The Spinster Bride (21 page)

“I do, ma'am. Lord Summerfield and I have known each other since we were children and we have always been friends.”

“Forgive me, but I cannot allow my son to marry a girl of such low birth. Indeed, I cannot allow my son to marry at all. You know he is not right, and that you would force him into such a marriage is immoral.”

Lilianne's cheeks flushed and her father let out a sound of protest. “George is a brilliant and wonderful man. The real tragedy here, Lady Summerfield, is that he has a mother who does not recognize that fact.”

“Thirty thousand pounds,” Dorothea said succinctly.

Mr. Cavendish started at hearing such a ridiculous amount.

“You could give all your daughters—you have three more, do you not?—a season. Surely such a sum would make your life easier.”

“It would,” the squire said thoughtfully.

“Father!”

“Now, Lilianne, I've not agreed.”

“Nor will you,” Lilianne cried. “It's insulting and obscene.”

“It's a great deal of money,” the squire said thoughtfully as Lady Summerfield gave him a self-satisfied smile.

“So we're agreed? Thirty thousand pounds and you end the engagement.”

“No, Father. If you do this thing, I will never speak to you again.”

The squire looked at his daughter and gave her the most subtle of winks. “It's a great deal of money, Lilianne. We do need to repair our stables. And the kitchens are so out of date, cook is constantly complaining. And your sisters, they were terribly jealous that you got your season, and it will be years before they get theirs.”

“I can write the cheque immediately,” Lady Summerfield said, opening her reticule. She pulled out a cheque. “Pen and ink, if you please.”

“Pen and ink?” the squire asked, as if she were asking for a peach in February. “I'm afraid we have none in the house. Oh, dear. It looks as if we haven't a deal after all.” The squire looked near to bursting into laughter, and his daughter beside him gave the smallest of smiles. “Do you truly think I would sell my daughter's happiness for thirty thousand pounds, my lady? I wouldn't do that for a million. Good day, madam.”

Lady Summerfield's eyes took on the strangest of emotions, almost as if she'd died, for they were cold and lifeless. She snapped her reticule closed, her cheeks in high color. She marched toward the doorway, head held high, and the coldness in her eyes turned to a hot rage. “If you think there will be a wedding in September,” she said at the door, “you are sorely mistaken. Good day.”

After she'd gone, Lilianne threw herself into her father's arms. “Oh, thank you, Father. You nearly frightened me to death.”

“I wanted to have a bit of fun with the old battleaxe, but I'm sorry if I caused you any distress. What a horrible person she is. Are you certain you want to be part of that family?”

Lilianne nodded. “I adore George and his sister. And we've decided to stick Lady Summerfield in their home in Exeter. We'll never have to see her.”

Squire Cavendish smiled down at his daughter. “I can only hope for your sake that is true.”

 

Marjorie hadn't felt so nervous at a ball since her debut. Her stomach was aflutter, her gloved hands shaking as she gathered her dance card. With her mother watching carefully, Marjorie tried her best not to appear too ill at ease.

“Lord Shannock is here already,” Marjorie said, looking over her mother's turbaned head. She'd taken to wearing the awful thing after reading an article in the
Times
praising Queen Victoria, who'd worn one to Ascot. “I'll be sure to save him a dance.”

“I'm glad you've come around, my dear.”

Marjorie gave her mother a weak smile. “I haven't come 'round entirely, Mother, but I do recognize my options have become limited.”

“Posh. You could have any man in this room, my dear.”

Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “Have you changed your mind about Lord Shannock?”

Dorothea, in a rare show of public affection, placed her hand on her daughter's wrist. “I do want you to be happy, dear, no matter what you may think. It seems my powers to persuade my children to do as I want have been greatly diminished.”

“Oh?”

“Your brother is intent on marrying that Cavendish girl and I have no power to stop it. A squire's daughter. Really.”

“But Mother, I think they'll be happy together. She's known George all her life and she understands him. He had to get married at some point.”

Her mother shook her head. “He will have an heir and I fear the defect will continue.”

Marjorie felt her face flush with anger. “You know I don't like it when you say such things about George.”

“Your opinion of what I say does not alter the truth of it,” Dorothea said succinctly. “I am sorry it pains you to hear plain speaking, but I cannot offer anything else.”

Marjorie stifled an angry sigh and tried not to be upset by her mother's words. “Let's not quarrel tonight.”

“I wasn't quarreling,” Dorothea said almost sweetly. “You were, my dear.”

Marjorie gave her mother a brilliant smile. “Yes, it's always so gratifying to quarrel alone.”

She would not let her mother ruin what would be the happiest of nights. Tonight she would be engaged. She would know her future stood with the only man she'd ever loved. It might not happen the way she'd dreamt it, but it would happen. She braced herself mentally for the ugly scene that was certain to occur once her mother caught wind of events.

As balls went, the Hartford ball was a small, intimate affair with less than fifty persons in attendance. Marjorie wondered how Charles, who'd been away from England so long, had managed to procure all the invitations he'd amassed. As she looked around the room, she spied Lady Caroline standing with her mother, and Marjorie felt a jab of guilt. She hoped the poor girl wasn't expecting a proposal from Charles, but had little doubt she did. She seemed like a nice girl and Marjorie wished her no ill will—other than to stay quite single for at least another day.

Marjorie looked down, smiling, trying to hide from her mother the complete joy she felt.

She wished Katherine were at the ball, but she and Lord Avonleigh were on their way back to Avonleigh and Marjorie felt a bit sad that her friend wouldn't be there to support her. She was the only other woman she knew who would understand how she felt.

Charles arrived, looking dashing and wonderful, and Marjorie noticed for the first time the reaction of the other women in the room. Particularly, the reaction of the mothers and chaperones. Suddenly it became clear how Charles had managed to be invited to all the best events of the season. He was obviously considered the best of matches. She saw more than one older woman nudge the younger one by her side to indicate his arrival. He's mine, Marjorie silently and happily shouted to the poor, wretched girls who didn't have a chance of winning him.

 

Charles saw her and his breathing stopped. She was so damned beautiful and he could see the mischief in her eyes as she looked about the room, being careful not to look at him. She loved adventure, and he would be certain every day of his life that she got it. They would travel the world, see everything she'd always dreamed of. When they had children, and they would, they would raise happy little people who had as much joy in them as their mother did. Tonight their real adventure would begin. He could hardly contain himself, hardly walk about the room as if this weren't the most important night of his life.

He was positively giddy. Stupidly so. The only thing he could be grateful for was that none of his friends was about to see him so completely head over heels. He could hardly stop himself from gazing at her as she stood with her mother and a thin, balding man who kept staring blatantly at her breasts. He wanted to punch the bounder, but Charles would do nothing to disrupt their plans. And Marjorie seemed more bemused by the man's frank perusal than affronted, so he let it go. For now.

He strolled about the public areas of the Hartford townhouse, scoping out a room where they could be private for a while but one that most assuredly would mean their eventual discovery. Peeking in a few rooms, he chose a parlor two doors down from the ball and across from a small, dark study. The parlor held a couch—perfect for seduction—and was well lit enough so that, should anyone venture in, he or she would immediately see them. He looked at the room critically, finally deciding that the couch should be moved for better viewing. With a quick shove, the couch now sat directly across from the door. Perfect.

Waiting would be the most difficult part. He would have to act the part of a man who was still searching for a bride, yet he couldn't ignore Marjorie completely. It would seem odd to lure her into the parlor without having exchanged even a word with her. He decided he must brave her mother's hostility and ask Marjorie for a dance. He found the pair at the edge of the dance floor, watching the dancers. As ballrooms went, the Hartfords' was rather small, and could only accommodate a handful of couples at one time. Lady Summerfield noticed his approach before Marjorie, and she stiffened, her square jaw tightening noticeably.

“Lady Summerfield, Lady Marjorie. Are you enjoying the evening so far?”

“Of course,” Dorothea said. “Why shouldn't we?”

“Mother, he was simply being polite.”

“Of course he was,” Dorothea said, as if she had never questioned it. “Where is Lady Caroline?”

Charles smiled at her obvious hint that he should be elsewhere. “I haven't the foggiest. I've come here to ask your daughter for a dance. Perchance, have you an open dance on your card, Lady Marjorie?”

“Indeed I do, sir.” Marjorie handed over her card, which had only two dances filled in—both, Charles noted, by a Lord Shannock. If he had his way, they would be the last chance Lord Shannock would be allowed to touch her. He had no doubt that Shannock was the lecherous older man who was gawking at Marjorie in such an obvious way.

“I see you have the next polka free. Shall we?”

The polka immediately started, and Marjorie, laughing, took his hand as he led her out to the floor. Charles would have preferred a waltz, but the polka would serve his purpose just as well.

“I'm not certain my leg can stand this bouncing for an entire dance,” Charles said as he swirled Marjorie about the floor. “Two doors down. A parlor. At half past midnight.”

She smiled up at him. “I'm afraid I don't understand,” she said, and his heart did a little stutter. Had she not understood his note? Then Marjorie laughed.

“Oh, Mr. Norris, you are so easy to tease. Of course, yes. Yes and yes.” She was becoming a bit breathless from the dance. No doubt her stays were quite tight. Frankly, he needed an excuse to stop dancing himself; he could feel his leg begin an insistent throbbing that portended real pain if he continued.

“I fear my leg cannot continue, Lady Marjorie. If you will forgive me?”

“Of course.” As he led her off the dance floor, skirting the other dancers, she said, “This will not be pleasant, you know.”

“Oh, my darling girl, it will be the most pleasant thing I've done in a very long time,” he said, and watched as she tried to suppress another smile.

When they reached Lady Summerfield, he released Marjorie. “I do apologize. My leg is acting up again and I had to cut the dance short.”

“Your leg, sir?”

“Injured, madam, in Ashanti.”

“How awful. My sympathies. Oh, look, Marjorie, Lord Shannock is come to claim his waltz. Have a nice evening, Mr. Norris.” Her subtle stress on their respective titles was more amusing than anything else, he decided. Soon enough, she'd be calling him son. He let out a soft chuckle, gave the lady a bow, and walked away.

 

Marjorie endured two waltzes with Lord Shannock, who valiantly tried not to stare at her breasts the entire time. He did not succeed. It was either that or the poor man had some sort of eye condition that didn't allow his eyeballs to rise above a certain level that just happened to correspond with the location of her cleavage.

But she didn't care. She didn't care that he stared, that her dance card was not filled, that Lord Hartford tread upon her toes twice during their dance, that her mother gloated over the attention Lord Shannock was giving her. She only cared about the ormolu clock on the large mantel behind the orchestra that said it was twenty-seven minutes past midnight. Her mother was talking animatedly with Lady Hartford, which enabled her to slip from the room unnoticed, all the while saying “parlor two doors down” under her breath. She opened the door, and he was there already, sitting on a couch that directly faced the door.

“Come here and allow me to compromise you,” he said with a wide grin.

Marjorie bit her lip and quietly closed the door behind her. “Are you quite certain of this? You've thought you've known your heart before, only to find it played false with you.”

“You're the only woman I can talk to without stuttering. You're the only woman I can truly imagine being part of my life forever. I love you. Believe it, please.”

She gave him a small nod. “My mother might murder you. Be prepared.”

“I believe I can fend off one small woman. Now, let's begin the compromise.”

Marjorie pressed her ear to the door. “But no one's coming yet.”

“I don't care. If I don't kiss you in the next moment, I shall die and your mother will never have the satisfaction of murdering me.”

He rose from the couch and came toward her with determination in his eyes. “I think we can be thoroughly compromised simply by being in this room alone together,” she said. “I don't think it's necessary to kiss.” Even as she said the words, her arms drifted around his neck and she pulled him close.