“How does one become accidentally engaged?” She furrowed her lovely brow, waiting in vain for him to say something. Finally, she gave an encouraging little nod and said, “Please continue, I am alive with curiosity.”
Already the flush was beginning. He could feel it on his neck. But she was going to laugh loud and long, he was sure, so he may as well brace himself and get it over with.
“I never really asked her to marry me,” he admitted. “She just misunderstood. I was asking about customs here, how long a betrothal is, do they read the banns out in church, that sort of thing. And then suddenly she was saying how it was endearing that I was so shy and I needn’t come out and say it, she perfectly understood and would love to be my bride. And that was it. We were engaged.”
Rather than laughing, she only looked stupefied. “I…” She took a breath. She set her cup in its saucer and cocked her head to the side, looking hard at him as if she had never heard anything so asinine. “What?”
It was even more mortifying than when he’d told Freddy about it. Now he said the same thing to her as he’d said then: “I was hoping she’d confide in me about Lord Releford. There was some speculation that he’d proposed and they planned to wed in secret, and I was… curious.” What he’d hoped for was a tantalizing story that would sell papers, but he’d wound up with a fiancée instead. Not that he was prepared to tell all that to Marie-Anne de Vauteuil. “I never thought she’d take it as a declaration of my affections.”
“So you just agreed?” She looked like she could not believe her own ears. “You cannot be so much an idiot!”
“It was a choice between idiot or cad,” he said, a little rankled by her insults, no matter how accurate they were. “I couldn’t fit a word in edgewise before she was telling her sister. And then they were crying tears of joy and talking about a double wedding and saying I was the most gallant man on earth while her father nearly swallowed his tongue in congratulating me. What was I supposed to do? Say that the last thing I meant to imply was that I’d ever want to marry her?”
“No of course not, but surely you could have found some way…” She frowned down at the little cake on her plate, like it would offer some opinion on what he could have done to prevent the disaster. After a moment’s contemplation, she seemed to give up and gave a very French kind of shrug. “Well who am I to judge? Once I ate blackberry preserves for three years because I was too polite to say I did not want seventy-two jars of it. But I like blackberries, and at least it only felt like a lifetime. I think yours will feel like several.”
His relief that she was not laughing at him was the only thing that kept him from loudly doubting that she could ever be so polite about jam. She was so outright in her opinions and deft in her speech that he couldn’t imagine her meekly accepting anything just to avoid some social awkwardness. But maybe that was long ago. She certainly seemed perfectly willing now to leave convention aside and come at a thing bluntly, so he felt free to do the same.
“Will you help me get out of it?” he asked. She looked startled at the proposition and paused in the act of taking a bite of cake. “Please?”
From the deepest reaches of his old bag of tricks, he dredged up his most pitiful, pleading look. It had a thick coat of dust but was perfectly functional. He watched her heart melt right before his eyes and, cad that he was, felt no remorse. It was always an immediate and involuntary reaction in women, related to the way they couldn’t help cooing at the sight of baby shoes, and he’d learned at a young age how to solicit it. The smarter they were, the more quickly they recovered, so he was surprised that Marie-Anne maintained her soft look past the first instant.
“Oh Mr. Mason,” she murmured, a sweet but faint note of compassion in her voice. “Of course it is very unfair to you, that so many women have let you believe this puppy dog look will always work.” She clucked her tongue consolingly. “You poor man.”
Oh, he liked her. He gave a smile so broad that it brought out his dimple. He was pretty sure that would work better on her anyway, and it had the added advantage of being completely sincere. “I’m out of practice, haven’t done that since I wore short trousers. Needs a lighter touch. But will you help me anyway?”
She tried to hide it, but all the humor was back in her now. It tugged at her mouth and made itself known around her eyes. She gave a sigh, relenting a little.
“You are in great good luck, Mr. Mason, because already I have been thinking Dahlia should not marry you. Oh no, do not look so relieved yet. Right now she thinks very well of me, but mostly this is because her mother and I have always been on opposite sides. If I tell her you are not worthy of her, I align myself with her mother and become just another meddlesome old woman who has no notion of true love.” Here, she cast him a slightly apologetic look. “She does not love you, that is plain, but she loves a romance very much. And her pride is in it now, I think. So it will require more than only a word from me, even if I was to tell her you are a cad who never truly meant to marry her.”
Mason refrained from saying that he didn’t necessarily want her to be so blunt about him. It would banish him from the Shipleys’ good graces and they were far too valuable to him as a reliable source of society gossip. He needed the game to go on for another few months at least, until he had enough money in the bank to move on. If he could extricate himself from this marriage business without actually leaving Dahlia at the altar and socially ruining the girl, all the better.
What a relief to have a co-conspirator.
He said, “I’ve been trying to think of a way to get Dahlia to believe it’s her idea to call the whole thing off.” He’d been trying to push her in that direction since it happened, but had nothing to show for weeks of effort.
“Yes exactly,” Marie-Anne said, pleasantly surprised he’d come to that conclusion. “It must be her who ends the engagement, or she may never recover from the humiliation.”
“I’ve been trying for weeks and it’s only shown me how dedicated she is to the plan. Didn’t you just say I was in great good luck?” he asked. “I’m struggling to see where the luck is.”
She put the bite of cake in her mouth at last, and reminded him so much of a cat with cream that he half expected her to purr. She swallowed and licked her lips, which was such a delicious sight that he nearly asked her to do it again, just for him.
“The luck is that I am immensely talented in matters of the heart, and I have a plan that will allow Dahlia to marry the man she wants. And you are not the man she wants.” She gave a cheerful smile, as though nothing in the world could be more joy-giving than this little fact. “Naturally I will need your help in this. Will we go see the art now? I will tell you, as we gaze at uninspired portraits, how we can make her a duchess.”
Chapter Five
Marie-Anne very, very much wanted to kiss Mr. Mason. It was quite troubling.
She questioned him about how and when Dahlia’s interest in him began, to confirm her suspicion it was all an attempt to make Lord Releford jealous. He said he believed she was right and detailed the many incidences that had made him think it, while the carriage carried them to the exhibition and she thought of kissing him. When she suggested they try to make Dahlia’s mother disapprove of Releford so as to make Dahlia determined to pursue him again, he laughed and laughed at the impossibility of it, and she did too – and she thought of tasting his tongue with hers.
He looked at most of the paintings with disinterest until he found one that absorbed all his attention. She watched his face go still as his eyes took it in, how he looked with interest and a little wonder and a faint but distinct longing – the same way he looked at her, in fact – and she wanted nothing more than to take his face in her hands and press her lips to his and never care that they were in the midst of a crowd of onlookers.
Of course she wanted to do much more than kiss him, but that did not trouble her. It was only natural, when he was so attractive and she was currently without a lover. In her bed that night, sh
e happily allowed herself to imagine all the other things she’d like to do with him, but it always came back to the kissing. Her mouth burned for his and, judging by the way he watched her when she licked her spoon or ate her cake, he very obviously had similar thoughts.
Oh this was not good at all.
They were partners now in this scheme to convince Dahlia to break the engagement. They shared a secret; perhaps that was why she wanted also to share kisses?
“You invent a sweet illusion,” she chided herself as she pulled on her stockings the next morning. It had nothing to do with sharing a secret. “You wanted to kiss him the moment he said kangaroo. Sooner!”
And she must stop thinking of it, because it would show on her face. She never could hide it when she liked a man very much. Bad enough that he saw it so clearly, but today she would call on the Shipleys and if they saw it – well, she would be no use at all if she only added to the shameful romantic spectacles in that house. Poor Amy would never marry her vicar.
The vicar. Here was something there that made her worry. She had brought up Amy’s suitor yesterday as they looked at a particularly lifeless portrait of a bishop. Did Mr. Mason think him anything like this stern-looking man in the portrait?
“More than you might think,” he’d answered. Upon further pressing, he explained. “He’s one of those who never disagrees with her, but somehow he’s constantly correcting her. It’s always pleasant, you can’t say he ever criticizes her, really.” He shrugged. “You’ll see. Maybe it’s all my imagination. I just can’t say I like him.”
He called it a simple clash of personalities, but Marie-Anne thought he was being too humble to suggest it was only imagination. He was very observant.
He’d also surprised her by saying he mostly liked Phyllida’s libertine poet, who had the ridiculous name of Aloysius St. James. “I’d bet you he’s hiding something,” he had said, “but I’d also bet anything it’s harmless, whatever it is.” She wanted to bet him a kiss, win or lose, and had to bite her tongue against saying it. Really, he had the most absurd effect on her. She blamed his red hair and his very young and handsome face.
In the end, she had managed to maintain a coherent train of thought as they discussed matters. He’d agreed to help her in the attempt to curb Phyllida Shipley’s affections for the poet in return for her help in ridding him of Dahlia.
So they were in this together, she told herself as she rode through the streets of London towards the Shipley townhouse. It was comforting to feel like she had someone on her side as she entered this den of madness, and he would be there today. He’d said so when they parted ways after the exhibition, just after he’d asked her to call him Mason. Just Mason, without the Mister. “It’s what friends call me, back home,” he had said, with a little sheepish embarrassment that was not at all an act. Or at least she didn’t think it was an act. Not that she could think very much beyond the wish that he was not engaged to another woman.
But as the carriage delivered her to the London home of the Shipleys, all her casually lustful thoughts were swept away and replaced with very different feelings. She vividly remembered the first time she had come here, all those years ago. She had had her Richard at her side then, and she felt his presence now as she looked at the home where he had introduced her to his family, where he had announced they would be married, and where he had drawn his last breath.
Richard was often in her thoughts, but now it felt like he hovered just outside her vision, waiting to take her hand and assure her she would survive an hour in his parents’ presence. It fortified her to think of it. Of course he was here in spirit. He was there in his sisters, too, whom he had loved very much. He would never have wanted their prospects to have been tarnished by his indiscretion with Marie-Anne. Since he could not set things right, it was Marie-Anne’s duty to do everything she could to help the girls now.
“Je te promis, Richard,” she said under her breath after the footman handed her down. A promise. She would not let Amy’s heart be broken. She would not allow Dahlia to marry a man who did not want her, nor Phyllida to make a fool of herself with a libertine poet. It would not matter to Richard if his sisters made brilliant matches, so long as they were safe and cared for – and if Marie-Anne could not manage that, she at least believed she could prevent these imminent disasters.
She could not, however, prevent herself from embracing Phyllida tightly when the girl shoved aside the butler and barreled into Marie-Anne’s arms.
“How I’ve missed you!” breathed little Phyllie, squeezing her so tightly that Marie-Anne nearly groaned. “I’ve written a hundred letters since I saw you last but I never knew where to send them. Mama was so hateful, she refused to tell me where you were. I was on the brink of running off to Scotland to elope but then Amy said you were invited to come and…and, oh I’m so glad to see you!”
“Ma poupée,” said Marie-Anne when she got her breath back. It came to her as suddenly as Phyllie’s enthusiastic greeting: she had used to call her poupée, just as she had always called Dahlia petit chou. Saying it caused the girl to go all dewy-eyed and throw her arms around Marie-Anne again. “You are as good as a tight corset string, how you squeeze me. Oh no, do not stop, my waistline will be the envy of London!”
It was all very undignified and improper, this conspicuous emotion, and it suited Marie-Anne perfectly. Such expression was her natural disposition, though she rarely had the chance to indulge it among these absurd British. Thank goodness the other Shipley brother, Percy, was touring the continent instead of standing here, sour-faced. One less Shipley to deal with. Over Phyllida’s shoulder, she saw Lady Shipley’s valiant attempt to conceal her unease with what she would certainly call a very vulgar display. It was plain she would not object to anything Marie-Anne did, though. Her ties to the Summerdales was far too valuable. Oh, this was all going to be very amusing.
Sir Gordon Shipley was there too, undoubtedly forced by his wife and daughters to muster some cordiality for the occasion. They all engaged in the expected mummery: Sir Gordon was gratified to know she had managed so well for herself after Richard’s death, no doubt a reflection of her “strong-willed” character. Lady Shipley was so pleased to receive Marie-Anne again after that ancient “misunderstanding” and was sure they would all be the best of friends again.
Marie-Anne smiled and nodded and complimented the new upholstery in the drawing room. How very false the human animal could be, she reflected, when induced by circumstance. She had a fleeting thought of the women who had raised her, and who had been fond of saying that to fake a feeling was the lowest art – and the most valuable one.
The memory almost made her laugh aloud. Few things would be more mortifying to Lady Shipley than to know she was being silently compared to a group of elite prostitutes. Worse, that those women who had cared for Marie-Anne were infinitely more principled. In the midst of swallowing her laughter, Marie-Anne caught Mason’s eye. She couldn’t wait to share the thought with him, to tell him what les dames entretenues would have said about Lady Shipley. Then she remembered, even as he gave her a curious look that said he couldn’t wait to ask her what was so amusing, that she must be careful not to show how very much she wanted to lick his neck.
“Mr. Mason tells us you enjoyed the art exhibition yesterday,” said Dahlia eagerly when her father had made his excuses and retreated to the study. She looked very well today in her yellow dress. All the girls were lovely, with their glossy dark curls and soft brown eyes. They were like younger, fresher versions of their mother.
“Indeed, the art was wonderful. And it is so refreshing to spend an afternoon with someone who cares as little as I do for all the social bustle of London.” This was something she and Mason had agreed upon: Dahlia adored moving among London society, and had not considered that marrying Mason might mean leaving it behind. “But Mr. Mason tells me there is great art to be found in New York, too, though he describes the city as very different from London. None of the social bustle, he
tells me. Still I do not think it would be to my liking! But then you are more adventurous than I am, Dahlia.”
Dahlia, who was not in the least adventurous, glanced towards Mason with a strained look on her face. Marie-Anne might feel guilty about this campaign to disenchant the girl if it were not so obviously a terrible match. After all, Mason came alive when he looked at art or spoke about it; Dahlia was bored to tears by the mere mention of it. He did not dance and she lived from ball to ball. He was confused and irritated by London society while she craved a daily infusion of it. It should not be too difficult to persuade Dahlia that she could do better for herself, especially if there was a way to remind her that a future duke was a romantic alternative.
But before Marie-Anne could think of a way to work that rejected suitor into the conversation, the poet arrived.
“At last! An end to the sublime anticipation of making your acquaintance, madame,” he said as he bowed over her hand. “I see now why Phyllida has celebrated your elegance and beauty at every opportunity, and has warned me against losing my heart to your remarkable charm.”
Marie-Anne found herself too stunned to reply. The lavish compliments were difficult enough to answer with any kind of grace, but worse by far were his outrageous good looks. It was preposterous. No man should be this handsome. It was the most impractical thing she had ever seen, and she greatly resented how it put a very melting feeling in her chest, and made her want to flutter her eyelashes and coo at him. It was only by exerting a heroic effort to remind herself that his name was Aloysius that she managed to gather her wits again.
“A heart that can be so easily lost is most unsatisfactory,” she said lightly. “I should eat it for breakfast and be hungry again before noon. But of course you are only making your little poetry.”
She smiled pleasantly to take the sting out of her dismissive tone. Not that being dismissive of poetry would do anything to turn Phyllida against this man. Marie-Anne contemplated the unbearably attractive fullness of his mouth while avoiding his velvety eyes, and wondered what could possibly cause any girl to abandon this Greek god. Short of inducing a pack of rabid dogs to eat his face, Marie-Anne rather believed they were destined for failure.
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 6
