by Amy Corwin
So despite her inclinations, Dorothy lifted her voluminous skirts and entered the room.
The men stood as she entered. Her gaze bounced from her uncle’s face to Cousin Stephen and then to a stranger’s visage—a black-browed face that made her stumble and come to a halt, sucking in a startled breath.
She didn’t know what she expected, but certainly, it was not this youthful yet intimidating face. Lord Arundell studied her just as she was examining him, and she had the distinct impression that if he had an eyepiece, he would have raised it to one dark eye.
Lord Arundell was far younger than she anticipated, and though she knew it was silly, the first thing she noticed was his head of thick, lush, dark hair. His penetrating gaze then caught her attention, and although she tried to control it, she felt a hot flush rise to her cheeks. His saturnine face with its firm, square chin and high cheekbones was handsome, but there was something about it—a strength and subtle frown crinkling his dark brows—that spoke of an impatient nature. Here was a man who would not tolerate fools easily.
And yet there was a hint of amusement in the wry twist of his mobile mouth, and a definite twinkle in his dark eyes when he caught her gaze.
Her stomach rolled over like a dolphin playing in the ocean waves. She pressed a hand against her waist and forced a tremulous smile, her heart thundering in her chest.
I can’t marry him! He’s too… Too what? He was not at all the stout, balding old man with damp hands and an unpleasant leer that she’d expected. No, indeed. He was tall and loose-limbed, with dark hair and eyes, and an exceedingly determined chin. Stubborn, she thought.
Moving with graceful, muscular economy of motion, he strode over to stand near her, the faint aroma of bay clinging to his deep blue evening jacket.
A rush of feelings enveloped her. Her clasped hands felt as cold as ice as she swallowed, trying to think of something appropriate to say.
Instead, all she could do was wonder why such a handsome man would agree to marry a nobody, a woman he’d never met? Her thoughts tumbled incoherently before her cousin’s malicious comment from the other evening about the evil earl leapt to the forefront.
What had Cecilia meant? He didn’t look evil. A trifle hard, perhaps, with that square chin and the impatient air. She took a deep breath. Nonsense. He had sought this marriage, not she. Clearly, he had his reasons. She refused to believe that either his motives or he, himself, were evil. Cecilia was simply trying to make her nervous.
Nonetheless, she couldn’t help her uneasiness, nor could she slow the rapid beating of her heart. The entire situation seemed so unaccountable. Lord Arundell was the last man she’d have expected to have difficulties in finding a mate. Women were probably swooning all over him every time he went to a ball.
No time, perhaps? Didn’t want to be bothered? Viewed marriage solely as a business arrangement? None of those notions were romantic, but at least they were all mundane and understandable, even if her stomach did contract a bit more at the thought. She pressed her hand harder against her middle, wishing her chest wasn’t so tight and that she could breathe more freely.
“Lord Arundell, may I present my niece, Miss Dorothy Stainton?” Face beaming with a wide smile, Aunt Mary dragged her forward to greet him.
Amusement glinted in his dark eyes as he caught Dorothy’s gaze before bowing over her hand. A bemused feeling stole over her, but she managed to babble something appropriate before the rest of the introductions were performed.
With a barely suppressed giggle, Grace elbowed Dorothy as she made his acquaintance.
“We are so pleased you were able to grace us with your presence this evening,” Aunt Mary gushed as she led him to a silk-cushioned sofa in a sitting area near the fire. “It is just the family, of course. Miss Stainton and her sister are too newly bereaved to indulge in anything else, so we are doubly honored to have you as our guest.”
Before Dorothy could take a seat in the delicate chair across from him, Aunt Mary grabbed her arm and placed her next to the earl on the sofa. His lips twitched as he observed the maneuver, but he had the good manners to make no comment, other than to smile at Dorothy and give her sufficient room to spread her wide skirts.
No fire was burning as the evening had proved warm for June, but Aunt Mary seemed determined to manage their seating arrangements around the large marble fireplace. She clearly had no intention of allowing even the smallest detail to slip from her grasp.
“I understand you have recently come to London, Miss Stainton,” he said while Aunt Mary dragged her children to this seat or that.
“Yes.” The single word hung in the air, sounding insufferably rude. She glanced down at her clasped hands. They seemed to be frozen, locked together into a knot on her lap. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Under difficult circumstances, as well,” he added, his gaze fixed on her face. His features betrayed no emotion—not even the lifted brows of polite inquiry. “May I offer my condolences for your loss?”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Dorothy glanced at her sister, who had taken the seat across from them.
Shaking her head, Grace only pressed her fingers against her mouth to suppress her nervous giggles, which was no help whatsoever.
What exactly did one say to one’s betrothed when one had never met him before? Or when she didn’t even know if they were betrothed?
“It is such a pleasure to meet you. I’m charmed to discover that you, too, eschew the inanities of most polite conversations,” he murmured. “Assuming you are not simply struck dumb with grief.”
What did he mean by that comment? The sardonic note in his voice made Dorothy flush and glance at her sister again.
“Of course not,” she replied sharply, before taking a deep breath and smiling at him.
“I am relieved,” he said.
She studied his hard jawline and wondered if that warm glint of amusement she’d seen in his brown eyes when they’d met had only been in her imagination, after all. Maybe he was another Spartan-minded individual like Uncle Cyril, who seemed to believe card games and just about every other form of entertainment were frivolous and therefore forbidden. He probably thought the Stainton girls should be shrouded in black and locked away in their bedchamber for the next ten months.
They were certainly off to an awkward start. Dorothy straightened and took a deep breath, changing the subject to the first thing that occurred to her. “The Season will soon come to an end, my lord. Do you intend to leave London soon for your country estate?” Assuming he had a country estate, of course.
His dark brows pinched together in a brief frown. Then he smiled politely, his expression masklike. “No. I will remain in London.”
“You have business interests here, then? I had thought that most preferred to abandon the heat of the city during the warmer months.”
“Perhaps they do. I am not one of them.”
“Oh, do you enjoy the heat?” Some devilish imp made her smile at him and add, “I understand many older persons appreciate hot days. They say it eases the aches in their bones.”
Leaning back, he draped one long arm over the back of the sofa, crossed his legs and eyed her. The golden glint was back in his brown eyes. “I have heard that, as well. I shall have to make plans to remain in London to test the theory one summer in forty or fifty years if I am visited by those ills.”
“Lord Arundell, I hope our dear Miss Stainton is keeping you amused,” Aunt Mary chirped as she pulled one more chair into the gap between the sofa and the fireplace. “Has she told you that she is an aficionado of poetry? Particularly Lord Byron’s brilliant works, and she intends to grace us tonight with a reading set to music. Which poem was it, dear? Childe Harold?”
“Oh, no, Aunt Mary!” Grace piped up. “Dorothy memorized The Adieu—all twelve stanzas of it! We are so looking forward to hearing her recite while Cousin Cecilia plays the pianoforte. It should be most memorable.”
Heat burned its way up Dor
othy’s cheeks. She couldn’t look at the earl, or anyone else, for that matter. She stared down at her hands, twisting them together until the knuckles grew white. If there was any mercy left in the world, she’d be struck dumb during dinner and never have to speak again. Or perhaps choke on something and die tragically at the table.
She was so young and beautiful to have died so tragically…
“It was simply a notion—I don’t have to do so,” she suggested in a small voice. “If you would rather not, my lord, please say so. I’m sure it would be more enjoyable to simply listen to Cousin Cecilia play.”
“Enjoyable for whom?” The hint of laughter in his voice made Dorothy glance at him sharply. He wore an expression of polite interest, but his eyes were dancing with amusement. “I am sure we are all looking forward to your recitation.”
“Oh, yes, my lord,” Grace agreed. “I know I can hardly wait for dinner to be over so dear Dorothy can give us what I’m sure will be a heart-wrenching performance.”
I’d like to wrench your heart out, you little beast! Dorothy glared at her sister.
Grace smiled sweetly, revealing a cruel side Dorothy never realized her sister owned. The influence of the Polkinghorne girls was no doubt to blame, and although she was happy to see Grace getting along so well with the others, Dorothy couldn’t help feeling a bit betrayed. Or excluded. She wasn’t sure which, and in either case, it was unworthy of her, and she worked to push the emotion aside.
Clearing her mind made her decide that Grace might simply be nervous, just like Dorothy. She might have blurted out the first thing that came to mind and might be regretting it, even now. All the Staintons—male and female alike—suffered from that awkward trait and subsequent feeling of horror when they realized what they had said.
“Truly,” Dorothy said, leaping to her feet when she noticed Mrs. Jolly in the doorway, waiting to announce dinner. “I can think of a hundred better ways to spend the evening, my lord.”
“So can I,” Lord Arundell agreed, standing up as well. “But it appears fate has already decreed our future—at least for the next few hours.”
“You mean Mrs. Polkinghorne has decreed our future.” Dorothy stepped aside so that her aunt could lead the way.
“For now, they are one and the same,” he said softly to her before offering his arm to Aunt Mary and proceeding to the dining room.
Chapter Five
Marcus studied Miss Stainton, seated across the table from him, as the housekeeper took the place of a butler in this strange household and served the dinner. His initial impression of his intended bride was positive, even though, as rumored, her younger sister was the beauty in the family. Nonetheless, Miss Stainton’s hair was a rich amber reminiscent of honey, her features were regular, despite the minor and undeniably adorable flaw of a crooked front tooth, and her blue eyes sparkled with intelligence.
Or he thought he saw intelligence until he tried to converse with her. She did seem to recover some of her spirit, however, after her first uninspired utterances. In the back of his mind, he could hear his father’s pompous words that a woman—and most especially a wife—needn’t have anything between her ears but enough soft fluff to keep her head nicely rounded.
While Marcus’s kind-hearted, but a trifle feather-brained mother seemed to fulfill those requirements perfectly, he wanted something more in a wife. At a minimum, someone who could hold a reasonable conversation over the breakfast table. In fact, he’d secretly hoped that Miss Stainton might be a closet blue-stocking, perhaps even with intellectual pursuits generally considered inappropriate in a woman. He’d far rather die of a stroke during a spirited debate than linger in a coma induced by sheer boredom.
He just wished Miss Stainton had chosen to memorize something other than the twelve stanzas of the maudlin inanity she’d selected. Of course, Adieu might have been Mrs. Polkinghorne’s choice, it seemed like something she would think was appropriate.
As he cut a piece of excellent mutton roast, his mouth twitched. On the other hand, Miss Stainton might have selected that particular poem as a way of giving him the hint that she had no wish to accept his offer. Oddly enough, that thought made her all the more interesting and therefore desirable.
He studied her across the table.
The flickering, golden light of the candle gilded her amber hair and sculpted the roundness of her cheeks with soft shadows. Her skin glowed, reminding him of the satiny opalescence of a newly opened oyster shell. When she flicked a glance in his direction, his pulse raced, and his gaze lingered on her mouth.
Yes. Very desirable.
Even his solicitor had approved when asked to draw up the marriage contract. The great-aunt who had generously provided Miss Stainton with her five thousand pounds had been married to a marquess, so there were enough noble connections in the family to make the arrangement less unequal, if that mattered to anyone.
Despite Mrs. Polkinghorne’s expectations, however, Marcus ordered his solicitor to ensure that Miss Stainton kept control of her inheritance. The money would be hers and hers alone, even if his own funds were awkwardly scarce at the moment.
Unfortunately, etiquette dictated that one speak only to one’s neighbors at the table, preventing him from speaking any further to Miss Stainton for the next hour. At least the cook seemed competent. The mutton in wine sauce, roasted potatoes, and peas in cream were excellent.
And when the dinner was over, it was over. Polkinghorne was not a man who liked to linger over his port. His young son, Mr. Stephen Polkinghorne, seemed just as anxious to rejoin the ladies, as he was obviously cherishing a tendre for Miss Grace Stainton. The young man leapt to his feet with alacrity when his father stood.
“Shall we join the ladies, my lord?” Polkinghorne asked, neatly folding his serviette and placing it on the table next to his plate.
“Of course.” Marcus placed his glass of port on the table, relieved not to have to nurse the abominable drink any longer. He hadn’t expected such a poor quality port given the superb meal, but perhaps Polkinghorne watered the drink in hopes of preventing his son from developing too much of a liking for the stuff. Polkinghorne, himself, had only sipped a cup of pale, weak tea after dinner.
“Miss Stainton intends to recite The Adieu—I suppose you have been informed.”
“Yes.” Marcus nodded and followed his host to the door.
Polkinghorne sighed heavily. “I do not wish to speak ill of the girl—she is my niece, after all—but it seems a poor choice.”
“Oh?”
“Well, these girls all have their little notions.” Polkinghorne shook his head. “But I believe we should ask that Cecilia give us a concert without the recitation. She is marvelously gifted, you know. Plays Bach to perfection.” He slanted a glance at Marcus from under bushy brows. “She comes out next Season, you know. Eighteen in August—just a couple of months.”
Oh, so that’s the way the wind is blowing. Marcus suppressed a chuckle and merely replied, “Indeed.”
While Mrs. Polkinghorne was intending to foist her niece on him, her husband was hoping to get rid of his eldest daughter without the expense of funding a Season in London for her. And Stephen Polkinghorne was no doubt angling to attach Miss Grace Stainton and her five thousand pounds to himself, with his mother’s approval.
Did Miss Stainton realize how many conspiracies were coiling around her?
A strong sense of sympathy filled him. No doubt she did recognize what was happening. That might very well account for her uneasiness and inarticulateness when they first met.
“Mrs. Polkinghorne,” Polkinghorne said as they entered the drawing room. “Lord Arundell mentioned to me that he has an interest in music, and when I mentioned that our Cecilia is most competent with Bach, he insisted that we have a small concert.”
Sitting at the pianoforte, Miss Cecilia Polkinghorne glanced up at her father’s announcement, paled to a ghastly white, and then turned to Miss Stainton, who’d been bending over her shoulder.
Sitting near the fireplace, Mrs. Polkinghorne frowned. She rose to her feet and her ample chest expanded as she took a deep breath.
Polkinghorne chuckled and motioned to his wife to resume her seat. “Of course, we may hear Miss Stainton recite later—or on another evening entirely. Is that not so, Miss Stainton?”
A look of such glorious relief rushed over her face that she seemed to glow in the candlelight. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and she laughed, handing a piece of music to Miss Polkinghorne. “How wonderful! I must admit that I think that is a much better notion than any recitation on my part. I adore music—what will you play, Cousin?”
Miss Polkinghorne paled anew as her stricken gaze went from her father to her mother and back. The tip of her sharp nose turned red. “I—I…” Her words gurgled to a halt. The sheets of music that she’d been holding fluttered and flapped, and in her agitation, she dropped several. She fumbled, but seemed unable to pick them up.
Finally, Miss Stainton came to her cousin’s rescue, gathered up the pages, and placed them on a nearby music stand. After a glance at Miss Polkinghorne’s face, Miss Stainton laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and bent down to whisper in her ear.
Miss Polkinghorne nodded, and a bit of color returned to her narrow face. “I think some simple tunes?” she asked in a hesitant voice, keeping her gaze on the keys of the pianoforte.
Her father frowned. “Bach—”
“Oh, but Uncle, I am sure we would all like something a little less, um, mathematical—a tune one can hum, perhaps. Do you not agree?” Her gaze flew from Mr. Polkinghorne’s disgruntled face to Marcus.
“Indeed, yes,” he agreed easily. “A light tune is always welcome after dinner.”
A dazzling smile lit up Miss Stainton’s face, and her crooked little front tooth only made it more endearing. He grinned back and winked.
