Chapter 1
Someone gasped in astonishment near Lady Mary’s ear, and that someone was her chaperone, who was not often given to such displays. The experience caused Mary to turn at once to see what could have caused dear Mrs. Pennett to quite forget herself.
She saw a tall fellow who was no less than absolutely striking. The first thing one noted was that his hair was the most incredible color; she could only think to describe it to herself as dark auburn, yet the light caught strands of gold, making it appear almost as though he had a halo of golden light about those rich curls. It was only after blinking several times she convinced herself the nimbus had been imagined. But perhaps the inclination to view a celestial picture could be excused, for the gentleman in question was absolutely beautiful. His face was more refined than that of any statue she had ever seen, the features even and balanced. His nose was straight. His eyes, shaded by auburn lashes, were the palest blue, perhaps the shade of the sky just before one ascended to the heavens. His mouth was perfect, so much so she stared straight at his lips, as though demanding some flaw must be found in that lovely face.
Finally she found one, when her eyes met his for the merest second as he swept his gaze over the crowd. For in his eyes was a light quite at contrast with the enchantment of his features. It was no angel that looked out upon the world from those orbs. Nay, it was a rogue, a rascal, and perhaps, too, a bit of a dark imp residing inside that exquisite frame.
Once she had seen the truth for herself, it was unmistakable in just the way he moved. He had a feline kind of grace; she knew instinctively he was as capable of scampering to a safe distance as he was of instant combat. His was the nature that always looked for the advantage, and took it. The languid lift of his hand fooled her not at all, for the panther could stretch and yawn like the mildest house cat, but his strike would be deadly. He might seem relaxed and unprepared, but he was never any of that.
“What is his name?” Mary asked Mrs. Pennett, awe in her voice. There was no denying her chaperone had recognized him.
“He is the Blade,” Mrs. Pennett said simply, as though she had explained all by the simple phrase. And indeed she had, for everyone had heard tell of “the Blade.” He was none other than the Marquess of Rothayne. Some said he had acquired the nickname for his rapier-quick wit, and others claimed it was for the wide swath he cut through the ladies.
“The Blade?” Mary said with some relish. “I thought he was banished from the kingdom.”
“Apparently no longer,” Mrs. Pennett said as they both watched as the beautiful gentleman made his bow to their Regent. They watched as a pleasant--if not overly friendly--interchange took place, and continued to watch until their prince made his farewells to Lady Jasper, his hostess. It could not have been made more clear that the royal person had stayed just long enough for the purpose of greeting the formerly out-of-favor marquess.
“I can scarce credit the prince would receive him,” Mrs. Pennett said with a frisson of scorn, a sound infrequent on her lips and therefore one to firmly cement Mary’s attention.
“You know something!” Mary cried with relish. “Something scandalous. Tell me what it is.”
Mrs. Pennett sniffed, and rocked her shoulders just a little, and demurred, “Oh, you know the tattle. He insulted the prince and was forced to leave the country.”
“That is old news. No, you must tell me what it is that makes you bridle now, ages past that event.”
“I shan’t,” Mrs. Pennett replied, coloring in a telltale fashion. When Mary merely gave her a steady, waiting look, she added quickly, “All I’ll say is it was just last week, and involved a married lady, a cemetery, and an indecency.”
Mary’s eyebrows rose, but an amused smile flitted into being. “I believe that is all I shall have from you on the matter, for, knowing none of the details, it is quite plain it would shock my delicate ears to hear further details,” she said, her voice and manner indicating she considered her own ears anything but delicate.
“It would!”
Mary turned back to watch the handsome gent, already surrounded by a bevy of the curious.
“But whatever the Blade was about recently, it apparently was acceptable to Prinny. This Rothayne cannot be so wicked as you would have it,” Mary said, earning a frowning look from her chaperone. She gave a puckish grin in return, and said, “Tut, tut, Gladys. You need not fear. I shall not make a cake of myself over the fellow.” She smiled a self-mocking smile, one that left her chaperone frowning even more in disapproval.
“I despair of you,” said Mrs. Pennett.
“You are not the first to do so.”
Truth was, Mary was the thorn in her family’s collective side, for at the advanced age of eight-and-twenty she had never married. She was not a beauty. She often claimed there was nothing wrong with a single one of her features--she just had the misfortune to have those upon her face which did not belong together. Her mother chided her for such words, her father ‘hmmphed’ and frowned, and her older sister and younger brother paid not the least attention at all, having heard much the same for twenty-odd years.
To compensate for what her mama insisted was her ‘average but acceptable looks’, Mama made sure her daughter was dressed in the finest, newest gowns; the combs or ribbons or pearls in her light brown hair were of quality; and she strove mightily to see Mary’s carriage and social skills were the most refined to be found in any sitting room. Of the latter the poor woman sometimes despaired of late, for it was quite obvious her daughter had decided she was upon the shelf, and that the restrictions to her tongue and manners ought no longer be so restraining anymore. So Mary had much her own way these days, although it must be said to her mother’s credit that (despite a large and noisy temper tantrum at the age of five-and-twenty) Mary had not persuaded her mother to do away with the use of a chaperone.
Now, three years along, she was resigned to the company of her custodian, and indeed took real pleasure in the not so much older woman’s company. Mrs. Pennett had been married for a brief five years, and had lost her husband to the sea. To her misfortune, there had been no pension, no income at all left to her, and no children, so she had found work as a nanny. It had proved to be a happy day when she had first met a bright-eyed five-year-old Mary, and now it was difficult to imagine the household without the trusted Mrs. Pennett in it. Mary had been known to tease her companion a little, saying she could never marry, for what would become of Mrs. Pennett? To which that lady had promptly replied, “Go ahead and wed then, Lady Mary, for I’d be even more useful these days one again in the nursery.” Mary had just laughed, never letting on to her family that there was a real and true pang in her chest whenever she thought about the fact she seemed destined to live her life without children of her own to love.
In fact, it was that very pang that had persuaded her to attend yet another cotillion. For although she had given up all hopes of attracting the handsome young men who attended these marriage marts, she had finally decided it might be acceptable to find an older gentleman with whom to settle down.
Oh yes, her starry-eyed dreams of love and romance would have to be put aside, but those dreams were changing anyway into something a little more mature. Now, what she dreamed of most was a household of her own to run exactly as she pleased, filled to capacity with laughing “Mama-hug-me”-crying children. For that, she could give up high romance, or even a man’s affection. For that, she could bear to live with someone to whom she was less than attracted.
Even though her father was an earl, their family was not wealthy, (but rather what Papa called “comfortably settled.”) She would bring a dowry to a marriage, but it was not of a size to much attract fortune hunters, and for that she could only be grateful.
If she had been unable to find someone to love, at least she had not been pestered by those who were pretending to do so for the sake of a grand income. She was the strangest of all social creatures: not pretty, not ugly, not poor, not wealthy. She had a sparkling wit and a clever mind, but those things were worthless on the march toward matrimony. Or at least, so it seemed to young men.
Now, the older men, she had come to realize, might actually have some appreciation of her gifts. If a man was looking for a competent hostess, or a dinner and theater companion, or someone to read to him if his eyes were poor, or to help him get about while leaning on her arm…why, she certainly qualified in all those areas. Too, there might be one or two who sought to raise up their standing by marrying an earl’s daughter, even though she could never be described as among the highest flyers--and whose sincerity she could trust and whose company she could bear.
“What are you thinking about, Puss? You’ve a strange look on your face,” Mrs. Pennett interrupted her thoughts.
Mary smiled, again at herself, and answered, “I was thinking I must not attach myself to a man who is too ancient, for his main purpose will be to beget offspring. We must find one who is capable of the task.”
“Lady Mary!” Mrs. Pennett cried, utterly shocked by the words, if not the intent. She was the only soul in the world who had heard the recent and resigned truth from Mary’s lips, that she had finally made up her mind to wed. Mrs. Pennett alone had been allowed a glimpse of the anguish that flashed in those brown eyes when they passed baby-filled arms on the street. She alone knew that a youthful dream had come crashing down, surrounded by the sound of a loudly ticking clock growing ever louder as each birthday passed. And when Mary tossed back her head and declared how she enjoyed being a maiden aunt, it was only Mrs. Pennett who knew how thoroughly the lady was lying.
So it was that Mrs. Pennett knew a little more of her charge’s mind than the other way around. Mary had perhaps an inkling, but nowhere near the whole of it, of just how much Mrs. Pennett was resolved to see that a wedding did come forth from among these aged fellows--and the sooner, the better.
“Perhaps you should ask about and see which of the ‘eligibles’ has any by-blows. We want to be sure of the ability to reproduce,” Mary added lightly, sliding one eye to glance at the rising color that again appeared on her chaperone’s face.
Indeed, that lady’s face had a reddish tone, but her voice was level as she responded stiffly, “Just as you wish.” She started to move away, causing Mary to laugh aloud and reach out to hold her back.
“I know you wouldn’t truly, but I’ll spare you the effort of trying to nonplus me,” Mary said, squeezing the lady’s arm affectionately.
“You must watch what you say, my lady, or one day I’ll surprise you,” Mrs. Pennett threatened.
Mary rolled her eyes playfully. “Ah, you and Mama! Here I am, an ancient, and yet I must pretend to be an ingénue.”
“You never were that, but you can at least pretend not to be a scamp.”
“The story of my life. I am neither fish nor fowl. Speaking of which, shall we go in to dinner?”
“Did no one offer to escort you?” Mrs. Pennett asked, mildly miffed at every gentleman in the room for ignoring her darling.
“Come, you may take my arm instead.”
“I will not. Let us elect some fellow, that you may charm him over the roast beef,” Mrs. Pennett said briskly, casting an eye about the room, assessing the unoccupied fellows. Under her breath she counted them off, muttering, “Too poor. Too ugly. Too old. Stupid and ugly. Poor. Too young. Just plain silly…ah, there’s a likely one! What do you say, Puss, shall we attach Mr. Everson?”
Mary turned to observe the man, though she had known him all her life. He was a hunting crony of her father’s. He was, like herself, not exactly swimming in money, or so the rumor mill had it, but was well enough off. It was obvious he liked the contents of his plate, for his form was gently rounded, but his was a kind and gentle nature, she knew. There was absolutely nothing of the Lancelot about him, but then neither was he the kind to be forward with a lady, so Mary answered with just the tiniest sigh, “Yes, let us attack dear Mr. Everson.”
“I said ‘attach,’ not ‘attack’.”
“Yes, but my word is the more accurate, I believe,” Mary said, pasting a smile upon her lips as they approached their target.
***
When dinner was over, Mary coaxed Mr. Everson into a dance. She did not point out the gravy stain on his cravat, nor did she lose her smile when he stepped on her toes. She also winced only a little when his lisped and hasty compliment at the end of their dance resulted in a spray from his lips upon her person. She did not jump too far when he tried to wipe the dots of spittle from her shoulder, and she did not beg off when he asked her for a second dance later in the evening. The only thing she did to show her true response was to shudder slightly when his warm, wet lips actually penetrated her glove on the back of her hand. But perhaps he took the motion as a compliment, for his watery eyes were glittering when he bowed himself away.
Mrs. Pennett joined her charge swiftly, a pained look on her face. “Was it unbearable?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, yes,” Mary said. Then she sighed, “No, I suppose not. I have given him another dance.” She shuddered again, then turned to the lady. “Remind me, Gladys. Do I really want to find a husband this badly?”
“Yes, Puss, you really do.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Let’s find another candidate, shall we?”
Mary nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. It was so humiliating that she was despairing enough to come to this point. How graceless! How lowering. That she must shop for a husband as coldly as she would for candles. But there was nothing for it. She could go on living with her parents until they were dead and gone, or she could make this effort to change her life. Children, she must remember children. They would be her compensation for a less than perfect arrangement.
When she opened her eyes Mrs. Pennett was gone from her side, already stalking some poor creature for her charge to appraise, no doubt. Mary stood where she was for a minute, surveying the dancers, seeing the batting eyes and attentive heads that spoke volumes on the matter of interest, or at least flirtation. Young faces, all of them full of promise.
Of a sudden, she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and slowly she turned her head from the scene before her, with the queer and unmistakable feeling she was being observed. She gazed into the darkness of the colonnaded hallway behind her, unable to see for a moment until her eyes adjusted to the lack of illumination. A tingle of not-quite-fear went up her spine, until finally she located a pair of shining eyes peering at her out of the darkness. The being moved, and she made out the fact he was making her a bow, saying not a word in greeting.
In her turn, she dipped into a curtsy. She was no longer startled, though a little unnerved perhaps, for if she chose to think along a fanciful line it would be easy to believe she was in the presence of a silent and perhaps not quite friendly spirit.
But the spell was broken as the being moved forward, becoming corporeal in the light shed from the candles above the dancers. He moved so that she would have to step around him should she care to flee.
“Ah!” she said aloud as she recognized him.
“You know me, madam? You have the advantage,” spoke the Blade, his beautifully ginger-colored lashes blinking once over impossibly light blue eyes.
“You are the Marquess of Rothayne,” she said, for he was so breathtakingly beautiful she needed to hear herself say his name just to make him seem more a man than a spirit. She found herself standing a little taller, noting in some part of her brain that she was then only as tall as his chin.
She instantly dismissed propriety and chose to introduce herself. “And I am Lady Mary Wagnall.”
He gave her another little bow, and she found herself curtsying again. After a moment she realized she had been staring at him
, silently marveling at his voice when he had spoken. It was exactly what she would have it be, deep and resonant, capable of roaring or purring, the voice of a stage villain, the devil in angel’s clothing.
“Is there some way I may assist you?” she asked. She thought it sounded a bit vapid, but he was just staring at her, and it was hard to think clearly with those blue eyes boring into hers.
He gave a small chuckle and, leaning toward her a little so his features were picked out by the candlelight in a somewhat eerie fashion. “You would not ask such a question if you knew me better.”
She was slow to take any scandal from the words, but the warm look in his eyes made her rethink, and then blush.
“Lady Mary, I must inform you that I overheard your conversation with your companion,” he told her.
Her blush deepened.
“You are seeking a husband.”
She stared at him, her eyes closing just a little as she nearly frowned. It would be easy to deny, for if he was any sort of gentleman he would accept whatever she chose to say.
Instead of responding at once, she found herself evaluating him again. Like herself, he would be closer to thirty than twenty. So why not himself for a husband, since that was what she sought? If he would ungallantly comment on her goal, why not in return flutter her lashes, say some clever thing, try to fix his attention? It was exactly what nine-and-ninety of a hundred ladies in the situation would do--and the one remaining would boldly lie to his face and expect him to accept it.
Finally, under the measuring weight of those sky-blue eyes, she said, simply, “Yes, I am.”
He blinked, yet assessing her, but after several long beats he smiled. She felt her eyes grow wide again, for he was magnificent, simply magnificent when he smiled.
“Ah, good. We may be friends,” he said, continuing to give her a crooked smile.
“My lord?” She tilted her head, perplexed.
“I like honest people, Lady Mary. I cannot abide liars. I appreciate the honor bestowed upon me when you bothered to tell me the truth.”
The Marriage Mart Page 1