Loving Lord Egleton: A Regency Romance (Regency Matchmakers Book 3) by Laura Beers (reading list txt) 📗

His father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I do not need a lecture from you.”

“Apparently, you do.”

A knock came at the door before Moreland stepped into the room. “Lord Whittingham and Lady Isabella have arrived.”

“Thank you, Moreland,” his father said.

Moreland tipped his head in acknowledgement before he departed from the room.

Martin’s father gestured towards the door. “Are you ready to meet your betrothed?”

“She is not my betrothed,” he grumbled. “You seem to forget that I have not agreed to this madness.”

“But you will.”

“How can you be so confident?”

“Because I know you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Marianne and your mother’s future.”

Martin frowned. “I can’t help but point out that you don’t seem to have any qualms about that, or else we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

His father dismissed his comment with a wave of his hand. “One day, you will recognize all the sacrifices I have made for this family.” He walked over to the door. “I will see you in the drawing room.”

Martin gulped down his drink and put the empty glass back on the tray. He walked towards the drawing room with dread in each step. He was not overly familiar with Lady Isabella, but he had seen her on a few occasions at social gatherings. Though he wasn’t one to listen to the gossips, he’d heard rumors of her haughty behavior.

He stepped into the drawing room and saw Lady Isabella standing next to her tall, burly father. Her blonde hair was piled high on top of her head, drawing attention to her long neck, and she was wearing a revealing pink gown with a square neckline. She was not overly beautiful with her wide face, but he could see how some men might find her attractive.

Before Martin could greet Lady Isabella and her father, Marianne came to stand next to him. “Why did Father invite her?” she whispered.

“He’s trying to force my hand.”

Marianne looked at him curiously. “Will it work?”

“No, it will not.”

“That’s a relief, because I’m afraid I can’t stand Lady Isabella.”

“Why is that?”

A playful smile came to Marianne’s lips. “Where is the fun in telling you?” she asked. “I have no doubt that you will discover that on your own.”

“Surely she can’t be that bad?”

“Do fish swim?” she joked.

Before he could reply, his father came up from behind him. “Allow me to introduce you to Lady Isabella.”

“If you must.”

His father nodded. “It is best to get this out of the way.”

They walked the short distance to where Lady Isabella and Lord Whittingham were standing. As Martin came to a stop in front of her, his father provided the introductions. “Lady Isabella,” he began, “please allow me to introduce you to my son, Lord Egleton.”

Martin bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Lady Isabella dropped into a low curtsy, giving him an ample view of her bosom. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord,” she said in a sultry voice.

As he averted his gaze, his mother stepped into the room and announced dinner was ready.

Knowing what was expected of him, he turned his attention back to Lady Isabella. “Would you allow me to escort you into dinner?”

“I would greatly appreciate that.”

Martin offered his arm, and she stepped forward, placing her hand on his. They walked into the dining room in silence, and he assisted Lady Isabella into her seat. He reluctantly claimed the chair next to her. Marianne was smiling at him from across the table. Evidently, she was quite amused by all of this.

Lady Isabella leaned towards him. “Your townhouse is so quaint.”

“Quaint?” he repeated. His townhouse had been called many things over the years, but no one had ever called it ‘quaint’ before.

“Yes,” she replied. “Our townhouse used to be similar, until Father allowed me to redecorate. I grew tired of all the outdated finishes.”

Lord Whittingham spoke up. “Isabella did a wonderful job of modernizing our townhouse.”

Isabella smiled proudly at her father’s praise. “Thank you, Father,” she acknowledged. “I discovered I have a knack for that sort of thing.”

“I am not surprised, since Isabella excels at everything she touches,” Lord Whittingham said. “I have never seen such an accomplished young woman.”

Martin’s father spoke up from the head of the table. “Is that so?”

Lord Whittingham nodded. “My daughter can speak five languages and is proficient at three different instruments.”

“That is impressive, isn’t it, son?” the marquess asked.

“It is, Father,” Martin agreed.

Isabella leaned to the side as a footman placed a bowl of soup in front of her. “I cannot take all the credit, especially since I attended such an elite boarding school.”

“Which one?” Marianne asked.

“Mrs. Taylor’s Boarding School in Ponder’s End, Middlesex,” Lady Isabella replied. “May I ask where you went to boarding school?”

Marianne shifted her gaze towards her mother before replying, “My mother preferred I stayed at home, so I was brought up by a governess.”

Lady Isabella bobbed her head. “A governess is perfectly acceptable, but I discovered I required more education than what most of them had to offer.”

“Isabella has always had a thirst for knowledge,” Lord Whittingham shared. “She is a voracious reader, but she knows to avoid topics that are not appropriate for genteel women.”

“It is true,” Lady Isabella replied. “I would never want to do anything that would embarrass my family or position in Society.”

Martin picked up his spoon and began eating his soup. He couldn’t seem to think of any place that he wouldn’t rather be than here.

“Do you ride, my lord?” Lady Isabella asked him.

He wiped the sides of his mouth with his napkin, delaying his entry into the conversation. “I do.”

“I have been looking for a new riding partner, since my last one was not to my satisfaction,” Lady Isabella said.

“And why is that?” he asked, feigning interest.

“I am a superb rider, and very few people can keep up with me,” Lady Isabella shared. “Frankly, it is a blessing and a curse.”

Martin gave her a weak smile. “If you are such a gifted rider, I would hate to hinder you with my insufficient riding abilities.”

A pout