The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  She searched his face, then took his arm without invitation and walked on. “I believe you are not. However, you are somewhat less happy than you expected to be when you regained your freedom.”

  “You give Lady Cecily little credit,” he observed.

  “On the contrary, I give her a great deal.”

  “For having the sense to dismiss me?”

  “For having courage and a sense of fun. However, I doubt she could dismiss you, for I don’t believe for a moment you were ever truly engaged.”

  Verne stared down at her in fascination. “You don’t?”

  “No, I think she got into a scrape and you discovered the remains of your nobility and helped her out.”

  She was alarmingly close to the truth, and his eyes must have told her so, for she let out a breath of laughter. “Have no fear, I am the soul of discretion. Nor do I like to see you unhappy.”

  “I am not remotely unhappy.”

  “You didn’t mean to be, but you are. She crept into your black heart when you weren’t looking, and now you can’t forget her.”

  “You have been reading novels again. My heart is the same color as everyone else’s, though my memory is less reliable than you imagine.”

  “Then you have forgotten her?”

  “Don’t be silly. What do you want, Isabelle?”

  “I don’t know.” She cast him a quick glance. “I think I want you to be happy.”

  “And you imagine being leg-shackled will do that for me?”

  “Maybe,” Isabelle said vaguely. She drew in a breath. “I’m going back to Pierre.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “There’s no pleasing you, is there? Only a few weeks ago, you were advising me to do so.”

  Before he suspected Pierre’s loyalties and motives. “You never listen to me.”

  “You never listen to me either.” Her fingers gripped his arm too hard. “We almost loved each other once, Patrick, and I will always care for you. So, accept my advice. Don’t pass up the chance of happiness if it comes your way.”

  He could have verbally annihilated her. His lips even parted to do so, but the words caught in his throat. He cared for her, too.

  “You cannot believe Cecily is my chance of happiness,” he got out instead.

  “Isn’t she? Don’t you love her?”

  “Of course, I don’t,” he spat. “I barely know her. And even if she proved to be my happiness, I am most certainly not hers!”

  “How do you know?”

  He blinked. They had come to the inn where he had tied up Jupiter, and he halted, frowning down at her. “How do I know what?”

  “That you are not her happiness? She seemed pretty struck with you to me.”

  “Did she?” The words came out too quickly, too wistfully, giving him away.

  There was hurt in Isabelle’s eyes, hurt for the past, but mostly, they smiled. “You know she was. If you want her, Patrick, fight for her.”

  “Don’t be naive, Izzy. What do I have to give her but a soiled name and a sordid past? She deserves better.”

  “Blah, blah,” Isabelle said rudely. “Perhaps she deserves who and what she wants. But who am I to give anyone marital advice? You will do as you wish, of course. I suppose you know my cousin and Henry are rejoicing?”

  “I like to spread happiness where I can.”

  “Keep trying.” She withdrew her arm. “Goodbye, my lord. I hope I may see you at Mooreton House.”

  “Not unless you take your own portrait of me. Goodbye, Izzy. Good luck.” He tipped his hat and walked into the inn. He knew he would not go, because the best thing he could do for Cecily—whether or not he loved her, which, of course, he didn’t—was to stay away from her.

  At the inn, he ordered some pie and sat down in a quiet corner with a mug of ale. After a moment, he took Cecily’s dog-eared first letter from his pocket and read it yet again. She had been happy when she’d written this. Hopeful even. Hopeful of him, God help her. The contrast with her second note couldn’t have been greater. Crushing the letter, he stuffed it back into his coat.

  His silence had hurt her. He could only begin to guess at the courage it had taken her to suggest they could keep their engagement. And he hadn’t troubled to reply one way or the other. Because he thought it would be easier for her? Or for himself. The second stiff note, sticking to the requirements of their agreement, surely spoke of an unhappy woman holding her pride together because the happiness, the hope of the first letter had gone. Did he not owe her an explanation?

  No, he owed her the decency, the courtesy of staying out of her way.

  If you want her, Patrick, fight for her. His fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. Fight to ruin her life by tying it irrevocably to his? That was a cruelty even he could not inflict.

  *

  Charlotte, Duchess of Alvan, entered her bedchamber to discover her husband, coatless, sprawled across the bed and reading the book she had left there.

  He glanced up as she entered and closed the book. “You look worried.”

  “Our first guests arrive tomorrow, with more the following day in time for the ball.”

  “I know. You are a wonderful hostess, Charlie. You will cope as you have before.”

  “I have coped on a much smaller scale!”

  “It’s just the same, and now we have Cecily and Julius to help.”

  “What if they only come to discover what a figure of fun you have married?”

  He caught her hand and drew her onto the bed beside him. “The world already knows I have married a positive whirlwind of fun and beauty and kindness.”

  She smiled, resting her forehead on his for a moment. “You are biased, I am glad to say.”

  “No one is looking for faults in you, Charlotte. In fact, the wonder of our marriage will have faded beside the breaking of Cecily’s thoroughly inappropriate engagement.” A frown tugged at his brow. “Talking of whom, what ails Cecily? She says she is fine, but she seems quite uncharacteristically listless. Is she ill?”

  Charlotte rested her head on her husband’s shoulder and sighed. “I think she is unhappy. About the broken engagement.”

  “Such a challenge would normally make her shine.”

  “I think,” Charlotte said carefully, “that it might be the breaking of it that has made her unhappy.”

  The duke stared at her, frowning. “You mean she wanted to marry him?”

  “Oh, not at first. But I daresay the pretense threw them together. She didn’t mean to love him, but I’m fairly sure that is what has happened. I think we might have to throw them together again somehow.”

  Alvan sat up. “No.”

  Charlotte blinked. “No? Why ever not?”

  Alvan dragged his hand through his hair. “Look, I like Verne. He is my oldest friend. You may discount some of the wilder rumors about him, but the truth is, he has earned a good deal of the reputation the world gave him. I will always stand by him, but he is not the man I would choose for my sister.”

  “Because of his reputation?” Charlotte said, surprised and not quite pleased.

  “No,” Alvan snapped. “Because of the wretched life he would lead her into.”

  Charlotte searched his face. “You cannot know that. No one is truly unmarriageable, Alex.”

  His face softened in the way she loved, and she knew he was mulling over what she said. After the ball, she suspected, he would go down to Sussex and visit his old friend.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Cecily had expected, the broken engagement did not keep the Longstones from keeping to their plans. Mother and son arrived at Mooreton Hall the day before the ball, with not only Isabelle de Renarde in their entourage, but also another gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Lady Cecily!” Mrs. Longstone exclaimed after she had been presented to the duke and duchess. “How delightful to see you again. Allow me to introduce Monsieur de Renarde, Isabelle’s husband.”

  Cecily found she was r
ather pathetically pleased to see these people, most of whom she did not like above half, simply because they were connected to Lord Verne. But she knew a genuine spark of interest in Renarde who seemed an odd husband for the dazzling Isabelle.

  Where she would always stand out in a crowd, Renarde seemed almost bland as he smiled and bowed over her hand. Several years older than his wife, he wore little round spectacles and his hair receded slightly at the temples, although in a distinguished kind of way. Although he reminded her a little of a banker or some other city man—which perhaps explained her sense of familiarity—his manners were pleasant and unexceptionable.

  As they walked to the blue salon where the first guests were gathered, Henry said quietly, “We were sorry to hear your engagement was ended, although perhaps it is for the best.”

  “Assuredly it is,” Cecily agreed fervently. “I don’t know what either of us was thinking!”

  “Verne is a difficult man,” Henry said, just a little tight-lipped as though he could never sully his lips with the ways in which his lordship was difficult. “To be frank, I would not wish him on any gentle lady, least of all on you.”

  “Well, we are all in agreement!” Cecily said hastily. “I am glad to see you all here and looking so well. How is Jane?”

  After three London seasons, Cecily could sail through social events almost mechanically, which seemed to be what she did for the next two days as more and more people arrived to stay for the ball. If her smile was too bright and her conversation too brittle, it seemed only she was aware of it.

  The day after the Longstone’s arrival, the day of the ball itself, Lord Torbridge appeared.

  “Very glad to see you,” he beamed, pressing her hand in a way he meant to be comforting. “Very glad.”

  He meant it. He really was a most agreeable man, kind and understanding and supportive. What a pity she could never marry him now.

  The same day, Charlotte’s parents, Lord and Lady Overton, arrived with their lovely younger daughter, Henrietta. They were accompanied by Charlotte’s older sister, Lady Dunstan and her husband, who had just returned from their wedding trip. Cecily was particularly glad to see Dunstan at Mooreton Hall, for he and Alvan had not been on speaking terms for a long time.

  Lord Dunstan had been Cecily’s first love, when she was a mere fifteen summers, but it had been many years since he had stirred her heart. Perhaps there was hope in her fickleness. She would forget Verne soon, too.

  Fortunately, for her rather desperate need of distraction, she had offered her “dressing” services to Charlotte. The new duchess had a beautiful new silk ball gown in the shade of dark blue that suited her best. Cecily’s art lay in matching the correct jewels and hairstyle, and even the dressers, her own and Charlotte’s, were forced to admit she was right to remove all but the family sapphires and diamonds. She looked regal, but with the light touch so suited to her personality, and undeniably beautiful.

  Even Alvan seemed dumbstruck when he saw her, taking her hand with pride and love in his eyes. With her new perspective, Cecily realized how lucky they were to have found each other.

  For once, she had taken little interest in her own dress for the occasion, doing little more than allowing Cranston and Lady Barnaby to dictate the rose lace gown and the necklace of tiny garnets.

  Funnily enough, it was as she descended the staircase to the ballroom—the entrance hall, hung with masses of fresh flowers and extra chandeliers for the occasion—that she finally remembered where she had seen Monsieur de Renarde before.

  He was just accepting a glass of wine from the waiter’s tray and the gear of her memory clicked into place. The private parlor of the Hart Inn, with Verne and Jerome and others.

  “So that’s it!” she exclaimed.

  “That’s what?” demanded Julius, who was with her.

  “Nothing,” she said hastily. “I’ve just remembered something I should have realized days ago.”

  “Well, you’ve been a bit distracted,” Julius observed. “I hope that is over,” he added when she glanced at him uncertainly.

  She laughed. “Of course, it is. You know I love to dance.”

  All the same, when she flitted away from Julius, it was to join Isabelle.

  “You look ravishing as always,” Isabelle told her.

  “No more than you, Madame. I am very glad you came, and it is good to meet your husband at last.”

  “My elusive Pierre,” she drawled. “He is not a great man for parties and dancing, but who can resist an invitation from the Alvans?”

  “You would be surprised,” Cecily said lightly.

  “If you mean Verne, he is not entirely devoid of delicacy, you know.”

  Cecily raised her brows. “Oh no, I wasn’t thinking of him at all. Though I trust you left him well.”

  “I left him last stomping into an inn at Finsborough with a scowl as black as paint.”

  “Was your husband with you?” Cecily asked, then, wished she had bitten her tongue.

  Isabelle’s eyes narrowed as they gazed at her. “No. Why do you ask?”

  Cecily smiled. “No reason. I just thought I had seen them together once and assumed they were friends.”

  “Hardly,” Isabelle said coolly.

  “Excuse me,” Cecily said, for the hall was filling up with guests from the house as well as with the arrival of neighbors, and she wanted to make sure Charlotte was coping.

  She needn’t have worried. Vivacious and gracious, the duchess might have been born to the position. If she was playing a part, she did it very well. So, Cecily allowed herself to be swept off to dance.

  Dancing—and the mystery of Monsieur de Renarde—proved to be the perfect antidote to her blues. While she wondered if Renarde was Verne’s friend or enemy, and if he was here to pursue Henry or Torbridge or mistakenly assumed Verne would be here, she threw herself into somewhat hectic gaiety, dancing three times in succession before pausing for breath.

  It was then, as Lord Torbridge presented her with a glass of champagne, that she realized a sudden surge of low voices filled the void of the silent orchestra. And as she looked up, it seemed even the whispers died away. Everyone was looking at her, or toward the entrance, though she couldn’t see over the heads between to discover what or who was causing such a stir.

  Then the crowd parted, turning away as though they wished no part of them to touch the man who sauntered along the path they made.

  Blood rushed into Cecily’s head so fast the world swayed dizzily. But when her eyes refocused, he was still there, coming straight for her. Lord Verne in perfect evening attire, although his cravat, inevitably, was carelessly tied and his hair, while neatly brushed, was still too long to be fashionable. His harsh, yet handsome face bore an expression of sardonic disdain for those around him. But he looked neither right nor left as he approached, seeking only her.

  Cecily glanced around wildly, seeking only escape. She was too hemmed in and no one was going to move to spoil this fantastically gossip-worthy encounter. Her champagne shuddered in the glass as she trembled, and just to have something to do, she took a desperate sip.

  And then he was there, looming, large, dark and overwhelming, just as she remembered him. A flood of fierce joy hit her like a wave. He had come. He had come. She didn’t know what it meant, only that he was here and the world suddenly possessed color once more.

  Peremptorily, he held out his hand, as though commanding her. Or claiming her. But she wasn’t having that, not after the weeks of silence.

  Defiantly, she smiled. “Lord Verne. Just in time.” And as the orchestra struck up, she placed her glass in his outstretched hand.

  Startled, he blinked, and then his eyes filled with laughter, holding hers once more. Her breath caught. Deliberately, he turned the stem in his fingers until the faint moisture left by her own lips faced him, and then he drank from the same place.

  Heat flooded her. Carelessly, he thrust the glass into Torbridge’s hold and took Cecily’s hand in a firm
grip. She stared up at him, stiff and still inclined to outrage, still prepared to behave badly.

  “Please,” he said hoarsely. And at last, she saw the uncertainty, the desperation behind the confidence he portrayed.

  Of their own volition, her fingers gripped his and she swallowed hard. She wanted to cry and laugh, hit him and hug him. Instead, she walked with him onto the dance floor and discovered, as if he had planned it, that this was the waltz.

  As his arm closed around her, she felt as if she melted into his embrace. She could not breathe, her stomach was in turmoil, and yet it felt like pure happiness.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered as he swept her into the dance.

  “You invited me. Alvan and the duchess both invited me.”

  “You never wrote to me, not once.”

  “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “And now you do?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I might know what to do.”

  “What?” she asked, frowning.

  “I’ll show you later when there are less people watching.”

  She flushed. “I’m afraid your entrance has ensured everyone is watching.”

  “I know, but Alvan introduced me to his duchess just as the last dance ended and the gossip spread in waves. For myself, I don’t actually care, but I’m sorry for your discomfort.”

  Cecily thought about it. “I don’t believe I’m uncomfortable in the slightest.”

  His eyes devoured her, depriving her of breath. “That’s my girl.”

  From nowhere, laughter bubbled up. “But you are wicked, my lord. That foolishness with my glass will have all the tabbies mewing for weeks.”

  His smile answered hers. “You shouldn’t have given it to me.”

  “You shouldn’t have stared at me so, as though I had no choice but to obey your commands.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “It wasn’t a command. It was a plea. If you had rejected me, if you had sounded remotely like your letter…”

  For the first time since he’d stood before her, confusion invaded her happiness. “Why are you here, Patrick? What are we doing?” There was a catch in her voice that she could not hide and she thought he swore beneath his breath.