by Nikki Poppen
Marianne knew there were men like that, but she’d perceived Alasdair to be above such behavior. It was even worse to think of Alasdair against the backdrop of the horrid news clipping, to think that he was wooing her for her fortune and that he would contemplate throwing over his intended for the sake of a larger dowry.
She was further troubled to think that Alasdair may have pursued such a dubious course of action because he felt that neither of the women involved would find out. If Roberta Farnwick was to be believed, Miss Stewart never came up to Town. Likely, she was entirely unaware of her intended’s behaviors when he was away. Marianne also knew herself to be an ideal candidate. She was new to Town and couldn’t possibly know about the arrangement.
A stem snapped under the pressure of Marianne’s hand. She looked down regretfully at the broken bloom. She’d not realized how much turmoil her thoughts had created until the flower had broken. Was this to be the measure of her days? Wandering the garden, picking apart every action, every nuance, trying to make a whole?
When she’d concocted her idea to come to England, it had all seemed so simple. She had planned for every contingency. The trip had been meticulously outlined over the course of the months before they had traveled. Appointments had been set at Worth, the big town house had been arranged, and apartments in Paris and Venice had been contracted for their short visits there. All the details had been firmly established right down to the first few vital invitations that Marianne’s mother had networked for them through a friend of a friend.
In all of the planning, Marianne had not counted on a suitor like Alasdair Braden. In her planning, she’d imagined her suitors to be like young Kentworth, a decent-looking fellow closer to her own age, easily managed with a quick smile. While there were plenty of young men like Roberta’s cousin who were happy to be part of her court, Alasdair was the only one who stood out. It wasn’t that he was the only full-grown man-there were others in her little court who had reached the prime of their maturity-but none of them drew her like Alasdair.
Marianne stopped at a cluster of flowers and cut some to make a bouquet around the flower whose stem she’d ruined. Satisfied with her cuttings, she dropped them into the basket on her arm and continued her slow perambulations, assessing Alasdair.
Indeed, it seemed to her that no other man in London possessed his charm, not even the dashing Earl of Camberly. An extra sense told her when Alasdair was in the room. Her skin prickled at the very nearness of him. It had been hard work simply to sit beside him the night before and pay any attention to the fine music. The day he’d escorted them to Hatchards, she’d been acutely aware of his presence, the faint scent of his soap and morning toilet that clung appealingly to his skin and clothes. The smell was as complex as the man himself was proving to be.
Was Alasdair Braden another money-hungry peer or a genuinely ardent suitor who merely had the mishap of being surrounded by unpleasant gossip? Marianne knew about both. The newspapers in New York had made no attempt to dress up the reasons the Duke of Marlborough had been courting Consuelo Vanderbilt. She’d also experienced firsthand the power of rumors to define one’s realities. She’d be the last one to try and pigeonhole Alasdair into any stereotypes. Still, it would be much easier to decide how best to respond to him if she knew the truth about him.
All of these speculations skirted the larger issue: What did she want from Alasdair? Did she want him to declare himself as a suitor? Marianne cut a vibrant magenta bloom from an azalea bush and pushed it behind her ear. What did it matter how indecorous it looked? There was no one to see. No one was expected today, which was just as well. She had too much to ponder. Her thoughts easily drifted back to Alasdair.
She was undeniably drawn to him, but it was safer thinking of him as a friend, no matter how American that notion appeared to be. Seeing London up close, firsthand, Marianne was starting to realize there were things for which she could not plan. The intricacies of life among London’s peers was an entirely different culture. If she were to cast her lot with the aristocracy, she’d forever risk being a fish out of water. How would she learn to function as the titled wife of a viscount or earl? Marianne sat down on a stone bench on the edge of a gravel path. She began picking the lingering petals off of a wilting bloom.
The image she had of herself as a countess like Audrey St. ClairMaddox would be humorous in some circumstances. She could imagine shocking the servants when she went below stairs to make bread. She could imagine horrifying the footmen when she fetched her own vase for flowers. She would laugh at giving them fits, but Alasdair wouldn’t find that kind of woman amusing, at least not as a wife.
He would need someone who could command a battalion of servants, lay out immaculate dinner-seating charts and see that everyone got to the table in the right order of precedence without creating tomorrow’s scandal. Marianne doubted she’d be capable of that, or that she’d want to devote herself so tirelessly to such behaviors that were, in her opinion, close to meaningless.
It simply wasn’t in her. She had not understood that when she’d embarked on her impulsive campaign to snare an English title. There’d be a husband that went with it, and there’d be more than that. One man could be managed. But there would be families and traditions that went back far longer than her country had even been on the map.
Perhaps it would be enough to say she’d succeeded in London and to go home without a title. That should be enough to show the snobs in New York that they’d been wrong about her. It wasn’t like her to quit, but she wasn’t quitting. She’d stay in London and enjoy the Season. She would merely reshape her goal into something more practical. There was no sense in cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face. In this situation, the old adage fit perfectly. She wasn’t going to ruin her life by taking on a burden she didn’t want just to show the New York nobs she hadn’t deserved the cut direct.
Marianne stood up and brushed at her skirts. Her meanderings were getting out of hand. She hadn’t even determined that she had a real suitor yet, and here she was already deciding to reject his marriage proposal. This must be what English girls on the marriage mart did all day since they were forbidden to do anything else.
She made her way back to the house, basket in hand filled with flowers to arrange, when she encountered the object of her morning ruminations. Alasdair was coming down the walk toward her, his stride wide and quick, his face lighting in a smile at the sight of her. Marianne remembered too late the azalea blossom tucked behind her ear. She left it there. She liked the sweet smell of it and that was all that mattered. If her ruminations had led her to any useful conclusions it was that she was Marianne Addison, and she could be no other.
“Your mother said I could find you out here” Alasdair took the basket from her arm. “I left the others inside.”
“Others?” Marianne asked.
“Camberly and his wife, Carrington and Stella. It was such a lovely day that we decided to drive over and see if you were free. We’ve got an impromptu picnic arranged. Please say yes. I know it’s short notice, but you’ll adore Regent’s Park. There’s a lake for boating-more like a placid river, really-and Camberly is having the archery butts set up. He’s got a silly competition with Carrington going on that I don’t pretend to understand.”
Alasdair was completely irresistible as he enumerated the benefits of a picnic. “Stop!” Marianne laughed, her earlier anxieties swept away in the wake of his boyish arguments. “You had me hooked at the first mention of a picnic. Give me a moment to change”
The picnic was unlike anything Marianne had ever attended. Camberly’s servants had gone ahead of them and erected a three-sided pavilion at the park. Inside, a portable round table and folding chairs had been set up near a long sideboard holding an enormous quantity of food. The table itself was covered in white linen and china plates. On the other side of the pavilion was a small outdoor seating area with pillows and chaises for the ladies. “The better to watch our display of prowess at the archery b
utts,” Lionel commented with a waggle of his fair eyebrows.
“Well, my prowess at least,” Camberly joined in, helping Audrey down from the carriage. “I’m not sure about Lionel’s.”
Everyone laughed, and Marianne was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging. She’d never had friends like these people before. They included her in all their activities as if she’d been one of them from the start. Clearly, they had all been together for ages. It was hard to imagine that Audrey had only joined their ranks a few years ago. The American who’d become a countess fit seamlessly among them.
Marianne felt a twinge of envy watching Lionel with Stella and the earl with Audrey. The earl had seemed relatively reserved at the social events where she’d seen him, but here, under the sunny skies of the park and with his wife on his arm, the earl was an entirely different man. It was all too easy to pretend that today she was Alasdair’s and the group was a sextet of couples.
“Do you shoot, Miss Addison?” the earl asked once everyone had been settled to his satisfaction.
“Guns,” she replied automatically.
Lionel laughed hysterically. “You deserved that, Camberly. Haven’t you been around Americans long enough to know that archery isn’t really our thing? We’re all about guns, Camberly. Arrows aren’t much use are they, Marianne, on the Barbary Coast?”
Realizing the earl’s intended meaning, Marianne laughed too. “No, I’m afraid I don’t do any archery,” she said once the laughter subsided.
“What’s the Barbary Coast?” Stella asked, looking around the group. “I am assuming we’re not talking about pirates?”
Lionel drew a deep breath to calm his laughter. “It’s a rather unsavory section of town in San Francisco, where gambling hells, brothels, and all nature of vice is available. There are stories of men who go in to get a drink and that’s the last anyone sees of them. Bartenders slip drugs into drinks and harlots slip money out of wallets while the clients are drugged. Some of them wake up on a ship bound for India or China. Others just wake up in a gutter.”
Stella shuddered. “San Francisco sounds very dangerous. Is that why you’re so handy with a gun, Miss Addison?”
“Call me Marianne, please” Marianne wanted to laugh at the very obvious divide between English and American behaviors among friends. Lionel had called her Marianne, but Camberly and Stella had clung to the formality of her last name.
“No, San Francisco is much changed from what it used to be. We have safety committees and organized groups that keep the town law-abiding. We even have churches,” Marianne teased dryly. “I learned to shoot because I traveled with my father to Denver a few years ago and we stayed with some avid hunters. It seemed the thing to do”
“Well, when in Rome, one must do as the Romans do” Alasdair held out his hand to her. “Come with me and I’ll show you how to `shoot’ English style. We’ve a long tradition of famous archers, you know. Robin Hood and all that” He winked. “You’ve heard of Robin Hood?” he said in mock seriousness.
Marianne swatted at him for good measure. “I know your Robin Hood, but in America we have Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett”
“Are they archers?” Alasdair asked, picking up a bow and testing it.
“No. Bowie was known for his knife work” Marianne grinned.
Alasdair gave an exaggerated sigh. “Then we have a lot of work to do” Everyone laughed and Marianne followed him out to the butts.
“This is Audrey’s, so the weight should be fine for you,” Alasdair said as he handed her a well-carved bow. “Pull back on the string and let’s test it before we use an arrow.”
Marianne held the bow flat out in front of her and pulled on the string only to have Alasdair say, “No, not like that. Lift it up to nearly shoulder level, as if you mean to shoot it. Like this.”
In an instant, Alasdair had his arms about her, his hands on hers, guiding the bow into position and helping her to pull back the string. A tremor ran through her at his nearness. Up close, she could smell the exquisite mix of his soap: sage and thyme with a subdued hint of lavender and perhaps something else. She could feel his body pulse around her, the muscles of his arms drawn taut against her, proving that this man had the ability to mesh both the world of the drawing room and dance floor with the rigors of the outdoors.
Too soon, Alasdair stepped back from their instructive embrace. “I’ll get an arrow” he murmured in a husky voice that suggested to Marianne that he was quite possibly as moved by the encounter as she was.
He took his time getting a few arrows and removing his coat before he returned to her side. When he did, all traces of huskiness were gone from his voice, making Marianne think perhaps she’d imagined it.
“The arrow fits like this,” Alasdair aptly demonstrated. “Then we pull it back. That’s called `nocking’ the arrow. And we let it loose” Alasdair closed one eye and sighted the target, hefting the bow and loosing the arrow in a single fluid motion. The arrow gave a soft thud as it hit the target. “Now you try it,” Alasdair encouraged, passing the bow back to her.
Marianne did her best to copy Alasdair’s movements, but nocking the arrow was harder than it looked. The arrow kept slipping.
“Here, let me help,” Alasdair said gently, coming around her again and placing his hands over hers. Together, they let the arrow fly. It landed near the center of the target and Marianne clapped in delight. The next one she did on her own, thrilled that the arrow didn’t slip even though it did miss most of the target, landing on the far edge of the butt.
Beside her, Alasdair handed her another arrow. “Keep trying-you’re getting it.”
She smiled and attempted to concentrate. After a few more shots, she was able to hit the target more respectably. The little group in the pavilion applauded her last effort before Audrey called them over for lunch.
Camberly opened a bottle of champagne and everyone assembled plates of cold chicken, strawberries and other summer delicacies before sitting down at the table. “We must have a toast,” he said, still standing. “To Miss Addison. Here’s to the addition of another fabulous American among us”
Glasses clinked, and while Marianne was moved by the gesture, and indeed by all the kindnesses the group had shown her, she couldn’t help but wonder why they had befriended her. Watching her father do business over the years, Marianne had learned that no one did anything without reason.
Across the table, Alasdair gave her a warm smile. She’d like to believe that they’d invited her into their group simply because Alasdair was courting her. But since she wasn’t even sure he was courting her or that he was in any position to be courting her, she could hardly draw any further conclusions.
After lunch, the men suggested a row on the little river that ran through the park, to give the servants time to clean up from the meal. Alasdair offered his arm to her for the short walk to the boat shed, and once again Marianne was struck by how right it felt to be a third couple among the group.
“Are you having a good time?” Alasdair inquired, slowing their pace a bit to drop behind the group.
Marianne looked up at him from under the brim of her hat. “I’m having a lovely time. Do you doubt it?”
“No, I can see it in your face, dear Marianne. That’s one of the things I love about you-all the things you feel are written clearly there. There’s no artifice.” The last was said with such seriousness that Marianne almost stopped walking altogether. There was too much embedded in that statement to let it pass unaddressed. She supposed she could ignore the somber undertones of the message and offer a flirtatious reply, such as `What else do you love about me?’ but Marianne opted for plain speaking. Now, she did stop walking.
She fixed Alasdair with her strong blue gaze, letting him see that this was no flirtatious rejoinder. “Alasdair, what are you doing?”
To his immense credit, he understood precisely what she meant. He lifted one of her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss on it, his eyes unwaveringly holding her gaze until Mariann
e feared she’d be the one to look away first from the intensity of the moment. No moment in her life to date had ever been this intimate, this powerful. “Why, Marianne, I thought it was abundantly clear,” Alasdair replied in a quiet voice intended for her ears only. “I am courting you”
Two days ago, Marianne would have accepted his statement with equanimity and with gratitude that the mystery of Alasdair’s intentions was resolved. Now, the burden of Roberta’s gossip and the knowledge that Alasdair had an understanding with another marred the straightforward reaction she might otherwise have had. How was she to respond?
Marianne let Alasdair hand her into the rowboat. The others were already launched into the current of the man-made stream. Marianne was thankful for the privacy their absence afforded them and for Alasdair’s silence. He plied the oars in quiet, giving her time to think.
“Have I been too precipitous?” Alasdair asked casu ally, laying the oars in their locks and letting the current gently take the boat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the breeze blowing his hair in a boyish fashion that lent him an earnest quality.
“You do me a great honor with your attentions,” Marianne began, surprised to see Alasdair start to laugh.
“Stop right there. That’s what girls say when they’re about to reject a suitor.”
Marianne arched her eyebrows in query. “You’ve been rejected a lot then?” She laughed too. Her words were entirely too inane by half. They deserved no less than the laughter with which Alasdair was responding to them. She shrugged helplessly. “In my defense, it’s what they teach young ladies to say when they don’t know what to say.”
