Much Ado About You

by Eloisa James

  Lady Griselda gave her a sympathetic smile from the opposite divan. “I know that marriage must be the very last thing on your mind,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” Tess said gratefully.

  But Griselda proved herself a traitor by saying, “I would never push such a thing upon you, Tess darling, but truly we must move quickly to protect Annabel’s reputation. Nothing can be more fatal than if the ton gained the impression that you were four Scottish hoydens. I’m afraid that there is a lamentable misunderstanding about the morals of women from northern climates.”

  Tess frowned. She saw no reason to kowtow to the prejudices of Londoners. But Griselda wasn’t finished.

  “I am going to speak quite, quite freely,” Griselda said, with all the gentle force of an advancing army. “Annabel is lovely. Truly lovely. She can marry whom she pleases. But she does not present herself as a young lady of utmost propriety, if I may be frank.”

  Tess nodded, wondering what on earth this had to do with marriage to Griselda’s brother.

  “It would be fatal,” Griselda said, “if those in London were to decide that Annabel was cut from the same cloth as her sister Imogen. And if it gets about that you were all here, under Rafe’s dubious chaperonage for more than a day or so, Annabel’s reputation will be ruined. I am also worried that Lady Clarice’s wrath will lead her to say imprudent things of the family.”

  Tess stared at her. On Griselda’s face was the force of utter conviction.

  She rose from her seat, saying, “Annabel’s chances of an excellent marriage will be ruined, and I promise you that with all my years in London behind me. Oh, she will marry. But her suitors will not be of a caliber of man whom I would wish for her. But I shall leave the two of you to decide this business between you. Whatever you decide, Tess, I shall do my very best to protect the three of you from the high sticklers.” And with that she left the room with a waggle of her fingers and a last encouraging smile for her brother.

  “Rafe is doing his best as a guardian,” Mayne said. He was still holding Tess’s hand. “But he doesn’t go into society much.”

  Tess knew that. Her darling guardian drank too much and cared too little to cut a figure in society.

  “He won’t be a help to Annabel and Josie,” Mayne said quietly. “But I can be such a help, Tess, if you wish. Should you appear in two or three days as the Countess of Mayne, the ton will follow your lead without hesitation. Grissie thinks it would be much better if it appeared that we were already married by the time your sister eloped.”

  Tess took a deep breath. “You are not marrying me for love, Lord Mayne. Nor—as far as I see—due to any overwhelming feeling of a less…less proper nature.” She could feel color rising into her cheeks.

  “Now that’s not true,” Mayne said. There was a hint of wicked laughter in his eyes, and his fingers tightened on hers. “I feel quite improperly toward you.”

  Goodness, but he was attractive when he wasn’t hedging, when he was being honest. “Are you not disturbed by the fact that we do not feel warmer emotions for each other?” she asked him.

  “I would be disturbed if we did. In my estimation, marriages based on anything other than mutual respect and a genuine affection for each other are often disastrous. I do not wish for a tempestuous marriage, although I am quite certain that there will be sufficient warmth between us.”

  “And in your estimation, tempests must accompany love,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Only the foolish, romantic sort of love,” he answered. “I think it would be no hardship at all to care for you deeply, Tess. And I most gravely hope that we will both feel that emotion for the other. But I would never marry when I was under the grip of the sort of fever that passes for romantic love. Never.”

  Tess could see that he meant it. “Why are you so cynical?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “To be utterly frank, I have slept with many wives who entered their marriages in a burst of rosy enthusiasm. I made up my mind years ago that when I chose to marry, it would not be due to a heady emotion that fades in days or weeks. I would like to have children, and have those children raised by parents who were not engaged in constant battles.”

  “Your parents?” she asked.

  “A warring duo,” he acknowledged, with a twist of his lips.

  Tess was silent. “I know very little about constructing good marriages,” she said. “My mother died many years ago, and my father never showed the slightest interest in taking another spouse.”

  “We can find our way together,” Mayne said. “If you are amenable, my uncle, the bishop, could arrive this evening. I sent off a message at first dawn.”

  “So soon?” Tess asked faintly.

  His fingers tightened on hers again. “I loathe the idea that I am rushing you into this occasion. But if you still wish to marry me, I think we could help your sisters in the best possible fashion by marrying with expediency. If you don’t wish to marry me, the situation is quite different.”

  The question in his eyes startled Tess.

  “Mr. Felton has not returned,” she said, grasping at straws. “What if he brings Imogen back with him? What if he managed to stop the elopement altogether?”

  “The news will leak out. Elopements are like murders; they refuse to stay buried. Imogen is ruined, no matter whether Lucius somehow manages to wrench her away from Maitland or not. ’Twould be better for her now if Lucius didn’t manage to catch her.”

  “How can you say that!” Tess cried. “Maitland is a fool!”

  “He’s not quite so bad as that,” Mayne said. “Is it worse for her never to marry, and be bundled away in the country, or marry the man she loves?”

  Tess said nothing, and he followed up his advantage. “For she does love him, does she not? I saw her looking at him, and a clearer case of calf-love I never saw.”

  “I cannot like it,” Tess said, wringing her hands.

  “The important thing is that we make it possible for your other sisters to marry men who do not share Maitland’s uncertain qualities.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Good,” Mayne said promptly. “Then we shall be married first thing in the morning. My uncle has many responsibilities and will make only a short stay with us.”

  “Tomorrow morning? And if—if Mr. Felton has not returned with—”

  “As I said, that is irrelevant,” Mayne said with a hint of impatience.

  “Yes, of course,” Tess said.

  “You will make me the happiest of men.” He leaned toward her and brushed his mouth against hers. As kisses go, it was light, almost nonchalant.

  Quite pleasant.

  Chapter

  23

  Later that evening

  “I’ll tell you what pleasure is,” the Bishop of Rochester said jovially. “Pleasure is seeing this rapscallion nephew of mine nicely espoused, and to a lovely woman like yourself, m’dear! This is a true pleasure.”

  Tess tried to smile at him, but she was feeling queasy, and smiles seemed to die in her cheeks before she moved her lips. When Mayne spoke to her in that forthright manner as he had used when proposing, she felt she could marry him, and even without hesitation. But when he was full of flummery and manners, as he had been all afternoon, she felt increasing waves of panic. He was always putting her hand to his lips or whispering compliments to her confidentially. It was wearing merely to watch him. How could she live with such a man for years?

  Annabel had a gossip sheet that Lady Griselda had received that morning, and was asking Mayne about names that appeared in its columns.

  “And Lady C—” she asked, giggling.

  “Now how would I know that? Lady Colterer, perhaps. Or Lady Cristleham.”

  “Whoever she is,” Annabel gurgled, “she has been foolish enough to run away with a Frenchman.”

  “Ah, well,” Mayne said with satisfaction, “that must be Lady Cristleham. Daughter of a duke, married to a baron, and been going to the dogs ever since her debut.
”

  “Never say so!” Annabel said, fascinated. “Do you know simply everyone, Lord Mayne? What of this Portuguese nobleman?”

  Lucius strode into the room. Tess turned toward him with a little cry—but he shook his head. Mayne gave her a sympathetic look, and then turned back to the gossip sheet.

  “I managed to catch them,” Lucius was telling Rafe.

  Up close, she could see that he was far from his composed, elegant self. There was dust in the creases of his cloak. He looked utterly exhausted, as if he’d driven all night without pause.

  “You must forgive me for entering the room in all my dirt,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.

  “You caught them?” Annabel repeated.

  “You must have ridden like the very wind,” Rafe said. “How the devil did you do it?”

  “I went cross-country part of the way,” Lucius said. “I thought I’d know what he would do, you see. Maitland is fast, but he’s predictable.”

  “But when you caught them, what happened?” Tess cried.

  “She refused to come,” he said heavily. “And—” He looked about and then spoke in a low voice. “I’m afraid it was too late, Tess. I couldn’t separate them.”

  Tess felt as if she could howl with the grief of it. “Of course,” she said numbly.

  “Is she married now?” Annabel asked. And at Rafe’s nod, she walked back to the other side of the room without another word.

  “I’m forever in your debt for this,” Rafe said to Lucius.

  “And I,” Tess said, trying to make the bleak look go from his eyes, even though she knew the same look was on her face.

  “Don’t be.” His voice was hard. “I failed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tess said miserably. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No reason to be.” He looked about. “You’re all looking remarkably festive. I’ll just retire—”

  Rafe gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Yes, but you must return briskly, Lucius. We’re having something of a celebration, as Tess is to marry Mayne tomorrow morning by special license. You see”—he nodded toward the bishop—“Mayne has summoned his uncle for that very purpose.”

  “Ah,” Lucius said, not even glancing at Tess. “In that case, I shall make my congratulations to Mayne before I retire.”

  Tess felt her smile tremble so she moved away, back toward her sister and future husband. Lucius and Rafe followed her to the group.

  Annabel was poring over the gossip sheet again, reading bits aloud for Lady Griselda’s and Mayne’s commentary.

  A certain brisk widow, who has had three husbands come to untimely ends, is desirous of a fourth. We know this due to her larding her conversation with giddy descriptions of fellows she knows only by sight. We would like to warn her that to banter about matrimony is not to engage in it, and further to warn any gentleman who finds himself the subject of her conversation to beware.

  “Oh, that is so unkind,” Annabel cried. “Who is the poor lady?”

  “My own dear sister,” Mayne said.

  Lady Griselda rapped him on the head with her fan. “Nonsense, you impudent dog. I’ve had but one husband and no stomach for another, so that description’s right out. I would guess that brisk widow likely refers to Mrs. Brisquet, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Of course,” Mayne said, grinning. “Quite a number of the persons are disguised by puns, as you see, Miss Annabel.”

  “I can’t wait until I know every single person referred to,” Annabel said with a sigh, looking back at the newspaper. “Who could possibly be called an operatic countess? She seems a lucky woman.”

  A second later, Mayne had taken the gossip sheet from her hands and was looking down at it, his face suddenly stonelike, as if he’d been struck.

  “Lord Mayne,” Annabel said, rather uncertainly. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Never more so,” he said, handing her back the sheet. “But I should—” He bowed extravagantly. Then he turned on his heel and left.

  They all stood blinking after him.

  The edge of Lucius’s mouth curled into a smile. “If you will all excuse me,” he said with a bow. “I must retire. As you can see, my clothing is rather the worse for my travels.”

  “Was it something I said?” Annabel said to Rafe. But he was picking up the gossip sheet, Tess and Lady Griselda at his shoulder.

  A certain operatic countess is reportedly expecting a happy event in the new year. She and her husband have made themselves notorious in the past months due to their reluctance to spend any time away from each other’s sides.

  “Ah,” Lady Griselda said, putting the paper gently back on the side table. “Poor Garret.”

  Rafe didn’t say a word, just headed out of the chamber after Mayne.

  “Who is this operatic countess?” Annabel asked. “And why did the news affect the earl so deeply?”

  “I don’t think that’s our concern,” Tess said, drawing her sister away toward the window.

  “Really!” Annabel said crossly. “He’s to be your husband, Tess. Don’t you wish to know who this woman is? Mayne looked as if he’d been struck by lightning.”

  “No,” Tess said, realizing that it was quite true. “No, I am not interested in who the lady in question is.”

  “I think you are very strange. Very! If he were my bridegroom—”

  But Tess was looking out the window at the courtyard. “Unless I’m much mistaken,” she murmured, “my bridegroom has just left the house.”

  Annabel gasped. “Where can he be going?”

  Even as they watched, Mayne shook off Rafe’s hand. But Rafe swung him around and was talking fiercely.

  “Rafe will take care of it,” Annabel said. “Mayne can’t leave! Why, he’s due to marry you first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes,” Tess said, watching closely. Mayne had turned and was now walking back into the house, his face tight and dark as a thundercloud.

  “Oh, good,” Annabel said. “Now it’s all taken care of. You’ll have to watch for a musical countess, but it sounds as if she is quite uninterested in Mayne, no matter what his feelings may be.”

  “You’re being remarkably vulgar,” Tess said sharply.

  Rafe had followed Mayne back into the house, and there was nothing more to be seen from the window.

  Chapter

  24

  Not having slept the previous night, Lucius took a bath and lay down for a brief repose—only to wake in thick darkness. Apparently he’d slept through supper and into the night. The tangles of some half-forgotten dream clung in his mind: Tess had been dancing and laughing, but then she dropped her fan, and the fan turned into a rabbit, a rather sweet brown rabbit that he wanted to give to her, but when he ran after the rabbit…Lucius stared into the darkness for a moment, and then swung his legs off the bed with a curse.

  If Mayne wasn’t more careful, Tess would catch wind of his ridiculous infatuation with Lady Godwin.

  He lit a candle, only to find that it wasn’t so late at night. Mayne was likely to be awake. Lucius dismissed the fleeting thought that he would be carousing, celebrating his last night of bachelorhood. Even when they were boys together at Eton, Mayne was never coarse: wild to a fault, violent in his passions, desperate in his affections: never coarse.

  Lucius dressed and then walked down the long hall, checking the sitting room, the music room, the breakfast room. It was in the library, that sanctuary of male pursuits, that he found Mayne.

  He was sitting in his favorite seat before the fireplace. The fire had burned to mere embers. He was sitting as if frozen, long legs stretched out, a glass in one hand, and a decanter on the floor close by the other. His shirt was pulled from his trousers, his eyes were half-closed, and his face was set in rigid lines.

  “Where’s Rafe?” Lucius asked.

  “I drank him into his bed,” Mayne said, not even turning his head. “That’s not easy, with a four-bottle man like Rafe, but I’ve done it.”

  “Don’t tell me yo
u’ve fallen into a megrim on the very eve of your wedding?” Lucius said, still from the doorway, a surge of rage that he didn’t understand lending his voice a harsh undertone.

  Mayne raised his eyes and took a moment to focus on him, and then tossed back the rest of his glass. “She might have fallen in love with you, you know,” he said conversationally.

  Lucius’s heart thumped in his chest. He walked forward and casually nudged the decanter in passing.

  It almost turned over, but Mayne’s hand shot out and caught the neck, just in time. “Watch my claret,” he said, sloshing a quantity into his glass.

  “I see no reason why she should fall in love with me as opposed to you,” Lucius said.

  “You’re a gentleman,” Mayne said, rolling his head backward and staring at the ceiling. “She’s a lady, for all she cut off her hair and started wearing clothing that would have made a high-flyer proud.”

  Lucius blinked. Apparently he’d mistaken the lady at issue. Mayne was talking about Lady Godwin, the woman he’d fallen in love with last spring, whereas he himself was thinking…of another woman.

  “Helene might have loved you,” Mayne continued, his voice rough and unsteady. “Might have loved you enough to stay away from that muckworm of a husband of hers. I’ve figured it out. Helene needed an antidote to him—to all his opera singers and the Russian dancers on the dining room table. So she turned to me, but I wasn’t good enough either. But if I had been you, all that politesse, pretty manners, old-fashioned virtues…” His voice trailed off.

  “Lady Godwin, by all accounts, is in love with her husband,” Lucius said uncompromisingly, sitting down opposite Mayne. “No pretty manners could have changed that.”

  “Nonsense,” Mayne said. “I wouldn’t have gone near her if she were happy with her husband. She and Godwin hadn’t lived together for ten years.”