Candice Hern (3 page)

But to take him as a lover? Impossible. He was an exceedingly attractive man and she had a great deal of affection for him, but she had listened to enough tales of his love affairs to know that she was the last sort of woman he would find desirable. Not to mention that he thought of her as a sort of sister. No, he was too good a friend ever to be considered as a lover.

"Well, if you are not interested in him," Penelope said with a grin, "I'm sure he would do very nicely for one of the rest of us. He is certainly the sort of man who could make a woman's toes curl."

Good Lord. It would be beyond awkward if one of the Benevolent Widows was to take Adam to her bed. Marianne had no desire to hear from one of them the intimate details of Adam's lovemaking.

"But if you change your mind," Penelope said, "and decide that friends make the best lovers, then you must tell us. We cannot poach on another woman's territory. That should be one of our rules."

"Absolutely," Beatrice said. "No poaching. But there are lots of other available men besides Adam Cazenove and Lord Rochdale."

"Sir Neville Kenyon, for example."

"Or Lord Hopwood."

"Harry Shackleford."

"Lord Peter Bentham."

"Sir Arthur Denney."

"Trevor Fitzwilliam."

"Lord Aldershot."

That last suggestion had come from Grace. When all eyes turned in her direction, her cheeks flamed and she gave a sheepish little smile. "I can get into the spirit of the game, can I not, without actually participating?"

The ladies stared at her in astonishment for a moment. Then, one after the other, they burst into laughter.

"Of course you can!" Penelope said, and reached across the tea table to squeeze Grace's hand. Turning her attention to the rest of the group, she said, "You see? I knew this was a good idea. Why should men have all the fun? We shall be just as merry as they. In fact, that's what we shall be: the Merry Widows."

Penelope stood and held up her cup of tea, and the others joined her, Grace included. "To the Merry Widows."

Marianne and the others tapped their delicate porcelain cups together in toast. "The Merry Widows," they responded in unison.

And so it began.

Adam Cazenove leaned against the black iron railing of his second-floor balcony. Light shone from Marianne's sitting room window next door, but he hesitated before hoisting himself over the railing and onto her balcony. He had done it a hundred times before. It had been something of a running joke between him and David Nesbitt. Why walk down two flights of stairs, across the few steps between one front door and the next, then up another two flights of stairs when their two sitting rooms were virtually side by side? It was so much simpler to climb over the railing.

But not for Marianne, of course. And since her company had become as dear to him as David's, Adam had most often been the one to do the climbing. And he continued to do so, even after David was gone.

Yet tonight he hesitated. He had been away for several months and wanted nothing more than to see Marianne's face again, and yet it was not a visit he anticipated with the usual excitement. He had news, important news, to tell her. But once he had done so, things would be forever changed between them, and so he stalled.

He leaned against the railing and watched the flickering candle in her window. He remembered all the times the three of them had spent together in that room, laughing over Adam's amorous adventures, talking until dawn about art or music or politics or Society gossip, crying over their failures to have a child. And he remembered the times after David's sudden death when he and Marianne had clung together in grief, and all the times since, as she'd valiantly put her life back together. His late friend's memory still loomed large between them, but Adam treasured his friendship with Marianne for its own sake.

But he suspected they would never be as close again. Not after he told her.

The air was growing damp. If he dawdled any longer, he'd be soaked. He looked up and down the street to insure no passersby would witness him sneaking into Marianne's house. He glanced at the windows of the houses across the street, looking for peering eyes behind curtains. He never saw any, but would not be surprised to learn his comings and goings over the years had not gone unnoticed.

He hooked a bootheel on the lowest crossbar of he iron railing and swung himself up and over onto the adjacent balcony, taking care to avoid the spear-like finials on the upright bars.

He saw her at once. Marianne sat in her usual chair by the fireside, wrapped in a large paisley shawl. She had a book in her hand but was not looking at it. She had obviously not heard his approach, for she did not stir.

Glossy brown hair, dark as Turkish coffee, was pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her face stood in profile, showing to advantage the straight nose, the sharp line of her jaw, and the high angle of her cheekbones. She wore a wistful expression as she gazed into the fire.

Adam straightened his coat and rapped on the window glass.

Marianne turned and smiled, revealing the dimples he admired, so unexpected in such an elegantly modeled face. Leaving the shawl behind, she rose and opened the balcony doors.

"Adam!"

She stretched out both hands and he took them, bringing each to his lips, then placed a chaste kiss upon her upturned cheek.

"I am so glad you are back," she said. "I have missed you."

"And I you. How are you, my dear?"

"I am fine, Adam. Do come in and sit down. We have much to catch up on. And I've just bought a small Varley landscape I wish to show you."

"Which Varley brother?"

"Cornelius. I haven't even hung it yet. Pour yourself a glass of claret while I go get it."

He placed a hand on her arm. "I'll see it later, if you please. There is something more important to discuss."

Her eyes grew wide. "Indeed?"

"Yes. I have news, my dear."

"Then you must tell me at once." She gazed at him quizzically for a moment, then smiled. "Should I be seated for this?"

"Perhaps you should. It is rather big news, I fear."

Her brows lifted in interest. Then she returned to her chair beside the fire and wrapped the shawl about her shoulders. "I am positively agog, Adam. Tell all, if you please. What is this big news?"

He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I have quit the field, my dear. I have just come from two weeks in Wiltshire, where my future was settled. Wish me happy, Marianne. I am officially betrothed to Miss Clarissa Leighton-Blair."

* * *

Marianne stared at him, making a supreme effort to keep her jaw from dropping open in a stunned gape. She should not be so shocked. She had known it was going to happen eventually.

But the Leighton-Blair chit? Had he gone mad?

"Well, well. I confess you have shocked me to the core, Adam."

"Have I?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "I had no idea you were seriously pursuing Miss Leighton-Blair. You never mentioned any plans to visit her family in Wiltshire."

She wondered why he'd neglected to mention it. Had he known she would disapprove? Of course he had. How could he have expected otherwise? Marianne did not know the girl well, but had seen enough of her last Season to know she was exactly the wrong sort of wife for Adam. Clarissa was a beautiful young girl, but the thing that most came to mind was her giggle. Every other word was punctuated with that annoying titter. And the words in between did not exactly sparkle with wit and intelligence.

What was he thinking? Adam was a man who thrived on lively conversation, even debate and argument. It was difficult to imagine him with a giggler.

"Her father invited me to a house party," he said, "and the motive was obvious. But since I had decided to take the plunge anyway, and since Clarissa is really quite lovely and sweet, I allowed myself to be swept along by their expectations."

"Allowed yourself?" Marianne pressed a hand to her forehead in exasperation. "I cannot believe that. You would never give over such a momentous decision to someone else. Is there something you're not telling me? Did you get the girl with child, Adam?"

"No!" He ran agitated fingers through his hair. "Good God, Marianne, you know I don't dally with innocent young women. How could you imagine such a thing?"

"It is the only reason I can possibly imagine for you getting betrothed to such a girl."

He frowned. "The
only
reason? Don't be naive, Marianne. And what do you mean, 'such a girl'? She's extraordinarily beautiful."

"And without two thoughts to rub together. She will bore you to death within a month. Blast it all, Adam, I never expected you to put beauty above all else. I simply cannot believe it."

His frown deepened and he looked away to gaze into the fire. His sandy brown hair fell, as it always did, into a deep wave over one eye, giving him a rakish, almost piratical air. Adam made a show of trying to tame his thick hair, ruthlessly combing it straight back from his forehead, but to no avail. He might have cut it shorter, of course, but Marianne secretly believed he rather enjoyed the inevitable parting of the waves, that he knew quite well it made him more attractive. The poet's hair, along with the heavy-lidded, slumberous green eyes, lent him an air of seductiveness that many women found irresistible. Many, many women.

He could have had anyone.

He turned those eyes on her once again, and they were filled with consternation. "I had thought you'd be pleased for me, settling down at last. And you're being unfair. She is not as empty-headed as you suggest. Clarissa is very sweet-natured. She will make a fine, dutiful wife to me and mother to our children."

The intense look in his eyes seemed to implore her to agree with him, as if her approval was important. She understood that. If she had become betrothed, she would want Adam's approval. He was the same age David would have been, four-and-thirty. It was time he settled down.

But with Clarissa Leighton-Blair?

The recent discussions with her fellow Fund trustees, the Merry Widows, still rang loudly in Marianne's head. All that joyful talk about the pleasures of the marriage bed brought to mind unsettling images of Adam eliciting such joy from young Clarissa.

When Penelope and Wilhelmina had mentioned him, she had not wanted to entertain such images of Adam with one of them. But at least they were intelligent, interesting women. This new image of the beautiful, silly Clarissa — would the girl giggle in bed? — was almost too much to bear.

When the Merry Widows had made their pact, there had been the merest twinge of an idea — not even an idea, just a tiny whiff of a notion, a fleeting fantasy so brief she'd not even acknowledged it — that the only man she would ever consider as a lover was Adam Cazenove. It was foolishness, of course. Even if she were interested in a love affair, which she was not, Marianne knew she was not his sort of woman. Adam's taste ran to the exotic, the voluptuous, the openly sensual — as different as they could possibly be from Marianne's slender frame, ordinary English face, and conventional reserve.

And yet, Clarissa Leighton-Blair was not his usual type, either.

"I am sure she is very sweet," Marianne said, "but she is not the sort of woman I expected you to marry. She is not at all like your ... your other women."

"A man looks for something different in a wife."

"Why? Why would you not want someone who excites you, who challenges you, who makes you a better person?"

"Damn it, Marianne, what makes you think Clarissa will not be all those things to me?"

She snorted. "Please. I've watched the girl. I've heard that giggle. I am sorry to be so negative. I know I should be pleased for you. But you are my dearest friend, Adam, and I want you to be happy. I want you to have what David and I had."

"You are too romantic, my dear. Not all marriages are as perfect as yours was. You and David were companions as well as lovers. Friends and equal partners. It is a rare marriage that is so fortunate."

"And you are being cynical. Surely you at least hope for that sort of marriage."

"This is not a love match, Marianne, but I am quite fond of Clarissa and I am certain affection will deepen over time. But she is not ..."

"What? She is not what?"

"Like you." He smiled. "A termagant who does not know when to curb her tongue."

She should not have spoken in so unguarded a manner to him. She ought to have kept her thoughts to herself. She managed a smile. "Then you are to be congratulated, my friend, on a brilliant match. Making off with the prettiest girl of the Season will certainly make every other gentleman green with envy." She tried to keep sarcasm out of her voice. She really tried. "Bravo, Adam. Well done. We must toast your happiness."

She rose from her chair and walked to a small table upon which a decanter and glasses were set out. She poured the wine, and turned to find him standing close behind her. She gave a little start as her arm brushed against his chest. An unexpected tingle danced up her shoulder and down her back.

What was wrong with her? Just because, for the tiniest instant, she had imagined him as a lover, she was now very much aware of him in a physical way. Damn the Merry Widows for planting that seed in her brain. She should be grateful he was soon to be married. It would put an end to any further fanciful imaginings.

She gave him a glass, then held up her own in toast.

"To Adam and Clarissa. May you have a happy life together."

"Even though I know it pains you to have said it, I thank you for the good wishes." He clinked his glass against hers, then swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

Marianne, who'd taken a more dainty swallow, chuckled and said, "Bridegroom nerves? Already?"

He held out his glass as she refilled it. "Nerves? Me? Nothing of the kind. Merely a bit of fortification as I enter this new phase of my life."

Marianne smiled at his attempt to appear cavalier. Adam often donned a mask of fashionable ennui when he wanted to hide his true feelings. She wondered what he was thinking now. Was he hoping he'd made the right decision? Had he acted too fast? Was Clarissa the right woman? Could he make her happy? Would she make him miserable? Poor Adam. His mind must be in turmoil over such a momentous change in his life.