The Marriage Lesson

by Victoria Alexander

  The knowledge triggers an odd ache deep within my heart. . . .

  The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London

  Marianne quietly opened the library door and slipped inside. Thomas sat behind his desk, intent on whatever he was writing.

  She hadn’t had the chance to speak with him privately in more than a week.

  She’d come down to the library on previous nights hoping to find Thomas, but to no avail. Either he was retiring early or, more likely, was out carousing.

  He’d escorted them to Lord Attwater’s soiree and Lady Millbanks’s rout, and so on, nearly every night. He’d no sooner introduce them to their hostess then disappear, although she had the feeling he was never far from reach. Not unexpected, given his overprotective nature.

  His presence would have been pointless, at any rate. Jocelyn, of course, was always surrounded by admirers. Becky was only slightly less occupied. Even Marianne drew a surprising amount of attention. Not at all bad for an aging, intelligent bluestocking, even if the men she attracted were cut from the same cloth. An exceedingly dull cloth. She’d never considered herself particularly vain, yet the caliber of gentlemen seeking her out was annoying and humbling. It only reinforced her resolve not to hunt for a husband.

  Marianne had discovered she rather missed Thomas. And missed, as well, the kisses they’d shared. If this was the result of their alleged truce, she wanted no part of it. It was past time to take matters into her own hands—if she was to have anything at all interesting to write about.

  Another installment of The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London had come out, and indeed it was the talk of the ton. Rumor and gossip was rife as to the true identity of Lord W and his innocent charge. It was at once thrilling and terrifying. She quite enjoyed hearing her stories discussed, even as she didn’t dare dwell on the consequences if she were discovered.

  Marianne drew a deep breath and crossed the room to the brandy cabinet. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Thomas note her approach, but she paid him no heed. She opened the cabinet, selected a glass and filled it, then wandered over to a bookshelf and perused the titles.

  “Looking for something in particular?”

  “Not really.” She took a sip of the brandy and continued to stare at the volumes before her. “Something amusing, perhaps.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “No, thank you. I’m quite capable of choosing a book on my own. After all, I know my likes and dislikes better than anyone.” She slanted him a pointed glance. He’d gotten to his feet. “Please, do go on with whatever it was you were doing. Just ignore me.” She smiled sweetly. “You seem to have become quite adept at that.”

  He glared for a moment, then took his seat, muttering under his breath.

  “Did you say something?” She moved closer.

  “No,” he snapped.

  “You needn’t be so surly.”

  “I am not surly,” he said in a manner that she’d be hard-pressed to describe as anything but surly.

  She snorted with disbelief.

  “I’m not. I’m simply”—he glanced at the paper before him—“preoccupied.”

  “With what?” She leaned forward over the desk to try to catch a glimpse of whatever he was writing.

  “Nothing.” He splayed his hands over the paper in a defensive manner, as if he’d been caught breaking a law or doing something exceedingly naughty. Curiosity surged through her.

  She circled the desk to stand behind him. “Nonsense, it’s not nothing if you’re so concerned about it.”

  “I’m not concerned.” His voice was casual, but he hunched his shoulders to shield whatever it was he had.

  “Come, now, Thomas.” She placed her free hand on his arm and leaned forward. He tensed beneath her touch. She smiled with satisfaction and bent close to whisper in his ear. “Tell me what you’re doing.” She nibbled at his earlobe just for good measure.

  “Bloody hell.” He jumped to his feet and stood back. “What are you doing?”

  “I simply thought, as we hadn’t had a lesson for a while—”

  “There will be no more lessons,” he thundered.

  She laughed. “Of course there will. Now, then.” She snatched the paper off the desk before he could make a move. “What is this?”

  “Give it to me.” He held out his hand in a commanding manner.

  She handed him her brandy.

  “You know perfectly well this is not what I want.” He drained the drink and slapped the glass down on the desk. “Now hand it over.”

  She shook her head and hid the paper behind her back. “Not until you tell me what it is.”

  He clenched his teeth and approached her. “Give it to me right now.”

  She moved back and fluttered her lashes at him. “What will you give me for it?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Another lesson.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Stubborn beast. “Very well, then. I suppose a kiss alone will suffice.”

  He glared at her as if she’d asked for something that would cost him his life or his fortune. “No.”

  She waved the page at him. “Yes.”

  “N—” He huffed a short breath. “If you insist.”

  “Indeed I—”

  He grabbed her shoulders, jerked her to him and planted his lips on hers in a kiss resolute and far and away too brief. “There. Now give me my paper.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice a touch breathless.

  “Why not?”

  She paused, thoroughly enjoying his look of annoyance, and tried not to laugh. “I don’t think it was up to your usual standards.”

  “Marianne,” he growled.

  “Or mine, either, for that matter.” She shook her head in exaggerated regret. “No, I believe you’ll have to do better.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to do just that. Instead he shrugged. “Very well, read the blasted thing, for all I care.”

  She shook the paper out with a flourish and scanned it. “Your handwriting is barely legible.”

  “If you can’t read it—” He made a grab for it, but she moved out of his reach.

  “Oh, I can read it.” She studied the sheet, then glanced up at him. “What exactly is it?”

  “It’s poetry.”

  She drew her brows together and read his words again. “I don’t think so.”

  “It is,” he said through clenched teeth. “I wrote it. It’s poetry. It rhymes.”

  “Not much of it,” she murmured.

  “I’m still working on it.” He snatched the page from her hand, crumpled it into a ball and threw it onto the desk. “I know it’s not good.”

  “Not good?”

  “Very well, it reeks. More than likely it always will. I’ve written since my school days and it does not seem to get any better. It is a complete waste of time. However”—his eyes shone with grim determination and challenge, as if he dared her to argue—“I don’t particularly care. I will not give it up.”

  “Really? You’ve never struck me as a man who tolerates failure in anything. Even poetry. Why continue?”

  “Because it’s how I express myself,” he said loftily.

  “Oh?” She tried not to smile.

  “Because it has no practical application whatsoever.” He blew a long breath. “Because it’s the work of Thomas Effington and has nothing to do with the Marquess of Helmsley or the future Duke of Roxborough. Because, even if it’s the worst thing ever written in the history of mankind, I enjoy it.”

  She considered him thoughtfully. She’d never in a hundred lifetimes guess Thomas Effington wrote poetry, and never suspect he’d indulge in anything he didn’t do splendidly, regardless of how much he enjoyed it. It spoke rather well of the man. What else didn’t she know about him?

  “Then you should certainly continue.” She stepped around the desk, sat on a stool and picked up the
crushed poem. “How long did you say you’ve been writing poetry?”

  “Forever.” He watched her cautiously.

  She smoothed out the paper and studied it.

  “What are you doing?

  “I’ve written a bit myself.” But not like this. Her writing did seem to make sense, whereas his was an incomprehensible mix of vaguely connected phrases and cryptic thoughts.

  “Really?” Suspicion sounded in his voice. “Poetry?”

  “More a journal of sorts,” she said absently. “You do realize behind does not rhyme with shine?”

  “Of course. I told you I wasn’t finished.” He repeated the two words under his breath.

  “Whereas gout does rhyme with pout; however, I’m not entirely certain that’s the image you want to evoke.”

  “I was just seeing if it worked.”

  “Of course.” She stifled a smile and looked up at him. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance. Help you to express yourself.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know how to express myself, thank you very much.”

  She lifted a brow. “Gout and pout?”

  He studied her carefully, in the manner of a man trying to decide if he was viewing his savior or his executioner. Finally he sighed in resignation. “What would you suggest?”

  “Well . . . ” She stared down at his scrawled script. She had no idea where to begin. “Well . . . ” she said again.

  He came around behind her and leaned forward to peer over her shoulder, bracing one hand beside the page and the other on the back of her chair. She was acutely aware of his proximity. His breath near her ear. The rise and fall of his chest at her back. His presence surrounded her, engulfed her. She was practically within his embrace.

  A curious sense of yearning washed over her. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to melt back against him. To surrender herself with no thought of a point to be made. Or a battle of wits to be won. Or a lesson to be learned. Simply Thomas’s arms around her. His lips on hers. His flesh hot against her own. His—

  “Will that work better, then, do you think?” Thomas’s enthusiastic words wrenched her from her thoughts.

  “No doubt,” she murmured without so much as the tiniest clue as to what he was talking about. He shifted to grab a pen and his shoulder brushed against hers. Her heart pounded in her chest at the contact. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and scribbled on the paper, apparently unconcerned at the closeness of their positions.

  “There. That’s much improved.” Thomas’s attention was focused on the page and he continued to write, nodding and muttering as much to himself as to her.

  She paid scant attention, too intrigued by her newfound awareness of him to concentrate on the futile goal of rewriting bad poetry. Yesterday, this morning, even a few minutes ago she would have said Thomas Effington was nothing more to her than a means to an end. A convenient rake with which to explore the limits of her world and experience life. And yes, with every passing day that idea included the more physical aspects of life. After all, she had no intention of marrying and no expectation of love.

  But what was it she was feeling now with his body close to hers? As exciting as their intimate encounter in the garden had been, it was simply, and quite delightfully, lust. She’d thoroughly enjoyed it and indeed could scarcely wait for more.

  This was different. Precisely how it was different she wasn’t sure, but it was somehow . . . what? More? Definitely more. There was an odd ache inside her. A sort of flutter somewhere below her stomach. A sweet, sad, tremulous feeling as if she were waiting for something grand to happen.

  Maybe the difference came hand in hand with learning Thomas’s secret. Oh, not a notable secret as secrets go, but still in all, a significant secret, if only to him. The secret not so much in the writing of his verse but in his acceptance of the knowledge that he did not do it well.

  “And I think if I used sunset instead of . . . ”

  She nodded absently, wondering why the eagerness in his voice was now so endearing. The passion in the stroke of his pen now so compelling.

  “If, perhaps, I tried . . . ”

  She stared at his profile, fierce with concentration. If she turned and shifted just a bit, her lips would be close to his. She could kiss him, and then . . .

  “Then I could say . . . ”

  She resisted the urge to reach out and brush his hair away from his forehead. She wanted to touch him, hold him, press her lips to his.

  She wanted to run.

  Instead she sat immobile, mesmerized by nothing more than the look on his face.

  And the growing realization that this pompous ass might not be nearly as pompous as she’d thought. He might, in fact, be something of an adventure in and of himself.

  “I rather like it.” Thomas cast her a questioning look. “Don’t you?”

  She stared into his eyes, dark and blue and forever. She swallowed hard. “It’s . . . better.”

  He laughed and straightened. “It is definitely better. Much, much better. Oh, it will never compete with Byron’s or Keats’s or Shelley’s, but I daresay it’s no longer as dreadful as it was.” He picked up his glass, hesitated, then took hers as well and stepped to the liquor cabinet.

  “No, it’s not dreadful at all.”

  She watched him fill their glasses and wondered at this newfound, and rather urgent, desire to be with him. Alone. To find out more about this man who’d suddenly become important to her. An idea popped into her head. An idea he probably wouldn’t like one bit. She drew a breath for courage. “I would certainly be willing to lend you my further assistance should you desire it.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “That’s quite kind of you, but you see, there are fewer than a handful of people who know of this secret vice of mine and I prefer to keep this particular aspect of my character private.”

  “Oh, I quite understand, and I would never tell anyone,” she said quickly. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Even so . . . ” Indecision crossed his face.

  She pressed ahead. “We could meet here, after everyone else is in bed. No one need know.”

  “Late-night meetings? Alone?” He shook his head. “Highly improper, Marianne. I daresay—”

  “Come, now, Thomas. It’s not like we haven’t met here before late at night.”

  “Unexpected encounters are one thing. Planned liaisons are something altogether different,” he said in that stuffy manner that set her teeth on edge. “We have your reputation to consider.”

  “Piffle. I don’t care one whit for my reputation.”

  “I do.”

  “Very well.” She studied him for a moment. “You are here in the library most evenings, are you not?”

  “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “And if I should happen to wander in, looking for a book, perhaps . . . ”

  “Perhaps what?”

  “Why, it would be most impolite of me not to offer my help.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I shall make a deal with you,” she said quickly, sensing victory. “We shall make a trade. Your lessons for mine. Lessons in poetry for—”

  “Lessons in life?” He snorted. “I think not.”

  “Pity.” She shrugged. “I’m certain there must be a gentleman or two available who would be more than willing. . . .” She frowned. “Not that I seem to be inundated with that type of gentleman; still, I can’t imagine even the most proper and boring man would find it too difficult—”

  “Enough,” he snapped. She loved it when he got that edgy, trapped look in his eye. She could practically see him weigh the pros and cons of her suggestion in his mind. And see as well his realization that she’d given him little choice. “Agreed. I shall continue your . . . lessons.” He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “You needn’t glare at me like that. I am not a trollop.”

  “I intend to make sure you do not become one.” He blew a defe
ated breath. “However, if I am to go along with your absurd proposal—”

  “Threat.” She fluttered her lashes in exaggerated flirtation. “It was a threat.”

  “Indeed,” he said wryly. “You must give me your promise not to accost other unsuspecting men.”

  She laughed. “You have my word.”

  “That is no doubt the best I can hope for.” His tone was grudging and she wondered if he was as inconvenienced as he sounded or as intrigued by her as she was with him. Or perhaps he too was scared. No, surely not. Marianne doubted there was anything beyond the public ridicule of his poetry that frightened Thomas.

  “I suppose, at the very least, this way I can be certain of what you are up to and whom you are up to it with.”

  “Do you think so?” She grinned wickedly. “You are exceedingly confident, my lord.”

  “In this, indeed I am.” A determined glint showed in his eye. “Until I have you safely wed, I shall not let you out of my sight.”

  “As you wish.”

  He narrowed his eyes. She widened hers innocently. Her confidence matched his. She didn’t doubt she could evade his notice whenever she needed to pay a visit to Cadwallender. After all, she had her sisters to help. As for the rest of it, she’d already decided to concentrate her attention on him and explore the adventures to be had with a respectable rake.

  And explore as well the turn her feelings had taken and precisely what they meant.

  Three weeks later, Marianne sat on the library sofa staring thoughtfully at the fire, a glass of brandy in her hand. Thomas studied her and wondered, not for the first time, how they’d gotten to this point.

  It had quickly become a habit, and a surprisingly enjoyable habit at that. Each night after they’d returned from whatever social event had claimed their presence, Thomas retired to the library as, he argued to himself, had always been his custom. And later, when she was confident the others in the household were firmly in their beds, Marianne would join him. She never said but he suspected she enjoyed the vague element of danger in their meetings. Should they be caught, marriage between them would be inevitable regardless of their own feelings in the matter. She, no doubt, placed these nights in the category of adventure.