The Spinster Bride

by Jane Goodger

I did warn you about Miss Crawford and I do hope your heart, given it is so vulnerable to a pretty girl with blond hair, was not too engaged. As she is now. Engaged, that is. I’ve come up with a list of women I believe would be potential candidates, but after going through it I am not entirely pleased with it. You did indicate that you didn’t want a girl right out of school and it seems as if several on my list are so terribly young. Would you consider instead a young widow? Or are you bent on someone young and innocent? Or simply someone who likes cricket as much as you do?

  As you can see, I am a bit at wits’ end as to what you are looking for in a bride. I would ask that you create a list of characteristics that please you and, based upon that list, I shall create one of my own.

  Why must this be so complicated? It needn’t be, he supposed, if he were simply looking for someone to give him heirs. But an heir didn’t matter, not to someone fifth in line to the title. He wanted what his parents had, what his brother had. He certainly did not want what his sister had, a passionless life of monotony. Charles frowned. Poor Laura, she’d been so in love with her foolish husband when she was nineteen. At twenty-nine, she was childless and imprisoned with a man who continued to dote upon his horrid mother more than he’d ever doted upon Laura.

  Flinging Marjorie’s letter aside, he sat down at his desk, turned up his lamp, and set about creating his list of attributes.

  Pretty.

  Intelligent.

  He stopped, feeling more depressed than he had in some time. Good God, he just wanted to not be so damned lonely all the time. To sit at breakfast with a woman who smiled at him. To turn to her in bed and draw her close and bury his nose against her sweet-smelling hair. That’s what he wanted. He supposed one word summed it up. Love. He wanted to love someone who loved him.

  Charles stared at his woefully inadequate list for a moment before he forged ahead.

  Honest.

  Not a child.

  Must like children.

  Must be caring.

  Must like cricket.

  He smiled after that one and could picture Marjorie doing the same.

  Must like the country as much as London.

  It wouldn’t do to have a frivolous wife bent on spending all his money on gowns and such.

  And then, the most important thing:

  Must not want a title.

  There. That ought to do well enough.

  Chapter 4

  Forty years earlier

  “I saw Lord Smythe earlier today,” Dorothea said, then daintily took a bite of scone. Her mother insisted, despite Dorothea’s completely undainty form, that she act dainty and feminine at all times.

  “Oh?” Dorothea’s mother gave her a sharp look, then pressed her lips together. “I do believe it is time you gave up on that front, my dear. I hear he has begun courting Lord Orford’s daughter, Matilda.”

  Lady Matilda was a simpleton whose only concern was making certain that every curl was in place. While Dorothea was just as meticulous in her appearance as Matilda, it was not all she thought about. She was quite certain the girl’s head was vacant of any thought other than her lovely appearance.

  “I simply mentioned seeing him,” Dorothea said, looking down at her plate.

  “Very well.” Her mother placed her fork aside, an indication that she had something of import to say. “Your Aunt Frances is getting on in years. The last time she was here, we talked about perhaps having you live with her. Keep her company. She’s so isolated out there in Ipswich.”

  Dread fell heavy and hard on Dorothea’s stomach. Going to live with a widowed aunt was tantamount to completely giving up on any hope of securing a husband.

  “When you were thinking?”

  “I thought you could leave the beginning of next week.” Her mother indicated a letter by her plate. “She’s quite lonely and is very much looking forward to seeing you.”

  “But Ascot’s only two weeks away. I did so want to attend this year. And it’s the middle of the season. I cannot possibly go now, Mother.”

  Her mother looked away, giving her head a subtle shake. “I do not mean to be cruel, Dorothea, but I believe that particular ship has sailed. You are twenty-eight years old, my dear. It is time you come to accept that you will never marry. There is nothing at all wrong with spinsterhood. Why, some of my dearest and happiest friends never married. You haven’t had a single prospect in ten years. To continue as you have been is to deny your circumstances.”

  Dorothea swallowed heavily. It was true. No man had ever courted her, even though she had a sizeable dowry. It was not so unusual to be passed by, but Dorothea had never truly thought it would happen to her. “Lord Smythe—”

  “For goodness’ sake, Dorothea, Lord Smythe has no more interest in marrying you than he would one of his hunting dogs.”

  Tears flooded Dorothea’s eyes, and her throat hurt so much it felt as if someone were squeezing it. “That was cruel, Mother.”

  Her mother’s eyes softened. “No, my dear, it’s the truth. And it’s high time you understood that. You are a good girl, kind and generous. But not every kind and generous girl finds a husband.” She picked up her fork. “You should probably begin packing tomorrow.”

  “How long will I be gone?” Dorothea asked, her voice small. She cleared her throat. “I need to know how long I’ll be gone so I may pack properly.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you understood. You’ll be living with your aunt. Indefinitely.” Her mother laughed at Dorothea’s expression. “My dear, she’s seventy-five. It won’t be forever.”

  But it would be forever. If she were gone for years, Lord Smythe would surely forget about her. She might not get back to London at all and by the time she was back, she’d be—oh, God—in her thirties. Dorothea stared at her plate, her food now untouched. “May I at least stay until after Ascot? I promised Mary I’d attend with her.”

  “Until past June the fourteenth?” Her mother let out a heavy sigh. “Your aunt will be disappointed, but I suppose so.”

  Some of the sadness left Dorothea. She still had one more chance to see if Lord Smythe loved her even a little.

  Chapter 5

  “The opera? I thought you didn’t care for the opera.” Dorothea paused in the act of spooning an oversalted consommé into her frowning mouth.

  Marjorie had expected that reaction to her request that they attend the special performance at Covent Garden, and was ready with the only response she knew would sway her mother.

  “It’s a special evening, Mother, with a light supper before the performance. You know that only draws the highest levels of the ton. And I hear Lord Wentworth will be there. I think you were right. I think he may be ready to remarry.”

  Dorothea gave her daughter a level look, almost as if she were trying to read the sincerity of her daughter’s request, and Marjorie used all her learned poise not to squirm. “And I suppose there will be others,” her mother said, finally, and then beamed a smile. “I’m glad to see a bit more enthusiasm, my dear. I had all but given up hope that you even cared to find a husband. But unfortunately, I cannot attend. Lady Benningford has invited me to a reading and as I have already accepted, I cannot change my plans.”

  “Oh,” Marjorie said, feeling a deep stab of disappointment. She’d been so looking forward to discussing Mr. Norris’s list with him and matching it up with the women on her list.

  “So disappointed,” her mother said, looking at her thoughtfully. “Can it be that you actually have developed a tendre for Lord Wentworth?”

  Marjorie gave her mother a wan smile. “It’s not just that, Mother. I suppose I was looking forward to attending an amusement that Miss Crawford will not be attending. I do so want to wear blue. It suits me best.”

  Her mother let out a laugh. “That it does, my dear. All right, then, let me see if your aunt can attend with you.”

  “Aunt Gertrude?” she asked hopefully. Gertrude was a lovely old lady and the worst possible chaperone. Once her aunt found old fr
iends to gossip with, Marjorie could disappear for hours at a time without being questioned.

  “Of course, Aunt Gertrude. Do you think I would trust you with any of your father’s sisters? Doddering old maids, the lot of them.”

  Marjorie rushed to her mother’s side and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother, I adore Aunt Gertrude. We shall have a wonderful time. And I know she loves the opera—even if I do not. But this is not an opera, it’s a solo performance by Adelina Patti.”

  “Yes, I know. She is exquisite. But I saw her just last year. I’m not too heartbroken. And you have never heard her sing, have you?”

  “No, and I am looking forward to it.”

  “I cannot wait to hear about your evening. I do hope you will sit next to someone worth sitting next to during dinner.”

  “My mother would kill me if she saw me right now,” Marjorie said with a laugh. She sat between two ineligible men—Charles Norris and Lord Ruthersford, who seemed not to have warmed a single degree since his engagement to Lavinia Crawford. The former smiled down at his plate, the latter ignored her completely. She almost felt sorry for Miss Crawford now that she was no longer on the marriage mart and would have to spend the rest of her life with Ruthersford.

  “You seem to have a streak of deviltry in you, my lady.”

  “Oh, much more than a streak, I can assure you. Alas, there have been woefully few times I have been able to express it.” She leaned a bit so that she could see her aunt and waggled her fingers. Her aunt smiled back at her and immediately turned away to speak to her dinner companion, an old friend of her late husband. This evening, the building’s narrow lobby had been turned into a dining room of sorts, with three long tables set up to accommodate the elite crowd. Aunt Gertrude had warned her not to expect much from the meal, as it was being prepared in a restaurant next door and brought over by an army of servants. Apparently, the famous soprano had requested “the least odiferous items” be prepared so that her olfactory sense would not suffer.

  “I have the list,” she said in a whisper. “I’m afraid, after seeing your requirements, it’s rather short.”

  “I didn’t know I was being so particular,” he said.

  “I assume you are looking for someone a bit older, and being a man, you probably would like her to be somewhat attractive. Here.” She reached beneath the wide lace ribbon at her waist and pulled out a small bit of paper. She laid her hand, palm up, upon her lap and indicated with a small nod that he should take it.

  She should have known better. Mr. Norris looked from her face, to her lap, where she held the paper, and back to her face, raising an eyebrow in such a suggestive way that she felt an awful heat envelop her. Awful, because she knew what that heat meant and she had absolutely no intention of ever feeling that sort of heat when she was with Mr. Norris.

  “You are insufferable.”

  “I am a man. A man who has just been invited to lay his hand upon a lady’s lap.”

  “I did no such thing,” she said, trying to sound and appear angry but failing miserably. She made a fist, crumpling the bit of paper, and placed it unceremoniously on the table next to his dinner plate. But before she could snatch her hand away, he laid his palm upon hers, warm and large, for just a small moment before releasing her.

  Oh, goodness. What had just happened? A surge of something electric made her let out the tiniest gasp and her face flushed red. It was instantaneous. She prayed he interpreted that gasp and flush as anger, but was sorely disappointed when she looked at him through her lashes and saw the most irritatingly smug expression on his lovely mouth. Lovely mouth?

  “I beg you to stop, Mr. Norris.”

  He raised his brows innocently. “Stop what, Lady Marjorie?”

  “Taunting me,” she said with a bit of exasperation after briefly searching for the correct word. “This is not a game to me.” She did try to sound angry, but, blast the man, his smile only broadened.

  “You are enjoying yourself immensely.”

  Marjorie pressed her mouth together, desperately trying not to smile. “Perhaps,” she relented.

  “There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. And, my darling girl, I find I am enjoying myself immensely as well. Who knew finding a bride would be so much fun?”

  Oh, yes. The bride. Marjorie felt herself deflate just a tad at the reminder of why they were sitting together.

  He brazenly opened up her note at the dinner table and scanned the list.

  “Are any of these ladies here this evening?” he asked after a moment.

  “Two. Miss Elizabeth Vincent and Miss Petunia Peterson.”

  “I can’t marry someone named Petunia.”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “I don’t like petunias.”

  Marjorie looked at him in disbelief. “Who wouldn’t like petunias? They are a lovely flower. Very colorful. And very much like their namesake. She’s the girl sitting next to Admiral Clarkson.”

  Marjorie watched with some consternation how his expression changed when he saw Petunia. She was a lovely girl, with a country-fresh look to her. Her dark blond hair gleamed in the gaslight, and her eyes were an unusual shade of green. She was so lovely, in fact, Marjorie wondered why, at twenty, she was still unmarried. She came from a good family, had a significant dowry, and Marjorie had never heard any scandal connected to her. These were all the reasons she’d added Miss Peterson to her list. But now that she thought of it, there had to be something wrong with her. Something niggled at the back of her mind. Perhaps she was a dimwit?

  “I suppose,” Charles said slowly, “that I could get used to the name. I could give her a nickname. Pet or Tuni or some such thing.”

  “You cannot call your wife ‘Pet.’ It’s demeaning.”

  His gaze was still on Petunia when he said, “Then Nia. One of her syllables can certainly be used as a name.” He sounded slightly irritated.

  “Nia isn’t too awful,” Marjorie said, wondering suddenly why she’d included the girl on her list and refusing to wonder why she suddenly didn’t want the girl on her list.

  “And who else is here from your list?”

  “Miss Vincent. She is sitting at the far table, so I’m afraid you won’t be able to get a very good look at her.”

  Charles strained his head a bit to spy the far table. “What color hair does she have?”

  “Reddish.”

  “No. I will not marry a red-headed girl.”

  “But you’re a bit red-headed,” Marjorie said.

  “I am not. But I was as a lad, and I can tell you that I suffered for it. And with a red-headed wife, I’d most assuredly have red-headed children, and I’ll not have anyone call my son or daughter Ginger.” He let out a gusting sigh. “So I suppose tonight I should concentrate on Miss Peterson.”

  And that’s what he did, with a gusto that Marjorie found a bit amusing and Miss Peterson seemed to find a bit frightening. The group had perhaps an hour before the concert began, during which many of the men went outside to smoke a cigar and sneak a sip or two from their flasks. Miss Adelina Patti did not allow smoking in the building when she was performing.

  Charles did give the men who were outside enjoying their cigars a look of longing, but then asked Marjorie for an introduction.

  “I have to stand by my aunt for now. Mother has too many friends here and it wouldn’t do for one of them to mention I’d been at your side all evening. My aunt and I will make our way over to Miss Peterson, and then you can join us and I can make introductions.”

  He nodded and moved off without a word, leaving Marjorie to find her aunt. She found Gertrude sitting in a corner with two of her dearest and oldest friends, and Marjorie felt a twinge of guilt that she would have to drag her aunt away.

  After greeting the older women, Marjorie said, “I’m sorry, Aunt, but Mother insists that I mingle at these events, as tedious as it is. Would you mind walking about with me? Then I will safely return you to your friends.”

  “My goodness, t
here’s no need to apologize to me! I raised three daughters, you know. Of course you know. They’re your cousins!” She let out a laugh as she stood up.

  Marjorie was well aware of her cousins and of their marriages to well-placed men—all titled and all rather nice. Her mother would never admit it aloud, but Marjorie knew it bothered her mightily that her sister had managed to get three daughters married and she’d not succeeded in getting even one down the aisle.

  Her aunt scanned the room, no doubt homing in on all the eligible men. “Pity,” she said softly.

  “What’s a pity, Aunt?”

  “Oh, nothing.” But her aunt’s eyes were trained on someone across the room. Marjorie followed her eyes and felt her face flush. He did look rather magnificent standing in that group of older men. It was almost as if he were thrumming with vitality while the other men were mere husks of humanity. Even from across the room, she could hear his laugh, booming and unself-conscious. “Are you certain your mother won’t even consider a man without a title? There’s that very nice Charles Norris. He is the son of a viscount, you know. Very well-heeled family. His mother is lovely. Perhaps your mother would consider—”

  “No, Aunt. She won’t.”

  “Lord Ruthersford . . .”

  “Is engaged.” Marjorie walked sedately toward where Miss Peterson stood with her mother and father.

  “Yes, yes. I thought I remembered reading something about that. Pity you were seated between two ineligible men.”

  “It sometimes happens,” Marjorie said happily. “It’s not often I get the chance to relax and enjoy a meal rather than put myself on display.”

  Her aunt chuckled. “Ah, I remember those days. It can be wearying, dear, I know.”

  The two chatted amiably, but Marjorie was always aware of Miss Peterson—and Mr. Norris. He had the subtlety of a cannon, and she could feel him watching her progress toward his possible future wife. As Marjorie walked by Miss Peterson, she pretended to be bumped and fell lightly against the younger woman.