The Marriage Lesson (13 page)

At the moment, she chatted with Pennington alone and was quite enjoying their conversation. He was far more intelligent than she’d expected, even if his views seemed rather at odds with his nature. Stuffy, even. Was she doomed to only meet rakes who were stuffy beneath their disreputable veneer? A
respectable rake,
Thomas had called himself. She smiled.

“I was not aware I was that amusing,” Pennington said.

“Nonsense, my lord. I have no doubt you are well aware of your ability to amuse, and anything else.”

He stared for a moment, then laughed. “And you, my dear lady, are delightful.”

“You two are having entirely too much fun. May I?” Berkley pulled up a chair and plopped into it without waiting for an answer. “It’s far too crowded near your sisters. I can’t get so much as a word in on my own behalf, so I thought I’d join you.”

“My lord, you will quite turn my head with such compliments,” she said wryly.

Berkley’s eyes widened. “Oh, I daresay, I didn’t mean . . .  that is, I never intended . . .  blast it all.” He huffed. “It’s your own fault, you know. Yours and his.”

“Indeed?” Pennington lifted a disinterested brow. “And how is it my fault or the fault of this lovely lady?”

She traded an amused glance with Pennington. “And what would you suggest we talk about?”

“Well, you know. What everyone else is talking about. Nothing of significance, really. Gossip more than anything, I suppose.” He thought for a moment, then brightened. “I say, I know something.”

“I hazard to guess,” Pennington said.

“I read the most intriguing thing today.” Berkley’s voice rang with eagerness. “I can’t remember the name of it, but it was most amusing and a touch wicked and it purports to be true. What was it?” His brows drew together.

“So the amusing aspect was in the content and not that you actually read something?” Pennington asked.

Marianne laughed. The insults between the two had an effortless feel and she suspected they were indeed good friends.

Berkley narrowed his eyes and sat a little straighter. “I’ll have you know I read a great deal. The
Times,
of course, and the
Observer
and the
Messenger
—”

“The
Messenger
?” Marianne said. “What
Messenger
?”

“
Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger
. It’s extremely entertaining.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. That’s where I read it.”

“Where you read what?” Pennington’s tone was mild, as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

Marianne held her breath.

“The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London,”
Berkley said with a flourish.

Berkley nodded. “That’s what it’s called, and it certainly sounds true. Today’s was the first installment. It’s about an orphan who comes to London.”

“I can’t imagine the activities of an orphan, absolutely true or otherwise, to be of any interest,” Pennington said.

“This isn’t just any orphan.” Berkley leaned closer. “This is a beautiful bit of baggage in the guardianship of a sinister lord.”

“How do you know she’s beautiful?” Marianne said without thinking.

“How do you know he’s sinister?” Pennington asked at the same time.

“She writes the stories herself,” Berkley said. “Letters to a cousin—”

“Do orphans have cousins?” Pennington murmured.

Berkley ignored him. “You can tell what she’s like from her writing.” He nodded sagely. “She’s a tiny bit of a thing and as innocent as the day she was born.”

“You can tell all that?” Pennington scoffed. “It’s been my experience that there is typically a great discrepancy between beautiful women on paper and beautiful women in person.”

“Not this time,” Berkley said staunchly.

As much as Marianne wished to steer the subject to something much safer, she wanted more to hear everything Berkley thought about the
Adventures
. She forced a casual note to her voice. “Why do you say her guardian is sinister?”

“Does it matter?” Marianne said. “I mean, if the story itself is interesting—”

“Of course it matters.” Indignation colored his voice. “It’s the honorable thing to do in a case like this.”

Marianne pressed on. “What if she doesn’t wish to marry?”

Berkley looked at her in amazement. “All women want to marry. It’s what women do.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Pennington cut her off, showing interest for the first time. “What makes you think he’ll ruin her? Didn’t you say this was just the first installment?”

“I can tell from the way he looks at her.” Berkley sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Mark my words, Lord W will have his way with her.”

“Lord W?” Pennington grinned. “Who is Lord W?”

Berkley shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. The thing is written anonymously.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out.” Pennington drew his brows together thoughtfully. “If it is true, of course.”

“Oh, it’s true,” Berkley said.

“Absolutely true,” Marianne said under her breath.

“After all,” Pennington continued, “how many Lord W’s could there be with sweet young innocents in their care?”

Berkley snorted. “Not bloody likely.”

Pennington studied her curiously but directed his words to his friend. “Why not?”

“Because the country miss has no sisters.” Berkley grinned with triumph. “Besides, Helmsley would never—”

“Helmsley would never what?”

Marianne glanced up. Thomas stood looking down at them with a polite smile. She’d been too absorbed in the conversation to notice his arrival.

“Berkley was about to give you a great deal of credit.” Pennington’s mild tone belied the assessing look in his eye. “He doesn’t believe you would ruin an innocent in your keeping.”

Surprise crossed Thomas’s face. “Thank you, Berkley. I never knew you thought so highly of me.”

“I don’t.” Berkley laughed. “I just don’t think you are Lord W, that’s all.”

Thomas frowned. “Who is Lord W?”

“Precisely what we are speculating on,” Pennington said. “He is the unknown lord in the anonymous but purportedly absolutely true adventures of a beautiful orphan in London. It’s a story running in
Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger
.”

“Never heard of it.” Thomas shrugged in dismissal.

“I’d wager you will.” Berkley chuckled. “I’d bet my entire fortune the whole city will be talking about
The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss
in no time.”

“Why?” Marianne asked.

“Because, my dear”—Pennington cast her a knowing smile—“at that point we won’t be the only ones curious as to the identity of Lord W and his country miss.”

Would this afternoon ever end? Thomas leaned idly on the mantel and tried not to glare at the assembly that had invaded his home. Home? Hah! At the moment the parlor looked more like a mad flower vendor had abandoned his wares. Had every man at last night’s ball sent flowers to the Shelton sisters? It certainly appeared so. Not that he wouldn’t have done the same thing if an intriguing young woman had caught his eye. He should be pleased at the attention they were receiving. With luck, it brought them one step closer to the altar. Then why was it all so bloody annoying?

Jocelyn and Becky were both surrounded by potential suitors. Of course, they would refuse to wed until their older sister did. And as for that sister . . . 

He scowled in Marianne’s direction. She was still chatting with Pennington and Berkley, and from the looks of it having rather a good time. Was she that taken with the likes of men like them? Admittedly, he had always enjoyed their company, but that was entirely different. Men expected loyalty and companionship from one another and wanted little else. Thomas had few doubts what these two wanted from any woman, and Marianne was no exception.

Where were the men he’d deemed suitable? Not a one of those he had so painstakingly selected and introduced to Marianne had deigned to call on her. Perhaps they were just biding their time. Waiting for the opportune moment. His scowl deepened. If one of them didn’t move quickly, that moment would slip by and Marianne would be off
experiencing life
with Pennington or Berkley or someone else equally unacceptable.

Marianne glanced up and her gaze met his. He glared back and she laughed. The blasted woman laughed! She murmured something to Pennington and Berkley and all three got to their feet. Marianne headed toward him.

What did she want with him now?

“Delightful afternoon, don’t you think so, my lord?” Amusement colored her voice.

“Not in the least.” He narrowed his eyes. “My home is cluttered with flowers and”—he waved at the gathering—“crowded with vagrants.”

“I’d scarce call them vagrants.” She leaned closer in a confidential manner. “Now smile, or everyone will think you’re quite inhospitable and in an extremely disagreeable mood.”

“I prefer to be inhospitable and I am in a disagreeable mood,” he muttered but adopted a stiff smile nonetheless.

“Oh, that’s much better. You look positively jovial.”

She laughed. “What promise is that?”

“You promised to cooperate in my efforts to find you a husband.”

“And I’ve lived up to it.”

“Obviously not well enough.” He sniffed. “Not a single man here is one I consider appropriate for you.” He knew how, well, stuffy he sounded, but he didn’t care.

A spark flared in her brown eyes. “What is it, Thomas?” she said in a low voice for him alone to hear. “Was I not charming enough? Did I not I flirt enough? Or hang on every uttered male word as if it were pure poetry? I’ll have you know”—she gestured at the room—“a good portion of these flowers were addressed to me. Several from some of the very gentlemen who are here now.”

“Pennington and Berkley, no doubt.”

“Among others.” She glared up at him. “At any rate, I’d say that indicates cooperation.”

“Well, I do not. I’d say . . .  I think . . .  or rather it . . . ”

“You’re sputtering, and it’s not nearly as charming as I had once thought.” She swept off to join the others.

He stared after her and struggled to keep what passed for a smile on his face. By God, he’d get her wed or die trying.

“You do not appear to be enjoying yourself, my lord.” Lady Louella joined him.

He’d been too intent on Marianne to notice the older lady’s approach. “On the contrary. I—”

She lifted a brow.

He chuckled. “Very well. You have seen through me.”

Without thinking his gaze slipped to Marianne. “I am simply not pleased by the caliber of gentlemen who have seen fit to call.”

“Nonsense, my lord. They are all from respectable families and, unless I am mistaken, are for the most part financially sound.” She studied the crowd for a moment. “I understood, as well, most of them are companions of yours.”

“And in that lies the problem.” He nodded toward a gentleman beside Jocelyn. “Lord Markworth drinks entirely too much.”

“As do you.”

He ignored her, warming to this litany of his friends’ sins. “And Lord Kenniston is passionate about racing his phaeton when any opportunity arises.”

“And you do not?”

“Pennington’s and Berkley’s escapades are legendary.”

“And yours are not?”

He glanced down his nose at her. “My dear lady, I am not immune to your point. I am exactly like this lot.”

“Isn’t this a case, then, of the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Admittedly, I am a pot.” He blew a frustrated breath. “However, it is for that very reason that I know precisely what these kettles are all about.”

“You do not give them, or yourself, enough credit.”

She studied him for a long moment, as if balancing his deficits against his attributes. She nodded slowly. “Yes, Lord Helmsley, I believe I would.”

“Why?”

“Any number of reasons.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “You come from a good family. You have a respectable title and the finances to assure they would want for nothing.”

“I sound too good to be true.”

“I doubt that.”

“And what of affection? Love? Doesn’t that enter into it?”

“It’s been my experience that love is fleeting. My sister married for love, although, granted, a title and position came along with it.” She shifted her gaze to her nieces. “But their father was a very weak man, unable to live up to his responsibilities. Unable to live up to the expectations of that love and all that goes with it.”

He studied her curiously. “Have you ever been in love, my lady?”

Her forehead furrowed in a frown. “That, my boy, is an impertinent question and extremely personal.”

“Please except my apology. I had no intention—”

She waved aside his comment. “If I say no, then I am to be pitied for having lived my life without love. If I say I loved once and he died or, worse, left me, again I am to be pitied. I am satisfied with my life and have no desire for pity.”

“I didn’t mean—”