The Spinster Bride (4 page)

He gave her a wink and he might as well have given her his heart for the fluttering that occurred.

“I shall be rooting wholeheartedly for Emilius,” Dorothea gushed.

“Good, then. Perhaps I'll see you there. If you will excuse me, ladies, I must be on my way. Good day.”

Dorothea moved aside, letting him pass, clutching the periodical to her breast. When he'd gone, she turned to Mary and whispered, “Did you hear that? He'll look for me at Ascot.”

Mary smiled. “He did not quite say that,” she said gently.

Dorothea refused to have her mood dampened by the truth. “No matter.
I
will look for
him
.”

 

M
arjorie looked down at the cryptic note and smiled. How fun it had been to pull the brick out and find that small bit of paper there. “Hebert ball. Saturday,” she said aloud, mimicking his baritone.

Pulling her pencil from her pocket, she wrote:
Yes. And I have a list
. She stuffed the note back in the hole and walked, smiling, through their garden and into the house. She did, indeed, have a list. At the top was Miss Susan Mitchell, daughter of Sir Robert Mitchell. Nineteen. Pretty. Wealthy enough to attract lower titles, but, as far as Marjorie knew, had no great aspirations. Then there was Penelope Richardson, daughter of the third son of the Baron of Werington. She'd gone through at least two unsuccessful seasons—she had a rather large nose that had a tendency to drip—but she was intelligent and pleasant enough. At the bottom was Lavinia Crawford, placed there only because Marjorie liked Mr. Norris far too much to subject him to such a ninny.

It was a good, solid list, but Marjorie frowned. Knowing men as she did, she feared the first time he laid eyes on Miss Crawford, he would be as smitten as every other man in London. She wasn't awful, but there was something about the girl that Marjorie just didn't like. Perhaps it was because the same men who used to hover over her were now hovering over Miss Crawford. Marjorie shook her head, not liking where her thoughts were going. If she were truthful, she couldn't imagine being married to any of the men who'd tried to court her or had even asked for her hand. So why was she jealous of a silly girl?

Because you were once that silly girl, that's why
. Truth be told, she missed being the center of attention, having her dance card filled before the orchestra played a single note. She missed men good-naturedly fighting over who had the honor of bringing her in to dine. The entry hall filled with flowers. The morning post filled with entreaties to take her riding on Rotten Row.

Was she so shallow?

She let out a soft laugh as she made her way to the front of the house. Of course she was.

“Were you out in the garden at this time of night?”

Marjorie's hand flew to her chest. “Mother, you nearly frightened me to death. And yes, I was. It's a lovely evening.”

“The night air isn't good for your complexion, my dear. I was just about to look for you so we can discuss the Heberts' ball. What were you thinking of wearing?”

“The new blue, I think. It's been so warm lately, I cannot imagine wearing anything other than silk.”

Dorothea walked into the main sitting room and Marjorie followed. It struck Marjorie then, as it had many times in the past, how empty their house seemed. When her brother was home, as he no doubt was, he stayed in his rooms poring over books of history. Marjorie knew he was avoiding their mother, just as she knew her mother was just as glad to not have him underfoot. Once her mother had finally accepted that Marjorie was to remain unmarried, their outings would no doubt lessen in frequency. Was this to be their life? Sitting by a fire stitching or reading? It was unlikely her brother would marry (he'd shown little interest in the opposite sex after one unfortunate experience) or that her mother would remarry. The thought of spending her remaining years in an empty house was depressing. Perhaps she could travel as she'd always longed to do. Find a group of spinsters and tour Italy and France.

Perhaps, if she were successful in finding Mr. Norris a wife, she could become a professional matchmaker. She sighed aloud.

“What a mood you're in tonight,” her mother said, looking at her sharply after she sighed.

“I'm just tired this evening.” She forced a smile. “Do you think the blue will do?”

“Of course. It is one of your lovelier gowns. It quite flatters you. But . . .”

“But?” Marjorie prompted.

“Blue is Miss Crawford's signature color. If you wear it, everyone will believe you are trying to outshine her. Or worse, copy her.”

“You cannot own a color, Mother. And that gown was very dear. What a waste if I'm never allowed to wear it. Am I not permitted to wear any of my blue gowns? I wore a blue day dress yesterday. People must have been shocked.”

Dorothea gave her a chastising look, then shook her head. “Burgundy. You may wear the blue when we can be assured Miss Crawford will not be present. Even then, it is a risk.”

Marjorie knew there was no changing her mother's mind, so she acquiesced. “As you wish.”

“What I wish is for you to try a bit harder this season, Marjorie. It was all well and good to turn down everyone when you were the Incomparable of the season. But you are no longer that girl.”

Her mother rarely spoke so harshly to her, and Marjorie was slightly taken aback. “I know that, Mother.”

“Do you not want to marry?”

“I do. But we are running out of titles, are we not?” Marjorie asked, laughing. Her smile faded when she saw her mother's expression.

“I know why you have turned everyone down and I want it to stop. Immediately.”

Marjorie felt her face flush and her stomach twist. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Your brother. It always comes down to him. Lord Kingsley said this about him, Lord Whitsford said that about him. I don't care what they say, what they do, or even if they have him committed. The next man who proposes to you will be given a positive answer. Do you understand me?”

“Don't you mean the next title, Mother?”

Dorothea's eyes narrowed. “That's precisely what I mean.” Her expression softened. “Darling, I know how difficult this has been for you, but it's time to stop. You'll be twenty-four in a few months. Do you realize what that means?”

“Don't say it, because it isn't true. Not yet at any rate.”

To Marjorie's horror, her mother's eyes filled with tears. “If you have not found anyone this season, you will have been passed by.”

Four men had proposed to her, including a baron (rejected out of hand) and two viscounts (onerous and old), so Marjorie hardly thought that qualified as being “passed by.” She'd actually considered accepting a proposal from Lord Whitsford until she overheard him say, “She'll do as long as that idiot brother of hers isn't about.”

Her brother would
always
be about, because without her he would be lost.

“I'll try very hard to find a husband, Mother. I promise.”

Marjorie felt even more depressed by that promise than by the prospect of never marrying at all.

 

On the night of the Hebert ball, Marjorie arrived wearing her burgundy gown, and noticed immediately that Miss Crawford was indeed wearing blue. And then she noticed Mr. Norris, standing off to the side, staring at Miss Crawford. Drat. He would have to set his eyes on the one girl he probably couldn't get—not with her immense popularity. Half the young bucks were already in love with her. It was only a matter of time, if what Mr. Norris said was true, before he would fall for her. From what she'd learned, Ruthersford was already negotiating with her father.

“Blue,” her mother said.

“Yes, I noticed. How on earth did you realize it's what she always wears, though?”

“It is what I do, darling. I notice things. For example, I notice that Lord Wentworth is here tonight. It's the first time he's been in public since his wife died last year.”

“Which one is he again?”

Dorothea nodded slightly, indicating the right side of the room. “He's talking to Lady Hebert.”

Marjorie scanned the right side of the room until she saw a tall, slim man with a pleasant face and slightly receding hairline speaking with their hostess. She had a vague recollection of meeting him, but that was the extent of her knowledge of the man.

“Rank?”

“Marquess. Wealthy. A lovely townhouse in Mayfair. Huge estate in Leeds. Five children.” She frowned. Marjorie knew her mother was thinking that her daughter would not mother a future marquess. “Still, it's a fine title.”

“What of the man?” Marjorie asked, pointedly.

Dorothea waved her hand as if the question were inconsequential. “I've never heard a word against him.”

In other words, her mother knew about as much of him as Marjorie now knew. And five children! Just the thought made her slightly queasy. Oh, she had no doubt she could care for and love five of her own children, but could she come to love someone else's? And could they come to love her?

“I'm going to the refreshment table, Mother. Would you like anything?”

“Some punch would be nice. I think I'll give my regards to Lady Hebert.”

Marjorie gave Lord Wentworth one more look before heading to the refreshment table on the opposite side of the large room. She was not one to believe in love at first sight, but she couldn't even imagine kissing the man, never mind marrying him. But if he were kind, if he would care for George, then perhaps she could marry him. Certainly a man with five children could not be too awful.

“You're looking lovely this evening.”

Marjorie turned to see her cousin, Jeffrey. “Not in the card room yet?” she asked sweetly. She blamed Jeffrey for bringing George to the club where he'd lost all that money to Mr. Norris. If he hadn't, she would not be in her current predicament. She had little doubt the only reason Jeffrey had brought George with him was so he could use a bit of her brother's cash.

“Not yet,” he answered agreeably. “Aunt, you look quite dashing this evening.”

Dorothea beamed a smile and gave Jeffrey a small curtsy. “Why thank you, Jeffrey. Please be certain to ask Marjorie for a dance, will you? Her card's not yet full.”

Marjorie shot her mother a look of disbelief. In the five years since she'd come out, she'd never missed a dance because a man hadn't asked her. If she did miss one, it had been her own choice.

“Of course,” Jeffrey said with a small bow.

“While I appreciate the grand gesture, cousin, I doubt it will be necessary.”

“Necessary?” he asked with mock confusion. “It would be a pleasure and nothing more.” Even as he said those words, he glanced casually at Miss Crawford, who had a small flock of men around her. Marjorie felt the heat of anger and a bit of embarrassment touch her face. Had she become someone to be pitied?

“She reminds me a bit of you,” Jeffrey said, then leaned toward her so Dorothea couldn't hear what he said. “Well, as you were five years ago. Like bees to honey until the next pretty flower comes along. And she is quite the pretty flower.”

Marjorie lifted her chin and pretended his words had no effect. She'd never liked her cousin, and that dislike had only grown after his father's death. For with that death, Jeffrey came within one relative of obtaining the title he so obviously coveted. He'd never said anything overt; it was just a feeling Marjorie had when he and her brother were together. It wasn't
what
he said that was so grating, but rather
how
he said it—that derisive, condescending tone. And it was also the way he looked at George when he thought no one would notice, with a coldness and disgust that was palpable.

Marjorie had even mentioned it once to her mother, but Dorothea had dismissed the observation out of hand, making Marjorie feel as if she'd imagined everything. Her mother was fond of Jeffrey and would hear nothing against him.

The orchestra had not yet begun playing, and the ballroom was crowded with people milling about. The noise and the heavy perfume in the air were already giving Marjorie a slight headache. As she made her way to the punch bowl, she was stopped numerous times by acquaintances, mostly friends who were long married and looked upon her with either pity or curiosity. And, sometimes, a bit of envy.

“I thought this might be your destination.”

Ah, Mr. Norris.

“Yes. And I see you've already found someone to catch your eye. Miss Lavinia Crawford.”

“The blonde surrounded by drooling boys? No. I haven't the stomach to face that sort of competition.”

They stood side-by-side, facing the wall. He gathered small sweets on a plate while she carefully ladled two glasses of punch. Anyone casually looking at them would not know they were conversing.

“You have a list?”

“I do. I'll put it in the wall this evening. I hadn't a chance to earlier. You'll be happy to know it's a rather long list.”

She turned to spy her mother, who had her back to her, then faced Mr. Norris, who was looking down at her with a small smile on his nicely sculpted lips. My, he was a good-looking man, and she couldn't fathom why he'd been unsuccessful in his bride hunt, if looks were any consideration. His deep brown eyes swept her face, stopping briefly at her mouth, and Marjorie was shocked by what she saw. He had the look of a man who wanted to kiss a woman. She took a small step back, alarmed.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring you. You're quite lovely this evening, Lady Marjorie. And your mouth is rather meant for kissing, is it not?”

She was stunned. “Are you drunk?”

“Sober as you are.” He raised an eyebrow as if questioning her own sobriety.

“But you told me you weren't attracted to me.” It was an accusation.

“I lied.”

Marjorie tilted her head and gave him a look of mock anger. “This won't do, then. If you're attracted to me, then I might thwart your plans. You'll fall in love with me and that won't do at all.”

“Just because I want to bury my face between your breasts and stay there for a fortnight doesn't mean I want to marry you.” This was said dryly.