The Marriage Lesson (27 page)

“Oh, I daresay I can bravely carry on.” He kissed the side of her neck. “I am wounded, not dead.”

“I’m well aware of that.” A delightful thrill shivered through her. Perhaps he could carry on.

“However, I have heard of people who have perished from bee stings.” His lips murmured against the curve between neck and shoulder, the length of his body pressed against her. “If I were dying, you would have to marry me.”

“Would I?”

“Indeed. It would be the least you could do for a dying man.”

“However, you are very much alive.” And obviously growing more alive by the moment. She laughed. “I suspect you have many years ahead of you.”

“With you?” His tone was abruptly serious. The question hung in the air.

Yes, with me. Only and always with me.
She wanted to say the words aloud. Longed to say exactly how she felt but the words wouldn’t come. If he loved her, she wouldn’t hesitate for so much as a moment. But honor alone prompted his insistence on marriage. And she refused to build a lifetime from nothing more than obligation. At once the lightness of her mood vanished.

She ignored his question, untangled herself from his arms and stepped away, doing her best to fasten her dress as securely as possible without assistance. “You’re not dying. However, this particular adventure is at an end.”

“Untimely,” he muttered.

“If you insist. However, this is not the outcome I had in mind.” He heaved a resigned sigh, picked up his shirt and put it on. “For one thing, you haven’t agreed to marry me. For another—”

“For another, you have a bit of a problem.”

“Aside from the fact that I wish to marry you and you want nothing of the sort?” He huffed in frustration. “I am well aware of that problem.”

“You have a more immediate difficulty. How do you plan to get back to the house?”

His brows pulled together quizzically. “The same way I came.”

“Let me rephrase that.” She tried not to smile. “How will you get your breeches on?”

He stared in confusion then grimaced. “Damnation, it’s going to hurt like hell.”

“I imagine it will.”

He looked more vexed at the idea than anything else but just the thought of his forcing his breeches on over his wounds . . .  she winced. “Perhaps I should go ahead and—”

“Why won’t you marry me?” he said abruptly.

“We’ve been over this again and again. I do not wish to marry and I’m not the type of woman you want.”

“I want you.”

“And?” She couldn’t hide the note of hope in her voice.

“And . . .  what?” Frustration rang in his voice.

“Marianne.” His shocked voice twisted something inside her. “You can’t possibly—”

“I can, Thomas. And I shall. It’s what I have always wanted and nothing has happened to change my mind.” She drew a deep breath, pulled open the gate and glanced back at him. “I shall miss you.”

She stepped into the passageway.

“Surely you’re not serious? How can you leave now?” he called after her. “Marianne!”

She ignored him, his voice fading with every step.

Marianne made her way back though the maze with surprisingly few false turns. Her success due perhaps to the fact that her mind was occupied with a far more important puzzle.

It was time to accept the reality of her feelings. Whether she liked it or not, she wanted nothing more than to be Thomas’s wife. For that she’d give up the life she’d always dreamed of and give it up gladly. And the longer she was with him, the more difficult it was to refuse him.

She found the entry to maze, poked her head out cautiously and glanced around. Thomas was right: There was no one about. She drew a relieved breath and started toward the hall.

But to agree to marry him without his love would be a betrayal of her very soul. Of who she was.

She’d give up her dreams for him and she wanted only one thing in return.

The one thing he apparently could not give her.

Blasted woman. Thomas stared after her. What did she want from him? He was giving her the best adventures he could come up with. Granted, they no doubt paled in comparison with the stories she’d grown up with, but damnation, he was doing his best. Didn’t that count for something?

He gingerly pulled on his breeches, yelping now and again with the pain of the fabric rubbing across his tender buttocks. He left the breeches loose, with his long shirt hanging free to cover the fact. It would be dark in another few minutes and he hoped he could make his way back to the house unnoticed.

He’d gone to far greater lengths for her than he’d ever so much as considered with another female. And he’d never before asked any woman to be his wife. But apparently that wasn’t enough. He ran his hand through his hair and started to pace. Pain shot through him and he groaned. Apparently pacing was out. He dared not attempt to sit.

And worse, he could no longer even conceive of marrying anyone but her. When he looked at his life stretching out before him, it was with Marianne at the center. By his side, bearing his children, growing old with him.

Admittedly the confidence he’d felt when he’d first begun his efforts to win her hand had faded. But he’d no sooner quit than he’d abandon his poetry. Bad as it may be, he’d never give up writing. And he’d never give up Marianne. Whether she wanted him or not.

It was no longer a question of obligation or honor. It was a quest. A mission, driving and unrelenting. He’d pursue her to the ends of the earth, if need be. For the rest of his days, if he had to. Until she wed him or they were both dead in their graves.

He brushed aside the thought that one more adventure could very well kill him.

She’d already met any number of Effingtons—two sets of aunts and uncles and numerous cousins. And of course the dowager duchess herself, the matriarch of the Effington family.

At the moment the dowager sat at one end of the ballroom, in a small recessed alcove, engaged in conversation with Aunt Louella as well as Thomas’s aunts, the Ladies Edward and William. Yet even now, as Marianne moved effortlessly through the steps of a waltz in Pennington’s arms, she had the distinctly uneasy feeling that the dowager was watching her every move.

“You seem somewhat pensive tonight,” Pennington said when the music ended. “Is something amiss?”

Yes, my lord, I am in love with a man who does not love me and I’m really rather miserable.

“Not at all,” she lied, favoring him with a lighthearted smile. “It is a lovely evening, is it not?”

His smile matched hers. “Well said, my dear, but I don’t believe you for a moment.”

“It
is
a lovely evening.”

“Indeed it is. However, what preys on your mind has nothing whatsoever to do with the merits of the night.” He studied her carefully. “This is our second dance together and you have scarce said more than three words to me. It is most unusual.”

She laughed. “You have my apologies. However, I would think you’d be delighted to have me keep silent for once.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” She had, of course, and had taken great pains not to look at him.

“Indeed,” he murmured and she realized he didn’t believe her now, either. “Although I have noticed Helmsley’s attention is no more apparent than Berkley’s.”

“Berkley?” She widened her eyes in surprise. She’d danced with him but hadn’t noted anything out of the ordinary. Still, she’d been preoccupied.

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing, really.” She took a sip and thought for a moment. “Oh, I did encourage him to give up his mad search for this unknown woman he’s apparently quite taken with and turn his attentions towards someone who might return his affections.”

“That explains it, then,” he said thoughtfully.

She frowned. “Explains what?”

“The look in his eye.” Pennington’s gaze shifted to a point behind her. “You’ll see it yourself in a moment.”

She turned to see Berkley approaching with a determined step. Unease stabbed her. “Surely you don’t think he . . .  I mean, he doesn’t—”

“Surely I do, and I am fairly certain he does,” Pennington said wryly.

“Good Lord,” she said under her breath and quickly swallowed the last of her wine.

“Pennington.” Berkley nodded. “Lady Marianne, I believe this next dance is ours.”

“I fear not, my lord,” a feminine voice sounded and she turned. Ladies William and Edward stood behind her.

“I . . .  er . . . ” Berkley’s gaze jumped from Lady Edward to Marianne and back. “Delighted, I’m sure,” he said, vainly trying to hide his disappointment. He held out his arm and led Lady Edward to the dance floor.

Pennington snorted. “Well done.”

“I am glad to find you so appreciative,” Lady William said. “As your next dance belongs to me.”

Pennington laughed and swept a bow. “At your service.”

Lady William leaned toward Marianne and spoke in a low voice. “Her Grace requests that you join her.”

“Why?” Marianne blurted, then cringed.

Lady William laughed softly. “My dear, she is not nearly as formidable as you may think. You have nothing to fear.”

“No doubt,” Marianne said weakly, her stomach churning with apprehension.

Lady William winked, then turned back to Pennington to accompany him to the floor. Marianne drew a breath for courage and walked the endless distance across the room to the dowager. Or to her fate.

“My dear girl,” the dowager said with a smile and waved at the chair beside her. “Please join me.”

“Your Grace.” Marianne bobbed a quick curtsy and sat in the designated seat, noticing Aunt Louella had vanished.

“I’ve sent your aunt off to flirt with an old friend of mine.”

“I didn’t know Aunt Louella knew how to flirt,” Marianne said without thinking.

“Your sisters are quite charming. They seem to be having a lovely time this evening. However”—the dowager nodded at a point across the room—“Thomas does not appear to be enjoying himself.”

Marianne followed her gaze. Thomas stood off to one side, a glass in his hand, a noncommittal expression on his face. A casual observer would not have noticed anything amiss, but there was a look in his eye that Marianne, and apparently his grandmother, could not fail to see. She sighed to herself.

“Do you plan on marrying my grandson?”

Marianne’s gaze jerked to meet hers. “I . . . ” She shook her head firmly. “No.”

The dowager frowned. “Why on earth not?”

“I don’t wish to marry anyone. Besides, we don’t suit.” Even as she said the words, she knew they were inadequate.

“Piffle.” The old woman dismissed her comment with a wave of her hand.

“Piffle?” It sounded so peculiar coming from someone else.

“My dear young woman, I have been around this earth long enough to know when people suit and when they do not.” She considered Marianne for a long moment as if determining just how suitable a match she was, and Marianne resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. “Did you know he writes poetry?”

“Not many do. It is a closely guarded secret. I am surprised and rather pleased that he has shared it with you.” The dowager studied her thoughtfully then sighed. “However, I suppose that explains why you would prefer not to marry him. A man who writes that poorly . . . ” She shook her head.

Marianne stared, shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”

“I can say it because it’s true. I love the boy dearly, but . . . ” She leaned toward Marianne. “Have you actually read his work?”

“I have.”

“Carefully? Each and every word?”

Marianne nodded. “Of course.”

“It reeks.” The dowager pressed her lips together and settled back in her chair.

“It does not.” Indignation swelled within her. “Admittedly, it needs some work. Polishing, perhaps—”

“Polishing?” The elderly woman snorted.

“But with a bit of effort it could be improved and really become—”

“Quite, quite awful.”

“Not at all.” How could the lady say such a thing about her own grandson? “I grant you the words are not particularly well chosen on occasion, nor do they always rhyme, and indeed, now and again, he has a tendency to make one up, but they are, well . . . ” She searched for the right words. “Fervent. Intense. Passionate.