The Bachelor Trap (12 page)

She let out a huffy breath. “I think no such thing!”

“You think just because I kissed you once, I want to marry you? Is that it? Marion, I've kissed scores of women in my time and have never been tempted to offer marriage.”

The thought of him kissing scores of women made her jaw set. “I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth!” She groaned inwardly. Surely she could come up with a better set-down than that hackneyed phrase? Before he could laugh at her, she went on quickly, “That's not the point. Everyone saw you kiss me. I don't want to be an object of gossip.” She was floundering. “I have my reputation to think about.”

Her words seemed to incense him. He reached out, grasped her chin, and held her face up to the porch lamp. “You think I'm not good enough for you, not good enough for an earl's daughter.” He gave her a slight shake. “Is that it, Marion? In spite of all you've said, are you too proud to lower yourself to the level of a duke's bastard son?”

She could feel his fury in every harsh line of his body. It wasn't true. Oh, it wasn't true. She didn't want him to think the worst of her, but he had given her a way out. She had to take it.

Marion, pulling her shattered nerves together, said in a voice she hardly recognized as her own, “I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.”

He removed his hand from her chin. “Good night, Lady Marion.”

Lady Marion.
She winced at the formality. On his lips, these words were an insult. This was hopeless. She couldn't let him think that she thought him beneath her. She felt cornered but not desperate enough to hurt him. And she had hurt him. She was sure of that.

She touched his sleeve but he shook off her hand. In the next instant, he was striding down the path. Marion stayed on the porch, hugging herself against the chill night air until he became lost in the shadows.

The dowager's fête was open to all and sundry. Only her special guests were invited to the Priory for a late champagne supper, but no one felt deprived or left out. Every sort of entertainment was provided for the villagers' enjoyment—Morris and Maypole dancers; minstrels, jugglers, and acrobats; a horse show in the south pasture; and a baking contest in the marquee in the east pasture. Outside the monks' tithe barn, which had survived the centuries almost intact, servants were roasting whole pigs and sheep on spits, while inside, other servants and volunteers were setting out hearty fare to suit country appetites.

Though Marion and her sisters had lived in Longbury for little more than a week, it was surprising how many people they knew. Most of them they'd met after church services. They'd even had the honor of being introduced to the dowager duchess, a rather formidable lady with, if Clarice was to be believed, all-seeing, all-knowing eyes.

As a result, Marion had dressed for the occasion with particular care: a pretty muslin gown with embroidered vines on the hem and bodice, a straw hat with green ribbons, and, as a concession to the unpredictable English weather, sturdy shoes and an umbrella dangling from one arm. The finale would come at dusk, a military reenactment of some long-forgotten skirmish between Cavaliers and Roundheads. The weather could change between then and now, and Marion liked to be prepared.

From time to time, she caught sight of Brand. After initially acknowledging her presence with a slight bow, he did not spare her a glance, though they had not seen each other for several days. According to Mrs. Ludlow, Brand had been hard at work drumming up support for the party among the eligible voters in the smaller villages around Longbury. Lord Denison, meantime, who thought politics was humbug, had decamped for Brighton to pay his respects to the Prince Regent. At this time of year, Brighton was a magnet for pleasure-seekers, and the foremost pleasure-seeker of them all was the Prince Regent. She wondered if Brand would join Ash when the fête was over.

He had told her to smile and enjoy herself and that's what she was determined to do. Her sisters didn't need to be told. Emily had gone off laughing with some young people of her own age while the inseparable opposites, Phoebe and Flora, had apprenticed themselves to the Gypsies in the hope of learning how to tell fortunes.

Marion wasn't alone. Miss Cutter, the dowager's companion, had either taken a fancy to her or had slipped her leash to enjoy a few unfettered moments to herself. She was inclined to chatter, and Marion was finding it hard to follow her train of thought until Brand came into view. Then Miss Cutter became quite coherent as she kept Marion abreast of the lovely ladies who successively graced his arm.

“Mrs. Chandos,” said Miss Cutter in Marion's ear. “She has had her eye on him for some time.”

They were in the south pasture where the horse show was in progress. A series of jumps had been set out and when rider and horse completed the course successfully, the crowd broke into wild applause.

Marion's eyes trailed Brand and the willowy blonde. “I suppose she is a widow?”

Miss Cutter giggled. “A wealthy widow,” she confided. “She inherited two fortunes, her father's and her late husband's. As you may imagine, there is no shortage of suitors, but until she is sure Brand is lost to her, she won't give up hope. You know, my dear, you really should announce your engagement and put the poor woman out of her misery.”

Marion's only response to Miss Cutter's coy look was a neutral smile.

Mrs. Chandos did not last long. She was borne away by a tall, voluble gentleman who would not take no for an answer. Her place was taken by Miss Lacey, a redhead with a voluptuous figure and a lovely smile. Marion wondered whether she had freckles. Miss Byrd, another blonde, was slender and fragile; Miss Stead was Junoesque. And so it went on.

The last rider of the day waited for the signal to start: Andrew, the Duke of Shelbourne. He was a young man, no more than a boy really, but he sat astride his mount with the confidence of a seasoned cavalier. Horse and man made an arresting picture. They were both dark, both thoroughbreds.

From his detached position, Andrew moved his head slightly. Marion followed the path of his gaze. He was watching Brand. When Brand acknowledged the look with a slight nod, the young man quickly averted his head. He was unsmiling.

Miss Cutter said, “Handsome devil, isn't he? Andrew, I mean. In a year or two, he'll be a breaker of hearts. For the present, Brand keeps him on a tight leash.” She sighed. “I suppose he doesn't want the boy to turn out like their father. He was a wild one, the old duke, but so were all the young men in those days.”

Marion was thoughtful. That one glance between the young duke and Brand was telling. There was conflict there, but it was mostly on Andrew's part. All the same, he wanted Brand's approval. She sighed, thinking of herself and her sisters. A guardian's life was not always easy.

The flag dropped and Andrew and his mount cantered to the first barrier. He took it easily, and the next, then urged his mount over the water obstacle, curbed its momentum, and sailed effortlessly over the highest gate. By the time Andrew finished the course, the spectators were on their feet.

When the applause died away, Her Grace, the dowager duchess, came forward, leaning heavily on her cane, to hand out the ribbons. With her was Lady Theodora, and a dark-haired gentleman who moved with ease and grace. It came as no surprise when the blue ribbon went to Andrew.

“Who is the dark-haired gentleman with Lady Theodora?” Marion asked.

“Her husband, Lord Robert. He always comes down for the fête. We don't see much of him. Well, there's not much in Longbury to keep him here.”

“There is his wife,” Marion pointed out, her tone more severe than she meant it to be.

Miss Cutter merely shook her head.

Theodora raised her hand and beckoned someone over. Marion recognized the gentleman as John Forrest, who was in charge of the Priory stables. He looked to be in his late fifties, a fine figure of a man, who did not seem to enjoy being singled out. All that changed when Theodora spoke to him. He nodded and smiled and acknowledged the applause of the spectators with a small bow.

Miss Cutter said, “He's been with Theodora since she was a child. Everything she knows about horses she got from him.”

Marion looked for Brand. He was still in the same spot, making no move to join the others in the field. All the same, she could tell that he was pleased with Andrew's success.

She felt suddenly irritated. He should have been one of the first to go forward and congratulate Andrew. It was obvious to her that it was Brand's approval Andrew wanted, not Theodora's or her estimable trainer's.

“Uh-oh,” twittered Miss Cutter. “I see Her Grace is leaving the field. I know she'll want me by her side. Now what was it I started to say to you? Oh, yes, now I remember.” The haze in her pale eyes cleared to reveal a lively curiosity. “Never let the sun go down on your wrath. That's my advice to you, Marion.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You and Brand? Everyone can see you've had a spat. Phoebe told me—”

“Phoebe!” Marion was taken aback.

“Oh, dear, I've said too much.”

“No, indeed! I think Phoebe has said too much!”

Marion checked her strong feelings. Miss Cutter was beginning to look alarmed, and really, she was a harmless old biddy who had spoken without thinking. It was unkind to lose patience with her.

“Trust me, Miss Cutter,” she said with a smile. “There is nothing between Mr. Hamilton and me.”

Miss Cutter nodded and smiled. “Shall we see you at the Priory for Her Grace's champagne supper?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

She waited until Miss Cutter had joined the dowager's party before she stalked off to find Phoebe.

Phoebe was in the grand marquee, resting on the benches that were set out for foot-weary visitors. She had enjoyed herself immensely. Flora was the best friend she had ever had. There was one small problem that took the gloss off her happiness. Flora could not sit still for two minutes together, and Phoebe needed to rest her weak leg.

Not that Flora was aware of it, because Phoebe had never told her. In Flora's eyes, she was just an ordinary girl, not an invalid who had to be coddled. The result was, Phoebe had become adept at finding things for them to do sitting down. Not for long, of course, because she liked to be up and doing, too, but just long enough to catch her breath and rest her leg.

Spying on the Gypsies had been her suggestion. That had proved to be a monumental bore because Madame Zelda, the fortune-teller, told all her customers the same fortune: A dark, handsome stranger was going to come into their lives. They knew this because after their own fortunes had been told—at sixpence apiece, no less!—she and Flora had loitered at the back of Madame Zelda's tent and eavesdropped.

And she'd so hoped that the dark, handsome stranger would turn out to be a stray dog that Marion would let her keep.

After that, they'd tramped around for a bit, enjoying the music and the dancers, and had ended up here for a refreshing glass of lemonade. Flora had told her not to move, that she'd be back in a minute, and Phoebe had not argued the point. Now she felt rested and ready for anything.

She waved to Flora when she saw her at the entrance.

Flora was wearing a big straw hat to keep the sun off her face so that she wouldn't get any more freckles. It didn't seem to be working, and Phoebe didn't know why Flora bothered. She liked freckles.

As she sat down, Flora said, “Look what I found, Phoebe.” She looked around furtively to make sure that no one was watching them, then opened a worn leather satchel and withdrew a small wooden box, which she set on the bench between them.

“What is it?” asked Phoebe, reaching for the box.

Flora put both hands on the flat of the box to prevent Phoebe opening it. “First, you must promise solemnly never to tell anyone about this box and what I'm going to show you.”

“I swear on my honor,” vowed Phoebe reverently.

Flora removed her hands and Phoebe opened the box. She found a gentleman's monogrammed handkerchief with the initials
R.L.F.,
a receipt for a gentleman's hat made out to Lord Robert FitzAlan, a button, and other bits and pieces that were not very interesting, except for a few notes and letters. They looked and smelled old, as did everything else in the box, and she wrinkled her nose as she spread open one of the notes.

“What does it say?” asked Flora in hushed tones.

Phoebe looked up at her friend. “Haven't you read it?”

When color started to run under Flora's delicate skin, Phoebe understood the reason not only for Flora's embarrassment but for showing her the letters as well.

Flora could not read.

“Lots of people can't read,” said Phoebe emphatically, “especially girls. There's no shame in it. I'll teach you how if you like.”

Flora was looking at the box. “I know my letters, but not all words sound the way they look.”

“No, indeed,” replied Phoebe. “And I'm not sure I know all the words here. Some of them are very long.”

Brows knit together, she read slowly.

 

 

She looked up. “Flora, this letter belongs to my Aunt Edwina. Where did you get it?”

“I was sure it was a love letter,” said Flora.

“A love letter?” Phoebe was startled. “To Aunt Edwina from Lord Robert? Don't be daft!”

Flora's answer was to point to the lid of the box. The lettering was faint but still legible:
H.G.

“Hannah,” breathed out Phoebe. She looked at her friend. “This letter belongs to my family. Hannah was my aunt, too.”