The Spinster Bride (6 page)

“Wants a bloody title. Yes. Don't they all,” Charles completed for her. He let out a harsh breath, then turned, steeling himself instantly against the slicing pain in his leg that always seemed to catch him unawares. Even after all this time. “I'll have one dance from her,” he said, wondering if he could even manage a dance with his leg beginning to act up.

“I suppose one dance won't cause too much harm,” Lady Marjorie said. He hated the resignation he heard in her voice, as if he were such a dolt that he could fall in love after a single dance.

 

Marjorie watched him walk toward the beautiful Miss Crawford with a sense of dread. She liked Mr. Norris and had no wish to see him make a fool of himself. She removed herself to the opposite side of the room, where she could watch his ruin from afar.

He was taller than the other swains hovering about Miss Crawford. And his hair, that glorious red-blond-golden hair, made him stand out even more. The moment he walked up to the group, they parted, welcoming him. Marjorie watched as, curiously, one by one, the other men departed, until it was just Mr. Norris standing with Miss Crawford, until he bowed over her hand, obviously requesting a dance. It was impossible that the girl still had room on her dance card, but she nodded, pulling out her little pencil and writing in his name before shyly looking up at him.

“He's Charles Norris.” Marjorie's ears perked up at the mention of his name, said with breathy awe. To her right was a small group of young debutantes, tittering and giggling, and at the moment gazing with rapt longing at Mr. Charles Norris. Oh, goodness. Perhaps finding him a bride would be easier than she'd thought.

“My father says he's a war hero. He has the most romantic limp. Have you noticed?”

“And he's so tall.”

“Why does Miss Crawford get all the attention?” This from a girl with plain, mousy brown hair. Marjorie stifled a smile. What a stir the two of them were making. They were a striking couple, though she didn't know how he could stand to listen to Miss Crawford's squeaky little voice.

“If you ask me, he's far too old. And no title, you know.”

“He doesn't look old to me. And he is the son of a viscount. You can't discount that, you know.”

How did they all know so much about him? And that's when Marjorie realized something she should have noted before. Charles Norris was the talk of the
ton
: the mysterious war hero who'd returned to England after a ten-year absence. They were all creating a romantic lead in their little play of love and marriage. How fortunate. Instead of him having to pursue the lovely ladies of the
ton
, they would be pursuing him. He'd find a bride in no time and her brother's debt would be forgiven. And maybe the rumors about Ruthersford weren't true. Maybe Miss Crawford could be won by Mr. Norris.

Marjorie looked about the room until she came across the frowning visage of Lady Hawthorne, Miss Crawford's mother. The baroness was staring at her daughter, who was gazing up in rapture into the face of a certain Mr. Charles Norris. Oh, my, thought Marjorie, Lady Hawthorne does not look very pleased with this development. No doubt she'd been basking in the glow of her daughter's success—until now. Marjorie tried to recall who had been hovering about Miss Crawford before Mr. Norris had ploughed into the group. She mentally ticked each one off, realizing quite quickly that nearly everyone had either been titled or was the heir to a title. How disappointed Lady Hawthorne must be.

Marjorie made her way over to the frowning older woman and walked by casually, hoping Lady Hawthorne would make eye contact with her long enough to force a greeting—and perhaps some conversation. Lady Hawthorne was a bit thick about the middle, but it was obvious where her daughter got her great beauty. Marjorie promenaded about the ballroom, pretending to be interested in watching the couples dance a reel, and walked directly to where the lady still stared at her daughter. Marjorie was about to despair that the woman would never tear her gaze away from the pair when she turned and saw Marjorie, and nodded.

“Good evening, Lady Hawthorne,” Marjorie said with a bit more enthusiasm than was called for, given that she didn't know the woman well.

The lady nodded pleasantly. “Good evening.” Marjorie suspected the woman had forgotten her name.

“My mother, Lady Summerfield, was just noting how lovely your daughter looks this evening. What a success she is this season.”

Lady Hawthorne smiled. “Thank you. She is a lovely girl.” The older woman turned, giving Marjorie an assessing look as if recalling who she was.

“She is speaking with Mr. Norris. A fine man,” Marjorie said, praying she didn't sound rehearsed. But she needed to find out if Miss Crawford was already engaged—or nearly so.

“I've yet to meet the man,” Lady Hawthorne said sourly. “Do you know him?”

“Not well. Only that he is the second son of Viscount Hartley and that he is a war hero. I've heard nothing that should cause a mother concern.”

“And what would you know of a mother's concern?” Lady Hawthorne asked, turning her head slowly and making Marjorie's face redden.

“Only that I have a mother and I know what concerns her.”

Lady Hawthorne nodded slowly. “I have the same concerns, I believe.” Her eyes narrowed as she watched her daughter laugh.

“Given your daughter's great popularity, I am certain she will be settled soon. Everyone thinks so.”

“And they would be correct.”

Marjorie bit her lip, wondering if she could be so bold to ask about Viscount Ruthersford, who in truth, was on her own mother's list of possibilities. Marjorie didn't like the man; she found him cold, but that didn't mean he wouldn't make a fine husband for someone. She rather liked the idea of having him crossed officially off her mother's list of possible suitors. Though the list was getting rather sparse these days.

“Mother was thinking of inviting Viscount Ruthersford to our ball in two weeks.”

Lady Hawthorne turned sharply to stare at her. Then she smiled, like a chess player acknowledging a crafty move. “Of course, your mother may invite whomever she wishes to her ball. That is the twenty-third of May, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“I've just sent our regrets today, I'm afraid. We've other plans. And I do hope you are not too disappointed to learn Ruthersford will also, no doubt, be sending his regrets.”

A surge of triumph and something that oddly felt like relief swept through Marjorie. “I'm so pleased for you all,” Marjorie said.

And, because nothing was official, Lady Hawthorne gave her a curious look, as if she hadn't the vaguest idea what Marjorie was talking about. “I'll be more pleased after tomorrow,” Lady Hawthorne said after a long silence. “If you'll excuse me, I do need to speak with my daughter. Good evening.”

 

Engaged! The chit was engaged. Just when he thought he might have found a charming—well, charming looking—potential bride and the very next day she announced her engagement. What rotten luck.

Charles, flush from what he'd thought was his success and rather carnal images of Miss Crawford lying beneath him, stared at the
Times
in utter dismay two days after the Hebert ball. He'd sent her a sinfully expensive bouquet of flowers and received a pretty little note of thanks that same afternoon. And then, not a day after, he'd seen the notice. Viscount Ruthersford, the cold fish, had managed to snare her.

Charles led his horse down the darkened lane that ran behind the Summerfield London townhouse, a note tucked in his front breast pocket. The invitations he'd been receiving should have been heartening for a man bent on finding a bride. But those stacks and stacks of cards only depressed him. He wanted a wife, but this chase, this dance one had to do to get a wife, was downright wearying. Perhaps that's why he'd been such a failure at finding a bride. He wanted it to be easy. To meet a girl, point a finger and say, “You're the one.” And she would, of course, swoon as she said, “Yes, I'll marry you.”

Wasn't that the way it'd been done in years past? Arranged marriages were so much more practical.

It was a warm evening, and the lane was filled with the fecund smell of spring, rich, moist and so very English. It was good to be home, to be able to breathe in without getting a lungful of dust. Even the rather ripe smell of the mews made him smile because it was all so wonderfully familiar.

He stopped by the gate behind the Summerfield townhouse, his hand immediately going to the brick, sticking out just a bit, hinting of its compartment. He pulled it out and felt inside, smiling when his hand touched a small bit of folded paper. His note said only:
Covent Garden Opera
.
Tuesday
. He'd wanted to write more. To acknowledge that she'd been right about Miss Crawford, perhaps. But he'd never been one for notes and such, and so left it simple.

He hoped she could attend Covent Garden. The evening was not a full performance, but a reception for patrons of the opera house who would be granted a private performance by the great Adelina Patti. He was going in his brother's stead, for the future Viscount Hartley was staying in his family's country estate in Northumberland. God knew he envied his brother. Not for his title, but for his happiness with his family. It seemed all his life people had been waiting for his brother, who'd always been sickly, to die. Instead, as he entered adulthood, he seemed to thrive and grow stronger, leaving behind whatever childhood ailment had plagued him. Robert had always been strong in spirit, if not in body, and Charles was nothing but happy for him. But visiting Robert and his wife was a bit like torture. Did they have to seem so utterly content? So completely happy with their three rough-and-tumble boys? It seemed to Charles that life was passing him by and one day he'd wake up and be one of those old bachelors whom people pitied—or avoided.

The note in his hand could be his salvation, the promised list of possible brides.

Even though it was too dark to read, he could immediately see she'd written quite a bit more than he had. Apparently, she was one for notes and such. Smiling slightly, he pressed the paper to his nose and breathed in, smelling nothing more than paper and ink. Then, feeling foolish, he tucked the paper in his pocket, the same one that had held his own note just moments before, and replaced the brick.

Why must this be so complicated? It needn't be, he supposed, if he were simply looking for someone to give him heirs. But an heir didn't matter, not to someone fifth in line to the title. He wanted what his parents had, what his brother had. He certainly did not want what his sister had, a passionless life of monotony. Charles frowned. Poor Laura, she'd been so in love with her foolish husband when she was nineteen. At twenty-nine, she was childless and imprisoned with a man who continued to dote upon his horrid mother more than he'd ever doted upon Laura.

Flinging Marjorie's letter aside, he sat down at his desk, turned up his lamp, and set about creating his list of attributes.

He stopped, feeling more depressed than he had in some time. Good God, he just wanted to not be so damned lonely all the time. To sit at breakfast with a woman who smiled at him. To turn to her in bed and draw her close and bury his nose against her sweet-smelling hair. That's what he wanted. He supposed one word summed it up. Love. He wanted to love someone who loved him.

Charles stared at his woefully inadequate list for a moment before he forged ahead.

He smiled after that one and could picture Marjorie doing the same.

It wouldn't do to have a frivolous wife bent on spending all his money on gowns and such.

And then, the most important thing:

There. That ought to do well enough.

 

“I
saw Lord Smythe earlier today,” Dorothea said, then daintily took a bite of scone. Her mother insisted, despite Dorothea's completely undainty form, that she act dainty and feminine at all times.

“Oh?” Dorothea's mother gave her a sharp look, then pressed her lips together. “I do believe it is time you gave up on that front, my dear. I hear he has begun courting Lord Orford's daughter, Matilda.”

Lady Matilda was a simpleton whose only concern was making certain that every curl was in place. While Dorothea was just as meticulous in her appearance as Matilda, it was not all she thought about. She was quite certain the girl's head was vacant of any thought other than her lovely appearance.

“I simply mentioned seeing him,” Dorothea said, looking down at her plate.

“Very well.” Her mother placed her fork aside, an indication that she had something of import to say. “Your Aunt Frances is getting on in years. The last time she was here, we talked about perhaps having you live with her. Keep her company. She's so isolated out there in Ipswich.”

Dread fell heavy and hard on Dorothea's stomach. Going to live with a widowed aunt was tantamount to completely giving up on any hope of securing a husband.

“When you were thinking?”

“I thought you could leave the beginning of next week.” Her mother indicated a letter by her plate. “She's quite lonely and is very much looking forward to seeing you.”

“But Ascot's only two weeks away. I did so want to attend this year. And it's the middle of the season. I cannot possibly go now, Mother.”

Her mother looked away, giving her head a subtle shake. “I do not mean to be cruel, Dorothea, but I believe that particular ship has sailed. You are twenty-eight years old, my dear. It is time you come to accept that you will never marry. There is nothing at all wrong with spinsterhood. Why, some of my dearest and happiest friends never married. You haven't had a single prospect in ten years. To continue as you have been is to deny your circumstances.”

Dorothea swallowed heavily. It was true. No man had ever courted her, even though she had a sizeable dowry. It was not so unusual to be passed by, but Dorothea had never truly thought it would happen to her. “Lord Smythe—”

“For goodness' sake, Dorothea, Lord Smythe has no more interest in marrying you than he would one of his hunting dogs.”

Tears flooded Dorothea's eyes, and her throat hurt so much it felt as if someone were squeezing it. “That was cruel, Mother.”

Her mother's eyes softened. “No, my dear, it's the truth. And it's high time you understood that. You are a good girl, kind and generous. But not every kind and generous girl finds a husband.” She picked up her fork. “You should probably begin packing tomorrow.”

“How long will I be gone?” Dorothea asked, her voice small. She cleared her throat. “I need to know how long I'll be gone so I may pack properly.”

“I'm sorry, I thought you understood. You'll be living with your aunt. Indefinitely.” Her mother laughed at Dorothea's expression. “My dear, she's seventy-five. It won't be forever.”

But it would be forever. If she were gone for years, Lord Smythe would surely forget about her. She might not get back to London at all and by the time she was back, she'd be—oh, God—in her thirties. Dorothea stared at her plate, her food now untouched. “May I at least stay until after Ascot? I promised Mary I'd attend with her.”

“Until past June the fourteenth?” Her mother let out a heavy sigh. “Your aunt will be disappointed, but I suppose so.”

Some of the sadness left Dorothea. She still had one more chance to see if Lord Smythe loved her even a little.