The Spinster Bride (7 page)

“T
he opera? I thought you didn't care for the opera.” Dorothea paused in the act of spooning an oversalted consommé into her frowning mouth.

Marjorie had expected that reaction to her request that they attend the special performance at Covent Garden, and was ready with the only response she knew would sway her mother.

“It's a special evening, Mother, with a light supper before the performance. You know that only draws the highest levels of the
ton
. And I hear Lord Wentworth will be there. I think you were right. I think he may be ready to remarry.”

Dorothea gave her daughter a level look, almost as if she were trying to read the sincerity of her daughter's request, and Marjorie used all her learned poise not to squirm. “And I suppose there will be others,” her mother said, finally, and then beamed a smile. “I'm glad to see a bit more enthusiasm, my dear. I had all but given up hope that you even cared to find a husband. But unfortunately, I cannot attend. Lady Benningford has invited me to a reading and as I have already accepted, I cannot change my plans.”

“Oh,” Marjorie said, feeling a deep stab of disappointment. She'd been so looking forward to discussing Mr. Norris's list with him and matching it up with the women on her list.

“So disappointed,” her mother said, looking at her thoughtfully. “Can it be that you actually have developed a tendre for Lord Wentworth?”

Marjorie gave her mother a wan smile. “It's not just that, Mother. I suppose I was looking forward to attending an amusement that Miss Crawford will not be attending. I do so want to wear blue. It suits me best.”

Her mother let out a laugh. “That it does, my dear. All right, then, let me see if your aunt can attend with you.”

“Aunt Gertrude?” she asked hopefully. Gertrude was a lovely old lady and the worst possible chaperone. Once her aunt found old friends to gossip with, Marjorie could disappear for hours at a time without being questioned.

“Of course, Aunt Gertrude. Do you think I would trust you with any of your father's sisters? Doddering old maids, the lot of them.”

Marjorie rushed to her mother's side and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother, I adore Aunt Gertrude. We shall have a wonderful time. And I know she loves the opera—even if I do not. But this is not an opera, it's a solo performance by Adelina Patti.”

“Yes, I know. She is exquisite. But I saw her just last year. I'm not too heartbroken. And you have never heard her sing, have you?”

“No, and I am looking forward to it.”

“I cannot wait to hear about your evening. I do hope you will sit next to someone worth sitting next to during dinner.”

 

“My mother would kill me if she saw me right now,” Marjorie said with a laugh. She sat between two ineligible men—Charles Norris and Lord Ruthersford, who seemed not to have warmed a single degree since his engagement to Lavinia Crawford. The former smiled down at his plate, the latter ignored her completely. She almost felt sorry for Miss Crawford now that she was no longer on the marriage mart and would have to spend the rest of her life with Ruthersford.

“You seem to have a streak of deviltry in you, my lady.”

“Oh, much more than a streak, I can assure you. Alas, there have been woefully few times I have been able to express it.” She leaned a bit so that she could see her aunt and waggled her fingers. Her aunt smiled back at her and immediately turned away to speak to her dinner companion, an old friend of her late husband. This evening, the building's narrow lobby had been turned into a dining room of sorts, with three long tables set up to accommodate the elite crowd. Aunt Gertrude had warned her not to expect much from the meal, as it was being prepared in a restaurant next door and brought over by an army of servants. Apparently, the famous soprano had requested “the least odiferous items” be prepared so that her olfactory sense would not suffer.

“I have the list,” she said in a whisper. “I'm afraid, after seeing your requirements, it's rather short.”

“I didn't know I was being so particular,” he said.

“I assume you are looking for someone a bit older, and being a man, you probably would like her to be somewhat attractive. Here.” She reached beneath the wide lace ribbon at her waist and pulled out a small bit of paper. She laid her hand, palm up, upon her lap and indicated with a small nod that he should take it.

She should have known better. Mr. Norris looked from her face, to her lap, where she held the paper, and back to her face, raising an eyebrow in such a suggestive way that she felt an awful heat envelop her. Awful, because she knew what that heat meant and she had absolutely no intention of ever feeling
that
sort of heat when she was with Mr. Norris.

“You are insufferable.”

“I am a man. A man who has just been invited to lay his hand upon a lady's lap.”

“I did no such thing,” she said, trying to sound and appear angry but failing miserably. She made a fist, crumpling the bit of paper, and placed it unceremoniously on the table next to his dinner plate. But before she could snatch her hand away, he laid his palm upon hers, warm and large, for just a small moment before releasing her.

Oh, goodness. What had just happened? A surge of something electric made her let out the tiniest gasp and her face flushed red. It was instantaneous. She prayed he interpreted that gasp and flush as anger, but was sorely disappointed when she looked at him through her lashes and saw the most irritatingly smug expression on his lovely mouth.
Lovely mouth
?

“I beg you to stop, Mr. Norris.”

He raised his brows innocently. “Stop what, Lady Marjorie?”

“Taunting me,” she said with a bit of exasperation after briefly searching for the correct word. “This is not a game to me.” She did
try
to sound angry, but, blast the man, his smile only broadened.

“You are enjoying yourself immensely.”

Marjorie pressed her mouth together, desperately trying not to smile. “Perhaps,” she relented.

“There is no ‘perhaps' about it. And, my darling girl, I find I am enjoying myself immensely as well. Who knew finding a bride would be so much fun?”

Oh, yes. The bride. Marjorie felt herself deflate just a tad at the reminder of why they were sitting together.

He brazenly opened up her note at the dinner table and scanned the list.

“Are any of these ladies here this evening?” he asked after a moment.

“Two. Miss Elizabeth Vincent and Miss Petunia Peterson.”

“I can't marry someone named Petunia.”

“She's very nice.”

“I don't like petunias.”

Marjorie looked at him in disbelief. “Who wouldn't like petunias? They are a lovely flower. Very colorful. And very much like their namesake. She's the girl sitting next to Admiral Clarkson.”

Marjorie watched with some consternation how his expression changed when he saw Petunia. She
was
a lovely girl, with a country-fresh look to her. Her dark blond hair gleamed in the gaslight, and her eyes were an unusual shade of green. She was
so
lovely, in fact, Marjorie wondered why, at twenty, she was still unmarried. She came from a good family, had a significant dowry, and Marjorie had never heard any scandal connected to her. These were all the reasons she'd added Miss Peterson to her list. But now that she thought of it, there had to be
something
wrong with her. Something niggled at the back of her mind. Perhaps she was a dimwit?

“I suppose,” Charles said slowly, “that I could get used to the name. I could give her a nickname. Pet or Tuni or some such thing.”

“You cannot call your wife ‘Pet.' It's demeaning.”

His gaze was still on Petunia when he said, “Then Nia. One of her syllables can certainly be used as a name.” He sounded slightly irritated.

“Nia isn't too awful,” Marjorie said, wondering suddenly why she'd included the girl on her list and refusing to wonder why she suddenly
didn't
want the girl on her list.

“And who else is here from your list?”

“Miss Vincent. She is sitting at the far table, so I'm afraid you won't be able to get a very good look at her.”

Charles strained his head a bit to spy the far table. “What color hair does she have?”

“Reddish.”

“No. I will not marry a red-headed girl.”

“But you're a bit red-headed,” Marjorie said.

“I am not. But I was as a lad, and I can tell you that I suffered for it. And with a red-headed wife, I'd most assuredly have red-headed children, and I'll not have anyone call my son or daughter Ginger.” He let out a gusting sigh. “So I suppose tonight I should concentrate on Miss Peterson.”

And that's what he did, with a gusto that Marjorie found a bit amusing and Miss Peterson seemed to find a bit frightening. The group had perhaps an hour before the concert began, during which many of the men went outside to smoke a cigar and sneak a sip or two from their flasks. Miss Adelina Patti did not allow smoking in the building when she was performing.

Charles did give the men who were outside enjoying their cigars a look of longing, but then asked Marjorie for an introduction.

“I have to stand by my aunt for now. Mother has too many friends here and it wouldn't do for one of them to mention I'd been at your side all evening. My aunt and I will make our way over to Miss Peterson, and then you can join us and I can make introductions.”

He nodded and moved off without a word, leaving Marjorie to find her aunt. She found Gertrude sitting in a corner with two of her dearest and oldest friends, and Marjorie felt a twinge of guilt that she would have to drag her aunt away.

After greeting the older women, Marjorie said, “I'm sorry, Aunt, but Mother insists that I mingle at these events, as tedious as it is. Would you mind walking about with me? Then I will safely return you to your friends.”

“My goodness, there's no need to apologize to me! I raised three daughters, you know. Of course you know. They're your cousins!” She let out a laugh as she stood up.

Marjorie was well aware of her cousins and of their marriages to well-placed men—all titled and all rather nice. Her mother would never admit it aloud, but Marjorie knew it bothered her mightily that her sister had managed to get
three
daughters married and she'd not succeeded in getting even one down the aisle.

Her aunt scanned the room, no doubt homing in on all the eligible men. “Pity,” she said softly.

“What's a pity, Aunt?”

“Oh, nothing.” But her aunt's eyes were trained on someone across the room. Marjorie followed her eyes and felt her face flush. He did look rather magnificent standing in that group of older men. It was almost as if he were thrumming with vitality while the other men were mere husks of humanity. Even from across the room, she could hear his laugh, booming and unself-conscious. “Are you certain your mother won't even consider a man without a title? There's that very nice Charles Norris. He
is
the son of a viscount, you know. Very well-heeled family. His mother is lovely. Perhaps your mother would consider—”

“No, Aunt. She won't.”

“Lord Ruthersford . . .”

“Is engaged.” Marjorie walked sedately toward where Miss Peterson stood with her mother and father.

“Yes, yes. I thought I remembered reading something about that. Pity you were seated between two ineligible men.”

“It sometimes happens,” Marjorie said happily. “It's not often I get the chance to relax and enjoy a meal rather than put myself on display.”

Her aunt chuckled. “Ah, I remember those days. It can be wearying, dear, I know.”

The two chatted amiably, but Marjorie was always aware of Miss Peterson—and Mr. Norris. He had the subtlety of a cannon, and she could feel him watching her progress toward his possible future wife. As Marjorie walked by Miss Peterson, she pretended to be bumped and fell lightly against the younger woman.

“Oh, I do apologize,” she exclaimed. Then she put on a brilliant smile. “Miss Peterson, how are you? And Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. I haven't seen you all since . . .” She pretended to search her memory. “. . . the Halford ball last season. You remember my aunt, Lady Southbridge.”

“The Halford . . .” Mrs. Peterson said, her face turning an alarming shade of red. Mr. Peterson cleared his throat loudly and tugged at his collar. “Of course,” Mrs. Peterson said, darting a look at her husband. “We've been . . . traveling abroad.”

“In Italy,” Petunia added cheerfully if a bit overbrightly. “And other places. We had a wonderful time, didn't we?” She turned to her parents, who seemed mortified, but by what, Marjorie couldn't begin to guess.

“It is good to see you, Susan,” her aunt said warmly, grabbing Mrs. Peterson's hand and giving it a squeeze.

Mrs. Peterson gave a tremulous smile, seemingly grateful for the kind words. And leaving Marjorie completely confused. She racked her brain for any tidbit of information she might have heard about the Petersons. Had someone died? Had they lost their fortune?
Something
had happened since the Halford ball, that much was certain.

“Did you enjoy Italy?” Marjorie asked, not knowing what else to say.

“It was . . .” Petunia looked at her mother as if seeking help for the right word to describe Italy. “. . . lovely. Yes, lovely.” Petunia had said the word lovely, but she might as well have said “dreadful” if Marjorie correctly read her look of utter discomfort. And that's when Mr. Norris walked up to the group, looking like an eager puppy.