“‘Be good, little girl, and someday, you’ll have nice things.’ Was that the understanding I’m supposed to get from this little lesson?”
He stirred, appreciating that there was a kernel of truth in her assessment. Worse, in her cool voice, there was anger and unmistakable hurt, but though it cut him to the quick, he knew she’d be hurt a hell of a lot more if he did not do his duty as her guardian.
“My intent was not to manipulate or cajole you, but merely to make you see what’s at stake. If you want to move in society, you must play by society’s rules. It’s that simple.”
She didn’t move. Her expression, so devilishly beguiling a few moments ago, was now pale, polished, and as hard as alabaster, but he shoved aside any regrets.
“For your debut, I can arrange the most lavish ball London has ever seen,” he said, “with the best food and the finest champagne. You can order a gown from the most famous dressmaker in Paris, and my sister can send invitations to the finest families in Britain, but if you have done anything to earn society’s disapproval, all those arrangements for your debut will be for naught, because no one will come.”
She stirred, the hardness in her face softening to uncertainty. She looked away, biting her lip.
Hoping she was beginning to understand and accept the realities of the life she’d chosen, he continued, “I know it’s hard, having to wait when you’ve already been waiting for so long, but there is no way around it, Marjorie. You must observe a mourning period, be scrupulous in your conduct and judicious in your choice of companions. It’s vital that you trust the judgement of those who know more about British society and its pitfalls than you do.”
He’d feared showing her the necklace might have been a mistake, but when she gave a sigh, her shoulders sagging a little, her face taking on a resigned expression, he knew his gambit had succeeded.
“It’s only until we reach London,” he said. “Once there, I am hopeful my sisters can be prevailed upon, and I’m sure you’ll find them much more agreeable chaperones than Lady Stansbury.”
“If your sisters are unwilling to chaperone me, I have several married friends who would.”
“Either way, the point is that there will be many wonderful experiences for you to enjoy, if you exercise a little patience now and trust me . . .”
He paused, grimacing a little, appreciating that when they were standing in his bedroom and raw masculine need was still thrumming through his body, asking for her trust was the height of hypocrisy. But the stakes for her were high, and if a bit of hypocrisy on his part was required, so be it.
“On the other hand,” he said as he opened the box and laid the necklace inside, “if you prefer to taint the future you want for a little momentary excitement, that’s your choice.”
There was a long silence, and as was often the case with Marjorie, he had no idea what she was going to do, but at last, she nodded.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll do this your way. I don’t want . . .” She paused, then whispered, “I don’t want to be tainted.”
Jonathan was relieved by her answer, but he also felt a curious sense of disappointment. Somehow, a compliant, obedient Marjorie seemed terribly dull.
Frustrated by his own inexplicable ambivalence where she was concerned and by the desire still seething within him, he put the lid on the box and shoved the box into his jacket pocket. “Good. Now, I shall go put this back in the ship’s vault, and I ask you to return to your room and take off that dress . . .” His voice failed, and he had to pause a moment before going on.
“If you can find something more suitable for a woman in mourning to wear,” he managed at last, “I will tell Lady Stansbury you are free to dine with everyone else. In all other respects, however, I ask that for the next six days, you do what she advises and try to remember all that you have to look forward to.”
Desperately needing to escape, he walked past her, but by the time he reached the door, he was impelled to say one more thing.
“Marjorie?” His body in chaos, he paused and forced himself to look at her, with her splendid body and her stunning face and a bed just a few feet away from them both. “I know you’re not a child. I am fully alive to the fact, believe me.”
He left his stateroom, working to regain his control and put his priorities back in order, and by the time he reached the ship’s vault, he felt he had succeeded. Nonetheless, once he’d seen the Rose of Shoshone safely locked away, Jonathan headed straight to the bar. He badly needed a drink.
Chapter 10
Marjorie had never had ice water thrown in her face in the literal sense, but metaphorically, thanks to Jonathan, she knew just how it felt.
One moment, she’d had glittering jewels around her neck and Jonathan’s heated gaze on her, and she was no longer a schoolteacher from White Plains, New York, or an heiress on her way to a new life. No, she’d transformed into something else entirely—a seductress, a temptress, a siren of lore like those who lured sailors from the sea. With her heart racing and fire raging in her blood and Jonathan looking at her in the mirror, she’d felt beautiful and wild and powerful, and all she’d wanted was to pull him down with her into some dark, sensuous underworld. It had been the most extraordinary moment of her life.
But then, he’d broken the spell and hauled her back into reality with just a few simple words.
That won’t be possible if you become an object of shame or ridicule.
Had he tossed ice water in her face, he couldn’t have spoiled the moment more effectively. In only a few seconds, she’d gone from beautiful siren to naughty child, and she’d felt like an utter fool.
Making things worse, during the five days that followed, she was virtually ignored, giving her cause to wonder if those magic moments in his cabin had even happened. Though he stopped by the countess’s little sewing circle every afternoon, he only lingered long enough for a polite inquiry about her health before moving on, and her invitations to join them for tea had been met with polite refusal. He hadn’t appeared in the main dining room even once for lunch or dinner, and her only other sight of him had been an occasional glimpse into the billiard room or smoking room as she walked the promenade with Lady Stansbury.
How could a man do that? How could he make her feel as if she was queen of the earth, turn her upside down and inside out, and then act as if she was of no consequence whatsoever? It was the most aggravating, baffling thing she’d ever experienced.
Marjorie looked up from the tea cloth in her hands, desperate for something to distract her from the tedious task of embroidering forget-me-nots, but every sight that met her eyes only served to increase her aggravation.
To her left, a group of young ladies were playing shuffleboard, and to her right, several groups of four were gathered at tables, playing bridge. Either activity, so she had been told, was unseemly for a woman in mourning.
Men and women strolled past her, enjoying the crisp, cool air through the open windows of the promenade, the ocean beyond them stretching into the distance. Staring out over the endless blue expanse, she couldn’t help thinking again of sirens and sailors and those extraordinary moments in Jonathan’s cabin, even though she no longer felt anything like a seductive figure of Greek mythology. More like a cursed princess in a fairy tale, she decided with a snort.
“Really, dear,” Lady Stansbury’s well-bred drawl broke into her thoughts and forced her attention back to the tea cloth in her hands. “If one must make an indelicate noise, it is always best to muffle it with a handkerchief.”
Marjorie paused again, pasted on a smile—the same smile she’d always employed when talking to the mothers of difficult pupils—and turned toward the older woman.
“Quite right, ma’am,” she said, trying not to clench her jaw. “I do beg your pardon.”
Lady Stansbury inclined her head and returned her attention to the basket in her lap. “Heavens, I bought all those lovely new embroidery threads when I was in New York. What has Bates done with
them?”
“Are you certain they aren’t there, Abigail?” asked the countess’s friend, Mrs. Anstruthur, pausing in her needlepoint to peer shortsightedly into her friend’s sewing basket. “Give it a good stir and look again.”
“Ooh, there’s Lady Mary Pomeroy walking with her father,” murmured Mrs. Fulton-Smythe, her dentures clacking along with her knitting needles. “They must be on their way home at last.”
“Twenty-three,” said Mrs. Anstruthur with a meaningful cough. “And still not married. Poor thing.”
“One could hardly expect otherwise,” Lady Stansbury put in. “After the scandal.”
Here we go again, Marjorie thought and returned her attention determinedly to her task, thanking heaven they were to dock at Southampton tomorrow. One more day, she reminded as she pulled blue embroidery floss through the tea cloth with her needle. Just twenty-four more hours, and I’ll never have to sew another thing or listen to these scandalmongers.
“Sir Henry was beside himself,” said Lady Osgoode. “He took her to stay with her grandparents in New York right after, but something like that can’t be hushed up just by leaving town.”
Not when gossiping cats insist on talking about it all the time, thought Marjorie.
“Still,” said Lady Anstruthur, “it’s been three years. You’d think they’d have found someone to marry her by now. Even an American would have been better than no one.”
Exercising considerable willpower, Marjorie pressed her tongue hard against her teeth and kept stitching.
“Even Americans have some standards, I suppose,” Mrs. Fulton-Smythe put in. “A clerk in her father’s law offices—what was the girl thinking? Sir Henry put a stop to it, naturally, but I’m afraid it was too late by then. Now, she’s damaged goods.”
Goaded beyond bearing, Marjorie paused and looked up. “But if they wanted to marry, and her father stopped it, isn’t he the one to blame for the resulting scandal?”
Five faces turned in her direction, and there was a long silence as five pairs of eyes stared at her. Clearly, this particular point of view was a new one to the ladies present.
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, dear,” Lady Stansbury said and patted her arm. “And one can’t blame Sir Henry. After all, the young man was a clerk.”
As if that explained everything, she resumed rummaging in her basket while Marjorie’s bourgeois American mind tried to make sense of the idea that the ruination of all a young woman’s marriage prospects was less undesirable than marriage to a clerk.
“I cannot understand what Bates has done with those threads.” Lady Stansbury gave a sigh as if sorely put upon. “And I can’t even ask her, for she’s gone to speak with the chef about his dinner preparations. Though why she must do that again, I cannot understand. Six times she’s tried to explain how to make a proper boiled pudding, and the chef still can’t seem to manage it.”
There was a chorus of sympathy from all the other ladies of the sewing circle, save one. It was Marjorie’s opinion that an experienced chef de cuisine might be a teeny bit resentful of being told how to cook, particularly by a lady’s maid, but it wouldn’t do to say so. No, she needed to be scrupulous in her conduct and trust the judgement of those who knew more about British society than she did.
As she repeated Jonathan’s words from five days ago, Marjorie could only hope his sisters had a less rigid view of the world than Lady Stansbury and her friends. If not, her life in British society was going to be far less exciting than she’d imagined.
“No, they are simply not here,” Lady Stansbury declared at last. “She must have put them in my other sewing basket.”
Appreciating the chance to get away, Marjorie was on her feet in an instant. “Shall I go and fetch them?”
Lady Stansbury nodded agreement, and Marjorie tossed down her embroidery hoop and was off like a shot.
“Don’t run, dear,” the countess called after her as she raced along the promenade deck. “And bring my other shawl. The mohair one, not the silk. It’s in the—”
The location of the shawl was lost in the wind as Marjorie vanished around the stern of the ship, making her reprieve all the better. A search for the shawl would mean several extra minutes of freedom.
When she entered the suite, she found the other sewing basket almost at once, reposing on the floor of the sitting room beside Lady Stansbury’s chair. The mohair shawl, however, proved elusive. She looked through every trunk, suitcase, and drawer she could find, to no avail. Deciding at last that she’d milked her precious freedom as long as possible, she picked up the basket and started out of the suite, but she’d barely opened the door into the corridor before realizing she hadn’t looked in the trunk under the countess’s bed, and as she stepped over the threshold, she glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she ought to go back.
She had no time to decide, however. Still moving forward, still looking behind her, she ran straight into someone passing along the corridor.
“Oh!” she cried as the force of the impact sent her stumbling backward through the doorway. A strong pair of hands gripped her wrists to keep her from falling as the door of the suite banged against the wall behind her and the basket dropped from her fingers, spilling its contents at her feet.
“I beg your pardon,” the man cried, his hands still clasping her wrists. “How clumsy of me.”
She looked up into the handsome face of the Count de la Rosa. “Why, hullo!” she said in agreeable surprise.
“Miss McGann,” he greeted as he let go of her and bowed. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. You have come to no harm because of our collision?”
“None at all,” she hastened to assure him. “This is quite a coincidence.”
“A delightful one for me. Though perhaps not for you.” He paused, making a face as he glanced down at the carpet between them. “I seem to have disarranged your belongings. Let me rectify that.”
Remembering Jonathan’s words of caution about de la Rosa, she voiced a protest, but when the count overrode it with a wave of his hand, then knelt on the floor and turned the basket upright to begin retrieving the scattered sewing supplies, she relented, for she just couldn’t see any harm in allowing him to assist her.
“I didn’t know your rooms were along this corridor,” she said, sinking to her knees on the other side of the open doorway to help him gather spools of thread and packets of needles.
“They are not. I was exploring the ship, and I took a wrong turn. Although,” he added, lifting his head to look at her, smiling a little beneath his mustache, “it is not so very wrong, I think, if the result is your company.”
She laughed, pleased. Here, at least, was someone who seemed glad to see her. With Jonathan treating her as if she had leprosy, de la Rosa’s obvious delight at encountering her was like a balm to her wounded feminine pride.
He glanced past her shoulder to the stateroom beyond. “Is this where you stay?” he asked, leaning forward a little on his knees to peer past her into the sitting room beyond. “I did not realize the parlor suites were so large.”
“You don’t have a suite?”
“Alas, no. I could never afford it.” He sat back on his heels and resumed their task. “These days, I must be practical. I must—how do you say it?—make the economies.”
“Yes, I suppose many people do.”
“But I am most fortunate. An income from my estates affords me rooms in Paris, and my mother and I live most comfortably. We travel, we enjoy fine hotels, good food and wine . . .” He paused to toss a pincushion into the basket. “What more does one need?”
“You live in Paris?” That surprised her. “But I thought you had estates in Spain?”
“I do, but I have leased the house. A rich American family lives in my villa. They pay much money to enjoy the beauty of my vineyards, but without the headaches, you comprehend?”
“That must be difficult, having someone else living in your ancestral home.”
He made an e
xpressive gesture with his hands. “It is tragic, but what else can one do? Between the rents and the wine, I make enough for my needs, and living in Paris is not expensive.”
“Is that how you know Baroness Vasiliev? From Paris?”
“That is where we met, yes, but I would not say we know each other very well. She spends much time in England. In the winter, we sometimes encounter each other in the South of France—Juan-les-Pins, Nice, Cannes . . . the usual watering places.”
To Marjorie, there was nothing “usual” about such places. To her, the count’s cosmopolitan lifestyle seemed downright exotic, much more like the high society she’d imagined than Lady Stansbury’s sewing circle. “I’m afraid I’ve never been to the Riviera.”
“Not even to Nice? But that is a tragedy. You would love it.” He flashed her a smile. “You can spend your fortune at the gaming tables, no?”
“I’ve never been to a casino either.” Even as she said those words, she felt a pang. There was so much to see, so much to experience, and yet, she was still watching from a distance.
“I’m not sure I would be a very good player,” she confessed. “The only card game I know is picquet. But I should love to see Nice.”
“If you go, you will be enchanted. The mimosa, the sun, the water—so beautiful.”
He was looking at her as he said it, demonstrating he wasn’t really talking about the Riviera. Right in front of her, it seemed, was the romance she craved, but as she looked into the count’s handsome face, another countenance, not so sleek, not so urbane, flashed across her mind.
The image—hazel eyes shot with scorching lights of gold, lean planes of cheek and jaw, a hard mouth set in a tight line—filled her with such frustration, she wanted to kick herself.
Here she was, talking to one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen, a cosmopolitan man who admired her and made it clear he had a romantic interest in her, but was she thinking about him?
No, she was thinking about a man who hemmed her in and held her back, who thought to pacify her with promises of what she’d have someday.
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