemen. But that had been years ago, before she’d grown up to be entirely unmatchable. She’d always known she would have to try to make her own match eventually, however. Someday. Apparently Mother’s patience was at an end.

“I daresay your friendship with Huntley hasn’t been a good influence. He also refuses to make a match. And he’s a duke, for heaven’s sake. He’ll need an heir someday.”

Delilah winced. It was never good when Mother mentioned Thomas. The two could barely stand each other. “Thomas doesn’t exactly believe in marriage.”

“Yes, well, you’d better start believing in it.” Mother’s highly judgmental eyebrow arched again. “This is your sixth Season, and it’s nearly over.”

Yes, but who was counting? And why did Mother have to pronounce the word sixth as if it were blasphemy? She sounded like a snake hissing.

“I insist you secure an engagement this year,” Mother continued. “If you do not, I shall be forced to ensure one is made for you.”

Delilah shot from her chair. “No! Mother!” Her fists clenched at her sides.

Mother’s brow lifted yet again, and she eyed her daughter scornfully until Delilah lowered herself back into her seat. She managed to unclench her fists, but her foot resumed the tapping.

Mother pursed her lips. “You fancy yourself the ton’s matchmaker, my dear. It’s high time you made your own match.”

Delilah took a deep breath and blew it out. Then she took another one for good measure. Aunt Willie had taught her that little trick when dealing with her mother. How Aunt Willie and Aunt Lenore, her cousin Daphne’s mother, had grown up with Mother and been so different, so happy and nice and pleasant, Delilah would never know. The three sisters couldn’t have been more dissimilar.

After the third steadying breath, Delilah forced herself to think. Marriage. Very well. This was actually happening. She would have to make a match by the end of the Season. She gulped. Next month.

“Of course, you’ll have to find someone who is willing to put up with your ...” Her mother eyed her up and down again. “Eccentricities. But there are plenty of young men of the Quality who are in need of a hefty dowry. I suggest you set your sights on one of them.”

Delilah blinked back tears. She refused to let her mother see her cry. She hadn’t allowed it since she’d been a girl. When Papa died. That was when Mother had informed her that crying was for people who had no control over their emotions, something Delilah had always struggled with. Her emotions tended to immediately register on her face. That was just one of the many reasons she had always been a terrible disappointment to her mother. It was obvious, and had been for years.

But Delilah had always intended to make a good match. She had. She’d merely been ... distracted. Why, together, she and Lucy had made splendid matches for all of Delilah’s friends. Lady Eleanor Rothschild, Lady Clara Pennington, and Lady Anna Maxwell. Those young ladies had made their debuts with Delilah, and one by one they’d been married off to charming, handsome, titled gentlemen of the aristocracy ... in love matches, no less.