There's Something About Lady Mary

by Sophie Barnes

  “Do I really have to explain it to you, Ryan? I would have thought that your father might have seen to the matter by now.”

  Ryan groaned. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Percy. I’ve never heard of a Marquess of Steepleton, and now there’s suddenly a marchioness? Forgive me if I’m reluctant to believe such a thing, but it hardly makes much sense.”

  “Hm. . .I suppose you’re right. You see, here’s the thing of it: the title went into obscurity for a number of years through lack of usage. For whatever reason he might have had, Lady Steepleton’s father was determined to make his own way in life, as far away from the social constraints of the upper classes as humanly possible. All the same, he did manage to ensure that his daughter would one day inherit the title from him.

  “The point is, if he believed her to be in danger, for whatever reasons he might have had, then she’s more likely to be so now that she’s returned to London and claimed her inheritance. The sudden appearance of a marchioness is going to make the headline in every gossip column this country has to offer. If someone’s out to get her, they’ll be crawling out of the woodwork before you know it, mark my word.”

  Ryan nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so boring after all, he mused. He rather liked the image he envisioned of himself dodging bullets as he saved the marchioness from imminent danger. There might even be a swordfight or two, perhaps a race across the countryside at breakneck speed while a group of ruffians chased after them and. . .He suddenly blinked when he heard Percy’s voice practically yelling at him.

  “Ryan? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

  “Hm? Oh, I was just wondering how I might best handle the matter.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you were,” Percy told him with a frown. “You need not worry yourself about that, however. I will ensure that Lady Steepleton receives an invitation to the first ball of the season, which happens to be this Saturday evening at Richmond House, by the way. As charming as you are, I’m confident you’ll have no trouble at all in befriending her.”

  “And once I find her, may I tell her why I suddenly have such a keen interest in her?”

  “Ryan, you and I both know that women hate the feeling of being watched, even if it is for their own good. If she so much as suspects that your interest in her lies only in protecting her from supposed harm, she’ll most likely make it her mission in life to avoid you for the remainder of her days.”

  “I see your point,” Ryan muttered as he mulled that over.

  “You’re a handsome lad, Ryan. Surely it won’t be impossible for you to convince her that you are genuinely interested.”

  “But I’m not,” Ryan said with a frown. “Am I to understand that you wish for me to give this woman a false impression of my true intentions?”

  “It is for her own good, you know,” Percy remarked.

  “Look, you know how much I despise dishonesty, Percy, and to take advantage of any woman’s desire to form an attachment just feels wrong.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to you, Ryan, but spying is a pretty dishonest business.”

  “Must you always mock me?” The frustration in Ryan’s voice was practically scratching at the walls. “Fine; if it will keep her alive, then I’ll agree to do whatever it takes—though I’m by no means pleased about it, I’ll have you know.”

  “I am so happy to hear it,” Percy remarked rather drily as he drained his glass of its last few drops before jumping to his feet. He looked eager to be gone, no doubt before Ryan changed his mind. “I’ll see to it you get an invitation to Richmond House as well then, shall I?”

  “That would certainly be an excellent idea,” Ryan replied, his words dripping with sarcasm as he walked his father’s friend to the door.

  “Listen,” Percy said, turning back around on the threshold and placing a solid hand on Ryan’s shoulder, “I know this isn’t exactly the sort of thing you want to get tangled up in right now, so I appreciate your help.”

  Ryan nodded. “It’s my pleasure.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so,” Percy chuckled, turning about and starting down the steps that led toward the pavement. “But thank you for saying so.”

  Ryan remained in the doorway a moment longer until Percy had hailed himself a hackney and climbed in. Well, perhaps he ought to ask Hutchins to press one of his black tailcoats. After all, he now had a marchioness to impress.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  Mary stood at the edge of the wide marble terrace behind Richmond House, looking out over the garden and enjoying the feel of the cool night air as it wafted against her skin. She’d gone out there to escape the oppressive heat of the ballroom, which she imagined to be far worse than in the hottest of the British colonies. But to be perfectly honest, the stifling heat was not her only reason. She’d also come outside to escape the hoard of overly eager gentlemen who, it seemed, had swooped down upon her like vultures the moment she’d made her entrance. Each of them wanted to dance with her, or if not dance, then at least bring her something to drink or eat—anything at all that she might be in need of. One gentleman had even offered to bring her an ice from Gunter’s in Berkeley Square, declaring that it wouldn’t be any trouble at all and that she’d be sure to find it refreshing. Before Mary had managed to speak a single word to anyone, she was juggling three glasses of Champagne and a plate piled high with canapés.

  Then, of course, there were all the unmarried ladies who, feeling threatened by the overwhelming amount of interest the men were showing the new marchioness, had begun their critical dissection of her. They had started at the top of her head and worked their way down to her shoes, conveying each of their opinions to one another in a low whisper that had snaked its way around the room. Apparently they’d concluded that her hair was the color of mud, her eyes the size of teacups, and her mouth too vulgar to appear in polite society, while her figure bore too much resemblance to an upside down pear. And if that weren’t enough, the word plain was mentioned so repeatedly and with such a degree of intonation that Mary couldn’t help but feel herself the most flawed woman in the whole wide world.

  The worst of it was that she’d been looking forward to this evening ever since both her housekeeper, Mrs. Hodges, and her maid, Emma, had told her how vital it was to her social standing that she make an appearance at the first ball of the season. She’d initially thought to shy away at home, but when the two women had insisted, she’d decided to trust their judgment.

  Once it had been decided that she would attend, she and Emma had truly enjoyed shopping for just the right dress to wear to the occasion. They’d found a small shop on Bond Street, where Mary had settled upon a white muslin gown with a yellow ribbon running just below the bustline. It wasn’t the most extravagant dress perhaps, but Mary felt that it suited her quite well. She hadn’t felt at all plain in it when she’d admired herself in the mirror earlier that evening; it was a very refreshing change from the mourning colors she’d been wearing since her father had died. In fact, she’d actually felt rather regal. But the evening wasn’t turning out the way she’d envisioned it. Instead of making a few friends as she had hoped, she was now standing by herself on the terrace, terrified of going back inside. In truth, all she wanted to do right now was flee.

  Perhaps I ought to jump the garden wall and make a run for it, she thought wistfully, eyeing the eight-foot-high, ivy-clad barrier. Taking her own height into consideration, she decided that she would definitely need some assistance—a table to stand on perhaps, or even a bench. She was so busy considering how she might accomplish this great escape of hers that the sudden sound of a low male voice saying “May I join you?” from behind her right shoulder completely startled her.

  She literally leaped into the air, her right arm rising of its own accord as she spun around, so fast that she couldn’t stop her hand from making contact with the man behind her. With a loud thwack it slapped across his face.

  “Good Lord!” the man exclaimed as he rub
bed his cheek with his hand. “Do you make a habit out of striking people with whom you are not even acquainted?”

  Mary stared at him, openmouthed and paralyzed. Not only was he the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on, with his light brown hair, chiseled jawline, patrician nose, and the bluest eyes imaginable, he was also quite possibly the tallest. And his shoulders. . .good God, she’d never thought it possible for anyone to have such broad shoulders. “I. . .I. . .” she stammered.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. It was just an accident, nothing more. All she had to do was apologize to the poor man. Besides, if he hadn’t snuck up on her like that, it very likely wouldn’t have happened.

  “This is all your fault,” she said before she could stop herself. Her hand flew to cover her mouth. Had she really said that out loud?

  “I beg your pardon?” the man asked, clearly as stunned as she. “Did you really just blame me for getting in the way of your hand?”

  “When you put it like that. . .” She bit her lip and paused for a moment. “I apologize for hitting you, but if you would only have made your presence known a bit sooner, I very much doubt that this would have happened.”

  “I see,” the man said, taking on a look of serious contemplation. “Then it seems that I must apologize to you for being so inconsiderate. Perhaps I ought to introduce myself while I am at it. My name is Ryan Summersby.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mary remarked as she nodded knowingly. “The man who is forever getting in the way of flailing limbs.”

  He grinned. “The one and only.”

  “And what exactly do you do when you are not getting in the way of someone’s hand, my. . .lord?”

  Could I possibly sound more ridiculous?

  She didn’t even know how to address this Ryan Summersby person. To top it off, she was jabbering on about nonsensical rubbish. He must think her a complete twit. At least he was laughing, which must mean that he found her remarks somewhat amusing—unless, of course, he was laughing at her. She let out a lengthy sigh. Life had been so much easier and far less complicated in the middle classes.

  The gentleman paused for a moment and regarded her. Then he said, “I have been studying medicine for the past year at Oxford. And since I am the Earl of Moorland’s second son, I fear that you are incorrect in your form of address, though I am flattered. You see, I am merely Mr. Summersby. My older brother, William, enjoys the title of lord. However, I do hope that you will one day call me Ryan.”

  Mary felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She’d never been one to blush, yet she was certain that she was turning bright red at that very moment.

  Is he flirting with me?

  She had no experience with such things at all and as a result could not be at all sure, though it did feel as though he might be. After all, the only reason she could think of for a man like Mr. Summersby to one day expect her to address him so cordially would be if they’d been spending a lot of time together. And the only reason they might do that would be if. . .

  “Sir, you overstep yourself,” she practically gasped, as if he’d just attempted to touch her inappropriately.

  “Have I offended you in some way?” he asked with a note of sincerity that would have melted the arctic tundra.

  “Not yet,” Mary whispered as she tried to still the erratic pounding of her heart. “But before you jump to any conclusions about me, I must warn you that I am not trying to snag a husband.”

  Mr. Summersby stared at her in a bewildered sort of way before finally erupting into a fit of laughter. “My dear woman, I was merely suggesting that you and I might one day be friends, and all my friends call me Ryan. I know it’s unconventional, but I insist upon it.

  “One brief conversation on a terrace—as entertaining as it might be—is hardly enough to merit a courtship, you know. Trust me, you mustn’t worry yourself about that.”

  “Oh,” Mary muttered, feeling quite embarrassed and perhaps even a little disappointed. “I am terribly sorry, I—”

  “No need to apologize. The truth of the matter is that I have very much enjoyed talking to you and that I hope to see you again one day. After all, it seems to me that we have at least one thing in common.”

  “And what might that be?” Mary asked, relaxing now that the threat of Mr. Summersby’s advances had been removed.

  “I believe that we both abhor these sorts of events and that we both decided to come out here to get away from it all.”

  “I was actually rather looking forward to it,” Mary admitted. “Though I must say that it is not at all what I had expected.”

  “And what did you expect?” Mr. Summersby asked, moving up beside her.

  “That people would be nicer,” she said simply, staring off into the garden, where lanterns flickered close to the ground, illuminating the pathways.

  Mr. Summersby chuckled. “They can be quite rude, can’t they?”

  “Surprisingly so.”

  “And because of that, you were wondering if you might be able to make the jump?”

  “The jump?”

  “Over the garden wall,” he said, his voice was quite serious. “Though I do not imagine that you would get far, judging from your height.”

  “And what, pray tell, is wrong with my height?” she asked, vexed that he’d seen right through her, and even more annoyed that he’d touched on the greatest flaw in her plan.

  “Nothing at all,” he muttered. He was quiet for a moment before saying, “I can give you a foot up if you like.”

  Mary turned her head to stare at him. She expected him to be grinning from ear to ear, yet he just stood there with a rather solemn expression on his face, as if he were contemplating how high he would have to lift her. “However, I would much prefer it if you would remain here, since I should detest to be left alone.”

  “And why is that?” Mary asked, turning toward him and placing both hands on her hips.

  “Because the minute that I am not otherwise occupied, one of the anxious mamas in there will drag her unmarried daughter before me like a prize cow. I shall have no choice but to endure an account of all the daughter’s very fine attributes, and I shall have to do so with a smile upon my face.”

  He was so grave that Mary couldn’t help but pity him. Still, it was difficult not to laugh at the image he’d managed to conjure in her mind. “Sounds awful,” she said, making a stoic attempt at holding back the giggles that were cramming together in her throat.

  He frowned. “Yes, I can clearly see that you think it is.”

  “Sorry,” she gasped as the first roll of laughter escaped her. There was nothing she could do about it, and before she knew it, she was grinning like a complete lunatic—far too exaggeratedly to merit the humor in what he had said.

  “Dear me,” she remarked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “You must forgive me. I am generally not at all like this.”

  “And yet I would hope that you are,” Mr. Summersby told her. “The ladies of the ton do not generally engage in laughter, you see, and when they do, it is somewhat forced—no real joy lies behind it.”

  “Hm. . .I see,” Mary said, her forehead creasing ever so slightly. “By the way, how long do you suppose we can remain out here before it is considered rude or, even worse, inappropriate?”

  “I believe ten minutes might be acceptable.”

  “Then I think I must consider venturing back inside, for it must surely have been twenty by now, and I should hate for my hosts to think that I am not enjoying myself.”

  “You are not,” Mr. Summersby pointed out.

  “No, I am not, or at least I was not until. . .” With no desire to give him the wrong idea, she chose not to finish that sentence, finishing instead with a firm “All the same.”

  “Very well then,” he agreed, pinning her with a solemn stare. “But first things first: I believe it would be rude of me to let you leave without at least asking you to dance. Besides, it would be rather shameful not to
make use of all this space.” He swept his arm in a wide arc to indicate the vast emptiness of the terrace.

  In truth, there was nothing that Mary would have liked more, if she had only known how. Nobody had ever taken the time to teach her how to dance; there simply hadn’t been a need for it. She’d seen the ladies inside the ballroom, though, twirling elegantly about as if floating on air while their partners guided them about. And now, as her eyes flittered over Mr. Summersby, taking in the solid strength of him, she simply couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to have him dance with her in such a way.

  Before she could manage a response, however, he’d taken her hand in his and led her to the middle of the terrace. “Imagine that—I hear a waltz starting,” he said with a cheeky grin as he pulled her toward him.

  Her breath caught, and her stomach became a tight knot at the feel of his hand clasped firmly about her waist. She’d thought it strange when her maid had suggested that she get permission to dance the waltz, but this was no longer the case, for her vicinity to Mr. Summersby could only be described as scandalous. He was so close to her that she could breathe in his scent. It was like that of moist morning air after a storm, so intoxicatingly masculine that her sudden desire to be near him outweighed her fear of making a complete cake of herself—which was precisely what she ended up doing the minute he tried twirling her into his arms. For whatever reason, her feet refused to cooperate. Instead, they twisted themselves about one another most awkwardly, which was enough to make her trip on the hem of her gown, propelling her straight forward with an alarming amount of speed until her face slammed right into Mr. Summersby’s chest with a thump. It hurt like blazes.

  Mary didn’t move. She couldn’t move, because if she did, she was confident that once she lifted her head, she’d find him laughing at her, and that wasn’t something that she was prepared to endure just yet. What she silently prayed for was a means by which to avoid having to look at him ever again. If she could only find a way in which to freeze time forever and thus avoid the humiliation entirely.