by Jenna Jaxon
Eyebrows raised, Marianne took his arm and let him lead her to her father’s London townhouse. The warmth of his arm penetrated the sleeves of her pelisse and gown. Will had always been such a wonderful friend, irritating and comforting by turns. At his boast, she giggled. “I’ve been scouring the ton for two years for the perfect man, and you think you can find one to suit me in four weeks?” The giggle turned to laughter. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Done, then.” His countenance had darkened, perhaps a tinge of red in his cheeks. “I will see you married by Christmas or…or I’ll—”
“Eat an entire mincemeat pie?”
Will stopped, one foot suspended above the top step. “I hate mincemeat pie!”
“I know.” Marianne giggled again and propelled them toward the door. “It will serve as a great incentive for you to find me a husband.”
“Rather.” He swallowed and turned pale. “I don’t know that I could eat an entire minced pie without casting up my accounts.”
“All the more reason to win that wager.” Rising up on tiptoe, she stretched and kissed his cheek. “You are terribly sweet, Will, to agree to help me. Especially with such dire consequences should you fail.”
He wiped at his cheek and plied the knocker.
“Join us for dinner? I know Mama and Papa would love to see you. A face from home would be a cheery addition. We’ve been in London so long.”
Shaking his head, he untwined her arm from his and stepped back. “I’d best be about winning this wager. I’ll just pop around to my club and see who turns up.”
“I give you warning, I’ve met just about every gentleman this Season and last. I don’t know where you’re going to come up with new prospects in London.”
“Who have you already stricken off your list? No good for me to be proposing gentlemen you’ve deemed unsuitable.” Looking stern, he crossed his arms and leaned back.
Marianne glanced around. No need to give the neighbors an on-dit for the morning newssheets. She grasped his arm and vigorously propelled him through the heavy mahogany door the butler had just opened. “We’re going to need more time and a private place for me to give you all the names.”
“That many?” Will whistled as he doffed his hat and handed it to the butler. “Pray, just what are you looking for in a husband?”
“Honestly, you’re such a nitwit.” Grabbing his arm, she dragged him into the nearest receiving room, furnished in blue and gold with a merry fire at one end, and shut the door.
“You’d best leave that open at least a crack or you’ll find yourself compromised and married to me.” Will suited the action to his words, pulling the door inward several inches.
“Huh. You won’t find yourself winning your wager so easily.” A flutter in her stomach caught her off guard and she sat down hard on the small, blue-flowered chaise. He was right. They couldn’t be completely alone without jeopardizing her reputation. Even old family friends didn’t have that privilege. “Come sit beside me, and I’ll give you a list of the gentlemen I’ve already either declined or would if they asked.” She patted the seat beside her. “Get sufficient paper and a pencil from the escritoire.”
Dutifully, yet with a long-suffering air, Will took a pencil and paper from the desk, not pausing to sharpen the pencil. “All right, approximately how many men do I write down on this list? Will three sheets be enough?”
“Do not be rude, William.” She settled into the cushion, wishing for tea. “Would you mind ringing the bell? I think tea would warm us perfectly.”
Smiling, Will pulled the tapestry rope then went to sit at the opposite end of the settee from her. “I’m still taking no chances, Mari.”
“Oh, very well.” Casting her mind back to her first Season, she began to tick off on her fingers the gentlemen who’d married. “Lord Rycroft, Lord Ellicot, Sir Roger Cheevers, Mr. John Wythe, Mr. Silverton. I forget his first name.” She began on her other hand. “Lord Pye-Whealton, Sir Alexander Montmorency.” She paused, shuddered, and turned to him. “I could never have married him and become Lady Montmorency. It would simply have been too much.”
“I believe I take your point,” he said, though his mouth had puckered suspiciously.
“You’d not find it funny if men had to change their names when they married. How would you like to suddenly have to be called Lord Skiddaw or Lord Douthwaithead?”
“Not much, I grant you.” He averted his eyes then glanced back at the paper. “So, unless we’re to go through a roll call of every gentleman in London, may I suggest I prepare a list of the fellows I think might suit you? Then you can look them over, select several you believe might be promising, and I will bring about an introduction.”
“That would be much more efficient. I’ve not even finished the gentlemen who’ve married since I came out.” Marianne shook her head. So many gentlemen and ladies had found happiness while she’d merely had her toes trod upon a thousand times, it seemed. “So will you come to dinner? We can plan strategy.”
“Much as I would love to, I’d best go round to my club and gather inspiration for my list.” With a rueful grin, Will rose. “I’ve only a month to save myself from the poisonous mince pie.”
Sighing, Marianne rose and walked with him to the doorway. “Do remember he must be a pleasant gentleman, and if at all possible, a good rider.”
“And as handsome as Captain Granville?”
Heat pricked Marianne’s cheeks. “What makes you say that?”
Will chuckled, making her want to hit him as she had when she’d been ten and he’d been an all-knowing sixteen-year old. “He was all the rage among my sisters last year. I assumed you swooned as well over his Byronic locks and ‘gorgeously smoldering dark eyes,’ as Eliza always put it.”
“Eliza would swoon over a goose.” Marianne looked away. Will would remember such embarrassing things. “And yes, I did find Captain Granville rather attractive, but as he is now married, I suppose I will have to sigh and move on.”
“But you don’t deny you would like to marry a handsome fellow?” Grinning, Will headed for the door.
“Well, naturally, I would like to sit across the breakfast table from someone with a pleasant face.” Now she’d like to push her friend out the door. “Unlike yours, sir.”
“Another narrow escape for which to give thanks.” The wretch laughed and opened the door, bringing in a gust of cold air. He touched the brim of his fashionable tall beaver hat. “I’ll call tomorrow with my list, if that’s all right?”
Marianne narrowed her eyes. “That will be fine. As long as it has gentlemen on it with better manners than you, William Stanley!”
He continued outside, his laughter lingering in her ears even after Collins had shut the door. Will could be as infuriating as any of her brothers, but he’d been a good ally in the past. Pray he proved a savior this time or she’d end up a spinster for sure.
CHAPTER 2
Still chuckling as he headed briskly to his curricle, William shook his head at how easily Marianne had manipulated him into helping in her quest for a husband. His sense of duty to an old friend from home had prompted him to suggest the ride today. Both his parents and hers were set to return to Shropshire next week, and he’d heard from Eliza that Marianne had been sorely disappointed at not finding a husband during the Little Season just past. Now, instead of simply cheering a childhood friend for an afternoon, he’d been commandeered into actively assisting in the husband hunting. In his experience, a Good Samaritan always lived to regret his charitable deeds.
He hopped up onto the seat, grasped the ribbons, and started the grays. Best head straight to his club, have is groom Atley drive the rig home, and walk back later. If he was set to leave soon, he’d need to start immediately unless he wanted to spoil the coming Christmas season in fear of being violently ill from mince pie. There should be some gentlemen at White’s he could scout out for Marianne. Great chaps always seemed to be hanging about. He could speak with them, see if they measu
red up to Mari’s exacting standards, and save himself an embarrassing Christmas dinner.
With a practiced hand, he slowed the team before the bay window of the gentleman’s club. Lord, he hoped everyone hadn’t left early for home. He jumped down and handed the ribbons to the tiger.
“Take the curricle home, Atley. I’ll walk back when my business is done.”
“Very good, my lord.” The young man leaped nimbly onto the box and started the horses once Will was on the steps. Gazing at his equipage as it tooled away, he sighed. He’d certainly enjoyed the curricle this past Season. Squiring pretty young ladies around, showing off his skills with the horses had been exceedingly fun. Why any man of less than five and thirty would even think about getting leg-shackled was incomprehensible, but many did. And he needed to find at least one more such marriage-minded gentleman for Marianne.
To his surprise, the ground floor rooms were quite crowded. A peek in one morning room revealed Lord Avanley sitting in the bow window, holding court in a splendid gathering of fashionably dressed gentlemen. Promising. He could join them, for the laughter that filled the large, comfortable room enticed him. However, he needed to think, to make a list of some of the better fellows to pursue for Marianne. Determinedly, he made his way to the upstairs coffee room.
While not filled to its usual capacity, the huge room still held a goodly number of members, all talking and sipping at various tables. The rich scent of brewed coffee wafted over William, and he hurried to claim a table to himself. He motioned to a footman and asked for coffee, pen, ink, and paper. Best get right to work on this problem. Then he could relax and enjoy the rest of his evening. He dipped the pen in the inkpot and raised it, eager to write the name of the first eligible parti.
And stopped.
Dash it all. He gazed about the room, his attention leaping from member to member, names streaming in his head. Lord Aston. No, not a good rider. Mr. Horace Grant. Too short for Marianne, even if he stood on his toes. Lord St. Belford. Perhaps… He raised his pen again then shook his head. Belford never danced with anyone without stepping on their feet. Marianne hadn’t mentioned the ability to dance well as a requirement, but Will didn’t want to match her with a man she’d never be able to stand up with. Gods, this was harder than he’d thought. Who else did he know not married or betrothed?
“Stanley, old chap. Good to see you’ve not given up the ghost yet.”
Will started and peered up at the Marquess of Tamworth, a gentleman of his acquaintance for several years and most likely now his savior. A surge of relief had him rising in an instant. “Tamworth, well met. Please, sit.” He indicated the chair next to him and hastily shoved the pen and paper away. No need of those any more with this fortuitous meeting. “I’m for home next week for the holiday season.” He restrained himself from adding, “Won’t you join me?” and instead confined himself to, “And you?”
“Oh, off to Leicestershire the first of December to Lord Hawkenberry’s hunting box. Good sport to be had out near Melton.” Tamworth’s rugged face had lit up at the thought of hunting.
“I remember you were always very keen on hunting.” An excellent sign. Why hadn’t Tamworth’s name come to mind when he first broached the wager to Marianne? The man was perfect for her. “Hawkenberry’s got some prime land for hunting. They’re neighbors of ours back in Shropshire. I daresay my parents have received an invitation and I’ll see you there.” Even more likely, Marianne’s father, Lord Dawley, had also received an invitation. Better and better.
“Excellent show. Just the thing to start the season off right, don’t you know.” Beaming, Lord Tamworth exuded confidence and good cheer. Now to make certain of the man.
“Will Lady Tamworth be accompanying you?”
“If there were a Lady Tamworth, she’d definitely be attending with me.” The man grinned widely. “I’ve often thought when I do marry, I must have a woman who sits a horse well and enjoys the outdoors as well as her womanly pursuits.”
“Indeed. That sounds a splendid plan.” Will clenched his hands. How could he bring up Marianne? “Are you currently thinking to marry?”
Tamworth eyed him, brows upraised, as if he were approaching a wild horse. “Have you a sister out now you’d like to see become Lady Tamworth, Stanley? You don’t need to shilly-shally about it.”
“Not a sister, no.” Will gave a sheepish grin. “A family friend. You may know her. Miss Covington?”
Furrowing his brow, Lord Tamworth cocked his head then shook it. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’ve not been actively on the marriage mart for several years.” His grin re-emerged. “Sowing my wild oats, don’t you know.”
“Quite.” William nodded, although puzzled. Tamworth had at least ten years on him. He was, in fact, well past the age at which a titled gentleman usually sought a wife to give him an heir. That the man hadn’t already done so seemed odd, but then some men feared the leg-shackle much more than others. Himself, for example. Many of his friends and acquaintances had already been caught in the parson’s mousetrap, and quite of their own accord, while the very thought of marriage at six and twenty made him shudder.
“However, I would be most grateful to make the acquaintance of Miss Covington, should the opportunity present itself.” Tamworth’s eyes showed keen interest as he arose. “You must tell me more about her at the hunt, if you attend.”
“I will indeed, my lord.” Not only tell about her, but hopefully present Marianne herself. “Good evening.”
Tamworth sauntered to another table, and Will sat back in his chair, relief at his accomplishment surging through him. In all likelihood, he’d just made the first giant step toward finding Marianne a husband and saving himself from the indignities of the mince pie. Now all he had to do was discover if he’d already been invited to Hawkenberry’s and if not, wrangle an invitation for both their families, and the plan would be firmly set in motion. The wager was on the way to being won after only an hour or two of the challenge. He was apparently rather good at matchmaking.
* * * *
December 5, 1816
Sliding across the leather seat from one side of the carriage to the other, Marianne could scarcely contain herself as they flew down the crushed shell drive toward the Hawkenberrys’ charmingly rustic hunting box, Fox Croft Lodge.
The manor house—a former farm house that had undergone extensive renovations and doubled its size—sat surrounded by tall trees with only a small lawn, glistening in frost even at midday. Constructed of weathered gray-brown stone covered here and there with ivy, pretty dormer windows above, green shutters, and bright white trim all over, the place suddenly reminded Marianne of fairy-tale cottages she’d read of, although hopefully neither witch nor hungry wolf lurked within.
The carriage stopped before a short walkway, and Marianne could scarcely wait for the footman hurrying toward them to open the door. William had promised her he’d found a gentleman, a marquess, no less, whom she’d not already met, who was very interested in meeting her. Maddeningly, the wretch had given her no other particulars in his letter, save that he’d arranged for the invitation to Lord Hawkenberry’s hunting party. So fortunate Papa adored hunting, but so tiresome that their host did not allow ladies to participate in his hunts. She’d have to settle for riding out to the hunt site and the hunt luncheon at midday. Still, she’d get to see Lord Whoever ride, and one could always tell a great deal about a gentleman from the way he sat a horse.
At last, the footman opened the door and Papa clambered out, taking an interminable time to hand Mama down. But finally, Marianne was out, almost leaping down the steps. She’d not been so excited since her come out. Something about this place seemed magical. Certainly, she would meet her future husband here. Restraining herself from running up the walkway to the front door, Marianne forced her feet to a sedate pace behind her parents. It wouldn’t do for her future husband to see her acting like a hoyden.
“Lord and Lady Dalkey, Miss Covington, so lovely to
see you here,” Lady Hawkenberry greeted them as they entered the main hall.
“Delighted to see you, Sophia.” Mama kissed her friend on the cheek.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” Marianne quickly curtsied to the woman she’d known all her life. Peering about at the pretty, country-style furnishings, she gave her cloak to a footman and they moved onward down the narrow corridor toward the increasingly loud sounds of people talking. She rounded a corner and stopped in the entryway to a good-sized, bright room teeming with people.
At both ends of the room sat two large sofas in bronze velvet before fireplaces, with comfortable looking chairs in autumn colors close by making intimate groupings. The high ceiling with exposed beams helped continue the rustic feeling of the room, as did the dark, rough carpet. A rather masculine room, filled with gentlemen just standing about, many of whom she knew. There was Lord Shearing, Lord Haskell, and Lord Caster, who all three never could be seen without one another. Mr. Henry Phyffe stood by a lovely bay window that looked onto a vast garden beyond. He seemed deep in conversation with Sir Andrew Steele. And praise the Lord, there were also several gentlemen with whom she was not acquainted. A thrill of excitement shot down her spine. Might one of these be the marquess William had spoken of?
“Marianne? Come, dear.” Her mother’s voice broke in on her reverie, and she hurried back to her parents. She was taken upstairs to her room, a charming, if small, chamber decorated in pale green and dark blue. Her maid, Cole, assisted Marianne to wash and dress in a very pretty, pale-blue, china-silk gown that brightened her eyes. Gathering her shawl, she waited impatiently, flitting from the dressing table to the window and back again. Why would Mama not hurry? At last came a sharp rap on the door, she flew to open it, and they proceeded decorously downstairs.
Once more, Marianne stood at the entrance to the drawing room, glancing around for William so he could begin the introductions. Smiling pleasantly all the while, she heaped curses on her friend’s head. Where was he?
