Her voice was shaking as she spoke, from fear and doubt and the frustration of feeling forced to a choice that she knew would be unbearable to live with. “The right man will be able to court me honorably, demonstrating that he can be not only my lover, but also my friend, my companion, and my partner forever. That man will have a firm grasp on what he wants from life and a clear vision for the future and be glad to put down roots and make a home. We both know that man is not you.”
Her voice wobbled on the last word, the last vestiges of her self-control dissolving, and she knew she had to finish this before she started to cry. She’d cried in front of him last night, precipitating this whole mess. She had no intention of doing that again.
She swallowed hard, marshaling all her self-control. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, but my answer is no.”
She started to move around him, but he stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “There must be some sort of middle ground here. God, Marjorie,” he choked when she didn’t respond, “is there no place for us? Is there no way to carve out a life that would suit us both?”
She felt an irrational burst of longing and hope, but she snuffed them out. “I don’t think so.”
He still didn’t move. “I do.”
She began to shake inside, feeling desperate. “I’ve given you my answer. Now, please let me go.”
“All right,” he said quietly, moving aside to let her pass.
She did so, practically running for the door, but as she opened it, his voice called back to her.
“I’m not giving up. I want you too much to give up.”
She ignored that and walked out, head high, but if she thought she was achieving any sort of escape, she was mistaken, for as she raced down the corridor and up the stairs to her room, his words came back to her.
I want you. I feel for you a deep and passionate desire.
She shut her bedroom door behind her, trying to shut him out, but it was useless.
I’m not giving up. I want you too much to give up.
With his words still ringing in her ears, she couldn’t help thinking back to that day in White Plains, and what her most important goal back then had been. She’d wanted, more than anything, to be wanted.
It seemed she’d gotten her wish.
Marjorie sank down on the edge of her bed and burst into tears.
Had Jonathan been inclined to ask his sisters for their opinion regarding his proposal to Marjorie, he knew what they would have said. They’d have pointed out that his request for her hand had not been a request at all, that it had been intemperate, ill-considered, and cavalier, and they would have deemed her refusal just what he deserved.
And they’d have been right.
He’d had a much more eloquent proposal in mind—down on one knee and all that—but Marjorie, in characteristic fashion, had managed to veer him right off his intended course, and as a result, he’d blundered through the entire business like a moth blundering in the lamplight. Still, though his proposal had not been particularly eloquent, it had been honest and heartfelt.
Last night, when he’d looked into her face, so radiant and lovely, his mind had accepted what his heart and soul had known all along. Marjorie was his woman, and that to love her and make her happy and keep her from harm had become far, far more than a promise to a dying friend. They were the foundation on which he could build a new life, the very thing he’d been seeking for over a decade.
Marjorie, however, didn’t see things that way. Her objections had been valid, no doubt about it, but he was reasonably certain they stemmed from fear, not from a lack of feeling for him.
Still, she had good cause to be afraid, and he knew if he was going to change her mind, he had to find a way to overcome that fear. Despite her uncompromising answer, he knew there was a middle ground for them, and he was going to find it, even if he had to carve it out of rock with his bare hands.
Upon her refusal of his proposal, Jonathan had declared he was not giving up, but during the week that followed, he made no attempts to reopen the subject, offer counterarguments to her refusal, or persuade her to change her mind. In fact, in the days that followed, he acted as if the entire conversation had never taken place.
That was the right and proper thing to do, and she ought to have been relieved. But she wasn’t, because now she knew the true reasons why he had been keeping his distance, reasons that insisted on going through her mind and testing her resolve at every possible opportunity.
The past two months have been hell for me. Being mere friends with you is impossible, for the more I am near you, the more I want you.
That explained some things, she supposed, but it was hardly satisfactory. Didn’t the man understand that a girl wanted and deserved to be courted properly?
Despite my attempts to resist, I feel that resistance fading, making you more vulnerable to attentions of this sort from me with each day that passes.
The attentions to which he referred were the intimacies they had shared that night in the library, kisses and caresses that could only be honorably shared by husband and wife. But when memories of them came back to torment her late at night, she could not imagine ever sharing such intimacies with any other man, a fact that did nothing to reassure her that she’d done the right thing.
Making things worse, it wasn’t long before those erotic memories began to shadow her days, too. In tearooms and drawing rooms, during ladies’ luncheons and carriage rides in the park, they would come flooding back, no matter how she tried to suppress them.
That’s right, darling. You’re nearly there.
Even a fortnight later, as she sat in the wholly feminine enclave of a dressmaker, the memory of his sensuous words, hot caresses, and her own passionate responses had the power to flood her body with desire.
Certain she was the same rose-pink color as the plush velvet sofa on which she sat, Marjorie cast a frantic glance around the opulent showroom of Vivienne, but she found that no one in the modiste’s showroom was paying the least attention to her. Irene was in another room being fitted for a gown, and the ladies with Marjorie in the main showroom were far too preoccupied with observing the mannequins snaking before them in the latest fashions to pay any mind to her.
Marjorie, who had already ordered all the pieces of her post-mourning wardrobe, glanced around again, desperate for something to occupy her attention besides erotic memories of Jonathan. She could order a few more frocks, she supposed, but she already had more than she could possibly wear. A couple of months ago, being in the showroom of a fashionable dressmaker, choosing designs, fabrics, and trims, had been so much fun, but after so many weeks of shopping, she was beginning to find it rather monotonous. And the endless routine of calls, teas, and Afternoons-At-Home, though exciting at first, was becoming more of a tedium than a pleasure. In fact, her new life was becoming a bore.
Marjorie straightened on the sofa, startled and dismayed by the realization. This life was just what she’d imagined, everything she wanted. How could she possibly be bored?
But even as she asked that question, Jonathan’s words from the day they’d met came echoing back to her.
The time will pass more quickly for you here at Forsyte Academy, where you have a vocation.
Marjorie fell back against the sofa, suppressing a groan. That man really needed to get out of her head. She did not miss being stuck out in the middle of nowhere, teaching dance, piano, and French. She did miss her pupils, true, and the challenge of teaching, but that would surely dissipate when she was married, and had children of her own.
I think we should get married.
Desperate, Marjorie straightened on the sofa and picked up one of the ladies’ magazines that lay on the table before her and began flipping through the pages, but advertisements for wrinkle creams, bust improvers, and French letters—whatever those were—proved to be no distraction at all from the impossible man dominating her thoughts.
I want you . . . I have wanted you almost from the very f
irst moment we met.
That was so unbelievable, she almost wanted to laugh. He’d done nothing but push her away from the very start, but now, she was just supposed to accept this abrupt and complete reversal? Now she was supposed to believe that he was sincere and that his affections would last? How on earth could he have thought she’d accept such a proposal?
No one could argue that it wouldn’t be a suitable match. It’s quite fitting, really.
Fitting? She sniffed. The man was delusional. He had no plans for the future, no consideration for what she wanted, and despite his declared feelings, he clearly had no intention of settling down.
Sadly, all these reminders of why she’d been right to refuse him did nothing to reassure her. In fact, the more she told herself how sensible she’d been to refuse him, the more muddled and miserable she became. How could she marry him? But how could she marry any other man, let any other man touch her and caress her in that extraordinary way? Both seemed equally unthinkable.
“Ach, Marjorie, you wicked girl,” murmured a familiar voice beside her ear, and she turned her head to find Baroness Vasiliev standing behind the sofa, leaning over her shoulder.
“Baroness!” she cried, relieved and glad of a worthy distraction at last. “How wonderful to see you.”
The other woman straightened, laughing as she came around the sofa to sit beside Marjorie. “It is good to see you, too, my young friend. And do not worry,” she added, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. “I will not tell anyone.”
Marjorie wondered wildly if her naughty thoughts had been loud enough to be audible to the woman beside her, but she tried to muster her dignity. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“No?” The baroness leaned closer to tap her finger on the opened magazine in Marjorie’s lap. “French letters,” she said in a teasing whisper. “You should not be reading about such naughty things.”
Marjorie frowned, bewildered. “I don’t understand. What could be naughty about letters? Although they are French,” she added, “so I suppose that explains it. Though why anyone would want to buy someone’s letters, French or otherwise, I don’t quite see—”
The baroness’s merry laughter cut her off. “Oh, darling Marjorie, I have missed you. You are such a delightful innocent.”
Marjorie was growing tired of being called an innocent. It was irritating that everyone around her seemed to know far more about life than she did. Worse, no one ever seemed willing to explain anything. Obviously, a French letter was something she wasn’t supposed to know about. Still, if anyone would be able to enlighten her, it would be the baroness. “But what is naughty about these letters?” she asked in a whisper. “You must tell me.”
“They’re not letters at all.”
“But what are they, then?”
“They do not concern you yet,” she said, frowning and trying to look severe. “For you are not married. For me, however,” she continued with a wink that ruined any attempt at severity, “a French letter is a very convenient thing.”
“But you’re not married,” Marjorie said, still confused. “You’re a widow.”
“I may be a widow, darling, but I’m not dead!”
“I see.” She didn’t, quite, but she was beginning to get an inkling—a vague one—of what they were really talking about, and it had something to do with men.
The baroness’s next words confirmed this theory. “Men ought to be the ones who take care of such details, but they can never seem to be relied upon. So, I keep a few French letters myself, because after all, one never knows. And a baby . . . ach, that would not do. It would be most inconvenient at my time of life.”
“Oh.” Marjorie colored up, thinking of Jonathan’s words about babies, and about what had and had not happened between them in the library. Wanting specifics about babies, French letters, and all other such forbidden subjects, she leaned closer, but she was given no chance to ask further questions.
“Oh, I’m so glad that’s over,” Irene’s relieved voice interrupted as she came around the sofa, and Marjorie suppressed a groan of frustration at the interruption and slapped the magazine shut. “I do hate first fittings. A muslin makes it so hard to tell what the gown will look like, and one’s always afraid it’ll be a disappointment. Baroness,” she greeted the other woman with a smile. “How lovely to see you.”
“Duchess.” The baroness stood up. “Please let me say how happy I was to receive your kind invitation to your house party at Ravenwood. I am so looking forward to it. I only regret that I will not be able to arrive until Saturday.”
“But you will arrive in time for the ball?” Marjorie asked.
The baroness gave her an affectionate smile. “I would not miss that for the world.” She turned to Irene. “My train arrives at 4:15.”
“I shall send a carriage to the station for you,” Irene told her. “We are looking forward to having you.”
“Baroness Vasiliev?” another voice inquired, and one of the showroom’s sylphlike mannequins came into view. “Vivienne is ready for you, if you will come this way?”
The baroness stood up. “Forgive me, ladies. It seems I must leave you.” She turned and bent down to give Marjorie an affectionate kiss on each cheek. “I will see you soon. And once you have made the come-out, you will be meeting many young men and looking to marry, so remember our conversation today, for it will serve you well in years to come.” She gave Marjorie another wink and turned to follow the showroom model toward the fitting rooms, adding over her shoulder, “And remember, never rely on a man more than you rely on yourself.”
In the wake of her departure, Irene gave a little laugh. “What on earth was that about?”
“Nothing,” Marjorie said, donning a neutral expression as she tossed the magazine onto the table. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter 20
Refusing to give up was all very well, but during the fortnight that followed Marjorie’s rejection of his proposal, as Jonathan considered what he might do to change her mind, he found himself rather at a loss.
Pressing his suit at once would likely harden her further against him, so he was forced to resume a respectful distance. And since courtship was going to be required of him, a task that would demand all the strength he possessed, he knew he could do with a bit of distance, too.
Because of that, when the family made the journey down to Ravenwood a week before the house party, he did not accompany them, but chose instead to arrive the same afternoon as the other guests.
Being a man of action, playing a waiting game did not suit him, but he tried to keep busy. He bought Marjorie a birthday present, he picked up her cut gemstones from Fossin and Morel, and though it might prove an unjustified optimism on his part, he bought an engagement ring.
As he’d promised her, he canceled his trip to South Africa and hired one of Torquil’s solicitors to make the journey in his stead. To further demonstrate his sincerity and his willingness to become at least somewhat domesticated, he hired a valet and tried to accustom himself to letting someone else tie his ties and fasten his shirt studs.
On his new valet’s recommendation, he paid another visit to his tailor. He ordered an entire wardrobe suited to autumn in the country, and as he was fitted for tweeds and riding boots, he tried to envision himself hunting grouse and riding to hounds.
He looked at various London houses for sale or lease, but as he walked through stately rooms of Victorian elegance, he knew that whatever else he might have to do to accommodate Marjorie’s vision of married life, decorating their home in the stuffy, ornate style of the British upper crust couldn’t be part of it. Flocked velvet wallpaper was just a bridge too far for any man.
As he worked to fashion a life that Marjorie could be persuaded to share, her words echoed through his mind again and again.
You live the way you do because you’re searching for something to replace what you lost. But I have no intention of wandering across the globe with you while you keep looking for it.
> And who could blame her? Jonathan knew to have her, he would have to answer the question he’d spent years avoiding.
What do I want?
He wanted Marjorie, but the answer to his question was deeper even than love. Love, marriage, children, domestic life—these things would never be enough if he didn’t have a purpose, an ambition of his own. He might be able to put on tweeds and ride to hounds during weekends at the country estate, but he knew being the country gentleman could never be his entire way of life. He needed something more.
His goal was to find it before the house party, and to that end, he spent many hours at his club, seeking out the company of other members who were also men of business, but though many of them wanted his investment capital, he was in search of a greater challenge than contributing money to someone else’s company. He wanted to create something of his own, build something his children could expand and carry into the next century, but it also had to be something that excited him, and nothing he came across seemed to meet his criteria. Like his country tweeds, none seemed to fit, and by the time he boarded the train for Hampshire to join the others at Ravenwood, he was forced to accept that what he was attempting wasn’t going to be achieved as quickly as he’d hoped.
Nonetheless, during the train journey, he went through the stack of prospectuses he’d been gathering, and to his surprise, he found one that did appeal, one he’d received weeks ago. Given his preoccupation with Marjorie, he’d almost forgotten it, but as he read through it on the train, he realized it might be just what he was looking for. It was not, sadly, a perfect solution, particularly where Marjorie’s vision of the future was concerned, but it could be the middle ground he’d been seeking, and it had exciting possibilities.
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