The Spinster Bride

by Jane Goodger

  Because you were once that silly girl, that’s why. Truth be told, she missed being the center of attention, having her dance card filled before the orchestra played a single note. She missed men good-naturedly fighting over who had the honor of bringing her in to dine. The entry hall filled with flowers. The morning post filled with entreaties to take her riding on Rotten Row.

  Was she so shallow?

  She let out a soft laugh as she made her way to the front of the house. Of course she was.

  “Were you out in the garden at this time of night?”

  Marjorie’s hand flew to her chest. “Mother, you nearly frightened me to death. And yes, I was. It’s a lovely evening.”

  “The night air isn’t good for your complexion, my dear. I was just about to look for you so we can discuss the Heberts’ ball. What were you thinking of wearing?”

  “The new blue, I think. It’s been so warm lately, I cannot imagine wearing anything other than silk.”

  Dorothea walked into the main sitting room and Marjorie followed. It struck Marjorie then, as it had many times in the past, how empty their house seemed. When her brother was home, as he no doubt was, he stayed in his rooms poring over books of history. Marjorie knew he was avoiding their mother, just as she knew her mother was just as glad to not have him underfoot. Once her mother had finally accepted that Marjorie was to remain unmarried, their outings would no doubt lessen in frequency. Was this to be their life? Sitting by a fire stitching or reading? It was unlikely her brother would marry (he’d shown little interest in the opposite sex after one unfortunate experience) or that her mother would remarry. The thought of spending her remaining years in an empty house was depressing. Perhaps she could travel as she’d always longed to do. Find a group of spinsters and tour Italy and France.

  Perhaps, if she were successful in finding Mr. Norris a wife, she could become a professional matchmaker. She sighed aloud.

  “What a mood you’re in tonight,” her mother said, looking at her sharply after she sighed.

  “I’m just tired this evening.” She forced a smile. “Do you think the blue will do?”

  “Of course. It is one of your lovelier gowns. It quite flatters you. But . . .”

  “But?” Marjorie prompted.

  “Blue is Miss Crawford’s signature color. If you wear it, everyone will believe you are trying to outshine her. Or worse, copy her.”

  “You cannot own a color, Mother. And that gown was very dear. What a waste if I’m never allowed to wear it. Am I not permitted to wear any of my blue gowns? I wore a blue day dress yesterday. People must have been shocked.”

  Dorothea gave her a chastising look, then shook her head. “Burgundy. You may wear the blue when we can be assured Miss Crawford will not be present. Even then, it is a risk.”

  Marjorie knew there was no changing her mother’s mind, so she acquiesced. “As you wish.”

  “What I wish is for you to try a bit harder this season, Marjorie. It was all well and good to turn down everyone when you were the Incomparable of the season. But you are no longer that girl.”

  Her mother rarely spoke so harshly to her, and Marjorie was slightly taken aback. “I know that, Mother.”

  “Do you not want to marry?”

  “I do. But we are running out of titles, are we not?” Marjorie asked, laughing. Her smile faded when she saw her mother’s expression.

  “I know why you have turned everyone down and I want it to stop. Immediately.”

  Marjorie felt her face flush and her stomach twist. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your brother. It always comes down to him. Lord Kingsley said this about him, Lord Whitsford said that about him. I don’t care what they say, what they do, or even if they have him committed. The next man who proposes to you will be given a positive answer. Do you understand me?”

  “Don’t you mean the next title, Mother?”

  Dorothea’s eyes narrowed. “That’s precisely what I mean.” Her expression softened. “Darling, I know how difficult this has been for you, but it’s time to stop. You’ll be twenty-four in a few months. Do you realize what that means?”

  “Don’t say it, because it isn’t true. Not yet at any rate.”

  To Marjorie’s horror, her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “If you have not found anyone this season, you will have been passed by.”

  Four men had proposed to her, including a baron (rejected out of hand) and two viscounts (onerous and old), so Marjorie hardly thought that qualified as being “passed by.” She’d actually considered accepting a proposal from Lord Whitsford until she overheard him say, “She’ll do as long as that idiot brother of hers isn’t about.”

  Her brother would always be about, because without her he would be lost.

  “I’ll try very hard to find a husband, Mother. I promise.”

  Marjorie felt even more depressed by that promise than by the prospect of never marrying at all.

  On the night of the Hebert ball, Marjorie arrived wearing her burgundy gown, and noticed immediately that Miss Crawford was indeed wearing blue. And then she noticed Mr. Norris, standing off to the side, staring at Miss Crawford. Drat. He would have to set his eyes on the one girl he probably couldn’t get—not with her immense popularity. Half the young bucks were already in love with her. It was only a matter of time, if what Mr. Norris said was true, before he would fall for her. From what she’d learned, Ruthersford was already negotiating with her father.

  “Blue,” her mother said.

  “Yes, I noticed. How on earth did you realize it’s what she always wears, though?”

  “It is what I do, darling. I notice things. For example, I notice that Lord Wentworth is here tonight. It’s the first time he’s been in public since his wife died last year.”

  “Which one is he again?”

  Dorothea nodded slightly, indicating the right side of the room. “He’s talking to Lady Hebert.”

  Marjorie scanned the right side of the room until she saw a tall, slim man with a pleasant face and slightly receding hairline speaking with their hostess. She had a vague recollection of meeting him, but that was the extent of her knowledge of the man.

  “Rank?”

  “Marquess. Wealthy. A lovely townhouse in Mayfair. Huge estate in Leeds. Five children.” She frowned. Marjorie knew her mother was thinking that her daughter would not mother a future marquess. “Still, it’s a fine title.”

  “What of the man?” Marjorie asked, pointedly.

  Dorothea waved her hand as if the question were inconsequential. “I’ve never heard a word against him.”

  In other words, her mother knew about as much of him as Marjorie now knew. And five children! Just the thought made her slightly queasy. Oh, she had no doubt she could care for and love five of her own children, but could she come to love someone else’s? And could they come to love her?

  “I’m going to the refreshment table, Mother. Would you like anything?”

  “Some punch would be nice. I think I’ll give my regards to Lady Hebert.”

  Marjorie gave Lord Wentworth one more look before heading to the refreshment table on the opposite side of the large room. She was not one to believe in love at first sight, but she couldn’t even imagine kissing the man, never mind marrying him. But if he were kind, if he would care for George, then perhaps she could marry him. Certainly a man with five children could not be too awful.

  “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

  Marjorie turned to see her cousin, Jeffrey. “Not in the card room yet?” she asked sweetly. She blamed Jeffrey for bringing George to the club where he’d lost all that money to Mr. Norris. If he hadn’t, she would not be in her current predicament. She had little doubt the only reason Jeffrey had brought George with him was so he could use a bit of her brother’s cash.

  “Not yet,” he answered agreeably. “Aunt, you look quite dashing this evening.”

  Dorothea beamed a smile and gave Jeffrey a small curtsy. “Why t
hank you, Jeffrey. Please be certain to ask Marjorie for a dance, will you? Her card’s not yet full.”

  Marjorie shot her mother a look of disbelief. In the five years since she’d come out, she’d never missed a dance because a man hadn’t asked her. If she did miss one, it had been her own choice.

  “Of course,” Jeffrey said with a small bow.

  “While I appreciate the grand gesture, cousin, I doubt it will be necessary.”

  “Necessary?” he asked with mock confusion. “It would be a pleasure and nothing more.” Even as he said those words, he glanced casually at Miss Crawford, who had a small flock of men around her. Marjorie felt the heat of anger and a bit of embarrassment touch her face. Had she become someone to be pitied?

  “She reminds me a bit of you,” Jeffrey said, then leaned toward her so Dorothea couldn’t hear what he said. “Well, as you were five years ago. Like bees to honey until the next pretty flower comes along. And she is quite the pretty flower.”

  Marjorie lifted her chin and pretended his words had no effect. She’d never liked her cousin, and that dislike had only grown after his father’s death. For with that death, Jeffrey came within one relative of obtaining the title he so obviously coveted. He’d never said anything overt; it was just a feeling Marjorie had when he and her brother were together. It wasn’t what he said that was so grating, but rather how he said it—that derisive, condescending tone. And it was also the way he looked at George when he thought no one would notice, with a coldness and disgust that was palpable.

  Marjorie had even mentioned it once to her mother, but Dorothea had dismissed the observation out of hand, making Marjorie feel as if she’d imagined everything. Her mother was fond of Jeffrey and would hear nothing against him.

  The orchestra had not yet begun playing, and the ballroom was crowded with people milling about. The noise and the heavy perfume in the air were already giving Marjorie a slight headache. As she made her way to the punch bowl, she was stopped numerous times by acquaintances, mostly friends who were long married and looked upon her with either pity or curiosity. And, sometimes, a bit of envy.

  “I thought this might be your destination.”

  Ah, Mr. Norris.

  “Yes. And I see you’ve already found someone to catch your eye. Miss Lavinia Crawford.”

  “The blonde surrounded by drooling boys? No. I haven’t the stomach to face that sort of competition.”

  They stood side-by-side, facing the wall. He gathered small sweets on a plate while she carefully ladled two glasses of punch. Anyone casually looking at them would not know they were conversing.

  “You have a list?”

  “I do. I’ll put it in the wall this evening. I hadn’t a chance to earlier. You’ll be happy to know it’s a rather long list.”

  She turned to spy her mother, who had her back to her, then faced Mr. Norris, who was looking down at her with a small smile on his nicely sculpted lips. My, he was a good-looking man, and she couldn’t fathom why he’d been unsuccessful in his bride hunt, if looks were any consideration. His deep brown eyes swept her face, stopping briefly at her mouth, and Marjorie was shocked by what she saw. He had the look of a man who wanted to kiss a woman. She took a small step back, alarmed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Admiring you. You’re quite lovely this evening, Lady Marjorie. And your mouth is rather meant for kissing, is it not?”

  She was stunned. “Are you drunk?”

  “Sober as you are.” He raised an eyebrow as if questioning her own sobriety.

  “But you told me you weren’t attracted to me.” It was an accusation.

  “I lied.”

  Marjorie tilted her head and gave him a look of mock anger. “This won’t do, then. If you’re attracted to me, then I might thwart your plans. You’ll fall in love with me and that won’t do at all.”

  “Just because I want to bury my face between your breasts and stay there for a fortnight doesn’t mean I want to marry you.” This was said dryly.

  Marjorie opened her mouth, stunned. If any other man had said those same words to her, she would have slapped him across the face. But it wasn’t what Charles Norris had said, it was how he’d said it, as if one couldn’t take anything he uttered seriously. And yet, she knew he was probably speaking the truth. So, instead of slapping him as she should, she laughed.

  “You are awful. No wonder you’re not married.”

  “Good God, do you really think I’d say such a thing to a woman I was courting?” He looked truly outraged.

  “But you said it to me.”

  He shook his head. “Entirely different. You are not a candidate to be my wife and we are not courting. We’re more like . . . business partners.”

  She lifted her chin slightly. “Do you often look at your business partners as if you’d like to kiss them?”

  Grinning, he turned back to the refreshment table, then let out a low, but audible and very foul, curse.

  “Sir, I would recommend you curb your language if you think to attract one of these fine ladies,” she said, looking at him with concern. She couldn’t imagine the kind of pain that would cause such a man to seize up and curse aloud in a ballroom.

  “I wouldn’t use that sort of language in front of a woman I was courting,” he said through gritted teeth.

  That statement was beginning to get a bit tiresome. “I’m starting to feel affronted, you know. I am a lady. An unmarried lady.” Marjorie knew she should be insulted. Couldn’t fathom why she wasn’t, but she thought she ought to be and should point this out. She found his casual disregard for her endearing, actually. How strange.

  He gave her a curious look. “Do you want an apology?”

  “I think I do.”

  “You’re not certain?”

  She bit her bottom lip and was slightly dismayed to see his gaze drift down to her mouth and linger. “Stop doing that. If I’m to help you, I cannot worry that you’re going to pounce on me at any moment.”

  “But I want to pounce on you. I would very much like to ravish that lovely mouth of yours.” His words said one thing, but his eyes quite another. He was simply playing with her, delighting in shocking her. She found herself laughing again.

  “Mr. Norris, please do try to resist my charms and put all that energy to finding a woman who is actually interested.”

  His expression immediately changed, became more serious, as if she were a secretary reminding him of an important meeting.

  “Very good. Who is on the top of your list and is she here this evening?”

  Perhaps Charles had not completely shocked Lady Marjorie by his behavior, but he had certainly shocked himself. Never in his life had he spoken to a woman the way he’d spoken to her. It was the oddest thing, almost as if crossing her off his list of potential brides had freed him to act as he wished. Had he really told her he wanted to bury his face between her breasts? And had she truly laughed?

  It was a bit of a problem that he was so physically attracted to her. When he’d first developed his plan, he’d thought she was perfect because he couldn’t recall being attracted to her. She was pretty, yes, and her mother was one of the most frightening people in the ton, but he supposed he’d been so enraptured with Miss Wright, he hadn’t really given Lady Marjorie a serious look. And he knew the futility of courting her, so why look at her at all?

  Now, though, she was standing next to him in a gown cut to make a man think things he oughtn’t—never mind say them aloud. If anything, he was glad she was aware of his attraction. Hiding such a thing was difficult, and now that they’d had a good laugh about it, they could carry on. Perhaps he could even get that kiss one day. Just the thought of her soft lips molding to his sent a sharp surge of desire coursing through him.

  “The lady on the top of my list is Miss Susan Mitchell.”

  “I’m not familiar with the name.” Actually, given that he’d been out of the country for ten years, he would probably be unfamiliar with most names on her
list.

  “Her father is Sir Robert Mitchell. They are quite wealthy and he is related in some way to the Duke of York.”

  Charles scanned the room. “Where is she?”

  “The girl in pale yellow. Brown hair. She’s standing next to an older lady in lavender, her grandmother I think. By the orchestra.”

  There she was, the first possible Mrs. Charles Norris. She was a tiny girl—and she was only a girl. A flat-chested, skinny girl. She could be fifteen. “How old is she?” he asked.

  “Nineteen. She is a bit petite, but this is her second season.”

  “She won’t do. Not at all.”

  “Too young?”

  “Too everything. Who’s next?”

  Marjorie looked about the room and suddenly jerked. “It’s Katherine.” Across the ballroom Charles saw Katherine Wright, the American girl he’d been a bit smitten with, but who was now married to his friend, Graham Spencer, Lord Avonleigh.

  “I really have no interest in courting a married woman,” he said, teasing Marjorie. But she was so distracted by seeing her friend, she apparently didn’t immediately understand his quip, but then looked up and gave him a brilliant smile. Clever girl.

  And then Katherine spied them and began walking their way. He’d been more than smitten with Katherine before realizing—yet again—that she was in love with one of his friends. Looking at her now, he felt nothing but a bit of embarrassment that he’d made such a cake of himself. Thank goodness most of his friends were married, or he’d no doubt fall in love with their intendeds.

  Charles looked for Marjorie’s mother, saw her frowning their way, and decided to remove himself from Lady Marjorie’s company. My God, her mother would have made a fine general.

  “I’ll let you two ladies become reacquainted,” he said, and left Marjorie before she could protest, but he did think he heard her say beneath her breath, “Oh, bollocks.” God, she made him smile.