Page 2 of Marriage with a Proper Stranger

Chapter 1

Wollstonecraft Hall, Kent

August 1844

Growing up in an ancient, medieval hall filled with powerful men had not been without its issues, especially when tragedy and loss hung over the place like a heavy, melancholy mist on the moors. Today, however, Riordan was ready to embark on a new chapter of his young life.

Since sleep had been sporadic the previous night, he arrived in the dining room for breakfast and the first-Monday-of-the-month family meeting before the rest of his family. Rubbing his hands together to elicit a little warmth as he entered the room, the enticing aromas of bacon, ham, and coffee filled his senses. Murmuring “good morning” to the phalanx of footmen standing by, Riordan lifted the covers of the silver chafing dishes and commenced loading his plate with food.

Martin, the butler, already well-versed in Riordan’s beverage preference, prepared his tea the way he liked it, with two teaspoons of sugar and the milk added first. He set the cup and saucer on the table next to Riordan. “Cook made cinnamon scones, sir. Would you care for one? I know how you enjoy them.”

“After I tackle this rasher of bacon, I will. Thank you, Martin.” Popping a forkful of curried eggs in his mouth, he nodded to his father, Julian Wollstonecraft, Viscount Tensbridge, as he strode into the room. All the Wollstonecraft men were tall and dark-haired, save his Uncle Garrett, his father’s thirty-two-year-old half brother. At the age of forty-five, his father had threads of gray at his temples but was often mistaken for someone younger. His detached, distinguished air bespoke of their venerated lineage.

“Already tucking in, I see.” His father gave him an amused smile as he took his seat, content to allow Martin to serve him.

“I’m blasted hungry this morning. Perhaps it is the change in temperature,” Riordan said between bites.

“Coffee this morning, my lord?” Martin asked.

“Yes. Coffee it is. And ham instead of bacon.” Julian snapped open the linen napkin and laid it on his lap. “Riordan, where is your older brother?”

Older by fifteen minutes, Aidan was the heir apparent and Riordan was fine with it. His paternal twin had stumbled in at three in the morning; he couldn’t help but hear his brother’s cursing and bumping into furniture from across the hall. “Still asleep, I believe.”

His father sighed. “Martin, send one of the footmen to rouse my slugabed son.”

“At once, my lord.” The butler inclined his head toward one of the footmen, who exited the dining area.

Garrett walked into the room dressed as if he had come straight from the barn, which he had, seeing he spent all his time with horses. His uncle had inherited his red hair, pale skin, and freckles from his Scottish mother. Close to six and a half feet in height, his barrel chest and massive shoulders were a stark contrast to the leaner musculature of the rest of the men. Much like a medieval Highlander, Riordan mused.

“Before you ask, brother, I wiped my muddy boots,” Garrett said as he moved to the sideboard. His uncle managed to pile more food on his plate than Riordan had. Sitting across the table, Garrett immediately started to eat as the footmen brought toast and poured his tea.

“How’s Starlight doing?” Julian asked while cutting his ham into meticulous bite-sized pieces.

“She hasn’t foaled yet,” Garrett replied. “Going to be a long siege, I imagine. The stable lads are keeping watch and will inform me if there are any developments.”

Aidan happened into the room with a short, unsteady gait, looking the worse for wear. He plopped down next to Garrett. “Coffee, Martin, and lots of it. Bring me nothing else or I shall puke, for certain.”

Julian curled his lip in obvious distaste. “Out gambling and whoring again? Best not let your grandfather see the state of you. Sit up straight.” Aidan sneered, but did as he was told. “Martin, bring the heir toast and cheese. You will eat and get that insolent expression off your face. Look at the state of you, unkempt, eyes bloodshot. We will be speaking about this at great length after the meeting concludes.”

Riordan did not envy his brother. He’s in the soup now. But when had he not been with their father? It was as if Aidan acted in such a way to rile him on purpose.

As always, Oliver Wollstonecraft entered last. Tall and regal, his grandfather defied Father Time, standing as straight and tall as his sons and grandsons. He was a sterling example of exemplary hereditary vim and vigor and amazing good health. Riordan’s great-grandfather, the old earl, passed away five years ago, and he’d remained a striking figure well into his eighties. Of all the maladies to cause death, it was a winter chill that took him.

“Ah, all here. Excellent.” The earl took his seat at the head of the table while Martin and the footmen laid tea, coffee, and various food items in front of him—and Aidan, who turned a sickening shade of green at the sight of it. Riordan smirked. Having his brother cast up his accounts would certainly add drama to the gathering.

Attendance was mandatory at these family meetings. The earl would brook no argument or accept any excuses for not being present. What was discussed at these compulsory summits? Ways to further the family’s progressive agenda. Though distantly related to Mary Wollstonecraft, the late-eighteenth-century scholar, philosopher, and advocate of women’s rights, and to her daughter, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, essayist and the novelist of the gothic tale Frankenstein, the men of Wollstonecraft Hall were no less involved in liberal causes.

When he finished serving, Martin sat next to the earl, pen, ink, and parchment at the ready to record the minutes. The footmen moved efficiently around the table, bringing the scones, cheese turnovers, and fruit, and refilling beverages as the men conversed.

“I’ve received word that our eccentric neighbor, Sir Walter Keenan, has passed away,” the earl stated.

Riordan’s mouth quirked with amusement. Not at the news of Sir Walter’s death, but at the fact his grandfather found him eccentric, considering what society thought of the Wollstonecrafts. Sir Walter was an ex-soldier, granted knighthood for his bravery in the Peninsular War at Salamanca in 1808. Since returning home from the army in 1819, he had lived as a hermit.

“Since he is unmarried, the property is passing to his next of kin,” his grandfather continued. “His niece, a widow, I don’t know her name, is the beneficiary. He’s been our neighbor for more than thirty-five years. Someone should put in an appearance at his funeral.”

Julian shook his head. “The widow will be inheriting a run-down manor, to say the least. I will not be able to attend. I am heading to London, the autumn session of parliament, as I’ve meetings with Lord Ashley.” Since his father had a courtesy title, he didn’t sit in the House of Lords. He served as a member of parliament for this region of Kent, though he often worked with the upper chamber on many bills.

Riordan would not be able to attend the funeral either, but he decided he would leave his announcement for the end of the gathering. Why stir up the hornet’s nest at this juncture?