The Marriage Lesson

by Victoria Alexander

  “What preparations?” Thomas shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “Damned if I know,” Berkley muttered, obviously as lost as Thomas.

  “Helmsley, old chap.” Pennington chuckled. “In times of trouble a man should always be able to depend on his friends for help. And you are about to receive just that.”

  Apparently, the brandy had affected Thomas far more than he’d suspected. None of this made the slightest sense. “What kind of help?”

  “Come, now, Helmsley, think for a moment. For a woman whose view of the world, and the men in it, is colored by fiction, what kind of man—in a fictitious sense, at any rate—is every bit as exciting as an explorer or pirate or . . . ” Pennington paused significantly.

  “Or?” Rand prompted.

  “Or . . . ” At once the answer popped into Thomas’s mind. “Oh, no. I daresay that’s . . . well, it’s . . . ” Absurd? Ridiculous? Mad? “Inspired.” Thomas laughed. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  “Then I do believe, gentlemen”—Rand raised his glass in a toast—“we have a plan.”

  Chapter 23

  . . . for I do not know what will happen next, dear cousin, or worse, whom I can trust.

  Will my story end well? Or will tragedy and despair be my fate? Was it not Shakespeare who spoke of loving not wisely but too well? I fear I have done neither.

  It is as if I am trapped in a carriage, its horses careening out of control, its speed growing faster and faster.

  A cliff drawing ever closer . . .

  The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London

  It seemed as though Marianne had been in the coach forever, although it was probably not much more than an hour. An endless hour in the darkened confines, with nothing to do but think. And Thomas was the only thing on her mind.

  But thinking was getting her nowhere she hadn’t been over and over again. It was an unending circle. Her love for him. His sense of obligation toward her. It was past time to put away all thoughts of him and what might have been and look toward the future. If she worked very hard, she might well be able to summon up some enthusiasm for at last living her dream.

  Perhaps she should try to get some rest. It had been a very long, and very strange, day and she hadn’t realized until now how exhausted she was. She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the leather squabs. The noise of the wheels against the road faded, the clop of the horses’ hooves dimmed and the steady rhythm of the coach lulled her. She dozed somewhere between waking and sleep and barely noted the coach pulling to a stop.

  The door jerked open and Greggs poked his head in.

  “My lady, I fear we’re being robbed.”

  “Robbed?” She jerked upright, at once fully awake.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to her. “They want you to get out.”

  “Don’t you have a pistol or some kind of weapon?” she said in an urgent whisper, adjusting her glasses. “Aren’t you going to fight them off?”

  He looked at her as if she were insane. “Don’t seem too smart, my lady. There are four of ‘em.” An order was barked behind him. Greggs held out his hand to assist her. “You’d best get out. Now.”

  She scrambled out of the coach.

  There were indeed four highwaymen: two still on horseback, the other two having dismounted. They stood just out of the meager circle of light cast by the coach lanterns, one a short distance in front of her, the other next to Greggs beside the coach.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. They were a menacing sight and looked exactly as she’d ever imagined highwaymen would look. Exactly like something from a book. All wore long masks that covered their mouths, the eyes nothing more than slits in the fabric. They had on tricorne hats and voluminous capes and might have been quite dashing if they weren’t so terrifying. Greggs, however, seemed remarkably calm, as if this sort of thing happened every day.

  “Move away from the coach,” the leader ordered. At least she assumed he was the leader, judging by the wicked-looking pistol in his hand.

  She drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

  Dear God, what were they going to do to her?

  “Alone, my lady?” His voice was muffled by the mask. “What is a pretty thing like you doing traveling alone at night?”

  “I prefer to travel alone.” She ignored the tremor in her voice. It was best not to show fear. That’s what a true heroine would do. But it was obviously much easier in a book.

  “Not wise.” One of the highwaymen on horseback shook his head. “Rather foolish, in fact.”

  “He’s right. The roads are dangerous, especially at night. Why, anything could happen to a woman like you. Anything at all,” the leader drawled. Was that a threat in his voice? Of violence? Or worse? She struggled to hold back panic.

  “Why would you take such a risk?” he asked.

  “It’s none of your concern.” In fact, she hadn’t thought of the dangers of travel at all until now. She forced a calm note to her voice. “If your intent is to take my money, do so and be on your way.”

  “Not so fast, my lady. You have aroused my curiosity. Gentlemen?” He raised his voice to address his companions. Was it a touch slurred or was it the distortion of the mask? “What do you think? Why does a lady like this travel alone? At this late hour?”

  “There’s only one reason,” one of the mounted men called. “She’s running away. Probably from a man.”

  “I most certainly am not.” She raised her chin even as she realized that was exactly what she was doing.

  The leader studied her for a long moment. Fear shivered through her. She refused to even consider what his intentions might be. At last he spoke, his voice low and suggestive. “What kind of fool would ever let you go?”

  “He is not a fool,” she said without thinking.

  “Ah, then there is a man?” He laughed in triumph. “I knew it all along.”

  She clenched her fists but refused to say another word. Why were they, or rather he, baiting her like this? At least the anger he provoked took her mind off her fear. Abruptly she realized that this was her first true adventure and she’d never been so scared in her life. Anything could happen. They could kill her, or worse. For the first time she wondered if perhaps adventure wasn’t best left to fiction.

  The leader tossed the pistol to the man beside Greggs, then circled her, taking care to stay beyond the perimeter of light. She resisted the urge to turn to follow his progress. Resisted the urge to open her mouth and scream with the terror bubbling inside her.

  “And do you love this man?” he said behind her.

  “You are extremely impertinent, for a thief,” she snapped.

  “You are extremely sharp-tongued, for a woman whose life is in my hands.” He stepped back into view and returned to his original position.

  “Perhaps you don’t know to whom you’re speaking,” the brigand with the pistol said casually. “Before you stands the notorious, the infamous, the—”

  “The Poet Highwayman. At your service.” The leader, or rather the Poet, swept an overly dramatic bow and his hat tumbled to the ground. He snatched it up and slammed it back on his head before she could so much as see his hair. It would have been comical under other circumstances.

  One of the mounted men leaned toward the other and spoke in a low voice. “The Poet Highwayman? I didn’t know we called him that.”

  “Quiet,” his companion ordered.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of you. The Poet Highwayman?” she scoffed. It was rather silly. The kind of thing that sounded exciting in a book but in reality was rather ridiculous. “Why, that’s as absurd a name as . . . as . . . as . . . ” As Leopard?

  “It’s not absurd at all,” he said loftily. “I shall take your money, but I leave you with a poem in return.”

  One of the bandits groaned.

  “I’d prefer to keep my money,” she said slowly.

  Leopard was a silly
name and nothing more than a product of her imagination. Was this Poet Highwayman a fiction as well? Oh, certainly there was a real man standing before her. And three others, all equally real, here as well. Still, wouldn’t a poet highwayman be subject to ridicule from other robbers? Unless he was so wicked and murderous no one dared to snicker at him.

  Her gaze slid carefully around the gathering. Only one pistol was in evidence. Certainly there could be more, but if so, wouldn’t this band of thieves be brandishing their weapons? At least a little? However, if they’d forgotten to bring pistols . . .

  There was something extremely odd about all this, and distinctly reminiscent. Why, hadn’t she already been confronted once today by a man with a ridiculous name? A man who was not who he claimed to be?

  Her fear faded. Was it at all possible? She narrowed her gaze. “And I don’t want a poem.”

  “It is not your choice. Let me think.” The Poet tilted his head and folded his arms.

  Surely Thomas would never . . . he wouldn’t dare . . .

  “I don’t know that a poem is really necessary tonight,” the armed robber said pointedly.

  “A poem is always necessary,” the Poet said firmly. “A poem of love, perhaps.”

  Of course, she’d never dreamed Thomas would arrange a false duel, either. How much more complicated would it be to devise a feigned robbery?

  “Do you love him?” he said abruptly.

  And what kind of real highwayman would want to know such a thing?

  She crossed her arms over her chest and studied him thoughtfully. He was certainly of Thomas’s height and stance. And arrogance. “If I tell you I do, will you let me go?”

  “Never.” She could hear the grin in his voice.

  “I see.” She considered him for a moment. “And what if I tell you I don’t love him? Will you let me go then?”

  He paused for a moment. “No.” His voice was a shade less lighthearted than before. “Never.”

  It was Thomas. She was certain of it. Why else would Greggs be leaning against the carriage with a stupid grin on his face? She wasn’t sure if she should be furious at the terror she’d just tasted at his hands or relieved that it was all a ruse. Or perhaps she should see just how far he was willing to go.

  “Very well, then.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Since I refuse to answer and you refuse to let me go on my way, I suppose I have no choice but to throw myself at your mercy.”

  “My mercy?” A distinct note of unease sounded in his voice.

  “Yes indeed.” She turned her face away, rested the back of one hand on her forehead and reached the other toward him in as dramatic a gesture as she could muster. “Just . . . be kind.”

  “What do you mean, be kind?” Thomas said cautiously.

  She cast him an annoyed glance. “I mean when you ravish me.” She resumed her pose. “Be kind.”

  “I don’t want to be kind,” he said quickly.

  Someone snickered.

  “Oh, dear.” She sighed again and clasped her hands together under her chin. “I knew it was too much to hope for from a notorious, infamous outlaw such as yourself. I suppose I have no choice but to accept my fate. Do as you will with me.”

  “No!” He huffed. “What I mean to say is, there is no need to be kind, as I do not intend to ravish you.”

  Someone snorted.

  “You don’t?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Why not?”

  “Well, I—”

  “What kind of notorious, infamous highwayman are you?”

  “The kind that spouts poetry,” one of his companions said wryly. She’d wager anything it was Pennington.

  “So there will be no ravishing, then?” she asked.

  “No!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, if poetry is the best I can expect”—she lifted a shoulder in a disdainful manner— “do get on with it.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered. He cleared his throat, paused, drew a breath and began. “For good or ill the night has led us on this grave adventure. With one so fair, the stars do pale in jealousy and censure.”

  “Censure?” a man astride murmured. Berkley, no doubt.

  “It rhymes.” The other rider shrugged. Definitely Pennington.

  The Poet—Thomas—ignored the comment and continued. “Her hair gleams gold, her eyes glow brown with laughter and with life. But stubborn wench, this country miss, will naught be any man’s wife.”

  Any lingering doubts vanished.

  “My lady,” the man with the pistol called. “If you would like, I’d be happy to shoot him for you right now and put us all out of our misery.”

  And surely that was Beaumont.

  “Not necessary.” She waved aside the offer and tried to keep her face composed. “I’ve become rather fond recently of bad poetry.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Thomas said indignantly.

  “No? But I thought you said it was a love poem,” she said innocently.

  “It is.” His voice was cautious.

  “Thus far you haven’t mentioned love. And you’ve spoken only of the woman. What of the man? If this is indeed a love poem, shouldn’t it be his story as well as hers?” With her words she realized it was no longer amusing. No longer a simple jest.

  “May I continue?”

  “Please do.” She held her breath.

  He thought for a moment, then began. “He taught her well, she taught him more, still love was never mentioned.” A serious note sounded in his voice. “Till he found truth within his heart. ‘Tis called the marriage lesson.”

  She swallowed hard.

  For a long moment no one spoke.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” Pennington murmured.

  “But what does it mean?” Berkley asked.

  “Yes, what does it mean?” Her heart beat faster. “Truth within his heart?”

  “It means, my stubborn country miss, he loves her.” He stepped to her and swept her into his arms. “I love her. Or rather, you.”

  She stared up into the slits of his mask. The back of her throat ached and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or both. A faint whiff of brandy tickled her nose. She spoke without thinking. “You’re drunk.”

  “I most certainly am not. I do not get drunk. I occasionally drink a bit more than is wise in an effort to live life to its fullest.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. A wink of gold at the edge of his mask caught her eye. It was the tiny but distinct Roxborough crest.

  She bit back a smile. His mask was nothing more than a cravat, and probably poorly tied, at that. “Did you bring some for me?”

  “Some what?”

  “Brandy, of course. I am rather fond of it.” Her voice lowered. “And rather fond of you as well, my lord highwayman.”

  “You’re more than fond of me. You cannot live without me.” He pulled off his hat and mask. “I can tell by the way you’re looking at me.”

  “Oh, and how is that?”

  “As if I were the moon and the stars.” He gaze meshed with hers and she saw the same look reflected in his eyes.

  “And you love me,” she said with a soft laugh.

  He stared, his gaze searching hers. “I think, now, I’ve loved you from the beginning.”

  “It took you long enough to realize it.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You were too busy thinking of ways to entice me into marriage to consider the only thing I couldn’t argue with.”

  “That’s because I am a practical man. You need someone with two feet on the ground,” he said firmly. “We are well suited.”

  “And who would that practical man be? A bad poet? Or someone who can’t plan a simple farce? Oh, that is a man with both feet on the ground.” He really did see himself as a practical man, but in a few very important ways he was as much a dreamer as she. “You are right, though.” She brushed her lips across his. “We are indeed well suited.”

  “I knew it.” He gr
inned triumphantly.

  “However, what I really need much more than a practical man”—she paused—“is someone to share my adventures with.”

  He studied her for a moment. “Will they kill me?”

  She shook her head. “Probably not.”

  “Very well.” He smiled slowly. “Then, once more, my love, will you marry me?”

  “Probably.”

  He lifted a brow.

  She laughed and gazed up at him. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  His lips met hers and she kissed him with all the love within her, knowing, at last, it was returned. He tasted of brandy and promises and all the adventures of tomorrow. She drew back and gazed up at him. “This changes nothing, you know. Wed or not, I still want adventures in my life.”

  “Well, I did promise.” He grinned wickedly. “And it’s not too soon to begin.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her toward the coach. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your assistance, but I believe I can handle things from here.”

  “Damned fine plan.” Beaumont grinned.

  “And not bad poetry,” Pennington said.

  “I gather this means she’s going to marry him?” Berkley said in an aside to Pennington.

  “As soon as possible,” Thomas said.

  “Bad piece of luck there,” Berkley muttered.

  She laughed. “What are you planning now, Thomas?”

  “The infamous highwayman is going to take you into the coach and have his way with you.”

  “Ah, well, if he must.” She nuzzled his ear. “I have always wanted a man of adventure.”

  And the rocking of the coach all the way home had nothing to do with the quality of the roads and everything to do with lessons learned and adventures just begun.

  . . . and yes, dear cousin, I have at last accepted Lord W’s offer of marriage. It came with a declaration from his heart.

  It is, as I’d always hoped, a life filled with adventures. Yet, I have found there is more excitement to be had within the embrace of one man’s arms than in an entire world. It was a lesson I had to learn. A lesson of life. A lesson of love.

  And in the end, a marriage lesson.