Love with the Proper Husband

by Victoria Alexander

  “That goes without saying.” His mother sipped her brandy. “Of course, neither Lord Townsend nor your father could foresee the depths to which his daughter might fall through no fault—”

  “What depths?” Marcus’s brows pulled together.

  “Oh, that does not bode well,” Reggie murmured.

  “It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds,” she said lightly.

  “What depths?” Marcus said again.

  “I must say it sounds exceedingly bad,” Reggie said under his breath.

  “Indeed it does. What depths, Mother?”

  “It was actually a terrible error according to Mr. Whiting. Miss Townsend was erroneously informed as to the nature of her finances after her father’s death and was compelled to seek honest employment as a governess.” Lady Pennington’s gaze met her son’s, and a challenge gleamed in her eyes. “I certainly think no less of her for that. For taking her fate in her hands. Do you, Marcus?”

  “Not at all, Mother.” He couldn’t suppress a wry smile. His mother was unusually egalitarian about such things. No doubt because she too had faced financial difficulties as a girl, and she too had taken charge of her life. “You seem to have considerably more information than I do about my intended bride. Just how long was your chat with Whiting?”

  “Long enough. I simply know the right questions to ask, and I daresay, Marcus, you were probably far too stunned by Whiting’s revelation to ask anything about the girl herself.” His mother settled back in the sofa. “I do hope her circumstances do not shock you.”

  “I doubt I should find much of anything shocking at this point,” he said slowly. Without warning, the image of a mysterious woman of quality with the unmistakable tones of a governess and flashing blue eyes popped into his head. “Is Miss Townsend aware of this arrangement?”

  “Not as of this morning. Mr. Whiting said he had sent for her but was uncertain as to when her ship would arrive, probably later this week.” She paused for a moment. “She is coming from America.”

  Reggie winced.

  The picture in Marcus’s mind vanished.

  “Do not look like that, Marcus. The girl is English, after all. Her parentage is impeccable, and I am certain her character has only been strengthened by her trials.”

  “No doubt.” A new picture emerged in Marcus’s mind. One of a woman stout and sturdy with the unyielding disposition of a no-nonsense governess and a strong, irresolute character. God help him.

  Lady Pennington eyed her son cautiously. “Even so, you have not yet decided to marry her, have you?”

  “No.” Marcus shook his head. “And I am not sure I can make that decision until I meet the woman.”

  “It may well be worth giving up your fortune,” Reggie said sagely, “should she prove to have the look of a draft horse about her.”

  Lady Pennington shot Reggie a sharp glance, and he immediately turned his attention to the brandy in his glass. “Don’t be absurd. One can make do with an unattractive wife. It is far more difficult to survive without funds. Especially when one has responsibilities.” She rose to her feet. Reggie stood at once. “You would do wise to remember that, Lord Berkley.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Reggie mumbled, and Marcus stifled a smile. What was it about certain women, or rather certain mothers, that turned competent men, regardless of titles or age, into stammering schoolboys?

  She turned to Marcus. “And you, my dear son, would be wise to remember that without the fortune your father left us, we shall be hard-pressed to maintain the estate. The tenants will manage, I suppose, although there will be no more funding for the agricultural improvements you are so fond of.

  “We shall have to economize in ways we have never imagined. At the very least, this house will have to be sold. Many of the servants will have to be let go, and much of Holcroft Hall closed up. All except what we need to live there permanently, of course. Needless to say, I will no longer be able to travel or to enjoy my own interests.

  “Still, the decision is entirely yours. Marry the girl or not. I would never be a party to forcing you into marriage against your will, no matter how suitable the match or how long past due your starting a family is. No, you do what you think is best.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh and cast him a brave smile.

  “Some good shall come of it in any case. Why, we shall be able to spend much more time with one another.” She stepped to him and patted his check. “We shall face the future together, you and I, mother and son. Together…for the rest of our days.”

  Her gaze met his, the look in her eye as innocent as if she was not issuing him a challenge or perhaps a threat. Lady Pennington then squared her shoulders in a noble and courageous gesture and sailed from the room like a warrior valiantly facing whatever would lie ahead. She closed the door firmly in her wake, and for a long moment neither man said a word.

  “Very good, Mother,” Marcus murmured.

  Reggie stared at the door. “She wouldn’t really do that, would she, old man? Spend all that time with you, I mean.”

  “Good God, I hope not.” Marcus downed the rest of his drink. Surely his mother didn’t want that any more than he did? He knew there were men who were especially close to their mothers, he simply did not know one he particularly liked or respected. And he had no intention of joining their ranks.

  She had been after him for years now to choose a bride and start a nursery. Given that, he was not at all confident that her threat was an empty one.

  “It certainly puts wedding a stranger into the proper perspective.” Marcus blew a long breath. “And places poverty in an entirely different light as well.”

  “Not true poverty,” Reggie said and settled back in his chair. “After all, it’s not as if you will be turned out to beg on the streets.”

  “No, I suppose not. We shall only face that genteel type of noble poverty, despairing and quite pathetic. The kind that takes men like us, good sorts, really, with no bigger vices than overindulgence in spirits or gaming or women, and makes us hunters of fortune. Chasing after eligible brides for no better reason than their wealth can save the way we are accustomed to living or rescue the heritage of an honorable name or—”

  “Or keep our mothers from invading our lives.” Reggie saluted him with his glass.

  “Indeed.” Marcus raised his own glass and shook his head. “What in the name of all that’s holy am I going to do about this?”

  Berkley swirled his brandy and grimaced. “My advice would be to drink a good deal.”

  “Thank you. I have already considered that.”

  “I also think”—Reggie drew a deep breath and met his friend’s gaze—“you should marry Miss Townsend.”

  “Et tu, Brutus?” Marcus raised a brow.

  “You don’t appear to have many options. Besides, it’s not as if you’d be giving up a great deal. I daresay the model of female perfection you have spoken of in the past does not exist. And even if it should, well”—Reggie shrugged—“it might do you no good. There’s every chance you would not recognize it.”

  “What?”

  “You are unfailingly calm, cool, and collected. You have never come close to the altar, nor have you ever made a fool of yourself over a woman. You, old man, have never been in love, at least not so I’ve noticed.”

  “Are you saying I’m cold?” Marcus stared in disbelief. “Unemotional?

  “Not at all. But you may be too cautious for love. Too rational. Perhaps even too intellectual. You think about things far and away too much. Your mind has always ruled your heart. You have a firm idea of what you want and you will allow nothing less than that perfection to serve. On the other hand, I—”

  “You fall in love in the blink of an eye.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “And have had your heart broken how many times?”

  “Far too many to mention.” Reggie grinned in an unrepentant manner. “And each and every heartbreak well worth it. The anticipation, the high emotion, and best of all, old man, th
e untold possibilities. It is like tumbling over a precipice with the sure and certain knowledge that you can fly.”

  “I have been close to that precipice.” Marcus ignored the defensive note in his voice. He certainly had nothing to be defensive about.

  Reggie snorted. “But you’ve yet to take the plunge. Admittedly you have approached the brink on occasion. I distinctly remember a few years ago and a quite delectable widow.”

  “Pity her dead husband chose to return to life.” Marcus winced at the memory. Who would have imagined that after nearly a half dozen years, a man thought to have died in Spain would miraculously return to life?

  “And then last year,” Reggie continued. “I believe you were becoming more than a bit smitten with Marianne Shel—”

  “Lady Helmsley now, Reggie,” Marcus said firmly. “And I believe you too were more than a bit smitten.”

  Marcus had long ago admitted to himself that he had indeed come close to falling in love with the charming bluestocking. It was both poor luck and bad timing that the young woman was already in the process of falling in love with one of his oldest friends, the Marquess of Helmsley. Marcus found himself in the odd position of taking part in a bizarre but successful plot to convince her to marry Helmsley.

  Marcus shook his head. “Love has eluded me, old man, and I daresay it always shall. You may be right: I may be far too cautious for such emotion. Perhaps I have learned my lesson from watching you. Indeed, you may well have taught me love is to be avoided at all costs.”

  “Nonetheless, we do make an interesting pair. One who hesitates to engage his emotions at all and the other who throws caution to the winds of chance. Unsuccessfully.” Reggie laughed, then sobered. “If you do indeed believe that love is to be avoided, why not marry this Townsend chit?”

  “What if she’s ugly?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “What if she is a foul-tempered termagant?”

  “Precisely why men have mistresses.” Reggie shrugged. “There are worse reasons for marriage than your father’s wishes and the salvation of your fortune.”

  “I suppose so, although offhand I can only think of one.

  “Oh?”

  “Judging strictly from your example, of course, the most complicated, the most fraught with peril, and therefore possibly the worst reason is indeed”—Marcus grinned—“love.”

  Chapter 3

  In all things regarding men save money, quality is always better than quantity.

  Colette de Chabot

  “Lord Pennington?”

  Marcus leaped to his feet and tried not to gape at the angelic vision in shades of pink and white who floated into the overly fussy parlor.

  Whiting had directed him to this town house with assurances that Miss Townsend was in residence here at the home of a former teacher. Obviously, given the location in a fashionable enclave of London, a teacher with excellent personal finances. Still, the woman approaching him was unlike any teacher he’d ever seen or imagined.

  He stepped forward. “Miss Townsend?”

  The enchanting blond creature laughed. Or rather she emitted a sound similar to the tinkling of delicate glass bells. Delightful and utterly feminine.

  She held out her hand like an offering and tilted her head to gaze up at him in a manner that would make even the most hard-hearted of men weak in the knees. He raised her hand to his lips.

  “No, my lord, I am not your Miss Townsend.” A slight French accent clung to her words like a caress.

  “Pity,” he murmured against her silken skin.

  She laughed again, and the sound rippled through him. He straightened and attempted to gather his senses. He could see now that she was older than Miss Townsend, perhaps Marcus’s age. Not that it mattered in the least. She was ageless and exquisite. “Forgive me. You must be Madame Freneau, then.”

  “No, my lord, but you are considerably closer.” An amused voice sounded from the doorway, and a second lady joined them. She too was fair-haired and attractive but she did not have the same air of ethereal sensuality as the first woman. “I am Madame Freneau.”

  She stepped to him and extended her hand. He dutifully brushed his lips across it. “Madame.”

  “This is Madame de Chabot, my late husband’s sister.” A wry smile quirked the corner of Madame Freneau’s mouth. “But I see you have already met.”

  “Indeed we have,” Madame de Chabot said softly as if she and he shared some intimate secret.

  “Indeed,” Marcus echoed, unable to pull his gaze away. “I can see now you are no teacher.”

  She laughed. “In that you are wrong, my lord. I have taught a great many a great deal.”

  Was there an offer in her words, or did he just wish there was? He stared with a mix of mild surprise and sheer delight.

  “I am the teacher,” Madame Freneau said firmly, and at once Marcus realized how impolite he must have sounded.

  “My apologies, Madame,” he said, flustered by his odd behavior.

  This was not at all his usual demeanor. Why, he’d never been flustered in his life. Obviously the revelation about his father’s estate, coupled with his own reluctance to do what was necessary, plus the unexpected appearance of a tempting confection in pink and white had addled his mind. Nor could he remember being addled before. Ever. Not by circumstances and certainly not by a woman—no matter how unexpected or enticing she might be. “I did not mean to imply—”

  Madame waved away his comment. “An explanation is not necessary, my lord. I quite understand. No doubt you expected me to be ancient and forbidding. The specter of former teachers does tend to be both.” She smiled with amusement. “And you could not possibly have expected the presence of my sister-in-law.”

  “Even so”—he pushed aside all thoughts of temptresses with foreign accents and adopted his most collected manner—“I have been most impolite, and I do beg your pardon.”

  “I think he is quite charming,” Madame de Chabot said in an aside to the other woman, but her gaze lingered on Marcus as if she were determining his assets and his deficits.

  “We shall see, Colette.” Madame Freneau’s voice was thoughtful.

  “Is Miss Townsend at home, then?” Marcus had sent a note requesting a meeting but had been too impatient to wait for an answer. Now that he had decided he had no choice but to wed the lady, he wanted to proceed with the arrangements as soon as possible.

  “While she was not expecting you”—Madame’s voice carried a chastising note, and immediately he could well believe this lovely lady had once indeed been a teacher—“I am certain she shall be down momentarily. If you will excuse us?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Come along, Colette,” Madame said. “We shall see what is keeping Miss Townsend.”

  Colette cast another assessing glance at him, and without thinking, Marcus stood a bit taller and raised his chin a notch higher. She nodded in apparent satisfaction. “He might well be suitable for our Gwendolyn after all.”

  “Hush, Colette,” Madame said firmly. “That is entirely up to her.”

  Colette raised a shapely shoulder in a casual shrug. A moment later he was again alone in the too feminine parlor.

  Up to her?

  Marcus had never considered the possibility Miss Townsend might be as reluctant to marry him as he was to marry her. How absurd. The woman had been a governess, after all. He expected she would jump at the chance to wed.

  And, all modesty aside, he was considered something of a catch. His title was impeccable. His fortune, at least for the moment, was more than respectable. His reputation was no worse than that of many of his friends and considerably better than most. He was a witty conversationalist and a droll observer of life, and there was scarcely a social event where he was not merely welcome but desired. In addition, he was considered above average in appearance. Indeed, while he was not an Adonis, some might well call him handsome.

  Only the most bizarre of circumstances brought him to this moment
when he waited to propose marriage to a woman he had never met. A governess, for God’s sakes. Regardless of his mother’s own beginnings in life or her assertions about character building, the last thing he wished for in a wife was experience as little more than a servant. He was not nearly as democratic as his mother. Still, it could not be helped.

  Well, he’d marry the chit and thereby maintain his fortune. She would provide him with an heir, and a second for good measure. Once that was accomplished, he saw no reason why she should not live her own life and pursue her own interests. He certainly intended to.

  Their marriage would be little more than a legal contract. An arrangement for the benefit of them both. Marcus’s wealth would remain firmly in his hands. He would support Miss Townsend in the manner and style expected for the Countess of Pennington, and according to Whiting, she would receive a sizable income from her father’s estate for her personal use to boot. She would want for nothing either financially or socially.

  These were his terms, and he had no doubt that any woman in her right mind would accept them. It was not what he had hoped for in marriage and certainly not what he’d ever wanted, yet he’d had the opportunity to find a woman who would fit into his dreams and desires and had failed. Now there was no choice.

  Up to her.

  He snorted in disbelief. It was most definitely not up to her. This marriage, and all that went with it, was up to him. Why on earth wouldn’t she say yes?

  Damnation, he was the blasted Earl of Pennington and she was a barely solvent governess. What woman on earth in her position would not want him and all he offered?

  He heard voices in the hall and turned toward the door, plastering a pleasant smile on his face and bracing himself for whatever might appear. If indeed she was stout and sturdy with an unyielding disposition, he could bear it. He had responsibilities to his tenants and those whose livelihoods depended on him as well as to his family. Even to his ancestors, who had left their land and heritage and good name in his hands.