The Spinster Bride (2 page)

Oh, she would have to, drat it all. Marjorie looked up at George, angry with her brother for putting her in such a situation. And frustrated that he seemed so completely oblivious to this fact. “George, I am very, very angry with you.”

“You are?”

“Yes. You are never to gamble again, do you understand me, George?
Never
.”

George ducked his head, his pale, freckled cheeks turning scarlet. Marjorie instantly felt remorseful, for she couldn't remember the last time she'd raised her voice to George. Using a softer tone, she said, “This was very bad of you, George. He has not forgiven the debt but has requested a meeting. Thank goodness he's asked to see me and not Mother.”

George couldn't know how very improper such a request was, and if she felt she had a choice, she would have refused. But how could she? If Mr. Norris did not forgive the debt, her mother would surely take steps to remove George from society. Why would any gentleman demand to see an unmarried woman in his townhouse at such a disreputable hour? For all his flaws—and Marjorie had noted quite a few in their brief acquaintance—she had thought him to be a gentleman.

She tried to remember what she did know of the man, but came up with a woefully small amount of information. If she remembered correctly, he was the second son of Viscount Hartley, and a diplomat of some sort who'd recently returned from somewhere.

She gave an inward shrug. She'd no doubt find out more about his motives in a few minutes, for his home on Bury Street wasn't far from where she stood now. If it weren't for the hour, they could have walked.

“You will accompany me to his townhouse, George, but wait in the carriage. If I do not return outside in twenty minutes, you are to knock loudly on the door and demand entrance.”

George, with his head still down, nodded.

“I'm not still angry with you, George. Well, perhaps a bit. But I will have that promise from you about gambling. Never again, George. It's clear you have no talent for it.”

“I was a champion at school,” George said. “I won six pounds, seven pence.”

“But those were boys. You were playing against men tonight who have been gambling for years. No more, George. Promise.”

George looked up. “I promise, Margie.”

Marjorie smiled. “Good. Now let's call your carriage. It's likely not blocked in as you just arrived.”

Marjorie, with much protestation from her mother, finally was released from the ball after pleading a dreadful headache. She admonished her mother, who was having a grand time with her dear old friend, Lady Benningford, to stay and enjoy the evening.

“I'll see you in the morning, Mother,” Marjorie said, kissing her mother on the cheek. “You have fun. When was the last time you had a good time just for you?”

Dorothea smiled at her fondly and let her go, noting aloud that Marjorie did look a bit peaked and perhaps that explained why so few young men had shown an interest in her that evening. Marjorie forced herself to agree with her mother, even though she resented her mother's ability to bring every conversation back to their quest for a husband.

Once in the carriage, seated across from her brother, Marjorie tried to remain calm. Those words in the cryptic note nagged at her— “negotiate the terms.” What on earth could he mean by that? Her imagination suggested every scenario from her hand in marriage, to her virtue, or one of her family's properties. But if he wanted a property, couldn't he have negotiated that with George? Her brother was the head of the family and quite capable of such a negotiation.

Oh, God, would he want . . . favors? Her stomach twisted as she tried to recall anything she could about Charles Norris. He was a gentleman—at least he had been raised that way. His brother, heir to the viscountcy, was a highly respected man with an excellent reputation. She tried to recall Mr. Norris from when he'd pursued Katherine. Mr. Norris was large, boisterous and . . . handsome. He was appealing if one liked large, boisterous men. And, frustratingly, that was all she could recall of him. He'd gone to a cricket match with Lord Avonleigh and her friend Katherine. She remembered only because she'd been seated not far away and she'd found him rather overly enthusiastic about the game whilst trying to teach Katherine all about it.

“What was Mr. Norris like? What was his disposition?” she asked. “Was he nice?”

“Oh, yes. He smiled at me and that meant he liked me. Didn't it?” George asked uncertainly.

“I'm sure he was quite happy after winning that sum of money,” Marjorie muttered.

“No. I don't think so. That's why he is giving the money back. He asked me if I had the money, and I told him that I only have thirteen thousand, two hundred and twenty-two pounds in my account at Baring's. That means I need eleven thousand three hundred and ten pounds.”

“That's still quite a sum,” Marjorie said. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“He said, ‘Sir, do you need time to settle your debt?' and then he asked me to give you the note.”

Marjorie furrowed her brow in thought. She supposed the only way to find out Mr. Norris's intentions was to meet with him. She just wished it wasn't at this hour of the early morning.

In short order, the carriage pulled up in front of the townhouse on fashionable Bury Street, not far from St. James's Square. The streets were deserted, but well lit by gas lamps hissing in the quiet of the night. With a deep sigh, Marjorie stepped down from the carriage, ignoring the concerned look of their footman, and walked up the steps to the front door. Twisting the bell, she stepped back, clutching her fists to her stomach in a desperate attempt to squelch the sick nervousness settling there. She barely had time to collect herself when the door opened to a tall Indian man wearing a traditional dhoti and white turban.

“Lady Marjorie, please come in. Mr. Norris is expecting you.”

“Lovely,” Marjorie said, stepping into the dimly lit entry hall.

“This way.” The servant walked down a long, dark hall, which only added to the trepidation in her heart. She thought she heard a strange grunting sound coming from the direction of their path, and she stopped dead.

The man turned toward her inquiringly.

“I . . . Are there no lights?”

“Ah, forgive my rudeness. I am used to walking these halls in the darkness and quite forgot you are not familiar with this house.” He pulled a match from his pocket and lit a wall sconce. “Better, no?”

Marjorie smiled. “Much better, thank you.”

“Now we can contin—” His sentence was interrupted by a very loud and very foul curse. “Nighttime can be difficult for Mr. Norris,” the Indian said cryptically, before continuing down the hall.

“Perhaps another time would be better?” Marjorie called after him.

He turned again, smiling pleasantly. “This way, my lady.”

With a sigh of resignation, Marjorie began walking toward the end of the hall, stopping when the man knocked softly at a door, which showed a dim light underneath. Here they would no doubt find the loud and foul-mouthed Mr. Norris.

“Goddamnit, Prajit, if she ain't here yet, leave me the fuck alone!”

“Perhaps I should come back at a more respectable hour, sir?”

Charles spun around from his spot by the fire where he'd stood, hoping the warmth of the flames would soothe the agonizing pain shooting through his leg. He muttered yet another curse, clenched his jaw, and forced a smile, which even he knew probably made him look like a madman.

“Lady Marjorie, I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I wanted this resolved as soon as possible.”

Through the haze of pain, he was aware the lady was dressed for a ball, and he had enough wits about him to realize she'd been pulled from said ball to attend him. “And I apologize again for taking you from what I imagine was a pleasant evening.”

“Perhaps more pleasant than this,” she said, raising one brow in her lovely face.

Now that she was in front of him, he realized he remembered her quite well. It was rather difficult to meet Lady Marjorie Penwhistle and not remember her. She was, in fact, every Englishman's fantasy of what an English woman should look like—if one preferred dark-haired beauties as opposed to blondes. Her complexion was near perfection, creamy and smooth with the slightest blush along her delicate cheekbones. Her nose was small, her chin perhaps a bit strong (a gift, no doubt, from her mother), but she was in no way mannish. Her eyes were dark, and in this light, he couldn't tell if they were dark blue or perhaps brown. Her entire countenance gave her an air of authority and intelligence—and coldness. No, he wasn't the least bit attracted to her.

She would be perfect for him.

“P
lease sit down, Lady Marjorie.”

She hesitated, not wanting to be put at a disadvantage, but realized she was already so at a disadvantage she might as well do as he asked. Or rather demanded, even if politely. She sat and looked at him expectantly, fear trickling down her spine.

They were in a small room, crowded with furniture and books and things that had been collected, no doubt, from his travels. Foreign and frightening-looking things filled the room, things that would be fine for a museum but were a bit off-putting in a parlor. And at the center of this small room was a large man standing by the fire as if he were some sort of medieval king. His hair was an odd color—neither blond nor red nor brown, but somewhere in between and with shots of all of those colors streaking through it. At the moment, it was rather unkempt, tousled one might say. His eyes—a brooding dark brown—were staring at her. One hand was fisted tightly on the mantel, and when he saw her look curiously at that white-knuckled fist, he carefully loosened it and shoved it into one pocket.

“Your brother has told you what happened this evening?”

“Yes, he did. Though I'm not certain George fully understands the scope of his debt.”

“He knows how much he owes me.”

“Oh, yes, he does,” she said agreeably. “But he doesn't fully understand the repercussions of accumulating such debt. My brother is frightfully smart about certain things. But he struggles with the intricacies of society.”

“He's a pleasant young man, but a bit of an odd duck. I did notice that.”

Marjorie smiled. “Yes, that's about right. Why have you asked me here, sir? Surely you don't think I can come up with the amount he owes.”

Mr. Norris took a step away from the mantel and let out a low sound, his face contorting in pain. Marjorie stood and started moving forward, but he held out a hand, staying her. “Get out, Prajit. I am fine. For God's sake.”

Marjorie turned to see his manservant standing at the doorway, his expression filled with concern. He backed out and silently closed the door, leaving them alone again.

“You are injured?”

“In Ghana. The Ashanti War.”

Marjorie nodded. Even though she knew very little about the war, she and everyone else in England had heard about General Garnet Wolseley and his efforts there. “Did you meet General Wolseley?”

“Indeed, I have met him. Impressive man and a great strategist. Extremely . . . efficient.”

Something in his tone told Marjorie the discussion of the short-lived Ashanti War was ended. “I am sorry for your injury and grateful for your service, but I would like to know why I am here.”

“I need a wife.”

Marjorie sat back down, her knees giving out from under her, unable to stop the audible gasp that escaped her mouth.

“Not you, you ninny.”

Even though marriage to him was the last thing she wanted, Marjorie couldn't help but be slightly insulted by this last. “I continue to be confused as to why I am here, sir.”

“As you wish,” he said, though it seemed to Marjorie that he'd rather not do as she wished. He seemed more like a man who expected her to do as he asked, simply because he asked it. And obviously, he was correct, for here she was in the middle of the night just because he'd requested a meeting.

He gave her a level stare that even in the dim light of the room was intimidating. So when he finally began his explanation, Marjorie was nearly stupefied with surprise.

“When I was twenty-five, I decided I wanted a wife and marriage and children and everything that went along with the sort of sedate life that my parents have. So, I set about finding the female who would best fill that role. I found her immediately. Fell in love—like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Things did not work out?” Marjorie asked, stating the obvious.

“She was in love with one of my best friends. You may know her now as Lady Willington.” Marjorie nodded. “Licking my wounds, I headed for India. And fell in love again. And again. All with women who were either completely inappropriate or held their affections elsewhere or were, let us say, less than enamored with me. After ten years away from England, I returned home and found yet another girl I felt I could love.”

“Katherine Wright.”

He smiled thinly. “Indeed. I've come to the conclusion that there is something wrong with me and I require assistance.”

Marjorie began shaking her head before he could get the proposal out of his mouth.

“That is the deal, Lady Marjorie. I will forgive your brother's debt if you manage to find me a bride this season.
This
season.”

“But it's impossible,” she blurted, and immediately regretted it, for the man looked quite put out by her words. “I didn't mean that it is
impossible
to find you a bride, but that it is highly unlikely if you have been unsuccessful in
ten years
that I will be successful in two months! The season is already in full swing, sir. And isn't this blackmail?”

“Extortion, actually. But let's not put such an ugly word on what could be a mutually beneficial agreement.” He gave her a thin smile. “Look at me, ma'am, and tell me what you see. Am I delusional? Am I a monster and I have yet to realize it? Is there something about me that is distasteful or repugnant? Have I an odor?” He was smiling slightly and she could detect no emotional hurt in his eyes, so she was quite certain he didn't believe any of these things.

Marjorie looked at him and shook her head. “You are a fine-looking man. Above average, really. And you are wealthy, if I recall?”

He nodded, his expression, if possible, growing even darker. “Exceedingly.”

She stood and stepped closer to him and took a delicate sniff, smelling only a very nice and subtle cologne, one that, if she were honest, drew her to him, not the opposite. She looked up into his square-jawed face, noted his firm but sensuous mouth, his straight nose with its small cleft, his prominent brow over dark brown eyes, and could find nothing that would be at all off-putting to a woman. Indeed, he was far more handsome up close than she'd noted before.

“You're actually quite good-looking. Perhaps it's your personality. Or perhaps you are simply targeting the wrong women.”

He smiled broadly. “Yes,” he said with enthusiasm. “That's it. And that's why I need your help. I keep picking the wrong women and with your help I shall pick the right one.”

Marjorie returned to her seat. “Why me? Surely you have friends who can help you. I don't even know you, your likes or dislikes. What sort of woman you want.”

Mr. Norris shook his head as if these details were of no consequence. “I have been away from England for ten years. I don't know anyone, particularly young women. My friends are all married and rarely attend social events these days. Too busy having children,” he said with no small amount of derision.

“You don't care for children?”

He looked momentarily confused by her question. “Of course I like children. But they should have been
my
children. I was the one who wanted to get married, not them. But here I am, ten years later, the last of us to marry and I was the first to announce my intention of getting married.”

Marjorie winced as this last was said quite loudly. “Have you always been so loud?”

Mr. Norris sat down heavily, one hand clutching his thigh—the one Marjorie supposed was the injured one. “I am trying to control that tendency,” he said softly. “But when I feel passionate about something, I tend to get a bit loud, yes.”

“Thunderous would be a more apt description,” Marjorie said with a small laugh. “You might frighten your future wife away.”

Marjorie was slightly amused to see him clench his jaw in frustration. She stifled a yawn right before the door opened again, revealing her brother and Prajit.

“It's been twenty minutes, Marjorie.”

Marjorie stood. “So it has.” Turning back to Mr. Norris, she said, “I agree to your terms. If you don't mind, sir, I would like to meet with you soon to discuss our agreement.”

“I'll call on you tomorrow.”

Marjorie was immediately filled with alarm. She could already picture her mother ranting on and on about how she should not encourage the untitled Charles Norris. She would likely try to bodily remove Mr. Norris from their home should he dare show any interest in her. Of course, Marjorie could never explain the arrangement she had with him.

“No, we'll not have the privacy we need. I know what we can do. When George goes to the Christy collection, he can take me along and we can discuss things there.”

“And what, pray tell, is the Christy collection?”

“Antiquities and whatnot. Cavemen and their rocks. What does it matter? We're not going to look at them but to meet discreetly. It's on Victoria Street, Westminster.”

“I have the guide,” George put in. “It's in our library on the third shelf from the top, tenth book in from the right.”

Marjorie smiled. “That's wonderful. The deception is complete,” she said, laughing.

Of course, Mr. Norris frowned. “I don't much like the idea of lying to your mother. I never lie.”

“Says the man who is blackmailing me. And you won't be lying to her. I will.”

“Extorting.”

Marjorie waved her hand. “Blackmail, extortion. I daresay, what's the difference as long as my mother doesn't know about it? How exciting this shall be. Clandestine meetings. Romance. I really should be paying you,” Marjorie said with an impish grin. Mr. Norris's expression was so startled, Marjorie laughed again.

“You have no idea how utterly dreary the life of a spinster can be,” she said. “I want to travel, to see the world, to have adventures. Do you know, the only place I've ever been is to Paris and for the sole purpose of being fitted for gowns? A spinster's life is tedious.”

“Lady Marjorie, if you don't mind my saying so, you are not the picture of any spinster I have ever seen.”

“Nevertheless, I am at the age when most young women are married.”

“How old would that be, ma'am?”

“Twenty-three.”

Mr. Norris raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. Perhaps whilst we are looking for a wife for me, we might find a husband for you.”

“Titled husband. My mother actually mentioned to me this very evening that the Duchess of Marlborough had been feeling ill, and wouldn't it be oh so terrible if she were to perish, leaving an opening for her replacement. This, sir, is what I am up against on a daily basis. But if you want to take on the task of finding me a title, please do.”

He smiled, then grimaced, clutching his leg.

“Mr. Norris was injured in Elmina on January twelfth of eighteen seventy-four,” said George. “Three other men, Patrick Gilwood, Sir Elmer Huff, and Benjamin Fredericks were killed. Patrick Gilwood died of his wounds three days after the battle.”

Mr. Norris's jaw dropped just a bit. “That is precisely what happened. How . . .”

“I read the newspaper account on January twenty-fourth. It was on page two of the London
Times
,” George said.

“He has a rather impressive memory for things he's read. He's a brilliant solicitor. He adores anything to do with history.”

“But a rather terrible card player,” Mr. Norris said, a note of warning in his tone.

“Don't worry, sir, George will not be playing cards again.”

“Good. And what time shall we meet at the exhibition?”

Marjorie turned to George. “You go on Thursday, do you not, George? What time?”

“Tomorrow is Thursday. I go to Hyde Park at one and then the Christy collection at four.”

Marjorie explained. “Oh, yes. That's right. Perhaps at four then, George.”

Her brother nodded his head in agreement.

“It'll be fine, George. I'll be there, won't I?”

“I have to go to Hyde Park on Thursday at one.”

Marjorie could feel her cheeks flushing slightly. She adored George, but she also knew his behavior could be a bit off-putting to most people. Well, all people, if she were honest.

“Yes, and after that, we'll go to the exhibit. You don't really mind if I come along, do you, George?”

George pressed his lips together, something he did when he was upset. “Okay. After I go to Hyde Park at one o'clock.”

“Good. Then we can meet tomorrow just past the hour?”

Marjorie knew the exchange with her brother was odd, but Mr. Norris's expression showed nothing. “I look forward to it, Lady Marjorie. Lord Summerfield.”

 

“It's a rock,” Marjorie said, frowning at a small piece of flint lying on a bit of velvet inside a glass case.

“Ah, but it's a rock once held by an ancient hand, Lady Marjorie. And if you look closely, you can see how it was shaped. Do you see those angles?”

Charles watched with no small amount of impatience, as the skeptical lady peered—unimpressed—at the pieces of flint. George, on the other hand, seemed fascinated by them and kept referring to his guidebook.

What an odd pair these two were, Charles thought. Lady Marjorie, the self-proclaimed spinster, wore a delightful royal blue dress that turned her eyes bluish-gray. It was surprising to see such a lovely color looking back at him when he'd thought she perhaps had dull brown eyes like his own. He wondered, not for the first time since he'd met her, why she'd been unable to find a husband. Yes, she wanted a title, but there were plenty of those to be had in England.