The Marriage Mart

by Teresa DesJardien

  “Quite.”

  “But why?” she cried, half-laughing, spreading hers hands as though asking an impossibly obscure question.

  “Because I like you.”

  She blushed at the ring of simple truth.

  “You are the only adult female I know who has not run from me screaming, rapped upon my person with an assortment of fans or lorgnettes, nor scolded me overmuch for my wicked tongue. I have been completely free with you, and you laugh and let me please myself. It is an extraordinary pleasure, one I cannot, no, will not foreswear, because I know you will not disappoint me by suddenly turning missish.”

  For the first time in her life, Mary was glad she was plain to look upon. Here was the most handsome man in the world, telling her he liked her. She knew with certainty that such frankness would not have been possible if she had been in any way the sort of beauty with which one flirted. Such was his reputation, he could only befriend and speak so boldly to an unpretty girl. And she had no doubt it was mere friendship he sought. The Blade was not the marrying type, everyone said. And perhaps it was something in the way he held himself, but the promise of friendship only was communicated silently to her as clearly as though he had spoken of it, whether he had consciously recognized it or no.

  Instead of being cast down by the sudden insight, she felt the exhilaration of being truly seen as a person worthy of liking.

  She felt quite overwhelmed for a moment, but she dare not disappoint him by doing exactly as he had forbid her to do: turning missish. Instead she clasped her hands together as though in prayer and, giving a stage sigh, replied with a smile, “Very well then, my lord. I grant you leave to be as naughty as you care to be, though my stipulation is that it must be for my ears alone. I have a reputation to maintain, you must know. However, the burning of my own ears is a small enough price to pay to claim such a wild creature as my friend.”

  He moved toward her, his hands clasped behind his back, his blue eyes as clear and sparkling as ice. He towered over her, very deliberately intimidating in his presence. “Yes, my dear lady, I am a wild creature. Let us never forget that.”

  “And s-so, our friendship begins again,” she said, stumbling over the words just a little as she moved away from him, half-turning, and only daring a quick glance over her shoulder to indicate he was to follow her.

  She brought him to his party of hunters, and then excused herself, claiming she would give away the clues if she stayed to hear the debates. In truth, she simply needed to move out of the sphere of the overwhelming Marquess of Rothayne, to let her pulse return to normal and to try and arrange her thoughts into a less chaotic pattern.

  She stared out a window, unnoted by her family, who were arguing back and forth concerning the arrangement of a bowl of flowers, until Mrs. Pennett tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped, causing the lady to ask, “Now what’s on your mind then, LadyMary, to make you so jittery?”

  “To be honest,” Mary replied, for she might as well not bother to try and hide much from her companion, who had an uncannily keen eye anyway, “I am thinking about Lord Rothayne.”

  “Oo, it would never do to get attached to that one, Puss,” Mrs. Pennett said, wagging a finger.

  “Well, of course it would not. He is the most unsuitable fellow imaginable, especially for my goals. No, it is not a thought of a dalliance--let alone marriage--with him that disturbs me.” She turned to look at her companion, suddenly finding a hedging statement coming from her lips. “It seems he wishes to be my friend, and just that. I have never had a gentleman friend before, and I was puzzling out how one goes about it.”

  “Pretty much the same as with a female, if you’re really just friends,” Mrs. Pennett said warily, with a glimmer in her eye that bespoke volumes of disapproval.

  “Yes, I suspect you’re right. What a goose I am,” Mary said, slipping her arm through her companion’s to lead her toward the kitchens to check on the progress of the forthcoming meal. She did not, would not explain that, yes, indeed it was not the thought of marrying Lord Rothayne that disturbed her--the very thought was absurd. No, it was rather the sudden, desolate and disconsoling thought that she knew she must marry some fellow who was not the least bit like him.

  ***

  A cheer went up, shared by all, celebrating the winners of the Hounds Day. The sport had been the very thing to lift the gloom the weather had cast over them all, and the guests were uniformly so pleased as to be generous in their congratulations. Along one wall was a collection of items: a comb, a stocking, a pocketwatch, a feather, and about a hundred other bits and pieces of the household, the bounty acquired in the hunt for clues. Team number six had won, having been the first to decipher correctly that the final clue meant they must find their corresponding number on the bottom of a shoe of a member of the household. Poor Mrs. Brumbold, the cook’s assistant, had blushed furiously when she was dragged from the kitchens and made to present the bottom of her shoe as proof before the laughing crowd. This display was followed only a minute later when Elsbeth was proved to have the number four on her shoe, and Pendleton’s shoe brought third place success to team number one. It was roundly applauded when the first prize turned out to be new and gaudily-made house slippers for the entire team--representative, after a fashion, of the final clue that had won the day for them--eclipsing the more ordinary hair combs, buckles, fans, and tobacco pouches that made up prizes for the ladies and gentlemen of the second and third places.

  Mary’s mother, Cornelia, Countess of Edgcombe, led the way in to luncheon upon the arm of her husband. As their guests discovered that the meal was not to be formally consumed, but instead served in a buffet manner as a kind of pretense at al fresco dining, Mary flitted among them, gaily bestowing the less-than-artistic cut out paper horses upon the members of the winning team. Her efforts caused yet more of the good humor the day had brought, and she was eagerly summoned from one dining group to the next as they demanded someone be given their due as well. When she came to the group that included the Marquess of Rothayne, his dining partners held no-one of the winning team, but she offered other consolation by smiling in regret at her guests. “Worse luck!” she cried.

  “Oh, not really,” Lord Avery said, his youthful face shining. “It was a jolly time, don’t you know.”

  “Yes, it was a spot of fun, wasn’t it?” Mary beamed.

  “I, for one, am thankful to not have a new pair of house slippers,” Rothayne spoke up, causing the others to laugh with appreciation. He balanced a china plate upon one hand, a fork in the other with which he served selected tidbits to himself.

  Mary gave him a smile mixed with a silent sigh, for she was, she knew with a repeat of the day’s sudden insight, quite besotted with the fellow, for now she was thinking that he even chewed beautifully. Such a graceful creature, but with the heart of a lion: all-devouring, self-satisfying, unconcerned with his own image. Perhaps besotted was not the right word; he was just such a foreign being, the like of which she had not met before. Foreignness was very attractive--that is why people cared to travel. But ‘foreign’ was just that: foreign. The traveler always returned home, seeking the comfort of the familiar. She knew very well that he was the very opposite model of the man whom she must find and marry.

  “Those slippers were simply atrocious, weren’t they?” she asked the crowd, but she was looking at Rothayne.

  They all laughed again and agreed. Lord Rothayne smiled, and Mary had to smile with him.

  As it happened, the party was such a success that the guests lingered on. No dancing had been planned, but suddenly people were forming couples, and Lydia was pressed into playing the harpsichord for them all. Randolph brought out his French horn, and the brother and sister bravely struggled through ten tunes before they pleaded exhaustion. Lady Edgcombe, doubtless fearful she would soon be in a position where she would have to feed them all yet another meal, stood up to announce that Mary would sing and accompany herself on the harp, and then her other offspring would play
one final tune to conclude the day’s events.

  Mary cast her mother a dark look, for it was not the first time the lady had so blatantly found a way to display her unmarried daughter’s charms, but the harm was already done. Moving to where servants pulled a Holland cloth from the harp, Mary settled herself with as much poise as she could muster, and strummed the strings to find she was satisfied with the tuning of the instrument.

  She sang “When the Heart Doth Wing to Heav’n,” and felt she only played one wrong note and that her voice had been up to the complicated tune reasonably well. She looked out upon the applauding crowd, but it was only Rothayne’s quiet clapping, accompanied as it was by appreciative eyes, that meant anything to her. He would not give her Spanish coin; his applause was sincere. She blushed a little, and nodded her head becomingly in acknowledgement of the praise.

  ***

  As Rothayne clapped, he looked upon the less than pretty lady, and then around at the forty-odd people who remained assembled to hear the final tune to be given by Lady Mary’s siblings.

  To himself he thought with a sudden, unexpected clarity: But what a great lot of fools they are not to realize the pearl inside the oyster that is Lady Mary. Yet it was obvious just from the looks on their faces that most had dismissed Lady Mary the moment she had ceased singing. It was seldom one met a genteel lady who had been raised to demonstrate the merest intelligence, let alone this one’s tolerance and humor and exquisite manners. That she could sing so prettily was as icing upon an already fine cake. Rothayne, looking at the scene with eyes quite different than they would have been yesterday, watched as Mary rose and dipped a curtsy, as she walked back to join the crowd as though on water, a gliding graceful step that displayed her womanly curves to advantage and emphasized the tidy waistline. Her laugh was almost as musical as her singing voice, and he knew with an unexpected simplicity it was a desire to hear that laugh again that had brought him here this day. There were some things that could not be denied, not even by an old rogue like himself: if ever a soul shone brightly, it was hers. As she had looked directly upon him to solicit his approval, he had felt a curious, extraordinary glow of warmth that she thought him worthy of her friendship.

  Oh, but look at these simpletons, every one of them blind, he continued to himself. That the physically imperfect, yet radiantly wonderful Lady Mary was reduced to drubbing amongst them for a husband was really a pity almost beyond enduring.

  Well, as strange as it was for him to have a woman who was in truth a friend and not a lover, he and she had come to an almost immediate and curiously comfortable accord, and it was by virtue of that newfound and oddly cherished accord that he gave himself instantaneous permission to assist the lady into finding someone worthy of her.

  Oh, never himself, of course, never. He knew better than anyone he was not worthy--but he had the sense to know who was, and he was in the position to bring such fellows into the lady’s circle. It would mean attending some truly horrendous routs--stifling, boring, and dreadfully restrictive--but for the sake of his newest friend, he would do it. John lived for himself, but part of that self included a devotion to the rare few whom he could call friend.

  His was the last pair of hands to cease applauding, and the fact was noted in whispers behind a few fans. Ah well then, he concluded at once, he must hurry this lady into marriage with another if he was to have a chance to remain her friend, before any attentions of his should stain her reputation unalterably and to the worse.

  With that thought in mind, he moved to be the first to leave. He thanked his hostess for including him and for disregarding his tardy arrival, and thanked his host for ‘an intriguing new sport’, and finally gave his hand to the lady with whom he would have preferred to stay and chat amiably, but for whose sake he must leave.

  ***

  “I am so glad you could come, my lord,” she said warmly at Rothayne’s leavetaking, well aware of the suddenly erratic pulse that beat through the fingers which he clasped in his shapely hand. His blue gaze had an intensity she seemed to note more and more as time passed.

  “As am I. You must promise to sing again for me sometime.”

  She lowered her eyes a little in genuine confusion as to how to answer the warm words, and when she raised them again, she found herself saying giddily and playfully, “At Almacks, do you think?”

  “That would be delightful. You sing as do the angels above.”

  “I daresay the patronesses would not think so, if I should happen to start warbling upon that hallowed ground.”

  “Then perhaps you should sing for me privately. An angel should be singing in heaven, and I declare I could take you there.” His fingers tightened on hers, and if he had pulled just a little she would have been forced to come up against his length.

  She laughed then, back on ground that seemed less shaky. His regard was too unnerving, but this playful waywardness was becoming familiar. “Rogue,” she called him, squeezing his hand back, hard.

  “Admit it, you do not mind in the slightest my proposals.” His blue eyes glowed like diamonds as he removed his hand and flexed it, as though it had gone numb, just for her benefit, just to hear her laugh again.

  “The thing I do mind is learning that I must be nearly as corrupted as yourself, to let you go on so.”

  “Ah, there is hope then. Lady Mary is corruptible. On that note, I shall say my farewell, my dear lady.” So saying, he bent long enough to press the lightest kiss upon the back of her hand, and then bowed himself out of her life for the next week.

  Chapter 3

  When Rothayne walked back into Mary’s life, it was while she tended the garden in the lightest rain in weeks. Compared to how it had been falling in massive quantities for days, the light misting of today seemed almost summer-like, and she found herself drawn to the out of doors.

  She had no idea how long he had stood silently observing her, but when she turned to pull the weed bucket closer, she was startled to find a pair of water-dotted hessians beside it. Once her eyes had risen past the sartorial splendor--despite the light rain--of his morning clothes to finally recognize his face, she began to struggle at once from her knees. “My lord!” she cried.

  He reached down and caught her elbow, assisting her as she rose. With an amused lift of one eyebrow, he quipped, “Did I startle you?”, knowing full well he had.

  “Of course,” was her somewhat crisp reply as she snatched off her tattered half-handers and made a few pointless efforts at wiping her fingers on the cloth tied from a string at her waist. “You quite surprised me. Did no one bring you from the house?”

  “I never entered the house, so you must not blame your staff. I walked today and so did not even have the grace to leave a horse or carriage in the drive. So you see, we are quite unnoted, and quite alone.”

  She reached to adjust the sunbonnet on her head, drops scattering, hoping the movement would cover the fact she was a little flustered to be found in her worst and oldest gown, with mud at knee-height and on fingertips, and hearty half-boots peeping out beneath the sodden and too-short hem. That he would make suggestive remarks only seemed to point up the fact she was atrociously adorned.

  “You walked! In this rain? Well, I suppose it is no more extraordinary than that I should be out mucking in the mud. I am, however, grateful to you that you did not bring others with you, for I should hate to have to make my curtsies looking as I do.”

  “Yes, well, ’tis a curious costume. Do you not have the means to employ a gardener?” he drawled with a comically disdainful set to his mouth.

  “We do. But this little patch is all mine.” She turned to regard the muddy spot where she had been closely placing starter plants in the seemingly vain hope of someday seeing sunshine. “Mama and I have quite different tastes in flowers, and she allowed me this little bit of earth to do with as I please, as it is at the very back of the garden. I began discussing what I wanted here with the gardener, but then I found I had an interest in it myself, and so it ha
s become my pet project.”

  “But, my dear, I do not see one rose amongst your selections,” he drawled.

  “Not a one. I like the wilder flowers, the ones with exuberant colors and unrefined scents, though Mama finds it all somewhat shameful, I believe.”

  At that he gave a knowing chuckle, and said, “I believe it is a Mama’s duty to find many things shameful.”

  “I daresay you are right, this conversation being among them, no doubt,” she grinned at him, finally relaxing a little under the effects of his charm. Stooping quickly to take up the rope handle of the weed bucket, she began to walk across the scythed lawn. He followed a step or two behind. “What brings you this day, my lord?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “I have a dozen intriguing answers to that, dearest Lady Mary, but I will not burden you with them right now. I actually came in earnest to speak with you. We have become very good friends, and yet we know almost nothing of one another.” He paused, and then said, “You know I overheard your conversation with your chaperone. I know of your desire to wed. I am desirous of helping you to that end.”

  Her steps slowed, and her lips parted in mild dismay before she snapped them shut, blinking several times in astonishment. “I ... I don’t know what to say--”

  “I could say some things for you. ‘Why is he doing this? What sort of rackety fellow does he think to attach to me? How dare he interfere in my life this way?’ Am I close to being correct? Isn’t that much of what you are thinking?” he asked, one eyebrow perched archly.

  “ Tis exactly what I would be thinking if any other had said such a thing,” she said tentatively. “But now I do not denounce you and bid you leave because I believe you, particularly you, are making a sincere--albeit curious--proposal.”

  “Quite sincere. But why do you call it curious?”

  She spread her hands wide, the weed bucket swinging, as she cried in embarrassment, “Well, look at me! Why should you care what becomes of such a one as myself? I could understand if I were a great beauty--”