She was getting exactly what she wanted. Then why was she so very unhappy?
Chapter 19
. . . so am I indeed a fool, dear cousin? More and more, I enjoy Leopard’s flirtatious manner. And worse, respond in kind.
Still, he is not the kind of man considered fit to share the company of respectable, unmarried women. While I have seen nothing to bear out his reputation, there is, on occasion, a gleam in his eye that gives me pause. Perhaps it would be wise to follow the whispers of advice directed toward me and avoid him. Yet I have not been wise up till now, and for the moment I will do nothing to dissuade him.
Where is the harm? He could not possibly ruin my life more than I have done so already. . . .
The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London
Cadwallender was his last resort. Thomas hated having to ask the printer for help almost as much as he hated having to admit to the man his failure with Marianne.
It had been three weeks since his grandmother’s house party and Thomas still had no idea who the mysterious suitor in Marianne’s life was.
Both Pennington and Berkley paid calls, more often than not together. Thomas made certain Marianne was never alone with either, and as far as he could determine, she was never really alone at all. But she was a clever bit of baggage and he couldn’t be with her every minute of every day, although he was doing his best.
Becky and Jocelyn reported nothing untoward, either. He wasn’t sure he could entirely trust them, but they were the only allies he had. They claimed Marianne refused to discuss the suitor she wrote about. Leopard, she’d called him in her stories. An absurd name and obviously made up.
Still, regardless of what his name was, he was a dashing, romantic figure and, according to the Adventures, quite compelling and possibly even dangerous. Not that Thomas believed everything she wrote. He knew better than that. But not knowing the suitor’s identity was driving Thomas mad. He was no closer to discovering the identity of this Leopard than he was to wedding Marianne.
He’d been confident Marianne would change her mind about marriage when it was no longer offered. It was human nature to disdain what was within reach and long for what one couldn’t have. She should be falling into his arms begging for him to make an honest woman of her by now.
Instead, whenever the subject came up—and he made certain it was brought up as often as possible—she dismissed it without hesitation.
Blasted woman.
He pushed open Cadwallender’s door, bracing himself for the fumes of oil and ink that assailed his nostrils.
“Good day, my lord.” Cadwallender strode toward him, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth.
“Cadwallender.” Thomas nodded in greeting and glanced at the cloth in his hand. “Problems?”
“Always.” The printer laughed and jerked his head toward the press. “She’s a temperamental witch.”
“Aren’t they all,” Thomas muttered. The gnome poked his head out from behind the machine and eyed him with suspicion. “Could we speak in your office?”
Cadwallender led him toward the small room in the back of the shop and waved for Thomas to go ahead and take a seat. “What brings you here today?” The printer raised a curious brow. “Is there some problem with our arrangement? Your solicitor assured me—”
“No, nothing of the kind,” Thomas said quickly. “In that, if in no other aspect of my life, all is proceeding smoothly.”
“I see.” Cadwallender settled on the edge of the desk. “Then it must be the independent Miss Smythe who brings you here.” He leaned forward, opened a deep, bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle. “It’s probably not the quality you’re used to—”
“Quality is relative,” Thomas said wryly. “There are moments when quantity alone matters.”
Cadwallender chuckled and fished around in the drawer, withdrawing two mismatched, and not overly clean, glasses. He poured a hefty portion in one, handed it to Thomas and filled his own glass.
Thomas took a cautious sip and glanced up in surprise. “Damned good whiskey, Cadwallender.”
Cadwallender raised his glass. “If one is going to have a vice, one should enjoy it.”
A companionable silence, the kind known only by men who share, however briefly, the appreciation of fine spirits or excellent horseflesh or a pretty girl, fell between them.
“I gather from your expression and your presence that you are no closer to matrimony today than a month ago,” Cadwallender said.
Thomas sighed. “You read her bloody stories. What do you think?”
“I have no idea what to think. They’ve always had an element of dangerous excitement to them. You know, the sweet innocent and the depraved lord—”
“Depraved.” Thomas snorted in disdain.
“—but in recent weeks they seem to have a touch of something else. They’re a bit wistful, I think, or perhaps resigned.” He paused and studied Thomas. “The curious thing is what I’m hearing from readers.”
“Oh?”
“They’ve begun pulling for Lord W.”
“Really?” Thomas said with surprise. “Why?”
Cadwallender shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. I suspect it might be because this new suitor she’s introduced—”
“Leopard,” Thomas said darkly. “Ridiculous name.”
“Indeed.” Cadwallender cleared his throat. “Regardless, he seems like much more of a scoundrel than Lord W. A man who will truly ruin the girl’s life. Lord W, on the other hand, is brooding and a bit melancholy, almost a tragic figure. The kind of man who needs a good woman to save him from himself. Readers, particularly female readers, love men like that.”
Thomas eyed him over the rim of his glass. “I am neither brooding nor melancholy.”
“No doubt. However, the depiction of Lord W is as much fantasy as fact. It’s not absolutely true, is it?”
“Hardly.”
“Then perhaps Leopard is not absolutely true, either,” Cadwallender said slowly.
“True enough to drive me insane.” Thomas drew a deep swallow and savored the taste of the whiskey in the back of his throat. “How can I compete with a man I know nothing about save what she chooses to write?”
“You know, my lord, the public is quite taken with the Country Miss adventures.” Cadwallender chose his words with care. “But readers are fickle and what they like one day does not necessarily keep their interest the next. I have suggested to Miss Smythe she consider the benefits of a good murder to spur readership.”
“I suppose I can be grateful, then, that she did not take such a suggestion to heart.” Thomas shook his head. “Given her attitude toward me on occasion, Lord W would no doubt be dead by now.”
“Barring that”—Cadwallender drew a deep breath—“strictly to keep up interest, you understand, it was my idea to add another suitor to the stories.”
“Your idea?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I . . . ” Cadwallender grinned. “There is no other man.”
“No other man?” It took a moment for Cadwallender’s words to sink in.
“None at all.”
“Then . . . there is no Leopard?”
“Not on the streets of London.” The printer chuckled. “Actually, I suggested Lion or Tiger. Leopard was her idea.” He took a sip. “It is a wonderful name, though. Dark and seductive. Readers love it.”
“No Leopard,” Thomas said slowly. There was no other man vying for Marianne’s affections? Relief rushed through him, followed at once by annoyance. “Bloody hell.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.” Cadwallender paused. “I do hope this little deception of mine is not going to affect our arrangement.”
“It isn’t. That’s business and I can’t fault you for wanting to increase business. And yes, I am pleased.” He drained the last of his whiskey. “Which does not negate the fact that I have been going to extreme efforts to discover the identity of this nonexis-tent suitor. She’s had
me running around like a man possessed, convinced I was about to lose her to some overly romantic rogue. It has distracted me from my efforts to win her hand and made me crazed in the process.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I suppose the intelligent course of action would be to confront her and tell her I know she’s this country miss.” Thomas blew a long breath. “Yet knowing Miss Smythe, I cannot believe that is the best route to take. She is the most obstinate woman I have ever met and she’s more than likely to bolt if I am not careful.”
Thomas got to his feet and paced the small room. “She is a unique woman who refuses to see the world as it is and insists on viewing life as an adventure in a book. It is time she realizes the difference between what is real and what is fiction. She needs to be taught a lesson.”
“What kind of lesson?”
“A lesson about what happens when you twist people’s lives to suit your own purposes as she has twisted mine. A lesson about the difference between storybook tales and flesh-and-blood life and precisely what can happen when such stories come true.” An idea flashed through his mind. “A lesson she will never forget.”
Cadwallender grimaced. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Probably not.” Thomas held out his glass and the other man refilled it. “But it would serve her right.”
“Pardon me for pointing out the obvious,” Cadwallender said slowly, “but if your lesson miscarries, won’t your situation in regard to the young woman be even more precarious than it is now?”
“I could scarcely be worse off.” Thomas shrugged and pulled a deep swallow. “And should I succeed . . . ”
“Here’s to success, then.” Cadwallender raised his glass.
“To success.” Thomas clinked his glass with the printer’s. “And to hoping that for once my plans in regards to Miss Smythe actually bear fruit.”
Marianne set her pen down, pushed back from the desk in her room and sighed. She couldn’t concentrate on exciting adventures and mysterious men when only one man lingered in her mind.
Thomas.
He’d been unusually secretive all day. When he’d returned home briefly from an errand this morning, Marianne had caught his eye and noticed a gleam of triumph that did not bode well.
He’d left the house again shortly thereafter. For the first time since their return from the country, he was not plaguing her with his constant company. Company admittedly she quite enjoyed. However, his lack of attention today was extremely disquieting. What was the man up to?
She’d shared his bed more often than not in these past weeks and still marveled that they’d managed to keep the rest of the household from knowing of their liaison. If anyone, especially Aunt Louella, discovered their true relationship, or worse, she became pregnant, she’d be forced into a loveless union.
Thomas was true to his word and no longer pressed her for marriage, although the topic did rear its head on a regular basis. No, now the man was actually helping her plan her travel with advice on routes and passages.
Oddly, though, she no longer looked forward with the same enthusiasm to the future she had dreamed of. As the time drew closer to leave, the practicalities of the life she’d always wanted grew daunting. More and more she realized Berkley was right: The path she’d chosen for herself was not an easy one. For a woman alone it might well be impossible. It was disheartening to realize her dreams might not be as fulfilling as she’d always assumed. And worse to accept the real possibility that the years ahead might be filled less with adventure and more with loneliness. How could she live the rest of her days without Thomas?
It would be so very easy to tell him she had changed her mind about marriage. Regardless of the retraction of his proposal, she suspected, or perhaps simply hoped, he would still be amenable to wedding her. Yet, had anything really changed in that regard?
She heaved a heartfelt sigh. No, nothing had changed at all. She loved him. He felt only friendship and duty toward her. Up till now, she’d viewed affairs of love in her books with a practical eye. The emotion was little more than a pleasant fiction and had nothing to do with reality. In truth, love was not pleasant at all.
A knock sounded at the door and a maid she’d never seen before popped her head in. “My lady, you have a caller.”
Marianne hesitated. Aunt Louella and her sisters had gone to the park and Thomas had vanished. It would be the height of impropriety to see whoever it was alone. “Who is it?”
“He didn’t give his name, but he’s waiting in the parlor.” The girl grinned. “And he’s quite dashing, my lady.”
“Strange. But I suppose I should at least see him.” Marianne smiled. “I’ll be right down.”
She got to her feet and headed downstairs. Whoever it was, she was in no mood for idle pleasantries. She’d spend a few brief moments with him and send him on his way.
She plastered a pleasant smile on her face and stepped into the parlor. It was empty.
Where on earth did the man go? She retraced her steps and noticed the doors leading into the library were open. She frowned. How annoying of him not to stay put.
She straightened her shoulders, smiled once more and walked into the library.
A stranger stood by the duke’s desk paging through a book and looked up at her approach.
“Lady Marianne Shelton, I presume?” He closed the book and tossed it on the desk.
“Yes,” she said cautiously and stepped farther into the room. “You have the advantage of me, my lord. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Ah, but the rest of the world is certain we have.” He moved to her, took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I am Lord Beaumont.”
“I’m honored, my lord,” she said carefully. The maid was right. He was exceedingly handsome. Tall, with hair that was nearly black and eyes almost as dark. Eyes that gleamed dangerously. Unease trickled through her.
“But perhaps you know me better by another name.”
“Oh?” She was certain she’d never so much as seen him. She would definitely remember a man who looked like this.
“Indeed. My friends have long referred to me as”—he paused and trapped her gaze with his—“Leopard.”
Chapter 20
. . . still I wonder if I have made a grave mistake. The question preys on my mind. Regardless of his feelings, should I indeed have accepted Lord W’s offer of marriage?
And is it now too late?
I must confess, the dangerous nature of Leopard is no longer as exciting as it once was. In truth, he frightens me, and I fear I have encouraged him far too much. . . .
The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London
“What?” Shock swept through her and she snatched her hand away. “Who?”
“Leopard.” He wagged his brows in a decidedly wicked manner.
“But I made you up,” Marianne blurted.
“Ah-ha.” He grinned triumphantly. “Then you are indeed the country miss.”
“I’m . . . ” How could she deny it? This man, whoever he was, obviously knew her secret. “How did you—”
“Find you?” He shrugged. “It was not difficult, for a man of my abilities.”
“Your abilities?” Her stomach lurched. “What abilities are those?”
“Come, now, my dear, you detailed them yourself in your stories.” He stepped closer. “Like my namesake, I am cunning and clever and shrewd.” He yanked her into his arms and bent her backward. She stared up into deep, glittering eyes. “And irresistible.”
She gasped. “But you’re not real!”
“I assure you,” his voice was sultry and a shiver of fear raced up her spine, “I am very real.” He lowered his lips to hers.
She shrieked and struggled out of his grasp, scrambling across the room. “Who are you?”
“I told you.” He huffed in annoyance. “I am Leopard.”
“You can’t be.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t even look like a leopard.”
“Well, you don’t especially look like a country miss.” He frowned. “How should I look?”
“I don’t know.” She waved vaguely. “More like a cat, I should think. Wiry and definitely leaner.”
He looked down at himself. “You think I’m heavy?”
“I didn’t say that.” She huffed. He did indeed appear quite fit. “I just don’t think you look much like a leopard. You look more like a . . . ” She said the first thing that popped into her head. “A badger.”
“A badger?” He glared. “I hardly think so. Short, fat, bothersome little beasts. I’m scarcely the stuff badgers are made of. A fox, perhaps, I could live with, but a badger—”
“Yes, well, possibly I misspoke. It was simply the first thing that came to mind.”
“A badger,” he muttered. “Insults on top of everything else.”
“Forgive me for insulting you.” Indignation surged through her. “I’m a bit flustered at meeting a man I invented.”
“I can well imagine. I accept your apology.” He studied her in a lofty manner. “Perhaps if you would stop screeching and took a deep breath—”
“I am not screeching!” Although, in fact, she was. Still, if any situation called for screeching, this was definitely it.
“Screeching will not help.”
“I daresay it won’t hurt.” She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “And I’ll thank you not to tell me what will or will not help. You certainly have a great deal of nerve, for a man who doesn’t exist.”
“Ah, compliments at last.” He swept a dramatic bow. “I am nothing more than the man you so perfectly described.”
“Created, not described.”
“Described,” he said firmly.
“You”—she aimed an accusing finger—“are nothing more than a figment of my imagination. A creatively turned phrase. A sentence well written.”
“Extremely well written.” He spread his arms wide in an expansive gesture. “You captured me perfectly.”
The Marriage Lesson Page 24
