The Spinster Bride (14 page)

“That would be a good match,” Dorothea said when they were away from the group. Marjorie could only stare at her mother in disbelief. Given her prejudices, how could she think Lady Caroline, the daughter of an earl, would possibly be a good match for a title-less second son?

Dorothea gave Marjorie a sharp look, immediately understanding her unspoken words. “She is the fourth daughter. You are my
only
daughter.”

When they reached Lord and Lady Avonleigh, Marjorie's mother completely changed. It was rather astonishing to watch. She could be charming and delightful when she put her mind to it.

“I see you are still smiling at your bride, Avon,” she said with a small chuckle.

“Yes, ma'am. I haven't been able to stop for weeks now.”

“I can hardly countenance that legend now,” Katherine said. Somehow, Lord Avonleigh's legendary scowl had led to a tale claiming he would marry the first woman he smiled at—a tale most were quickly forgetting now.

“I knew I was right about the two of you. I said it, didn't I, Marjorie? I said they belonged together the moment I saw that first smile.”

Behind her, Marjorie could hear Mr. Norris's exuberant laugh and it felt like little needles at the back of her skull. Then she heard Caroline's tittering laugh and sharp shards of jealousy replaced those needles. In actuality, Caroline had a musical laugh, but to Marjorie's burning ears, it was pure torture to listen to her. Surely she had a flaw. She must.

Alas, Marjorie was fairly certain that her only flaw was that she was free to marry whomever she pleased—within reason, of course. She glanced back at the group, hoping to see concern or wariness in Lady Warwick's eyes, but all she saw was the delight of a mother watching her daughter find a potential husband.

Drat.

The gaslight dimmed for a moment, indicating it was time to find their seats, and Marjorie watched, depressed, as Mr. Norris was invited to the Warwicks' box.

“Would you care to join us?” Dorothea asked Lord and Lady Avonleigh.

“Of course,” Katherine said, placing her arm through Marjorie's. “We have so much to catch up on.”

 

The opera began and it took all of her restraint not to look at the Warwicks' box, which was three down from theirs. If she wanted, she could see Lady Caroline's lovely profile and watch as Charles looked—again and again—at the girl sitting beside him. No doubt he was already half in love. Marjorie tried not to look at the pair and through raw determination only gave them two brief glances. Perhaps three.

“Are you in love with him?” Katherine whispered in her ear after Marjorie had oh-so-casually glanced in the direction of the Warwick box.

She felt her face flush and she jerked her head back with near violence. “Shhh,” she hissed, and glanced at her mother, who sat just in front of them.

“Are you?” Katherine always had been the persistent sort and not one to follow the rigid rules of English society, which was to be expected given she was an American.

“Of course not,” Marjorie said.

Silence for a while as the famous soprano performed a lovely aria.

“Then why do you keep looking over at him and why do you look at him as if you'd like to murder him about now?”

Marjorie turned her head and glared at her friend, who shrugged her shoulders innocently.

“Because he's blackmailing me,” she whispered, rather proud of herself for coming up with something that was both the truth and a lie. That was not why she was staring at him, but he
was
blackmailing her. Or rather extorting. But blackmail sounded somehow more dastardly.

As the orchestra played a bridge, Marjorie quickly explained how her brother's poor card play had led to all her problems. And said that she was nothing but pleased that Mr. Norris seemed to have found a potential bride so that she could end this charade, her brother's debt would be forgiven, and she could go on with her life. Throughout her whispered monologue, her mother only turned to give her one annoyed look for talking.

Katherine nodded, as if finally understanding. Then leaned over again and whispered gleefully, “Liar.”

 

Three days later, Marjorie wandered out in the garden, which was fully embracing spring. Tiny rose buds had appeared, and the azaleas were in full bloom. Even their vibrant colors couldn't improve her mood. Her mother had written to Lord Shannock and asked that he come to London “for a visit.” Marjorie couldn't gather the energy to argue, for she knew it would do no good. Dorothea would invite the man, he would come, and her mother would begin her assault.

Marjorie supposed he wasn't so awful a choice for a husband. He seemed pleasant enough. He didn't seem to have a foul, awful temper. She could hardly recall him speaking at all. But how could she stand a man who made her suppress her gag reflex whenever he came close enough for her to smell his breath? And he had overlong, and often filthy, fingernails. She could ask that he cut them. And clean them.

“Oh, God,” she said, feeling sick inside.

At least Mr. Norris would be happy. Perhaps they would see each other over the years and laugh about their little adventure. He hadn't left a note for her in three days, though she'd left two—two that had remained hidden behind the brick unread.

And...

Feeling a bit despondent, she opened the gate to the narrow lane that divided their garden from the mews, suspecting if she looked behind the brick, she'd find her notes still there. She pulled out the brick and felt a ridiculous surge of relief. Her notes were gone and a new one was there. She lifted it out, her heart doing happy little flips. She quickly replaced the brick and returned to the garden to sit down on a bench to read. Finding her seat pleasantly surrounded by the azaleas that somehow suddenly looked more beautiful than before, she opened the note.

It read:

It was not signed, but Marjorie knew it was from him. His penmanship was exquisite, yet masculine and bold. A bit like the man, she thought with a grin. She frowned at the words “one more time” but pushed that thought away.

Marjorie ran into the house, calling for her maid, Alice. “We're going out,” she announced, heading to her wardrobe. “The green silk, I think.” She pulled the gown from the wardrobe and began tackling the buttons until Alice gently took over the task.

“Where are we going?” Alice asked.

“To Bury Street. I've a friend there who needs my assistance.”

 

Prajit opened the door, his eyes widening a bit.

“Mr. Norris is expecting me,” Marjorie said.

And to her great surprise, Prajit smiled and stepped back, allowing her and Alice in. He really was quite a lovely looking man when he smiled, though it made her a tad uneasy. “Could you please show Alice to the kitchen so she can have a spot of tea? I'll wait here until you return.”

Prajit nodded regally, then led her maid to what Marjorie supposed was the home's kitchen. Mr. Norris's townhouse looked far different in the daylight. What had appeared to be a gloomy, forbidding place was actually quite pleasant and well-lit. The walls were a creamy yellow, colored charmingly by a stained glass skylight in the shape of a compass rose. In moments, Prajit returned.

“If you'll follow me, he is in his study. He has not been feeling well today,
kumari.
”

“Oh, then perhaps I should come back another time,” Marjorie said, hanging back a bit. He had asked that she let him know when she was arriving but she'd been in such a hurry to see him, she hadn't given it a thought.

“No, he will be glad to see you. He has not been himself these last few days,” Prajit said, and Marjorie's worry only grew.

He led her down the same long hall as the first night she'd come to the house and she recognized the door to the study. Prajit opened it, allowed her to pass, then left without a word, closing the door firmly—and rather improperly—behind her.

And there stood Mr. Norris. Naked.

Not entirely so, she realized a second later. He had on only a pair of drawers so short they exposed everything from mid-thigh down—including the most horrific wound Marjorie had ever seen.

Mr. Norris immediately turned around, letting out a grunt of pain even has he did so. “Bloody hell, Marjorie, what are you doing here? Prajit!”

She stood with her back against the door, wringing her hands together miserably. “I . . . I . . . You wrote for me to come.”

“I said to let me know when you
could
come,” he growled.

“Yes, you did, but . . . As you can see, I didn't.” She stared at his back, as fascinated by it as she was horrified that Prajit had let her into the room when he was nearly unclothed. His back was a series of broad, wide slabs of muscle, glistening in the sunlit room, as if he were over-warm. His hands grasped the desk in front of him and his forearms shook. She noticed his arms, slick with sweat, showed every bit of muscle and sinew, as if he were trying to lift the massive desk instead of simply leaning on it.

“I should leave,” she said hesitantly. Of course she should. She should have already left. But what she wanted to do more than anything was to lay her hand on his straining back and try to give him comfort. His wound was far, far beyond what she'd imagined. No wonder the man still suffered. No wonder any wrong movement caused him such torment. And to think she'd suggested stretching out his muscle to stop a spasm. My God, there was no muscle, just a mottled, angry red hole where his muscle had once been.

“I feel so foolish, suggesting you simply flex your muscle. I didn't know.”

He turned his head so she could see the hard lines of his jaw before he slowly faced her. As he did, he pulled on a shirt that had been thrown across the desk. It clung wetly to his form as he struggled to do up the buttons.

He gave her a rueful smile. “It actually eases the pain a bit when it's at its worst.”

Marjorie looked down at his leg, tears pressing against her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said, glancing up at him. “It's just—I didn't realize how awful it is. May I?” She took a step forward, and he nodded, a small jerk giving his permission.

Marjorie eased forward, her eyes on his wound, her heart breaking for an entirely different reason this time. “It must have been a terrible wound,” she said, swallowing heavily, unable to stop looking at his leg.

“It was that. But each week that passes, it does grow better. Though I must say these last few days have brought a bit of a setback.” He took his hand and laid it beneath her chin so she would stop staring at his leg. “I'm sorry I missed your notes,” he said softly.

“I know you are busy.”

“Busy,” he said with a note of bitterness. “These last days, I'm afraid, I've been holed up here nearly all hours of the day.”

“Why did you want to see me?”

“I don't know how to speak to ladies when I'm alone with them. I become tongue-tied and awkward and it's impossible. I need you with me. I can relax if you are there. You can lead the conversation, nudge me when I make a mistake. Lady Caroline and I rode out two days ago, the day after the opera, and it was a disaster.”

“It was as bad as all that?” Marjorie asked, trying to keep the joy from her voice.

“Worse. I was in quite a bit of pain and not in the mood to go riding in the first place. She chattered on and on and I hardly said a word. I could tell she was confused, as I had been so animated the previous evening. In crowds I am different. It has always been that way.”

“Tell me about your ride together.”

He cringed, as if it had been a brutal experience.

“I was unable to put together more than two words, and suffered from sweaty palms and a jittery stomach. The more I tried to say something witty or even interesting, the more my brain refused to work. I ended up uttering inanities.”

Marjorie smiled. “I'm certain it couldn't have been that awful. What did you say to her?”

“I told her that her hair was gold, as if she didn't already know what color it was. And I didn't just say it, I blurted it. Lady Caroline looked at me as if she was trying to understand a man who cannot speak the Queen's English. I can only imagine what was going through her mind. Why can't I relax when I'm alone with a woman? Why must I turn into a sputtering fourteen-year-old with his first crush?

“I should have just let her chatter on. She was quite good at that, fluttering from one subject to the next with hardly a breath in between. She'd been discussing her older brother when she spied a woman walking a fluffy white dog and she immediately veered course and started talking about her dog, which led to a soliloquy about grass, somehow. Whether it was soft or prickly or some such thing. I can't remember it all. But I do remember how desperately I wanted to add to the conversation but could not.”

“You did mention the color of her hair,” Marjorie said, clearly teasing him, and he smiled grimly.

“Yes, it was a brilliant observation. And it isn't even that color. It's more straw-like in color. More brown, really, with shots of yellow, which combined to make it appear gold. Good God, who cares about the color of her damned hair?”