“With pleasure,” she told him, and she meant every word.
Kit heaved a sigh of relief when the party started to disperse, and went over to collect Marianne. He would make another statement, and one that had better be remembered. She may have come with her brother, but she would leave with him.
Let the gossips and rumors feed on that for a while.
Oh, he had no expectation that they would ever think much of it, and certainly it would never be called love, but it would settle their presumptions concerning his feelings about this marriage.
No matter how it had begun, Marianne was his wife, and that was enough.
She had not danced much, but he hoped the few times she had would make it a point with those that witnessed it. He could do without her being a sensation, but he did not want her to be a pariah, either.
The men had settled it this evening that the rumors, which Gent had confirmed to him in the promised letter, needed to be dealt with if they were going to remain in London, or ever return. So Kit asked Colin and Derek, the most influential men in the group, to spread a different sort of rumor. Marianne had not, in fact, eloped, contrary to popular opinion. She had been abducted by Marksby, who had intended to marry her solely to gain her fortune, and sought to ruin her along the way.
It was not a lie. They simply would leave out the part Marianne had played.
After all, she had been tricked, and she had a woman’s heart, no matter how she might have locked it away.
Sympathy would be far better than slander.
Marianne said very little as they left and loaded into the carriage, but he could already see some color back in her face, and it encouraged him.
“Was it as bad as you expected?” he asked in as gentle a tone as he could manage.
She nodded, shrugging. “I’ve seen others with damaged reputations return to Society, felt the embarrassment at their appearance, and snubbed them myself, but I never knew it would feel like this. I never knew just how it would sting.”
He stared at her for a long moment, wondering that she was not tearful about it. “I am sorry you had to endure that.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why are you sorry? You had nothing to do with it, and you solved quite a bit of the problem yourself.”
And at great cost to his control, but he would not tell her so. “I am sorry that I cannot stop them from saying such things.”
Marianne smiled a little. “Well, I can easily forgive you for that, as it is an impossible task.”
He shook his head. “Impossible or not, I should be able to do something. You’ve been a reigning member of Society for so long, I cannot believe they are so quick to slander you like that. And to be unable to change it? For heaven’s sake, I beat a man to a bloody pulp for insinuating less with you.”
“You did what?” she cried, bracing one hand on the side of the slightly swaying carriage.
He clamped his mouth shut and silently cursed himself for letting that detail escape.
She gaped for a moment. “You don’t mean…”
He cleared his throat and looked away.
“You beat Marksby?” she asked in a small voice.
“Only a little,” he murmured.
He heard the sharp inhalation, and imagined that she heard the echo of her own voice saying those same words that night at the inn, as he did now.
She hesitated, still looking confused. When he did not say more, she offered him a nod, which he took to be an acceptance, and he found himself breathing easier.
Then she surprised him further with a very small smile. “I should thank you again for the dance this evening. I fear your reputation might suffer.”
He snorted softly. “For dancing with my wife? Hardly.”
She shook her head, her dark ringlets bouncing. “No, for dancing with me. You had to know what people were saying.”
“I think we have already learned that people know nothing and what they say is worth just as much,” he said with finality, bitterly recalling their behavior this evening. He could still see how drawn and miserable Marianne had looked, which was more haunting than it should have been in a ballroom. And he dreaded how long the Season would be for them both if nothing changed.
“But where Marianne Bray is concerned, they are not entirely wrong,” she pointed out, her voice going a little raw.
He gave her a hard look. “Where Marianne Gerrard is concerned, they know absolutely nothing, and they had best remember that.”
Her mouth worked for a moment, and then another tremulous smile formed. “Thank you.”
Reminders of the girl she had once been flickered into his mind at her expression, at her soft words, and he looked away. That girl was gone, but his wife remained, and he had a duty to her.
“Everybody deserves a second chance,” he murmured, almost to himself, knowing that she would hear it.
And he could not have said if he were speaking to himself or to his wife.
Chapter Eight
It soon became evident that the tactic the men had employed of posturing Marianne as a victim rather than an accomplice had worked. The idea had taken hold and whatever the opinions people held of Marianne, their curiosity would not be slaked. Within a week, all had changed.
Invitations had come in steadily after the Gardiner’s party, and Kit had nothing to do with any of them. Marianne was discerning enough to know which of the invitations ought to be accepted and which would not matter. She was encouraged by them and was quickly back to her old liveliness, which had its benefits as well as its drawbacks.
He did not have to worry over her or ask Mrs. Wilton to be mindful of her, which was a welcome change. Marianne had returned to her preening, carefully cultivated persona, and he was back to glowering about it.
He was continually reminding himself that if she were strong and bold once more, it would mean less intervention would be needed by him.
And that he could be satisfied with.
Oh, if the rumors or Society got out of hand again, he would step in, he meant what he had said to her. The usual gossip surrounding his wife could remain, but anything surrounding their marriage or her elopement would be quashed at once.
When he had seen Marianne come down to breakfast in her nightgown and wrap the second day in a row after Gardiner’s, he knew she would be quite well. And when she had barked at him about the earliness of the hour, he’d hid a secret smile of satisfaction.
His wife was back.
But when she’d started fussing about the sheer volume of people she would have to call on now that she had returned, and who would have to come to her, and which apologies and sympathy she would accept, Kit was done.
He’d started to escape to his study daily, which he had finally situated exactly as he liked it. It had become his ritual ever since and usually kept himself occupied for several hours therein, or seeing to business about London. The house became more ordered and Marianne directed more and more of the room arrangements, starting with their receiving rooms, and working her way to the back of the house. She had not ventured to appraise the upstairs rooms as yet, but he’d heard her ask Mrs. Wilton to examine each and let her know of their states.
She was a remarkably efficient taskmaster for claiming to hate productivity.
Workers were constantly in and out of the house, hanging wallpapers and painting, moving furniture out and in, altering draperies, and he would have sworn he saw a man replacing panes of glass the other day. Kit never asked what was going on, nor was he approached for his opinions or for funds. From what he could see, Marianne had surprisingly elegant and uncomplicated tastes with the rooms, and he had nothing to object to. He’d always known she was fashionable, but he would never have thought sensible. No doubt the cost would reflect her true tastes.
They’d had little to do with each other of late, but still met regularly for meals, though their conversation was stilted and strictly light and business-related. On occasion, she would tell him details abou
t the refurbishing of the rooms, and what she’d heard of other people doing. His lack of enthusiasm did not impress her. She was usually sharp with him in the mornings and more inclined to ignore him at dinner, but he could manage either extreme quite well.
Marianne meeting his sisters hadn’t gone particularly well for them, but he wasn’t sure what he had expected.
Rosie had been livid the entire time. She sat in the furthest corner of the room from Marianne, reading to herself, and never smiled once. Bitty wasted no time in getting to know Marianne, asking her questions about dresses and fashions, what was polite and what was not, and if she truly did need to wear a bonnet. Ginny had surprised them all by measuring Marianne quietly with her sober eyes, and then climbing onto her lap and chattering in her mix of words and nonsense about the doll she held in her hand.
Marianne hadn’t known what to do, but somehow she’d managed to come through unscathed.
Kit had tried to coerce Rosie into getting to know Marianne, but she’d adamantly refused.
“If you really wanted me to know her,” she’d insisted, “you would have waited to marry her until after I’d met her.”
There was no polite way to explain that, so he’d given up trying.
Eventually, Rosie had walked over to where her sisters and Marianne were, choosing to sit on the smallest portion of the settee, staying as far away from Marianne as possible.
Marianne had seen Rosie, but seemed to understand that she would be harder to win over than her sisters, and kept the conversations between them minimal, though she did try.
Rosie participated just enough to avoid getting in trouble, but not enough to be praised.
According to Colin, that was better than he could have expected. Apparently Rosie had been raging about the house before they had arrived, and he’d expected no less during their visit.
Either way, the duty was done, and if Bitty’s attentions were anything to go by, he would have to restrict their visits, or Bitty would become too fascinated with her new sister-in-law. Nothing could make Kit shudder more than the idea of Bitty becoming apprentice to his wife.
“Sir?”
Kit looked up to see Caldwell in the doorway to his study, looking somewhat apprehensive. “Caldwell?”
“A visitor, sir,” Caldwell said, clearing his throat.
Kit gestured for the card, but Caldwell didn’t move. Kit raised a brow. “No card?”
The butler shook his head. “No, sir. She… said she didn’t need one here.”
“Who said?” Kit pressed, wondering who in the world would call on them without the politeness of a card.
Caldwell cleared his throat once more. “Lady Raeburn, sir.”
Kit stared at him for a long moment, then cursed under his breath and moved quickly out of the room.
“Your aunt is here.”
Marianne jerked up from her writing desk to look at Kit in horror, as he stood in the doorway of her sitting room. “What?”
Kit swallowed hastily, his eyes belying the fear that his outward appearance hid so well. “She is in the west drawing room.”
Her pen clattered out of her hand and Marianne sat back hard, staring at the new wallpaper as if the vine-like details had suddenly come to life. “She was supposed to be in Italy.”
“She was.”
“There is no way to return from Italy that quickly.” She did the math again, and shook her head. It had been two weeks since her wedding, just over that since her elopement. It was an impossible feat. “She had to have been elsewhere.”
“Wherever she was, I can tell you where she is now.”
Marianne looked at him again, feeling color draining from her face. “What do we do?”
“I think we had better go down and see her,” he said simply, which made her frown up at him. Of course, they would go down, she would hardly think of ignoring Tibby altogether. That would ruin them faster than anything.
“Or else she will come up here, and who knows what chaos would ensue,” he finished, not watching her at all, but staring unfocused into the room.
Ah, so he was not intentionally being difficult. He was truly unsettled by Tibby’s sudden appearance. Marianne could understand that.
She looked at the pile of invitations before her wistfully. She would much rather sort through them and start planning for events. It would take some strategy to do so, as these invitations would lead to more once the Season started. Why, most of the higher Society had not even returned to London yet! And they would not wish to be overrun by invitations or activity. Selection of the most important events and connections was critical.
But all of that must wait, for Tibby would not.
“I suppose we must,” she sighed, pushing aside the stack and rising. She brushed at her gown nervously, wishing she had time to change or fix her hair or something, but it would have to do.
Kit waited for her to pass and then followed just to her left. They were silent as they proceeded out the hall and down the stars, and Marianne could feel her nerves beginning to shred already.
Tibby was the closest thing to a mother she had anymore, and she had twice the emotions of one. This could ruin her more than any scandal.
Kit seemed to sense her nerves and offered her his arm without a word, his eyes firm with a hint of encouragement, though he had to be as uneasy as she was. And they were not exactly pleased with each other at the moment.
Still, there was strength in numbers, she supposed, and Tibby was a terrifying force they had to face together. She took his arm with a short nod.
Once they reached the drawing room, however, and she caught sight of Tibby’s back as she examined their fireplace, the nerves soared once more. Tibby was wreathed in bronze fabric today, shimmering boldly even in the evening light, and her hair seemed more vibrantly red than normal. She had forgone the turban she was so fond of, and instead wore a bonnet of a rich orchid color adorned with bronze ribbons and feathers.
She looked just as imposing and impressive as Tibby had ever looked.
Kit lowered their arms, and their bare fingers brushed as they did so. The grazing of skin seemed to jolt something in them both, and anxiously Marianne’s hand seized his, forging the connection between them once more as she squeezed tightly.
She heard Kit draw in a surprised breath, felt him stiffen, and just as quickly she released his hand, her face flaming.
What had prompted her to do such a silly, girlish thing? She was strong enough to face her aunt. Tibby loved her, and it could not possibly be as bad as she currently feared.
Tibby suddenly whirled about, her skirts dancing with the motion, and the cold, thunderous expression on her face caused them both to fall back a step.
Perhaps it could, Marianne faintly considered.
Tibby set her hands on her hips and looked between them both with her pale eyes.
“I will not speak to you in this room,” Tibby sniffed suddenly. “The color clashes dreadfully with me. You must refinish the room; Sophronia had no idea of interior décor. I trust you will do better than she.”
She started passed them, marching towards a different room, when Marianne suddenly blurted, “How did you get back so soon?”
Tibby leveled her with a cool glare. “I have ways,” she informed her as she continued on.
Marianne opened her mouth, then turned to Kit and hissed, “How do you think she…?”
“I wouldn’t question it,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they followed Tibby to the nearest sitting room. “It’s Tibby.”
“I know,” she sighed grumpily. “She is my aunt, after all.”
“It is a miracle you survived adolescence.”
Marianne smiled without mirth, and then prepared for the wrath of the most terrifying woman on the planet.
It took Tibby a full minute of looking at the two of them, in a room much better situated for her wardrobe, before she spoke again.
“The pair of you,” she said in a stiff voice, “a
re the biggest idiots I have ever known personally, and possibly even professionally. I can hardly think of a worse situation than we are in now.”
“Tibby,” Marianne started in a placating voice, ignoring her husband’s warning shake of his head.
“You!” Tibby barked, bringing an accusing finger to within centimeters of Marianne’s face. “You do not get to speak. Are you entirely without wits, girl? Running off like a common strumpet with that man… entirely improper match there… and then! To be married in Yorkshire? No one is married in Yorkshire!”
“Tibby,” Kit tried in a rather worthy soothing tone.
“And you!” Tibby cried, twisting to bring her finger into his face. “You know better!” She suddenly slapped him hard, drawing a gasp from Marianne and a wince from Kit.
Tibby started rubbing at her delicate lace gloves, no doubt feeling the sting against her skin more than she’d anticipated. “Really, Christopher, you know better! Marianne is not the sort of girl you should have married! You know how she is, what she is like, and for her to be so willful, and you marry her anyway? That blasted honor, Christopher, is going to kill you! She did not deserve your saving!”
“I am right here,” Marianne muttered.
“Don’t think I have forgotten that!” Tibby shrieked as she turned back to her. “Marianne, what were you thinking?” She seized Marianne’s upper arms and shook her with a surprising amount of force, given her slight frame, nearly slamming Marianne’s teeth together. “I could wring your neck, you stupid girl!” She shook her hard again, then suddenly pulled her to her for a tight hug. “You stupid girl,” she whispered again, her voice choked.
Marianne had barely time to get over her astonishment and return Tibby’s hug before her aunt pulled back, serious once more.
“Well,” she sighed, looking disapproving at them both, “I am most seriously disgusted with you both, but out of the goodness of my heart, I shall make the best of it. Marianne shall not be cut off, despite my vowing the entire trek back to do so this time.”
A Bride Worth Taking (Arrangements, Book 6) Page 9
