The Marriage Lesson

by Victoria Alexander

  Lady William winked, then turned back to Pennington to accompany him to the floor. Marianne drew a breath for courage and walked the endless distance across the room to the dowager. Or to her fate.

  “My dear girl,” the dowager said with a smile and waved at the chair beside her. “Please join me.”

  “Your Grace.” Marianne bobbed a quick curtsy and sat in the designated seat, noticing Aunt Louella had vanished.

  “I’ve sent your aunt off to flirt with an old friend of mine.”

  “I didn’t know Aunt Louella knew how to flirt,” Marianne said without thinking.

  “Nonsense.” The dowager chuckled. “All women know how to flirt. Some are better skilled at the art than others, but it’s little more than a question of practice. Your aunt is simply out of practice. I suspect it will come back to her.

  “Your sisters are quite charming. They seem to be having a lovely time this evening. However”—the dowager nodded at a point across the room—“Thomas does not appear to be enjoying himself.”

  Marianne followed her gaze. Thomas stood off to one side, a glass in his hand, a noncommittal expression on his face. A casual observer would not have noticed anything amiss, but there was a look in his eye that Marianne, and apparently his grandmother, could not fail to see. She sighed to herself.

  “Do you plan on marrying my grandson?”

  Marianne’s gaze jerked to meet hers. “I . . . ” She shook her head firmly. “No.”

  The dowager frowned. “Why on earth not?”

  “I don’t wish to marry anyone. Besides, we don’t suit.” Even as she said the words, she knew they were inadequate.

  “Piffle.” The old woman dismissed her comment with a wave of her hand.

  “Piffle?” It sounded so peculiar coming from someone else.

  “My dear young woman, I have been around this earth long enough to know when people suit and when they do not.” She considered Marianne for a long moment as if determining just how suitable a match she was, and Marianne resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. “Did you know he writes poetry?”

  “Yes,” Marianne said cautiously.

  “Not many do. It is a closely guarded secret. I am surprised and rather pleased that he has shared it with you.” The dowager studied her thoughtfully then sighed. “However, I suppose that explains why you would prefer not to marry him. A man who writes that poorly . . . ” She shook her head.

  Marianne stared, shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “I can say it because it’s true. I love the boy dearly, but . . . ” She leaned toward Marianne. “Have you actually read his work?”

  “I have.”

  “Carefully? Each and every word?”

  Marianne nodded. “Of course.”

  “It reeks.” The dowager pressed her lips together and settled back in her chair.

  “It does not.” Indignation swelled within her. “Admittedly, it needs some work. Polishing, perhaps—”

  “Polishing?” The elderly woman snorted.

  “But with a bit of effort it could be improved and really become—”

  “Quite, quite awful.”

  “Not at all.” How could the lady say such a thing about her own grandson? “I grant you the words are not particularly well chosen on occasion, nor do they always rhyme, and indeed, now and again, he has a tendency to make one up, but they are, well . . . ” She searched for the right words. “Fervent. Intense. Passionate.

  “And I think they’re wonderful,” she said staunchly. “Oh, not wonderful poetry, of course, but wonderful . . . I don’t know. Expressions, I suppose, of who he is deep inside. His soul is in his poems. They are who he is.”

  “Who he is?” The dowager frowned in a skeptical manner. “He knows perfectly well who is. He is Thomas Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley, and one day, God willing, he’ll be the ninth Duke of Roxborough.”

  “No, that’s what he is. Not who he is.”

  “Then who is he, my dear?”

  “He’s a man who writes terribly bad poetry and, even though he knows it’s bad, refuses to stop because of the pleasure he takes from it.” The words poured out. “He’s a man who hates to admit he’s wrong even when he knows full well he is. He is funny when he wants to be and funnier when he doesn’t. He has a quaint stuffy streak when he’s trying to be proper and an annoying sense of honor when it suits his purposes. He’s quite stubborn and wants what he wants when he wants it. And . . . ”

  A knowing smile quirked the corners of the old woman’s mouth. “And you are in love with him.”

  “I’m not.” Marianne met the dowager’s gaze and helplessness washed through her. “I am.”

  “Then marry him. I know he wishes to marry you.”

  Marianne shook her head. “For all the wrong reasons.”

  “Are you so certain? Men never know their own minds. It’s precisely why we marry them.”

  “I am sure.” She hadn’t spoken to anyone about Thomas or her feelings, and the kindness in his grandmother’s voice threatened to be her undoing. She ignored the ache in the back of her throat and pulled a steadying breath. “He has not said anything to indicate otherwise.”

  “But what of his actions? Haven’t they proved something?”

  “Only that he is determined to get his own way.” And so am I. “Nothing that he has done has dissuaded me from continuing with my plans for my life.”

  “Ah, yes, a life in pursuit of adventures.” The dowager’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “How did you know that?”

  She laid a hand on the younger woman’s arm. “My dear Marianne, has no one told you? I know everything.”

  Marianne swallowed hard. “Everything?”

  “Everything I need to know.” She smiled in a smug manner and folded her hands in her lap. “And any number of things that are none of my business whatsoever.”

  “Oh, dear,” Marianne murmured, trying not to wince at the thought of precisely what the dowager could know.

  “I must confess, I do rather admire you.”

  “You do?” Marianne stared. “Why?”

  “You have the gift of intelligence and a strength of purpose rare in one so young. You will make an excellent duchess one day.”

  “Your Grace, I—”

  The lady quieted her with a wave and nodded at her grandson. “Thomas, too, has never allowed obstacles to deter him from his chosen path.”

  Marianne’s gaze slid to Thomas. “He is determined.”

  “As are you.” His grandmother chuckled. “You make an interesting pair.” She paused, then leaned forward. “May I give you some advice?”

  “Please do.” Marianne smiled. “I could certainly use it.”

  “Adventure, my dear, is as much a state of mind as anything else. One can travel the world and never find the excitement to be found within arm’s reach.

  “Remain true to yourself, but understand happiness may not always be found in the plans we have laid out for ourselves but rather in the unforeseen turns life take us. Do not close your mind, or your heart, to the unexpected twists of life. It is those unsuspected paths that could well lead to the greatest adventures of all.” She settled back in her chair. “There, now, wasn’t that wise?”

  Marianne laughed. “Indeed it was.”

  “I thought it would be. And now, if you would be so kind as to do me a favor?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Anything?” The dowager raised a brow. “Including marrying my grandson?”

  “Your Grace, I—”

  “Never mind.” She waved away Marianne’s protest. “That was not entirely fair of me, although I have never hesitated to disregard fairness when it serves my purposes. And I, too, ignore obstacles in my way. It is a family trait. I will simply ask that you consider his suit with an eye as much toward what he cannot bring himself to say as what he can. And one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do try, dear girl, to keep him out of the i
vy. It quite upsets the gardeners.”

  * * *

  “It’s about time you came to chat with me.” His grandmother gazed up at him with a twinkle in her eye that belied the chastising note in her voice.

  “I did not want to intrude.” Thomas leaned forward and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “I do hope you were telling Lady Marianne what a good catch I am.”

  “My lord,” Marianne said, a warning in her voice.

  “I have been doing nothing of the sort,” the dowager said primly. “I have been telling her what a scandalous, stubborn scoundrel you are.”

  He raised a brow. “That should further my cause.”

  “I had hoped she would take pity on you, or at the very least see you as ripe for reforming and rise to the challenge.”

  “Your Grace—” Marianne started.

  Thomas chuckled. “And has it worked?”

  His grandmother sighed. “I fear not.”

  “Pity.” He studied Marianne thoughtfully. “I had thought to announce my betrothal tonight.”

  “Did you? To whom?” Marianne asked in a casual manner.

  “To the only woman to whom I have ever issued a proposal.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Her voice was cool in contrast with the spark in her eyes.

  “I would indeed.” He met her gaze squarely but directed his words to his grandmother. “She would be hard-pressed to cry off after a public announcement. While she is not concerned about gossip in regards to herself, such an incident would reflect poorly on her sisters, and I suspect she would prefer to avoid that.”

  Disbelief washed across Marianne’s face, followed by anger. She rose to her feet. “Why, you arrogant, pompous—”

  “I daresay, Thomas,” the dowager interrupted, “that is perhaps not the best idea you’ve had today.”

  He glanced at his grandmother. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yes. Take her off and waltz with her.” The dowager waved at the dance floor. “Or better yet, take her into the garden and convince her that there is much to be said for an arrogant, pompous ass if he is the right arrogant, pompous ass.”

  “Your Grace, I’d really rather—”

  “Excellent suggestion, Grandmother.” He gripped Marianne’s elbow and started toward the terrace, ignoring the stiffness and twinges of pain that accompanied every step.

  “The mazes are even lovelier at night . . . ” The dowager’s voice trailed after them.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Marianne said through clenched teeth.

  “Smile, my dear. We wouldn’t want to attract attention.” Thomas steered her through the open doors.

  “Very well.” A forced smile lifted her lips. “I’m smiling. Now, what are you doing?”

  “Taking my grandmother’s advice.” They crossed the terrace, down the steps to the path to the garden. He stopped at the fountain and released her. “This should do.”

  “Well?” She folded her arms over her chest. “What do you have to say?”

  “Who is he?”

  She frowned in confusion. “Who is who?”

  “It’s Pennington, isn’t it?”

  “What’s Pennington?”

  “Or is it Berkley?”

  She glared. “What are you talking about?”

  “The other man in your life!”

  “What other man?” she said slowly.

  He stepped toward her. “I know, Marianne.”

  “You know what?” Her voice was cautious.

  He gritted his teeth. “I know you have another suitor.”

  She backed away. “What makes you think so?”

  He hesitated. He could tell her he knew all about her Country Miss adventures and the suitor she’d written into her stories. But that secret knowledge gave him the least bit of an upper hand, and with Marianne, he needed every advantage. At least for now. “It scarcely matters how I know, but I do. Now, who is he?”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then a pleased grin spread across her face. “You’re jealous.”

  “I am not,” he snapped.

  She laughed. “You are. How delightful.”

  “Delightful?” He pulled his brows together and scowled. “It’s anything but delightful. I will not have the woman I intend to marry courted by another man. Now tell me who it is.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No.”

  The dim hope in the back of his mind that perhaps she had invented this new suitor vanished with her words. Anger and the oddest touch of pain surged through him.

  “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

  Why did he want to know? Wasn’t it enough to know there was someone else? No. He had to know who. He clenched his fists at his side. “I want to know who my competition is.”

  “Competition? There is no competition. I am not some sort of prize you can win as easily as you won the Ride today.”

  “I did do a fine job.” He grinned in spite of himself. “But it certainly wasn’t easy.” He narrowed his eyes. “Nor is this. Now, who is he?”

  “I shan’t tell you.” She turned and started around the perimeter of the fountain. “It’s really none of your business.”

  “It is my business.” He fought to keep his voice under control. “You are my business.”

  “Hah! I am your obligation.” She fairly spat the words at him.

  “Do you really think so?” An idea took shape in the back of his mind.

  “What else am I to think?”

  An idea that probably was as ill-conceived as anything else when it came to Marianne. “Very well.”

  She stared suspiciously. “Very well what?”

  “I have done all in my power to discharge that obligation and I shall do no more.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It’s simple, my dear. I told you once I know precisely when to walk away from a game. I rescind my offer of marriage.”

  “Thomas!” Shock colored her face. “I don’t . . . you can’t . . . ”

  “You are sputtering, Marianne.” He shook his head. “And once again I was wrong and you were right: It’s not at all charming.”

  “I’m just trying to find the right words.” She paused.

  Her gaze met his and they stared at each other for an endless moment. He would have given his entire fortune to know exactly what she was thinking.

  She squared her shoulders. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It isn’t at all what I want. However, it is what you want, isn’t it? What you have always wanted?” He circled the fountain.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then I concede defeat.”

  “Good.”

  He jerked her into his arms. “However, there is no reason why we cannot continue to have our private adventures.”

  “None at all.” She stared up at him, challenge in her eyes.

  “Although now that I am no longer trying to convince you to marry me, I will no longer risk my neck in my attempt to emulate the romantic heroes in your books.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” she said under her breath.

  “For whatever good it did me, yes.” He brushed his lips across hers. “I nearly killed myself for you.”

  “That would indeed have been a shame.” She slid her arms around his neck. “Although I do appreciate the effort.” She brought her lips back to his and he savored the feel of her mouth on his and her body molded against him.

  He pulled away and stared down at her. “When the time comes, I shall miss you.”

  Her gaze searched his face. “Yes, well . . . ”

  He tightened his grasp and kissed her again. A no-nonsense kiss with all the skill he possessed and all the passion she alone could trigger in him. At long last he drew back and stared into her brown eyes, glazed with desire and perhaps a bit of confusion. Good. He wanted her confused and off balance. It was her turn. He’d wager no other man could leave her in such a state. And regardless of what he said aloud, he’d allow no o
ther man to try. “Now, then, we should return to the ball.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He escorted her back inside and made it a point to stay by her side for the remainder of the evening. Let Pennington and Berkley or whoever else might be in her life try to get close to her. Not tonight. And not ever.

  Marianne was remarkably quiet. Oh, she smiled politely and made idle conversation, but if he knew nothing else about her, he knew her well enough to know when there was something on her mind. And with luck, that something was him. It was all he could do not to chortle with delight.

  She could make all the plans she wanted for her future, but her future would be with him and no one else. He had no intention of allowing her to go off in search of adventure. No intention of allowing her out of his life.

  And no intention of allowing any other man to take his place.

  * * *

  The evening stretched on endlessly and Marianne counted the minutes until she could escape. She was hard-pressed to appear lighthearted, but she refused to let anyone, particularly Thomas, know of the ache that had settled around her heart.

  She should be pleased. After all, she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. Or perhaps, an annoying voice muttered in the back of her head, it was what she deserved.

  Thomas was charming and attentive and never let her out of his sight. Even during those few dances she’d shared with someone else, she was all too aware of his gaze on her every minute. Neither Pennington nor Berkley approached her. She wondered if Thomas had said something or simply made it clear with his unspoken vigilance that their attentions were not welcome tonight.

  Not that she really cared. His jealousy was gratifying, yet it was born of a sense of possession no greater than if she’d been a prime bit of cattle. If he truly cared for her, she would have relished evoking such a response in him. As it was, it simply didn’t signify.

  She moved through the remainder of the evening as if in a waking dream. Why was she so overset about all this? Shouldn’t she be relieved that Thomas was abandoning his quest for her hand? She’d never been interested in marriage.

  Until she fell in love.

  Had she, somewhere in the shadows of her mind or the recesses of her heart, been at least a tiny bit confident that he shared her feelings? Or perhaps it was nothing more than hope. A hope as unrealistic as any fiction she’d ever read. And what had come of it? Nothing save a pain far more real than anything she could have imagined.