Heiress Gone Wild

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Still, even if he’d just found his future, convincing Marjorie to share it might take months, or even years, and as the carriage Irene had sent to fetch him from the station arrived at Ravenwood, Jonathan was forcibly reminded that time was not on his side.

  As the landau swept around a wide expanse of lawn where guests were having tea, playing tennis, and enjoying the fine summer afternoon, Marjorie’s bright hair caught his eye. Dressed in a white tennis dress, a racquet in her hands, she was on the court, standing behind the baseline chalked on the grass, talking with some chap in cream-colored dittos and a natty tie.

  As his carriage rolled past, Jonathan saw the other man lean intimately close to Marjorie, and he felt a jolt of jealousy so strong, he nearly came out of the carriage.

  The thing that restrained him was the knowledge that Marjorie probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. She hadn’t been impressed when he’d tossed the Count de la Rosa down a corridor, and if he acted like a jealous boor during her birthday weekend, he would do himself no favors.

  Jonathan forced himself to relax his hold on the door handle, knowing Marjorie would be meeting dozens of other men in the weeks and months to come, and there was nothing he could do but accept the fact with as good a grace as he could muster and hope he was the one she chose.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, bringing him out of his reverie, and when he looked up, he saw Irene running across the gravel drive to greet him, a most welcome distraction.

  “Nice little cottage you’ve got here, Irenie,” he said, nodding to the four-story Italianate structure behind her that sprawled in every direction.

  “Terribly grand, isn’t it?” she agreed, glancing over her shoulder as he exited the vehicle. “I sometimes call it The Mausoleum just to tease Henry.” She glanced past his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend,” she murmured.

  “Friend?” Glancing back, he gave a chuckle. “Not a friend, Irene. That’s Warrick, my valet.”

  “You hired a valet? Now?” She laughed merrily. “Whatever for? Do you need your suits pressed in Africa?”

  “I’m not going. I canceled my trip.”

  Her laughter died at once. “You did?”

  “Yes. You see, I—”

  A cry of surprised delight interrupted him, and Irene hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re staying longer? What wonderful news!” She gave him a smacking kiss on one cheek, then the other. “How much longer? Never mind,” she added at once. “I won’t press you. But you know you can stay with us as long as you like, don’t you?”

  “Careful,” he warned. “I may become one of those tiresome guests who never leaves.”

  “If that happened, no one would be happier than I,” she said, turning to hook her arm through his. “Now, do you want to go up to your room first? Or would you rather walk down to the south lawn and join the others for tea?”

  “Tea,” he said at once, for he wasn’t about to leave Marjorie to some young dandy in dittos.

  As he and Irene crossed the lawn, he noticed that the tennis seemed to be over. Marjorie was now sitting with Clara and Rex on the lawn by the tea table, but he could take no comfort in that, for her tennis partner was right beside her.

  Henry, David, and Carlotta were there as well, and Jonathan greeted them first. Then, after he’d accepted Carlotta’s offer to pour his tea, Irene took him around, introducing him to any of the guests he hadn’t already met, beginning with those at the table, and ending with the lithe blond dandy sitting beside Marjorie on the blanket.

  “Jonathan,” Irene said, “this is Mr. Cecil Ponsonby. Cecil, Mr. Jonathan Deverill, my brother.”

  Ponsonby stretched out his hand without bothering to stand up. “The duchess’s brother, eh?”

  “I am.” Jonathan leaned over the fellow, his most genial smile on his face, warning in his eyes, as he gripped Ponsonby’s hand hard enough to make the other man wince. “I also happen to be Miss McGann’s guardian.”

  He thought he heard Rex make a choked sound, but his attention was fixed on Ponsonby, who wilted under the scrutiny. The moment Jonathan let go, then poor lad jumped up, mumbled something about needing to find his sister, and sped away across the grass, shaking his sore hand. Jonathan watched him go, feeling far more satisfaction than he probably ought.

  “Your tea, Jonathan.”

  He took the cup Carlotta held out to him with a murmur of thanks, plucked a cucumber sandwich off the nearest tray, and still grinning, sank down on the blanket in Cecil’s vacated spot, but his grin faded as he caught Marjorie watching him through narrowed eyes.

  “Really, Jonathan,” Clara said with a sigh. “I’m proud of you for taking your guardianship duties so seriously, but did you have to send the poor fellow scurrying off in terror the moment you arrived? He may never come to stay at Ravenwood again.”

  He saw the rebuke in Marjorie’s gaze, but he just couldn’t find it in him to be repentant. “If I’ve driven him away with a simple statement of fact and a handshake, would it be such a loss?”

  “It would,” Clara replied, easing back on the blanket, resting her weight on her elbows. “He’s unmarried, handsome, and quite agreeable. He’s also an excellent tennis player—though I don’t know why I’m praising him for that, since he and Marjorie are so good they trounced Rex and me in straight sets a while ago.”

  Rex leaned back beside his wife with a sigh. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Oh, stop,” Clara said, nudging his leg with her foot. “I’m the weak link, and I know it.”

  “Put a croquet mallet in her hands, though,” Rex told Jonathan, “and watch out.”

  Jonathan laughed, remembering childhood days. “Don’t I know it.”

  He glanced at the empty tennis court, appreciating there might be a way to soften Marjorie’s resentment. He gulped down his tea, popped his last bite of sandwich into his mouth, and stood up, looking at her. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the court as he pulled off his hat and jacket and dropped them onto the grass. “Let’s have a go so that I can see how good you really are.”

  “But I just played three sets.”

  “Then you’re nicely warmed up.” He removed his cuff links, tossed them into his hat, then removed his tie, undid his collar, and began rolling up his sleeves. “While I haven’t held a racquet in a decade. One set. Unless,” he added as she continued to hesitate, “you’re afraid?”

  “Be warned, my friend,” Clara interjected. “Jonathan was a cracking good player at Winchester. Helped them win the doubles three years running.”

  “Doubles?” Marjorie made a scoffing sound, and when Jonathan held out his hand, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Had he won the singles for his school four years running, I might be impressed.” With the warning that he might have a fight on his hands, she bent down, grabbed her racquet and a ball from the lawn and started toward the baseline of the left-hand court as if to serve.

  His words stopped her before she got there. “No coin toss?”

  She turned, one eyebrow going up. “A gentleman usually allows a lady the first serve. But if you’d prefer not to be a gentleman . . .”

  “No, no. I’m happy to allow you the courtesy.” He smiled in deliberate provocation. “Everyone knows you are the weaker sex. I’ll even spot you a point,” he offered as she made a sound of outrage, “just to make it sporting.”

  She ignored that. “Rex?” she called, looking past him. “Get a coin. I call tails.”

  She won the toss, but before Jonathan let her serve, he beckoned her to the net. “Care to place a wager on this?”

  “Love to,” she said with unnerving swiftness. “If I win, you stop intimidating my friends.”

  He tried to look innocent. “I don’t know what you mean. I wasn’t the least bit intimidating.”

  “No?” She gave a cough, then continued in a noticeably deeper voice, “‘I also happen to be Miss McGann’s guardian,’” and made
a sound of derision. “Is this how you think you’re going to win me over? By running roughshod over every male that comes within shouting distance of me?”

  An appealing idea, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “I can’t help it if your friend’s got the nerves of a rabbit. As to my chances of winning you over, your words imply that I do at least have a chance.”

  “You are delusional,” she said, so quickly that he felt a spark of hope.

  “You’ve already refused me, so why should you care?”

  Her face hardened. “I don’t. Now, if I win this game, you agree to stop bullying the men who pay attention to me. Is it a bet?”

  “We haven’t decided what happens if I win.”

  “What do you want?”

  His gaze lowered to her soft, pink mouth. “That’s an interesting question.”

  “Stop it, Jonathan.” Her face twisted a little. “Why are you doing this?”

  He met her gaze. “I told you I wasn’t giving up.”

  He thought he saw a hint of alarm spring up in her eyes, another good sign, but he couldn’t be certain, and he had no chance to decide.

  “Are you two going to play or not?” Clara called, and Jonathan decided what he wanted.

  “If I win,” he said, “I want to hold you in my arms.”

  “What . . .” She paused, the alarm in her eyes obvious now, and his spirits soared. “What do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I want three waltzes tomorrow night.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “Not a chance.”

  “One then,” he amended. “But make it the last one.”

  “One waltz?” The tension in her relaxed. “Done,” she said and turned away, stalking back to the baseline.

  He turned away as well, taking position to await her serve. When playing tennis, women were hampered by their corsets and skirts, which usually gave a man all the advantage, but any hope of that went straight to hell on Marjorie’s first serve, when she sent the ball right past him in an unreturnable shot to the corner. And when she continued to pound that corner, winning their first game in a walkover, he began to fear he’d be spending the weekend pining for her from afar like a lovesick adolescent.

  “Having trouble, old chap?” Rex called, laughing as Jonathan moved to serve.

  “No,” he lied, hefted the ball into the air, and sent it over the net in a cracking shot that she had to scramble to return. She managed it somehow, but much to his relief, it was out. It also told him she might be a bit weak on her backhand, and though he exploited that for all he was worth, his tennis was rusty as hell. Despite his best efforts, he barely won the second game. The third game went seven-all before he pulled ahead and won by a mere two points, only doing so because she stumbled over her skirt.

  When they came to the net to shake hands, she looked ruefully at her torn hem and said, “If we play tennis again this weekend, I’m wearing bicycle trousers, and I don’t care if it shocks everyone at the house party.”

  “You want another go?” He shook his head, giving her a pitying look. “You are a glutton for punishment.”

  She scowled. “I didn’t mean I’d be playing you.”

  “Oh.” He grinned, too relieved by his victory to be chastened. “My mistake.”

  “I suppose now I have to dance with you tomorrow night,” she said with an aggravated sigh. “You’ll have the last waltz, but I don’t see how you think it’ll help you change my mind, since you’re leaving the very next day.”

  “But I’m not.”

  The aggravation in her face faded a bit, faltering into uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I would cancel my trip, and I did.”

  She recovered at once. “Stay or go,” she said with a shrug, “it doesn’t matter to me. We both know you will leave eventually anyway. It’s as predictable as the tides.”

  She turned and started back toward the house. He didn’t try to stop her, and as she walked away, he was the one who felt the pain of being left behind, but instead of putting him off, it made him more determined than ever to change her mind.

  “Did you truly cancel your trip?”

  He inhaled sharply, turning to find his sister beside him, a little smile on her lips. “You heard all that, I suppose?”

  Her smile widened. “Most of it.”

  He groaned, reminded of the universal truth that sisters always managed to find out a man’s business. “How mortifying.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else did.” Her smile faded, revealing the grave, shy girl he’d known in their childhood. “It’s serious, then?”

  He didn’t even try to dissimulate. “It is for me. It remains to be seen if it’s serious for her.”

  “Oh, Jack,” Clara murmured and smiled again, shaking her head. “You never cease to surprise me, little brother.”

  Chapter 21

  If Marjorie was worried that Jonathan would push her to reconsider his proposal, she soon discovered her worries were unfounded. After their battle over the tennis net, Marjorie didn’t speak with him again that evening. She did see him, however, seated at the far end of the duke’s long dining table, and she couldn’t help noticing that the dinner companions on either side of him were both young, pretty women who seemed thoroughly entertained by his company.

  Not that it was any of her business, a fact she had to repeat to herself several times before the end of the meal. Later, after the port, he paired up with one of those pretty dinner companions for bridge, along with Irene and Henry, and though Marjorie ought to have been grateful and relieved, she was neither, and she didn’t understand herself at all.

  The following morning, Jonathan was already gone by the time she came down to breakfast, and later, when she went out with Clara to follow the shooting, the other woman confirmed that he would indeed be away for the entire day.

  By the time the shoot was over and they came back to the house, he still hadn’t returned, nor was he back by dinner, and as she went up to get ready for the ball, she wondered indignantly how the blasted man expected to change her mind about marrying him when he didn’t seem inclined to spend any time in her vicinity. Standing before the cheval mirror as her maid slipped her orchid-pink ballgown of silk chiffon over her head, the first ballgown she’d ever worn in her life, Marjorie felt none of the excitement she’d experienced when she’d first chosen the fabrics and the trimmings and discussed the design with Vivienne.

  “Oh, my,” breathed Semphill, her usually dour face breaking into a pleased smile. “You look like a princess.”

  Did she? How fitting. After all, she was living a fairy tale, wasn’t she? And yet, as Marjorie looked in the mirror, all she could see were her own troubled eyes staring back at her. This was her night, her ball, her beginning, but she could not rid herself of a terrible, agonizing uncertainty—a feeling that had begun the night she’d refused Jonathan’s proposal and which had been growing stronger every day since.

  Over and over, she questioned if she’d done the right thing in refusing him, but when she contemplated how she’d feel if she had said yes, Marjorie’s uncertainty and confusion only grew. She’d given up the notion that people could change for love when she’d given up on her father, and she just couldn’t see that Jonathan would be any different. He wouldn’t change for her, and why should he? Why should she expect him to be anything but the man that he was?

  She felt trapped, caught between two impossible choices. On one side was the dream life she’d spent the past three years envisioning, and though it wasn’t quite the exciting life she’d imagined, it was safe and predictable. On the other side was the life Jonathan offered, one that filled her with fear because every time she imagined it, all she could see was herself in her mother’s shoes, crying over a man who was always leaving.

  What is wrong with me? she wanted to shout at the mirror. What is wrong?

  A knock on the door interrupted these agonizing contemplations, and then, the door opened, and Ire
ne came in, smiling and excited, a rectangular box of robin’s egg blue in her hand. “I have something for you.”

  Marjorie stared at the box, reminded of what had happened that afternoon aboard the Neptune, and the uncertainty she felt deepened even more. “Thank you, Irene,” she said and turned back to the mirror. “Put it on the dressing table, would you?”

  If Irene was surprised by her lukewarm reaction, Marjorie didn’t know it, for she was occupied with pretending a sudden vast interest in the state of her hair.

  “I will see you downstairs,” Irene said, walking back toward the door. “Henry is waiting outside. He will escort you down when you are ready.”

  When the door closed, Marjorie walked to her dressing table and sat down. She stared at the box for a moment, then opened it, earning another astonished gasp from her maid.

  She lifted the necklace from the box, but as she held it to her throat, she felt none of its former magic, and when Semphill moved to fasten the clasp, Marjorie stopped her. “I don’t think I want to wear it,” she said, pulling the necklace from her maid’s fingers and setting it back in the box.

  “Not wear it?” Her maid stared at her in the mirror as if she’d just grown a second head. “But it’s so lovely. And it looks ever so fine with your dress.”

  Fortunately, she was saved from replying by another knock on the door, and when it opened, Marjorie gave a sob of happy relief. “Baroness,” she cried, turning from the mirror, “you’ve arrived.”

  “I come at last,” the other woman said, sailing in on a cloud of emerald silk charmeuse and expensive French perfume. Closing the door behind her, she started forward, hands outstretched.

  “Better late than never, is it not so?” she asked, clasping Marjorie’s hands in hers. “I would have been here this afternoon, but I missed my train at Victoria, and had to take the—what do they call it?—the circle train to Waterloo Station, and once I arrived there, I—”

  She stopped suddenly, frowning in concern. “But what is this?” she cried and let go of one of Marjorie’s hands to cup her chin. “What is this sad face I see, little kiska? And on your birthday?”