The Marriage Lesson (16 page)

He’d thought he wanted to find his own bride. Someone completely different from Marianne. Now he wondered if the unnamed paragon he’d set his sights on wasn’t as dull and boring as the gentlemen he’d pointed in Marianne’s direction. Would he find that perfect bride every bit as tedious as Marianne found the perfect matches he’d selected for her?

And he’d thought their late-night meetings and their lessons were to keep her out of the hands of less honorable men than he.

Was he wrong? About all of it?

Damn, his head was more and more muddled and she was the one who had muddled it.

He had no idea what she wanted now. Worse, he had no idea what he wanted either.

Marianne.

Thomas stood near the doors opened to Lady Cutshall’s terrace, one of the few spots where the air wasn’t stagnant, and engaged in amicable conversation with Pennington and Berkley. He divided his attention evenly between responding to their idle chatter and keeping an eye on Marianne.

Pennington said something about an ongoing dispute between two of the ton’s reigning hostesses. Thomas murmured a reply. Berkley heaved a heartfelt sigh.

As always, Marianne scarcely had a moment to herself. She was continually besieged by one extremely proper gentleman or another. All of them eminently suitable. All of them perfectly acceptable to Thomas. All of them quite dull and more than a little tedious.

He tried, and failed, to stifle a grin. Marianne skillfully fended off one eager suitor after another with a natural grace and easy manner. The discarded gentlemen probably didn’t even realize they’d been rejected. No wonder they didn’t stay away for long. He shouldn’t find it all so amusing—and wondered idly if perhaps he wouldn’t if any of the men had even the remotest chance of capturing her affection—but he couldn’t help himself.

Of course, Marianne’s attraction no doubt had as much to do with the benefits of an alliance with her as her charms. Thomas’s grin faded.

It was the height of stupidity to have sent those notes encouraging the attention of these men. What could he have been thinking? Or, indeed, was he thinking at all? If he hadn’t been so arrogant, he would have realized any match he thought was suitable wouldn’t appeal to Marianne. The men he’d so carefully selected hadn’t a prayer of winning her hand. His plan to find her a husband was doomed to failure from the beginning. Oddly enough, that no longer bothered him.

Pennington commented on a couple that had just stepped onto the terrace. Thomas responded absently. And Berkley sighed.

Thomas drew his brows together in mild concern. Berkley looked anything but happy. Thomas leaned toward Pennington. “What on earth is the matter with him?”

“He’s in love,” Pennington said with a resigned air.

Thomas lifted a brow. “Again?”

“For the last time,” Berkley said staunchly.

Thomas tried not to smile. He’d heard Berkley’s declarations of love on occasions too numerous to mention. And nearly all of them were for the last time. “And who is the lucky lady?”

Pennington and Berkley traded glances. “Well, I haven’t exactly met her yet.”

“He’s never seen her, either.” Pennington snorted. “He doesn’t even know her name.”

“No?” Thomas raised a brow. Even for Berkley, who routinely fell in love at the barest flutter of a fan, this was uncommon. “Then can you be sure her affections are not engaged elsewhere?”

“I’m sure,” Berkley said grimly.

Pennington rolled his eyes heavenward. “Have you by any chance read the
Adventures of a Country Miss in London
?”

“Who hasn’t?” These so-called adventures were the talk of the ton. Thomas had picked up
Cadwallender’s
out of mild curiosity but had found his attention caught by the amusing and somewhat provocative stories. Now he, too, followed the weekly installments as well as the ongoing speculation as to the true identity of the innocent miss and the mysterious Lord W. “There are wages in every betting book in every club in London as to when Lord W will have his way with her.”

Berkley’s expression darkened. “He bloody well better leave her alone.”

“Come, now, Berkley, admit it. It’s most entertaining.” Thomas laughed. “The suspense of not knowing if, or more likely when, the wicked lord will ruin his sweet young charge is half the fun.”

“Not for me.” Berkley’s voice was grim.

Thomas studied him curiously. “Come, now, old man, it’s nothing more than an amusing story. It’s obviously fiction.”

“You believe everything you read?” Thomas said slowly.

“He always has and I daresay he always will. I’ve tried to tell him, but he refuses to listen to me.” It was Pennington’s turn to heave a long-suffering sigh. “I always knew it would mean trouble someday.”

“Trouble?” Thomas said in confusion.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Pennington leaned close to Thomas as if he were about to impart a state secret. “The last great love of my friend’s life is the country miss.”

“The country miss?” Thomas shook his head, puzzled, then abruptly realized exactly what Pennington was saying. Surely he wasn’t serious. “The country miss of the infamous
Absolutely True Adventures?
”

“None other,” Pennington said.

Berkley’s face was a picture of the misery of unrequited love.

Thomas choked back a laugh. It would not do to show amusement; his friend’s torment was all too apparent. Still, it wasn’t easy to maintain a straight face. Thomas’s words were strangled and a tad higher-pitched than normal. “Berkley. Er, Reginald.” He glanced at Pennington for help.

Pennington raised his glass in resignation and downed the last of his champagne.

“A gnome, actually,” Pennington murmured.

“She’s not a gnome,” Berkley said indignantly.

“Well, there’s a gnome who works at Cadwallender’s.” Pennington craned his neck, peered across the room, then crooked a finger to summon a waiter. “Beastly, cranky old goat.”

“He’s not the country miss,” Berkley said under his breath.

“You’ve been to see Cadwallender, then?” Thomas asked.

“Twice.” A waiter bearing a tray of champagne stopped and Pennington exchanged his empty glass for a full one. “Berkley insisted.”

Berkley took a glass and Thomas followed suit. “And did you discover she is nothing more than the figment of an overstimulated imagination?”

“We discovered nothing. Cadwallender wasn’t there.” Pennington shrugged. “And the gnome was reticent to tell us much of anything.”

“She’s not a figment.” Berkley drained his glass. “And I shall not rest until I find her.” He turned on his heel and stalked off through the open door and into the night.

Thomas stared after him. “I gather he has no intention of giving up.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Perhaps therein lies the secret.” Pennington sipped thoughtfully. “I have known Berkley most of my life, and while it may not appear so, he has a distinctly romantic nature. I think, in his mind’s eye, he sees himself as a knight on a white charger rescuing fair damsels in distress.”

“Yes, well, there’s something to be said for damsels who need rescuing.” Thomas’s gaze strayed back to Marianne. She would never need rescuing. And wasn’t there something to be said for that as well?

“While I personally have no desire to rescue anyone, I find myself rather intrigued by the question of who this young woman is.”

Thomas studied him. “So you think she’s real?”

“I’m not sure why, but I do indeed. Perhaps I’ve simply listened to Berkley for too long.” He smiled ruefully. “Or perhaps I may well be a bit of a romantic myself. Or perhaps it’s the mystery that intrigues me.” Pennington’s gaze swept the ballroom. “She could be anyone, you know. With just the twist of a fact here and the bend of a truth there, many of these young women in attendance tonight could be the lady in question.”

“Come, now, Pennington, that’s absurd.”

“Is it?” Pennington nodded at Marianne, who was about to take her place for a country dance. “Lady Marianne herself suggested she might be the country miss.”

Thomas laughed. “And would that then make me the lascivious Lord W?”

Thomas started. “Surely you aren’t serious.”

“Probably not.” Pennington’s gaze shifted back to Marianne. “Besides, it would break Berkley’s heart. He is determined to save her and I suspect Lady Marianne would never tolerate rescuing.”

Or matchmaking.
Thomas ignored a twinge of guilt. “I pity the man who tries.” He raised his glass in a toast. “So what’s the next step for our besotted knight-errant?”

“He still wants to talk to Cadwallender. I expect we’ll go back to his shop until we find him in. In the meantime, he is looking into every lord in London with a
W
in his name.” Pennington chuckled. “I anticipate he’ll move into the
V
’s next.”

“Regardless of the outcome, it does sound like an amusing venture.” Thomas chuckled. “Please keep me apprised as to his progress. I’m as curious as anyone to discover the identity of the country miss. However, I must admit I do not share your conviction that she does in fact exist.”

“We shall see, Helmsley. We shall see.”

“I can certainly understand your point,” Marianne murmured and tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand, which would be a great deal easier if it was even mildly interesting.

“My lady, I have a matter of some importance to discuss.” He took her arm and tucked it in his elbow. He stared up at her with a gaze that could only be called adoring. It was distinctly disquieting. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me to a place a bit more private? Perhaps a parlor?” He attempted to steer her toward the ballroom doors.

Lord Moxley was several inches shorter than she and, given the plumpness of his form, obviously did not partake of regular exercise. Marianne was confident she could fend him off, but she had no desire to let things progress to that point. She would prefer to escape his presence completely. “My lord, that wouldn’t be at all proper.” Deftly, she guided him toward the open doors to the terrace. “However, I should enjoy a refreshing breath of air.” There were any number of people on the terrace and as long as they stayed in the lit areas there should be no problem.

In spite of her attitude about her reputation, if she were to be compromised she would prefer it to be by a man of her own height, one whose stature was significantly greater than his girth.

She noted Thomas lounging in another ballroom doorway, watching their departure. Good. Even if Lord Moxley wasn’t the type of man she’d be at all interested in, it did no harm to allow Thomas to think she enjoyed the man’s company. Short and stout and boring though he may be. Even so, Thomas’s smile was a bit too amused, as if he knew full well short, stout and boring did not appeal to her.

“My lady.” He took her hand and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Marianne. I should like . . .  that is, I would be delighted . . .  or rather . . . ” He drew a deep breath. “Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

“What?” She snatched her hand from his. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Absurd?” His face fell.

At once she regretted her words. He was a nice enough man, even if he wasn’t for her. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean
absurd
. You simply caught me by surprise.”

“I do apologize.” His expression brightened and he stepped closer. “I know I should be asking your brother for your hand, but as he is not here, I thought I would settle everything between us and then speak to Lord Helmsley.”

She moved back. “Lord Helmsley has nothing to say about it. This is my decision and I scarcely think we’ve known each other long enough to even consider marriage.”

“That is absurd.” Moxley snorted. “Most couples of my acquaintance don’t know each other well at all until after they’re wed.” Again he stepped closer.

“My lord.” She thrust out her hand to stop him. The only way to dissuade him was obviously with the truth. “I am flattered by your offer, but I must decline. You see, I have no intention of marrying.”