by Jane Goodger
Marjorie watched Katherine and her new husband, the Marquess of Avonleigh, formerly known as the Miserable Marquess, walk toward her. The pair looked decidedly happy and were fairly glowing with good cheer. Perhaps Katherine had forgiven her for nearly driving the pair apart.
“Hello, Lady Marjorie,” Katherine said pleasantly, but Marjorie’s stomach twisted. Katherine had never called her “lady” anything.
“Please, may we talk privately?” Marjorie asked, feeling very nearly on the verge of tears. Although their acquaintance had been brief last year during the little season, they’d become fast friends—until Marjorie had betrayed their friendship in an ill-conceived plan to “save” Lord Avonleigh from Katherine. Marjorie’s mother had convinced her that Katherine had been scheming to trap Lord Avonleigh into marriage. Dorothea had forced Marjorie to tell Lord Avonleigh her suspicions. And though, to be perfectly honest, it had appeared that Katherine was indeed trying to trap Lord Avonleigh, it turned out Marjorie had been terribly wrong.
“Go on, Katherine,” Graham said. “I’ll keep Norris occupied while you two talk.”
Marjorie led Katherine from the crowded room and into a small hall. When the two women were alone, Marjorie spun around and said, “I cannot say how sorry I am for what I did. I am so glad to see that you are happy together. It was my mother. I mentioned, in passing, what you’d said to me after you’d been caught with Lord Avonleigh. I only spoke because she’d seemed so enthusiastic about a match between the two of you. I could not have predicted her reaction. She was incensed and demanded that I tell Lord Avonleigh what you’d said to me.”
“It’s all right. Everything is fine now and we’re very happy.”
“You didn’t plan it, did you?” Marjorie said, remembering how Katherine and Lord Avonleigh had been caught quite publicly in a compromising position.
Katherine shook her head. “No. I didn’t.”
“I knew you didn’t. But . . .”
“I understand. Graham and I never were very discreet. It was bound to happen. And now we’re both very glad it did.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Marjorie said. “I was going to write, but I didn’t know quite what to say.”
“Please, you are forgiven. You only did what you thought was right. And what of you? Are you here with Mr. Norris?”
Marjorie looked slightly taken aback. “No,” she said quickly. Then, “Yes. No. Well, yes.”
Katherine laughed. “Which is it?”
“Yes. But we’re not courting. It’s a long and very ridiculous story. I find him extremely onerous, as a matter of fact.”
“He is handsome. And rich.”
“No title,” Marjorie pointed out with a laugh. “And besides, he’s no doubt already half in love with someone else.”
“There is always Lord Mandeville,” Katherine said, referring to an ancient widower.
Marjorie laughed. “I’m so glad you’re not angry.”
“I was angry,” Katherine said. “But that lasted only until Graham came to his senses.”
The two women returned, arm in arm, to the ballroom. Katherine immediately spotted Graham and led Marjorie to her husband, who was still talking with Mr. Norris. It appeared as though Mr. Norris had said something to make Lord Avonleigh angry.
When the two women reached the men, Mr. Norris said, “Lady Avonleigh, did you know that your husband once made a mockery of me for having the audacity to fall in love?”
“It does sound like something he would do.”
“What in heaven’s name did you do to him, my lady?” Mr. Norris asked.
Katherine looked up at Graham, her eyes shining. “I made him smile.”
“If that is all that’s necessary, I should have been long married by now,” Marjorie said. Katherine did look so happy, so much in love, and Marjorie couldn’t stop the small twinge of envy she felt. Would she ever love anyone like that? Would a man ever look down at her the way Lord Avonleigh was looking at his bride?
Marjorie saw her mother frowning at her, but Marjorie knew her mother approved of Lord and Lady Avonleigh, in spite of their inauspicious courtship. She was no doubt tolerating the presence of Mr. Norris because he was a friend of Lord Avonleigh.
When the first waltz began, Lord Avonleigh asked his wife to dance, and the two drifted off together, looking dreamily into each other’s eyes.
“He didn’t even want to get married,” Charles said, sounding a bit mulish. “And there he is, looking like a besotted fool, dancing with his lovely wife. Doesn’t he know it’s not the done thing?”
Marjorie laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you looking at your wife like that before the season is through. Right now, though, my mother is staring daggers at me for being so brash as to talk with a man without a ‘lord’ in front of his name. Off I go. I’ll look for the next note. What fun.”
No doubt Charles wouldn’t get a chance to speak with Lady Marjorie again, a thought that made him slightly depressed. He scanned the room, his gaze stopping at every young thing in a skirt. God, they all looked the same. Hair carefully curled, white or pale-colored gowns, hovering by mothers and looking hopefully about the room for a potential suitor.
Miss Lavinia Crawford was, by far, the most beautiful girl of the bunch. Though he’d at first crossed her off his list, he gave her a second, long look. At least she didn’t look like a girl. She filled out her gown in a lovely way that stirred his imagination. She might have all those boys hovering around her, but he wasn’t a boy and perhaps that would make all the difference.
And so, Charles convinced himself that he could win Miss Crawford’s hand. He smiled at the way she tilted her lovely head. Such a charmer, she was. She had her bevy of boys acting like puppies begging for a treat. And she was a treat. Just lovely. The sort of woman he’d imagined himself with. They’d have blonde-haired children with her lovely blue eyes. He imagined they must be blue to match that white-blonde hair of hers. And, good Lord, she had the smallest and most intriguing little mole right above her lip, like the beauties of the last century who’d put false ones on their faces. Like Marie Antoinette.
Decision made, he began moving toward her, feeling himself grow more and more entranced by her with every step he took. She laughed, and it was, if not delightful, the sort of laugh that made one want to join in.
“Oh no, you don’t.” The words issued from a female to his left. Lady Marjorie.
“What am I doing?” His eyes were still on the lovely Miss Crawford.
“From that ridiculous look on your face, you are falling in love with Miss Crawford and Ruthersford is already in negotiations with her father. He’s a viscount.” She added this last with emphasis.
“I am not falling in love. Do you think me that great a fool? I haven’t even spoken to her yet.” He finally looked down to see Lady Marjorie looking at him the same way his old governess had looked when she was very displeased.
“You have engaged me in a mission to stop you from attaching yourself to the wrong woman. Miss Crawford is the wrong woman.”
As if drawn like a flower to the sun, he turned his head to again drink in the sight of Miss Crawford. “We shall see,” he said, and moved past Lady Marjorie with determination. He thought he heard her make some sort of sound behind him, but he knew she wouldn’t give chase.
“I quit.”
Now that did stop him. Cold. He turned slowly, trying to hide his irritation. “There is the small matter of a debt.”
He watched as she set her jaw. Then she took a few steps closer, looking about to make certain no one was curiously watching them. “How can I hold up my end of our evil bargain if you will not hold up yours?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper. “You gave me very specific instructions. Miss Crawford is practically engaged. And her mother—”
“Wants a bloody title. Yes. Don’t they all,” Charles completed for her. He let out a harsh breath, then turned, steeling himself instantly against the slicing pain in his leg that alway
s seemed to catch him unawares. Even after all this time. “I’ll have one dance from her,” he said, wondering if he could even manage a dance with his leg beginning to act up.
“I suppose one dance won’t cause too much harm,” Lady Marjorie said. He hated the resignation he heard in her voice, as if he were such a dolt that he could fall in love after a single dance.
Marjorie watched him walk toward the beautiful Miss Crawford with a sense of dread. She liked Mr. Norris and had no wish to see him make a fool of himself. She removed herself to the opposite side of the room, where she could watch his ruin from afar.
He was taller than the other swains hovering about Miss Crawford. And his hair, that glorious red-blond-golden hair, made him stand out even more. The moment he walked up to the group, they parted, welcoming him. Marjorie watched as, curiously, one by one, the other men departed, until it was just Mr. Norris standing with Miss Crawford, until he bowed over her hand, obviously requesting a dance. It was impossible that the girl still had room on her dance card, but she nodded, pulling out her little pencil and writing in his name before shyly looking up at him.
“He’s Charles Norris.” Marjorie’s ears perked up at the mention of his name, said with breathy awe. To her right was a small group of young debutantes, tittering and giggling, and at the moment gazing with rapt longing at Mr. Charles Norris. Oh, goodness. Perhaps finding him a bride would be easier than she’d thought.
“My father says he’s a war hero. He has the most romantic limp. Have you noticed?”
“And he’s so tall.”
“Why does Miss Crawford get all the attention?” This from a girl with plain, mousy brown hair. Marjorie stifled a smile. What a stir the two of them were making. They were a striking couple, though she didn’t know how he could stand to listen to Miss Crawford’s squeaky little voice.
“If you ask me, he’s far too old. And no title, you know.”
“He doesn’t look old to me. And he is the son of a viscount. You can’t discount that, you know.”
How did they all know so much about him? And that’s when Marjorie realized something she should have noted before. Charles Norris was the talk of the ton: the mysterious war hero who’d returned to England after a ten-year absence. They were all creating a romantic lead in their little play of love and marriage. How fortunate. Instead of him having to pursue the lovely ladies of the ton, they would be pursuing him. He’d find a bride in no time and her brother’s debt would be forgiven. And maybe the rumors about Ruthersford weren’t true. Maybe Miss Crawford could be won by Mr. Norris.
Marjorie looked about the room until she came across the frowning visage of Lady Hawthorne, Miss Crawford’s mother. The baroness was staring at her daughter, who was gazing up in rapture into the face of a certain Mr. Charles Norris. Oh, my, thought Marjorie, Lady Hawthorne does not look very pleased with this development. No doubt she’d been basking in the glow of her daughter’s success—until now. Marjorie tried to recall who had been hovering about Miss Crawford before Mr. Norris had ploughed into the group. She mentally ticked each one off, realizing quite quickly that nearly everyone had either been titled or was the heir to a title. How disappointed Lady Hawthorne must be.
Marjorie made her way over to the frowning older woman and walked by casually, hoping Lady Hawthorne would make eye contact with her long enough to force a greeting—and perhaps some conversation. Lady Hawthorne was a bit thick about the middle, but it was obvious where her daughter got her great beauty. Marjorie promenaded about the ballroom, pretending to be interested in watching the couples dance a reel, and walked directly to where the lady still stared at her daughter. Marjorie was about to despair that the woman would never tear her gaze away from the pair when she turned and saw Marjorie, and nodded.
“Good evening, Lady Hawthorne,” Marjorie said with a bit more enthusiasm than was called for, given that she didn’t know the woman well.
The lady nodded pleasantly. “Good evening.” Marjorie suspected the woman had forgotten her name.
“My mother, Lady Summerfield, was just noting how lovely your daughter looks this evening. What a success she is this season.”
Lady Hawthorne smiled. “Thank you. She is a lovely girl.” The older woman turned, giving Marjorie an assessing look as if recalling who she was.
“She is speaking with Mr. Norris. A fine man,” Marjorie said, praying she didn’t sound rehearsed. But she needed to find out if Miss Crawford was already engaged—or nearly so.
“I’ve yet to meet the man,” Lady Hawthorne said sourly. “Do you know him?”
“Not well. Only that he is the second son of Viscount Hartley and that he is a war hero. I’ve heard nothing that should cause a mother concern.”
“And what would you know of a mother’s concern?” Lady Hawthorne asked, turning her head slowly and making Marjorie’s face redden.
“Only that I have a mother and I know what concerns her.”
Lady Hawthorne nodded slowly. “I have the same concerns, I believe.” Her eyes narrowed as she watched her daughter laugh.
“Given your daughter’s great popularity, I am certain she will be settled soon. Everyone thinks so.”
“And they would be correct.”
Marjorie bit her lip, wondering if she could be so bold to ask about Viscount Ruthersford, who in truth, was on her own mother’s list of possibilities. Marjorie didn’t like the man; she found him cold, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make a fine husband for someone. She rather liked the idea of having him crossed officially off her mother’s list of possible suitors. Though the list was getting rather sparse these days.
“Mother was thinking of inviting Viscount Ruthersford to our ball in two weeks.”
Lady Hawthorne turned sharply to stare at her. Then she smiled, like a chess player acknowledging a crafty move. “Of course, your mother may invite whomever she wishes to her ball. That is the twenty-third of May, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve just sent our regrets today, I’m afraid. We’ve other plans. And I do hope you are not too disappointed to learn Ruthersford will also, no doubt, be sending his regrets.”
A surge of triumph and something that oddly felt like relief swept through Marjorie. “I’m so pleased for you all,” Marjorie said.
And, because nothing was official, Lady Hawthorne gave her a curious look, as if she hadn’t the vaguest idea what Marjorie was talking about. “I’ll be more pleased after tomorrow,” Lady Hawthorne said after a long silence. “If you’ll excuse me, I do need to speak with my daughter. Good evening.”
Engaged! The chit was engaged. Just when he thought he might have found a charming—well, charming looking—potential bride and the very next day she announced her engagement. What rotten luck.
Charles, flush from what he’d thought was his success and rather carnal images of Miss Crawford lying beneath him, stared at the Times in utter dismay two days after the Hebert ball. He’d sent her a sinfully expensive bouquet of flowers and received a pretty little note of thanks that same afternoon. And then, not a day after, he’d seen the notice. Viscount Ruthersford, the cold fish, had managed to snare her.
Charles led his horse down the darkened lane that ran behind the Summerfield London townhouse, a note tucked in his front breast pocket. The invitations he’d been receiving should have been heartening for a man bent on finding a bride. But those stacks and stacks of cards only depressed him. He wanted a wife, but this chase, this dance one had to do to get a wife, was downright wearying. Perhaps that’s why he’d been such a failure at finding a bride. He wanted it to be easy. To meet a girl, point a finger and say, “You’re the one.” And she would, of course, swoon as she said, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Wasn’t that the way it’d been done in years past? Arranged marriages were so much more practical.
It was a warm evening, and the lane was filled with the fecund smell of spring, rich, moist and so very English. It was good to be home, to be able to bre
athe in without getting a lungful of dust. Even the rather ripe smell of the mews made him smile because it was all so wonderfully familiar.
He stopped by the gate behind the Summerfield townhouse, his hand immediately going to the brick, sticking out just a bit, hinting of its compartment. He pulled it out and felt inside, smiling when his hand touched a small bit of folded paper. His note said only: Covent Garden Opera. Tuesday. He’d wanted to write more. To acknowledge that she’d been right about Miss Crawford, perhaps. But he’d never been one for notes and such, and so left it simple.
He hoped she could attend Covent Garden. The evening was not a full performance, but a reception for patrons of the opera house who would be granted a private performance by the great Adelina Patti. He was going in his brother’s stead, for the future Viscount Hartley was staying in his family’s country estate in Northumberland. God knew he envied his brother. Not for his title, but for his happiness with his family. It seemed all his life people had been waiting for his brother, who’d always been sickly, to die. Instead, as he entered adulthood, he seemed to thrive and grow stronger, leaving behind whatever childhood ailment had plagued him. Robert had always been strong in spirit, if not in body, and Charles was nothing but happy for him. But visiting Robert and his wife was a bit like torture. Did they have to seem so utterly content? So completely happy with their three rough-and-tumble boys? It seemed to Charles that life was passing him by and one day he’d wake up and be one of those old bachelors whom people pitied—or avoided.
The note in his hand could be his salvation, the promised list of possible brides.
Even though it was too dark to read, he could immediately see she’d written quite a bit more than he had. Apparently, she was one for notes and such. Smiling slightly, he pressed the paper to his nose and breathed in, smelling nothing more than paper and ink. Then, feeling foolish, he tucked the paper in his pocket, the same one that had held his own note just moments before, and replaced the brick.
