Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7)

many couples, something he had never noticed before his own engagement. Now he could not stop seeing them. The whole world seemed to be arranged in pairs, and his own arranged marriage would force him into the same pattern.
“I did not like the roast beef,” his mother was saying quietly, “such a heavy food to serve at a wedding. At yours, we will choose…”
Arranged marriage…it was barbaric! Charles’s jaw clenched as he recalled the debate with his mother about it six months ago. But arranged marriages were what the Orrinshires did – had done, for hundreds of years. This was not something he could escape.
His gaze caught a glimpse of almost white-blonde hair, and he quickly looked at his boots. He did not know whether it was Miss Lloyd, but her distinctive hair was rare, even in the north where his primary seat was held. Down near London, it was rarer still.
Heat rushed through his body as Charles berated himself silently. What difference did it make it he saw Miss Lloyd at old Donal’s wedding? She was pretty enough, interesting enough to hold a conversation for more than two minutes.
At least, he was almost sure she could. Along with the Orrinshire traditions of mothers choosing brides for their sons was the expectation that the two lovebirds – and Charles could not help a sarcastic sigh at this thought – would barely speak with each other.
It was all Miss Ashbrooke’s doing. That matchmaker had worked even quicker than he had thought possible, and before he knew it, he was engaged.
“The favors were simply delightful. We shall have to find out where the Wynns found such elegant wrappings.”
Because most importantly, Miss Lloyd was wealthy. Charles felt his hands ball into fists and forced himself to relax them. This was not the place to allow his thoughts to overwhelm him. He was at a wedding. Most weddings were supposed to be joyful occasions.
“ – and I think,” the dowager’s voice moved to a whisper, finally catching her son’s attention, “we should not permit so many bluestockings to come in. Look at them. They are everywhere!”
She nodded meaningfully to a group of ladies just to their left. Charles looked over his mother’s shoulder at some of the ladies Mariah Wynn – Mariah O’Leary, Viscountess Donal now, of course – had been introduced to him at her graduation.
Shame rushed through his bones. His mother was so…well, old fashioned.
“Mama,” he said quietly, dropping his voice so none around could hear. “I have been introduced to several of those ladies, each of them charming, intelligent, and well worth knowing.”
The dowager stared with unabashed surprise. “Really? Do you think it worth my time attempting an acquaintance with any of them or their mothers?”
Charles’s stomach clenched at the way his mother stared, but the heat of his discomfort only increased by the very sure knowledge that a month ago, he would have thought and acted in the same way. Mariah had taught him a huge amount in a short time, but that did not erase the errors of his past.
“Mama,” he said gently, “bluestockings may not dress to our tastes, but many of them are well-born, well-bred, and well-spoken. Those who are not, have immense intelligence and wit, and I do believe will one day contribute as much to society as…well as we do.”
It was all he could do to stifle a laugh. Orrinshires, contributes to society? No, his ancestors had prided themselves on surviving. Always an Orrinshire lad to take on the name, always heaps of servants to do his bidding, and an arranged marriage every twenty years or so kept it all going.
Charles worked hard to keep the bitterness from his features. His mother had his best interests at heart, that was certain, even if they fundamentally disagreed on what those were.
“Hmm,” said Lady Audley, casting another intrigued look at the bluestockings, who Charles could see were recommending books to each other at an almost unbelievable speed. “Well, whatever you say, Charles. I did not approve of the church service, naturally – Latin! I had no idea the viscount was a…a Catholic.”
Charles’s patience with his mother was not infinite. “He is Irish, Mama. What did you expect?”
The dowager glared, searching for a hint of cheek, but unable to find any, she continued, “Well, I do not think we need to concern ourselves with that, at any rate. The Lloyds are an excellent Protestant family, and so I think the readings should be…”
Her words became part of the background hubbub as Charles looked up and saw them. The happy couple. Mariah and Patrick were standing at one side of the room, utterly oblivious to the chaos occurring around them, eyes only for each other.
Something bitter twisted his mouth. Envy was a very uncouth emotion, and one that should have been bred out of him by now. An Orrinshire, envious of another gentleman?
But he was a little envious. There they were together, without any family involvement forcing their way toward a match. Well, almost no family involvement. Charles had only met Edward Wynn once or twice, but he seemed a nice fellow.
Mariah said something Charles could not catch, but he could see Patrick laugh, his hand entwined with hers.
To think, a month ago they did not know each other. Now Mariah was Viscountess Donal, and they would go back to Ireland. A whirlwind romance.
Charles’s jaw set once again. There would be no whirlwind romance for him. If he was going to retain the family honor, do what was expected of him, and continue the family line, he needed to marry money. His mother had made that perfectly clear, and Miss Lloyd had been the first to accept him. She would be his bride, and that was an end to it.
“The sleeves I thought were most elegant, the stitching very refined,” the dowager was saying. “I believe Miss Lloyd should take note of that. Remind me, Charles, to mention it to Mrs. Lloyd when we next –”
“Mother,” Charles said firmly, keeping his voice low. This had gone on