by M C Beaton
A Marriage of Inconvenience
M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney
Copyright
A Marriage of Inconvenience
Copyright ©1992 by Marion Chesney
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795321047
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
MRS. CHADBURY WAS wondering whether she ought to go into a decline. She felt she could not cope with her daughter, Isabella, any longer.
Another London Season had just drawn to its weary close; another round of turtle dinners, subscription balls at Almack’s assembly rooms, plays and operas and concerts. And Isabella was still unwed. Mrs. Chadbury, seated at her toilet table, studied her reflection in the glass. She decided she looked unfashionably healthy, from her plump figure to her rosy cheeks and her shining brown hair, which held not a trace of gray. No one would believe her if she said she was going into a decline.
But, oh, to escape from responsibility for Isabella!
The wretched girl had been the belle of this Season as much as she had of the last. She was possessed of a beautiful face and a handsome dowry. Suitors had come in droves, and Isabella had turned them all down flat, in a finicky way, as if turning down bonnets that she thought would not suit her. This one was too showy, that one too boring, the other too loud.
Isabella, reflected Mrs. Chadbury, was thoroughly spoiled. But how could either she or her husband have guessed the damage they were doing when they indulged her every whim? For she had hitherto been sweet natured and kind. She had been born to Mrs. Chadbury after that lady had suffered a series of unfortunate miscarriages. To be blessed with such an exquisite, such a beautiful daughter had seemed to them like a gift from the gods. They were very rich and so could give her the best of everything; the best jewels to sparkle at her throat and in her hair, the finest silks to adorn her perfect figure.
The trouble had started at the first Season and had carried on into the second. She had become, almost instantly, wantonly flirtatious, encouraging suitors only to send them away.
From being the envy of other society matrons, Mrs. Chadbury knew she had become an object of pity.
The door opened and her husband, Mr. Charles Chadbury, walked in. He was a tall, thin man, elegantly dressed, with white hair cropped in the latest Brutus cut. He was not handsome, nor had he ever been, but he had kind eyes and a diffident manner, both of which had won Mrs. Chadbury’s heart all those years ago.
“We have a problem, Mrs. Chadbury,” he said, sitting down in an upright chair next to her.
“Isabella again?” asked his wife faintly. “What has she done?”
“It is not what she has done. Rather it is what she is about to do. Lord Rupert Fitzjohn is calling this afternoon, having gained my permission to pay his addresses to Isabella.”
“Lord Rupert?” Mrs. Chadbury wrenched her memory. “Of course,” she said, her face clearing. “Very suitable. Handsome, rich, young … about twenty-three, is he not?”
“When did suitability count with Isabella?” Her husband sighed. “I have told Isabella to put on one of her best gowns and make herself ready. To which she said, as usual, ‘Yes, Papa.’ I asked her if she would entertain his suit, to which she said, as usual, ‘I will consider the matter very carefully, Papa.’ ”
Mrs. Chadbury dabbed some rice powder on her nose and said wistfully, “If only she would accept him. Perhaps she is simply being flighty because of her youth.”
“Youth? She is nineteen, Mrs. Chadbury. A grown woman and shortly to be an old maid, an ape leader, if she continues so.”
“We shall be leaving for the country on the morrow,” said his wife, “and we will both feel better when we have shaken the dust of London from our heels. I shall talk to Isabella … again. Mayhap this time I can talk some sense into her pretty head.” She rang the bell and ordered a servant to tell Miss Isabella to attend her mother.
Mr. Chadbury rose and deposited a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “I will leave you alone with her,” he said.
Isabella entered her mother’s boudoir shortly after her father had left. She was indeed extraordinarily beautiful. She had thick, chestnut hair with a natural curl, a clear skin, a short straight nose, and large hazel eyes fringed with thick black lashes. All her movements were graceful. She was wearing a high-waisted morning gown of white muslin ornamented with a pink sprig.
“I am come in answer to your summons,” said Isabella. “You are no doubt going to lecture me on the merits of Lord Rupert Fitzjohn.”
“No, I am going to remind you again of your duty to your parents,” said Mrs. Chadbury. “We have endured two Seasons in London on your behalf, only to see you break hearts and remain unwed. You will give Lord Rupert’s offer your full consideration. You cannot be looking for love in marriage as, so far, you seem to be incapable of that emotion. It is time you thought of setting up your own household and having your own nursery.”
“Yes, Mama. Believe me, I will really think very hard about Lord Rupert’s offer.”
“Do that. If you reject him, then when we return to Cornwall, your father and I must begin to think very seriously of arranging a marriage for you.”
Isabella gave a rippling laugh. “You would not do that. Never fear, Mama, Lord Rupert will find me the soul of courtesy.”
Lord Rupert Fitzjohn strolled into Malmbrooke Square in London’s fashionable West End and approached the Chadburys’ town house. He was a tall young man with thick brown hair, a tanned face, fine black eyes, and full sensual lips. His waist was a trifle too thick to please sticklers for high fashion, as were his ankles, but his shoulders were broad and his long feet were fashionably narrow.
He had never proposed marriage to any woman before and, up until he had seen Isabella Chadbury, had not intended to. Why saddle oneself with one woman when there were so many delights to be enjoyed in London and for only a little money? The fact that he had never before gone courting and had always paid for the delights of the flesh meant that he had never met with a rebuff and so fancied himself as a veritable Adonis. But now he longed to make Isabella Chadbury his, to crush all that cool beauty in his arms, to be an object of envy.
He was not surprised that Mr. Chadbury had given him permission to court Isabella. Lord Rupert knew his own worth. He was rich and handsome, and he knew he was privately listed as one of the best catches on the marriage market.
That the Chadburys were extremely rich as well was a bonus, the icing on the cake.
A correct butler ushered him into the hall of the Chadburys’ town house and took his hat and cane, murmuring that he would conduct Lord Rupert straight upstairs to the drawing room.
The faint look of strain on Mr. and Mrs. Chadbury’s faces escaped Lord Rupert. He had eyes only for Isabella. When he entered, she was seated at the window, the sun shining on her thick chestnut hair. She had changed into a lilac gown of French cut that emphasized the perfection of her figure, the deep neckline displaying the whiteness of her bosom.
She ro
se as he entered and curtsied low, murmuring that yes, indeed, she did remember Lord Rupert and had danced with him the evening before.
After a few courtesies and some brief conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Chadbury withdrew to leave the “happy” couple alone.
Isabella was once more seated. She had been hemming a handkerchief and a workbasket was open at her feet.
“You know why I am come?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, indeed.”
Isabella smoothed the unfinished handkerchief into a neat square and put it into her workbasket. As she bent over the workbasket, he stared down the front of her dress, his senses quickening. Well, better get it over with. He was about to go down on one knee when Isabella held up a hand.
“I am entertaining you, my lord,” she said, “because my parents told me to, but I fear I must reject your suit.”
At first, he was too astonished to be angry.
“Why?”
“Why?” echoed Isabella on a sigh. “I fear I do not wish to become married at present. I have nothing against you, my lord. After all, I do not know you.”
Her coolness, her very detachment, began to enrage him. He could hardly believe his ears.
“Do you mean you have the temerity to turn down my offer?”
“That is a harsh way of putting it, my lord, but in a nutshell … yes.”
Suddenly the anger left his face, and he laughed. “I know what it is, you sly puss, you are flirting with me. You are going to accept me anyway, so let us not play games.”
Her voice was cool and incisive. “I do not play games. I would suggest you do not prolong this distressing interview. I have no intention, my lord, of becoming your wife, either today or at any time in the future, near or far. Good day, my lord.” She saw the blazing anger in his eyes and reminded herself quickly that she was in a house full of servants and that her parents were probably outside the door.
“Then hear this, Isabella Chadbury,” he said. “No one rejects and insults Lord Rupert Fitzjohn and remains unscathed. One day quite soon, you will be begging me to marry you.” He bent over her, and she stared up at him, unflinching.
Then he turned on his heel and left the room. Isabella sat very still. Soon she heard the street door slam.
Mr. and Mrs. Chadbury came into the drawing room and surveyed their daughter. Mr. Chadbury was the first to speak.
“So another rejection,” he said. “And one too many. Listen to me, Isabella, you will now have a marriage arranged for you, and you will have no say in the matter. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” Isabella said meekly, although she did not believe a word of it. Her parents were too fond, too indulgent.
“Very well, we will say no more about the matter at present.”
And neither they did. So Isabella inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. Tomorrow she would be on the way back to beloved Cornwall, to her home, Appleton House. She could resume her favorite pursuits of walking, riding, painting, and sewing, and her parents would soon forget about getting her married off.
She gave a wry little smile. They could not know how she longed to be an old maid.
Once when she was sixteen, she had been full of dreams of love and romance. Although she had been too young to make her come-out, she and her parents had been visiting London to enjoy the plays and operas and were on their way back to Cornwall. They had stopped for the night at a posting house, seeing nothing very much of the other guests at the inn because they had their own suite of rooms that included a private parlor and dining room. Just as they were finishing dinner, the landlord came in to say that a party of young bloods and their women had descended on the posting house, adding significantly that it would be as well if the ladies kept to their quarters.
But when her parents were asleep, Isabella had become curious to have a closer look at these wild guests. She had earlier seen one of them in the courtyard below. He had been a young and dashing-looking man with curly fair hair and bright blue eyes, just the sort of man she often dreamed of.
She had therefore risen and dressed and had made her way along the open gallery outside her room, which overlooked the main courtyard. There was a jolly sound of music coming from the public dining room, and she remembered the landlord saying that the roisterers had taken it over for the evening.
All she wanted to do was to take a look round the door and see if she could see that beautiful young man. Like many sixteen-year-old girls, she enjoyed long romantic dreams. Perhaps he might see her and ask her to join the festivities.
The passage to the dining room was dark, but the door of the room was wide open, and she saw clearly what was going on within. Shocked and trembling, rooted to the ground, she stood and stared.
Some of the women were stark naked and were dancing wildly with flushed and drunken men. And her beautiful young man? Minus his breeches, he was rutting on the floor with a naked woman while his friends cheered him on. How she at last found the strength to move, she did not know, but she made her way back to her room where she was violently sick.
So that was what men were like. That was what they did! But not to her. Never to her. She could not tell her mother about what she had seen. Ladies did not know of such things, did not speak of them, did not even know the words to describe them.
Isabella had been delighted to find herself such a success in London when she had first appeared on the social scene. Naively, she had hoped that that would be enough to please her parents. But the very suggestion that she would not even have the courtesy to speak to the first of her suitors had made her normally mild and indulgent parents very angry indeed. And so Isabella had seen them one after the other, calmly rejecting proposals of marriage. It never crossed her mind that any of her courtiers might be hurt, or offended, or angry. Men did not really suffer from any of the finer feelings when it came to women. They played at it, like a game, sighing and sending flowers and poems. Isabella knew that under the elegant clothes and manners of the Regency beau lurked a slavering satyr. What had poetry and romance to do with what she had witnessed that evening? And the beautiful young man? He had asked her to dance during her first Season, and she had immediately pleaded the headache and asked to be taken home.
The first tremulous awakenings of love and romance had been nipped in the bud by that dreadful party at the posting house. She would never forget it. She would remain cool and chaste and virginal for the rest of her life. She had friends in London of her own age. She had never confided in one of them. Ladies did not speak of such matters in a social world hedged in by euphemisms. Being sick with drink was described as “cascading,” and flatulence as “voluntary posterior declamations.” Any man in this hard drinking age who suffered from delirium tremens would describe one of his fits casually as the Horrors. The ton abounded with “Don’ts,” although there were odd double standards. One did not say “legs” to another lady. That would be impolite. Everyone knew that. And yet Isabella had heard two middle-aged duchesses arguing over which of them had the best legs, ending up with hitching up their skirts for a competition. It was hinted that love could take place outside marriage, but woe betide any married woman who was foolish enough to be found out. A great many ladies of the ton committed adultery, but they would gleefully turn and rend the reputation of one of their more unfortunate sisters who had been discovered by her husband to be conducting an affair. Ladies were expected to be sensitive, delicate creatures, never to be found guilty of any coarseness; yet at a grand dinner party Isabella had attended with her parents, several of the ladies had risen from their seats during the dinner and had gone over to a commode in the corner of the dining room to relieve themselves. Of course one did not comment on it for a lady did not see such things.
So Isabella kept the secret of the posting house locked up inside her brain.
All she had to do was to wait until they were all comfortably settled at Appleton House once more and then persuade her parents that there was little point in taking her to London for another
Season.
She would have been reassured had she known that her parents had already decided that she had had her last London Season, but she would have been distressed to know the plans for her future.
“We must discuss this affair with our acquaintance. Some young man from the Duchy would be suitable,” said Mrs. Chadbury.
“Perhaps not necessarily so young,” said Mr. Chadbury. “But I cannot think of anyone at the moment. We’ll ask Tremayne.”
The Earl and Countess of Tremayne were at that moment seated in the shabby morning room of their Cornish Tregar Castle. Parts of the cliff outside had begun to crumble into the sea, and yesterday two end rooms in the east wing had disappeared with a great rumble. They had not been important rooms. In fact they had not been in use for some time, but the earl and countess felt it was the beginning of the end. Soon more cliff would crumble, taking more rooms with it. “And then us,” said the countess. Although it was breakfast time, she was drinking champagne, which she considered the only thing to restore her shattered nerves. She was a small, dainty woman with hair of an improbable gold. Her husband was a large and shabby creature, rather childlike, who looked out at the world in an occasionally baffled way as if wondering why the good Lord should continue to pile such misery on him. “It’s like the plagues of Egypt,” he remarked. “Next thing, it’ll be raining frogs, mark my words.”
