The Marriage Lesson

by Victoria Alexander

  Of course, nothing of any consequence had really occurred with Marianne as of yet. He raised his head and stared unseeing across the room. Surely he could see to it that nothing did. How difficult would it be?

  Certainly Marianne was stubborn, and he would not put it past her to seek out someone else to experience life with. Although if he continued with her lessons in life she would have no reason to look elsewhere. He would simply have to make sure they were not carried away by passion. He groaned aloud. He was wrong. It would be extremely difficult. Damn near impossible.

  He had to concentrate all his effort on the task of finding her a husband as quickly as possible before it was too late. That, and nothing else, was in truth his responsibility.

  He blew a long breath and ignored the troubling thought that finding her a husband was not as appealing as it had once been. Nor would it be easy. Still, he was resolved and there was nothing more to say on the subject. And nothing more he could do tonight.

  For the moment, he would firmly set aside any further thoughts of stubborn, bespectacled temptresses and spend an hour or two doing what he really enjoyed. His secret vice as it were.

  Thomas opened the desk drawer and removed the sheet of paper he’d been working on before Marianne’s arrival. He studied the scrawled handwriting before him and sighed. It was bloody awful.

  Poetry was Thomas’s private passion but he was smart enough to know his talents did not lie in putting verse to paper. In point of fact, his poetry reeked. He recognized that and, even if he didn’t, the one or two people he’d allowed to see his work through the years had confirmed the inadequacy of his efforts. Still, he did enjoy it and he harbored a secret hope deep within him that one day he would write something that would make ladies fall at his feet and strong men weep with the power of his words.

  He picked up a pen and stared at the paper before him. He wanted to write of the kiss he’d shared with Marianne. It was inspirational and unforgettable. Regardless of what happened in the future, the power of that kiss should be recognized, if only in bad poetry.

  Especially since he was determined nothing of that nature would pass between them again. Precisely as it should be. Precisely as he wanted it.

  Marianne closed the library doors behind her and headed to the bedchamber allotted her. She climbed the stairs and strode down the corridor with an even, steady step as if nothing of major importance had happened in her life and she didn’t have the urgent desire to run while giggling insanely.

  She stepped into her room, calmly closed the door, then collapsed back against it and drew a deep breath.

  How could she have been so forward? So brazen? She’d practically demanded he kiss her. No, she did demand he kiss her. Why, she’d actually threatened the man that if he didn’t kiss her she’d find someone who would. Again.

  She groaned and crossed the room to her bed, flinging herself across it. He probably thought she was nothing more than a tart. And hadn’t she done everything possible to encourage that belief? Especially given the way they’d kissed.

  She rolled over and stared up at the coffered ceiling, candlelight flickering across the raised, intricate pattern. The first time they’d kissed it had been quite pleasant, but tonight—heat flushed up her face—tonight was different. Tonight was, well, more.

  Surely this couldn’t be love. This yearning of one person for another? This odd stirring of the blood? Thrilling and exciting but with no sentimental emotions involved? After all, she was not the type of woman he wanted and he certainly was not the kind of man she would ever be interested in. Of course, he was handsome. And he could be quite charming. And he certainly knew how to kiss, but there was nothing more to it than that. There couldn’t be. Could there?

  Not that she hadn’t implied she was interested in much, much more with all that nonsense about experiencing life. How could she?

  And why not? She sat up abruptly. Why not indeed? She truly did want to know more of life than she’d experienced thus far, and weren’t the relations between men and women part of life? She was serious when she’d given Thomas her views on virtue. Preserving it was a waste if one was not interested in marriage. Marianne’s family had had far too many lean years to accept waste easily. Besides, men had no such compunction about saving themselves for marriage. Why should women have to live by different standards?

  Not that she intended to drag Thomas to her bed this very minute, if ever. But lessons in life with him needn’t stop, and should they go beyond a kiss . . . she flushed at the thought. It would be a grand adventure and it certainly would provide excellent material for her country miss stories. The better the stories sold, the better she’d be paid, and she’d be one step closer to being independent. Besides, if she were ruined, her brother might see his way clear to handing over her dowry.

  Then her adventures could truly begin.

  And she’d have the future Duke of Roxborough to thank.

  Chapter 6

  . . . must tell you some of my impressions of London, yet they have little to do with the sights. Make no mistake, it is indeed a remarkable city, yet I think it is its residents that make it so distinct.

  Those who inhabit the fashionable world are as alike as peas in deportment and appearance. One must wear one’s hat just so, or tie a cravat in the latest style, or don the approved-of color for this year. And one is unfailingly polite and proper at all times.

  It is the members of the merchant class who maintain an individuality of manner that is at once relaxed and to the point. It comes, I suspect, from living in a city where the streets are crowded and one’s every breath is shared with one’s neighbor.

  Still, under certain conditions, the bluntness of their nature can be quite appealing. . . .

  The Adventures of a Country Miss in London

  “Good day,” Marianne called out to no one in particular and stepped cautiously into the small shop and an entirely foreign world. This was allegedly the home of Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Cadwallender?” Marianne called again, hoping to be heard above the clamor that was obviously part and parcel of the printing business.

  A huge machine she assumed was a printing press dominated the main room. What space was left was crowded with any number of items she couldn’t possibly identify and a few she could make a guess at. Stacks of paper, both blank and printed, leaned against the walls. Print blocks were heaped in piles or laid in racks. The air was thick with the scents of ink and oil and who knew what else. It was exceedingly hot and she fanned herself with the papers she held in one hand.

  A layer of grime covered much of everything, although, on closer inspection, Marianne discovered it wasn’t only dirt. Fine sprays of ink coated every surface. She ran a gloved finger along the edge of a wooden desk and studied it. She wrinkled her nose. It was definitely ink with more than a touch of dust.

  “Mr. Cadwallender,” she called again. Surely, given all this noise, he was here somewhere. She stepped closer to the press. “Is anyone here?”

  A short, older gentleman popped his head out from behind the massive machine. Great furry brows drew together and he glared. “What do you want, missy?”

  Her heart sank. Mr. Cadwallender was nothing like she thought he’d be from his letter. He didn’t seem the type who would be at all inclined to like her work—or her, for that matter.

  “Come on, then. Spit it out, girl. State your business.”

  She straightened her shoulders and clutched the papers in her hand tighter. She hadn’t managed to slip out of the house unnoticed, locate a hired carriage and travel all the way to Great St. Andrews Street to give up now. Granted, it was an adventure of a sort, but also risky and far too fraught with the fear of discovery to be enjoyable.

  She stepped toward him and favored him with her brightest smile. “Good day, Mr. Cadwallender. I’m delighted to finally meet—”

  “Hold on, there.” He craned his head and bellowed, “Ephraim!” He nod
ded at her then disappeared behind the machinery.

  Apparently that wasn’t Mr. Cadwallender. She breathed a sigh of relief. Surely he couldn’t be any worse than the grizzled elf she’d just talked to. She did wish he’d appear though. She’d asked the carriage to wait and she needed to return to Effington House as quickly as possible. The duchess’s ball was tonight and she counted on the frenzied state of the household to mask her disappearance. Still, she preferred not to run unnecessary risks. The last thing she needed was her absence noted.

  She sighed and studied the machine. It towered over her, a complicated array of huge rollers and an astounding variety of gears, pulleys and levers.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” a deep voice sounded beside her.

  She turned to find herself eye level with a man’s chest. Her gaze traveled upward to a determined profile and eyes that gazed at the contrivance in front of him with something akin to love.

  “She?” Marianne said curiously.

  He grinned a lopsided grin and looked down at her. “Ships are always shes. Why not a printing press?”

  “She’s as cantankerous as a woman, I give you that,” the elf muttered, stepping around them.

  “Don’t mind him.” He turned back to study the press. “So what do you think of her?”

  “Me?” She looked at the contraption. “It’s—”

  “She.”

  “She’s quite . . . ” she groped for the right word, “impressive.”

  “That she is. She’s steam-powered, you know. The newest thing and my own design.” He ran a hand along the metal frame. No, he caressed the frame with the affection of a lover. “She can print a thousand pages an hour.”

  “Really?” Surprise sounded in her voice. “I had no idea. That is impressive.”

  He nodded with satisfaction and turned toward her. “Now, then, how may I help you?”

  “Help me?” For a moment she’d forgotten why she’d come. She stared at a muscled chest barely concealed by a thin, well-worn shirt scandalously open at the throat. She’d never seen a man this revealingly attired before. Most improper but interesting nonetheless.

  “Miss?”

  Her gaze jerked to his and heat washed up her face.

  He smiled down at her. “Not that I’m at all averse to visits by attractive ladies, but do you have business with me? I’m Ephraim Cadwallender and for all intents and purposes this is my place.”

  “You are Mr. Cadwallender?” As much as she hadn’t expected him to look like an elf, she didn’t expect someone quite so imposing. “Of Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger?”

  “At your service.” He bowed slightly. “And you?”

  “Miss Smythe. I wrote to you?”

  “Of course.” His gaze flicked over her and at once she realized he knew it was not her real name. “Of the not-so-adventurous Adventures of a Country Miss?”

  She bristled and handed him her writing. “It’s rather more adventurous now, I should think.”

  “We shall see.” He started toward the back of the shop. “Come into my office while I look at this.”

  The office was a small room dominated by a large desk butted against one wall, and not much else in the way of furnishings save a couple of wooden chairs and a tall precarious bookshelf. It was as cluttered as the main room and just as stifling.

  He sat down at the desk and gestured to the other chair. It, too, was buried under mounds of papers. Apparently if she wanted to sit, she’d have to clear it off herself: Cadwallender was already perusing her work. She sighed and delicately picked up the stacks of papers—billings, they looked like—and plopped them on the floor in one of the few bare spots she could find. Then she dusted herself off, perched on the edge of the chair and waited.

  Cadwallender skimmed the pages she’d given him, his dark hair, a bit longer than was fashionable, falling over his forehead. He let out a long low whistle. “Is this all true?”

  “Does it matter?” she said without thinking. “Not that it isn’t true, but, as I discussed in my letter, I wish to remain anonymous, and—”

  “It’s of no consequence, really. Truth or fiction, what you have here is quite intriguing.” He studied her for a moment. “This country girl of yours, then, is it you?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Yes, of course it’s me. These are my adventures. My experiences.” More or less.

  He raised a brow. “I don’t particularly care one way or the other as long as the stories are good. And I like what you have here. It’s exactly the type of thing my readers want. I don’t suppose there’s the possibility of a murder in your adventures?”

  She started. “I scarcely think so.”

  “Pity.” He shrugged. “Readers like a good murder as much as they like a good scandal. Probably more.”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” she said primly.

  He leaned back in his chair and considered her thoughtfully. “I should tell you, Miss Smythe, that while I have a handful of people who write for me on occasion and a number of others who provide me with information, I do most of the writing for the Messenger myself. I also set the type, run the press and sell advertising.”

  “Do go on.” She held her breath. Was this his way of letting her down? Rejecting her?

  “I’m telling you this so that you understand, while I will compensate for your work, I cannot pay you well.”

  “I didn’t expect—”

  “However, the Messenger continues to grow in circulation every week and if this does as well as I think it will”—he tapped a finger on her story—“you will profit.”

  “I can ask for nothing more.” She struggled to keep her voice businesslike and tried not to grin with the sheer euphoria of knowing he would print her stories.

  They chatted for a few minutes more about payment—not a great deal, as he had warned, but it was something, at any rate. And something she earned herself. There was a lovely warm feeling about knowing she had taken her first real step toward independence.

  “If that’s all, then”—he got to his feet—“I shall get this in tomorrow’s issue.”

  “So soon?” She stood and stared up at him.

  “Absolutely. I want the readers of London to start following the adventures of a country miss—the true adventures of a country miss—without delay.”

  “Excellent.” She extended her hand and he took it. “Now, I have a carriage waiting and I—”

  “Wesley,” he said abruptly.

  “Wesley?”

  “Yes. Lord Wesley. He’s rather a fine figure of a man. Is he your Lord W?”

  “No, he most certainly is not.” She tried to pull her hand back, but he held it fast.

  “Wymore, then?” He nodded. “He’s known to be melancholy.”

  “No.”

  “Windham?”

  “No!” She laughed. “And I daresay I would not tell you if it was. It quite defeats the entire purpose of anonymity.”

  “I suppose. Although, as your publisher . . . ” A teasing light shone in his eye.

  “Mr. Cadwallender.” Marianne firmly pulled her hand from his. “I must be on my way.”

  “I foresee a long and profitable relationship, Miss Smythe. May I see you out?”

  “I can find my way, thank you.” She stepped to the door and pulled it open, then turned back to him. “I was wondering . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever explored a jungle in Africa, Mr. Cadwallender?”

  “No.” He grinned. “But then, the opportunity has never presented itself.”

  “Pity.” She flashed him a smile. “Good day, Mr. Cadwallender.”

  “Blast, blast, blast!” Thomas glared at himself in the cheval mirror in his chambers. “Banks!”

  The valet appeared behind him. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Would you do something with this bloody thing.” Thomas thrust the now-limp cravat at the servant.

  “Of course, my lord.” Banks dropped the offending neckp
iece onto a nearby chair. A freshly starched cravat was draped over his arm.

  Thomas turned to face him. Why he continued to frustrate himself over something as silly as tying a cravat was beyond him. His valet had even had tiny gold Roxborough crests embroidered in the middle of the bottom edge of the neckcloths to help Thomas position them correctly. It made absolutely no difference.

  Banks managed the chore with a minimum of effort and a barely concealed smile. It was a constant source of amusement to the valet that His Lordship could not tie a cravat in the intricate folds dictated for formal wear.

  “Thank you, Banks.” Thomas turned back toward the mirror and Banks helped him on with his white brocade waistcoat and finally his coat, a blue so dark it was nearly black.

  “What do you think, Banks?” Thomas surveyed himself in the mirror with a critical eye. “Will I do?”

  “The ladies will swoon and the gentlemen will choke with envy, my lord,” Banks said matter-of-factly.

  “Thank you, Banks.” Thomas grinned. The valet had impeccable taste and he was right. The man smiling back in the mirror was the epitome of fashion and wore an air of supreme confidence. Handsome. Dashing. A man of the world.

  “It’s time, my lord.”

  Thomas grimaced. He’d never arrived at a ball on time in his life, but Lady Dragon insisted propriety dictated he and the girls, as host and guests of honor, be on hand from the first to greet the arrivals. He might as well get it over with.

  He cast one more glance in the mirror, adjusted his cuffs and started for the door. “It’s going to be an interesting evening, Banks.”

  “Isn’t it always, my lord?”

  Tonight, however, was different. He headed toward the ballroom. Tonight marked the Shelton sisters’ official entry into society. And their entry into the marriage market—whether they liked it or not. He chuckled to himself. They’d be wed before they knew it.

  There was something about knowing one looked one’s best that bolstered the confidence of a man, and Thomas was extremely confident tonight. He’d even compiled a list of potential suitors, excluding Pennington and Berkley, of course. In fact, when he thought about it, he realized most of his friends weren’t among those he considered appropriate matches.