The Spinster Bride (24 page)

“They fought over a horse race?” Marjorie asked, flabbergasted.

“Oh, goodness, no. More significant than that. They were fighting over—a hat.”

“What?” This was impossible. Her entire future was being ruined by a hat? Marjorie wanted to cry, but laughed instead. How was it she'd never heard this tale?

“It was quite a row,” Charles said. “My mother, of course, said Miss Stockbridge started it. Apparently, and this is my mother's side, understand, your mother saw a hat at the milliner they both used. My mother had ordered the hat and designed it. Your mother saw it and asked for a duplicate. My mother was quite a bit younger than yours, you see, and quite a bit spunkier than she is now. She was incensed when she saw your mother wearing
her
hat—at Ascot, no less. She strode up to your mother and demanded to know where she'd gotten her hat.”

“She must have known,” Marjorie said.

“Of course. But she demanded to know anyway. And you know your mother, she can be rather intimidating. Your mother just stared at my mother and said, ‘Yours doesn't suit your coloring at any rate.' And that was it.”

Marjorie cringed. “What happened?”

“You have to remember that my mother was quite, quite young . . .”

“What. Happened.”

“She snatched your mother's hat off and crushed it beneath her foot. Even as she did so, my mother told me she knew she'd been horrid. She always did have something of a temper. And then all hell broke loose. They ended up on the ground, pummeling each other, surrounded by some of the most important people in society. They were in the royal enclosure, you see. In the scuffle, your mother's dress was ruined.
Very
ruined.”

“She was
exposed
,” Gertrude said succinctly.

Marjorie wished she could bury her head in her hands but there were too many people. “Oh no. No, no, no. Why didn't either of us know?”

Charles shrugged. “Dorothea is quite a popular name among women your mother's age. I know several. And my mother is so much younger than yours, I never put the facts together.”

“My mother didn't marry until she was thirty-six.”

“Ah. And mine married at eighteen. So, there it is. We've discovered the real reason for her opposition.”

“And now we're truly doomed.” Marjorie felt like crying. No one she knew held a grudge the way her mother did. And to think she was in love with the son of the one woman on earth Dorothea despised above all others. At least now her obstinacy made sense.

“None of this changes our plans,” Charles said. “I love you and we will marry. We simply have to be compromised in grand style. The more witnesses the better.”

“A terrible idea,” Gertrude said, but something in the older lady's tone gave Marjorie pause. It was almost as if Gertrude was saying the things she ought, but didn't really believe. Perhaps when the time came, she could with a clear conscience tell anyone who wanted to hear that she had warned the couple not to act rashly.

 

Charles couldn't believe his bad luck. Of all the women to fall in love with, it had to be with the infamous Dorothea Stockbridge's daughter. In his house, the story was legendary. How many times had his sister donned a hat, only to look askance at their mother and feign fright that she might attack and rip the thing from her head? They'd all had so many laughs over the years. His mother would be horrified to learn that her actions of so long ago had caused so much trouble now.

How ironic was it that when he finally found a woman who loved him as much as he loved her, she would be the daughter of his mother's nemesis. Obviously, it was not a story that Lady Summerfield repeated. No doubt the entire episode was humiliating to her, and he wondered if that were the reason Lady Summerfield had married so late. Had the scandal nearly turned her into an old maid? Had she been forced to marry someone simply to be married?

He thought about her features, the bushy eyebrows, the iron gray hair, the mustache, and tried to picture her young and vibrant. He could not. But had she been? Had she worn that hat thinking how pretty she looked, only to face one of the worst humiliations of her life? And at the hands of his own mother. No wonder she was so opposed to their marrying.

It would be diff icult, indeed, to have a mother-in-law who loathed one's family. The wedding would be . . . painful. No doubt the two women hadn't seen each other since that fateful day. He wondered how they would handle the meeting. Over the years, his mother had expressed real remorse over what she'd done—and all over a silly hat.

As her Aunt Gertrude left them to talk with a friend, he could tell Marjorie was upset by the news. He wished he could just whisk her away from this ballroom, from London, and take her home. Instead, he laid a gentle hand on the small of her back to give her just a bit of comfort. It was highly improper for him to do, as they were not officially engaged, but at this moment he didn't give a damn. She looked up at him with gratitude before her eyes grew stony, and he had the distinct thought that Marjorie had indeed inherited some of her mother's steel.

“Let's do it tonight and let's not muck it up. The terrace, shall we say at eleven?”

He smiled, loving the fierceness in her gaze. “Why not right now? I just saw a couple go out there. I don't know who and I don't really care. I only know that we'll be certain to have an audience. It's too early in the evening for them to be intoxicated.”

The two walked toward the French doors that led out to a large terrace, then down to a garden where Charles could see the shadows of several people walking about. “Perfect,” he said, indicating the garden. “We'll find a not-so-private private spot, I'll kiss you silly, then we'll get caught.”

“And be shocked and horrified. You mustn't look too pleased.”

“That will be the most difficult part of this entire charade,” he said, closing the doors behind them. He grabbed her hand and practically ran down the stairs, loving the feel of her hand in his, loving that she laughed as he tugged her toward their fate. “Let's go to the folly, shall we? That seems like a likely destination for anyone going out for a stroll.”

Lanterns, their candles flickering in the slight breeze, had been strung along the paths, lending a bit of magic to the air. Charles could hear the murmur of voices, and smiled. Getting compromised in this crowded garden would be certain.

“How many children should we have?” she asked.

He tightened his grip on her hand. He felt his chest swell to impossible dimensions just thinking about their children playing at their feet as they sat by the fire on winter evenings. He remembered how wonderful his own childhood had been, the long days of fishing with his father or climbing trees with his sister and their good friend John. He wanted his own children to have that same sort of carefree, happy childhood. “Six,” he said finally.

“That's quite a lot. How about three? That's a fine size.”

“No, it's uneven. We need an even set. We were a family of five and it was always difficult to find seating in a restaurant.”

Marjorie laughed, then stopped, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, a quick gesture that seemed so wonderfully natural. “Certainly seating eight would be far more difficult.”

“Very well. Four.”

“Four it is.”

It was settled. Now all they had to do was get married.

The evening was warm, the stars above them visible through thin, milky clouds. Charles wanted to remember every detail of this night. He'd waited for it for so long.

At the steps to the folly, he stopped. “This will do,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

“But we're not even hidden.”

“Precisely. Besides, I can't wait to kiss you.” He brushed her lips with his and she sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck. God, she was soft and lovely and smelled so sweet. He could stand like this forever, hold her against him forever. He deepened the kiss, and she let out a small sound that acted like a bold caress, and he grew instantly hard. They kissed each other, slow and deep, as if they had all night to explore one another. She tasted of chocolate with a hint of champagne and felt like heaven in his arms.

He smoothed his hands down her back to her behind, round and firm and so very lovely. He squeezed gently and let out a stifled groan as he pulled her more firmly against his arousal. Why he was torturing himself, he couldn't say. He only knew he needed to have her against him, needed to hold her, kiss her. What he truly needed was to have her naked, but that would have to wait for another time. A tantalizing image came to him of her lying in his bed on her stomach, her beautiful creamy bum glowing softly in the candlelight. And then a second torturous thought: Marjorie lying on her back, naked, looking up at him as he entered her, closing her eyes in pleasure, wrapping her slim arms around his neck, moving her hips in uncontrollable . . .

He pulled back. “I'm afraid my imagination is getting ahead of me,” he said, his voice ragged. “Our plan be damned. If I don't have you now, I think I shall die. Let's go in the folly. I don't care if we get found out or not.”

He grabbed her hand again and pulled her up the steps and then against a column. “I know this is wrong, but I must have you.”

“Like before?” she asked, her voice filled with an urgency that made him even more aroused.

“I wish it could be better. I wish we had a soft mattress so I could be inside you.” He swallowed. Even just saying the words nearly undid him. “But we cannot. So yes, like before. But better. I'm going to kiss you, darling, where I touched you before.” He could see her eyes widen. “I've shocked you.”

“No,” she said. “Yes. Yes, you have. I didn't know a man could kiss a woman . . . there.”

“It feels quite good.”

He moved his hand between her legs and she melted against him. God, she was so hot, and he imagined he could feel how wet she was already, even through the layers of cloth that separated his hand from her. “Yes,” she whispered, “I imagine it does.”

As he'd done in his study, he began slowly pulling up her dress, but this time, she helped, bunching up her skirts even as she continued to kiss him. He found the slit in her drawers and, bloody hell, she was so hot and wet he nearly wept. He touched her slick bud and she let out a soft sound, half whisper, half moan, and widened her legs just slightly.

“Should I touch you?” she whispered against his lips.

“God, yes.”

Her hand went unerringly to his erection and squeezed gently.

“Should I unbutton you?”

“If you insist,” he said, chuckling as he kissed her neck. “I'm afraid I'm a bit too distracted at the moment.” He flicked his thumb back and forth and moved his index finger inside her.

“I can't . . .” she whispered. “I can't think when you do that. I can't unbutton you.”

He moved his free hand to his front and made short work of his buttons and pulled down his drawers, allowing his member to spring forward. If she touched him right now he wasn't certain he'd be able to control himself. But she did, and he arched his back and very nearly found release. God, he didn't want her to stop, but he also wanted to taste her. He moved down, kissing her neck, her breast, her stomach, until she could no longer reach him. He pulled at her drawers so he could have better access, so he could lay his tongue against her. Her scent filled him, her sounds urged him on.

“Shhhh. Someone's here.”

Startled by the sound of another man's voice, Charles froze. God, so close, he'd been so close to kissing her. But this was what they'd come here for, after all. To get caught in the act of making love. But damn, what terrible timing. With great reluctance, he stood, dropping her skirts as he did. He turned to see another couple, barely visible, standing on the far side of the folly. Doing very much the same thing he'd just been describing to Marjorie. He smiled as he rebuttoned.

“We have company,” Charles whispered. Marjorie peered over his shoulder.

“Is someone there?” she asked, her voice sounding overloud in the quiet of the evening.

They heard a muttered masculine curse and the panicked sound of a lady whispering fiercely, “Please, no one can know.”

The shadowy couple walked toward them, and Charles instantly recognized both. Mrs. Williams and Lord Seaton. Vera Williams had been married for one month. Lord Seaton had been married for two years.

“We won't tell a soul if you don't,” Vera said. “Please.”

“Hullo. Didn't know the folly was such a popular spot this evening,” a female voice called out from below. The two couples had been joined by a group of several ladies—including Aunt Gertrude, bless her soul. “Lovely evening,” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Williams said, her voice shaking slightly. “Lady . . .”

“Marjorie,” Charles supplied softly.

“. . . Marjorie and I were on a stroll and ran into these two gentlemen.” Her voice sounded uncommonly high-pitched, and she cleared her throat. “It is a lovely evening for a stroll. Which is what we were doing. Strolling.”

“What else would you be doing?” Gertrude muttered.

Mrs. Williams grabbed Marjorie's arm and began walking back to the house. They were soon joined by the older ladies. Marjorie looked back at him helplessly, and Charles wanted to scream in frustration.

“Thank you,” Lord Seaton said feelingly.

Charles just grunted.

“You don't understand. We love each other. Have for years.”

“Then why didn't you marry her?”