The Second Mrs Darcy by Elizabeth Aston

worth having, but you say the second Mrs. D is landed safely on these shores, so she lives to enjoy her share of the inheritance. I dare say I’ll have her or that prosy brother of hers coming round begging me to give her an annuity or some such thing. I shan’t, of course, that family of hers can’t let her starve, andshe’s no responsibility of mine if she can’t live on what her husband left her.”
    â€œWhich was little enough. I suppose he expected her to bear him a son and heir, what a mercy he was carried off before that could happen. It is fortunate for you that India has such a very unhealthy climate, where insect bites and the like can finish you off; that doesn’t happen in Wiltshire that I ever heard.”
    â€œNo, down there you die of boredom instead.” He raised a languid hand. “No need to remonstrate with me. It’s a devilish neat property, and will bring me a tidy little income, which I can do with.”
    â€œHave a word with Arthur Melbury before you pay your duty call on Mrs. Darcy, so that she has no expectations of any kind, knows that your visit is purely a matter of form.”
    â€œLord, how tedious duty is. She’s only a half sister to the rest of that Melbury lot, ain’t she?”
    â€œYes, Sir Clement married her mother in an aberrant moment; she was from a family in trade, not in any great way, neither. At least she had the grace to expire in childbirth, and the third Lady Melbury was unexceptionable, if dull.”
    George Warren was surprised by Octavia when he paid a visit to the house in Lothian Street. There was a glint in her eye, as though she were laughing at him, which he didn’t care for, and an air of confidence about her; what right had a poor widow to look as though she hadn’t a care in the world? And for all her half-mourning grey dress—not badly cut, either; George was a connoisseur of women’s clothes—she looked far from full of grief. But she had the decency to look more sombre when he spoke of Christopher; in flattering terms, although the truth was that he and Captain Darcy hadn’t got on well together, chalk and cheese.
    The matter of money, of his inheritance, of her slight income, was not raised. And the only reference she made to Dalcombe House, the house where she might have expected to spend many years of her married life, was when she said that if she were at any time in Wiltshire, she would like to see the house where Christopher had been born and grew up, and which he loved so much.
    He couldn’t refuse, and, he consoled himself, he wouldn’t have to put up with her company. He didn’t intend to spend more than a few weeks there each summer; he was not planning to rusticate.
    He rose thankfully as soon as the half hour was up. What a tiresome woman Mrs. Cartland was, eyeing him in that way; he knew that scheming look, the automatic assessment of every matron with a marriageable daughter. Well, he wasn’t in the market for a bride, and if he were, Penelope Cartland, who was looking at him with a wide-eyed dispassionate stare that he found disconcerting, would not be on his list. Her mama had better teach her a few manners, or she’d end up on the shelf. Men did not care to be looked at in quite that way; what with her and Octavia’s self-possession, he felt quite put out.
    And Mrs. Darcy had nothing in the way of a pretty foot, he remarked to himself, as he walked off down Lothian Street, twirling his cane. That came of being so damned tall; whatever had Christopher Darcy seen in her to want to marry her?
    Mrs. Cartland was not pleased with George Warren, and she expressed her dissatisfaction almost before the door had closed behind him. “He has a very insolent air to him, and after all, his father’s title is a new one; he is only the second baron. However, I should like to see a little more civility from you, miss, when we have a gentleman to