A Bride Worth Taking (Arrangements, Book 6)

by Rebecca Connolly

  It unnerved him.

  The Rivertons were entirely respectable, and he admired their sons, Lord Sheffield and Captain Riverton, as well, but he did not see the need to hold them to the impossibly high standard as the rest of the world. They were only people, the same as everyone else, and their home was no more elaborate than the Whitlocks, so there was no need for such a fuss.

  And so, on Saturday evening, his wife would go, and he would stay, enjoying the solitude with a good book by a warm fire.

  He had no doubt he would hear all sorts of details from his gossip-addicted wife upon her return.

  Marianne could barely contain her excitement as she ascended the majestic stairs of the Riverton estate. Though Kit had adamantly refused to accompany her again, she was beyond caring at this point. She had settled on the perfect ensemble, one that would allow her to be perfectly disguised from anyone expecting her usual brazen costumes and enable her to hear the gossip and rumors people were actually saying about her behind her back.

  Ever since that fateful carriage ride, she had been more curious about perceptions of her and Kit. His revelation of the feelings of his past had unnerved her, particularly when others had been the first to reveal it to her. If Society as a whole could find such truth in their whisperings, what else lay therein?

  And what would people say if they did not know her identity?

  She was very plainly dressed, and entirely modest in all things. Her hair was pulled back and only barely curled, without any finery or elaborate adornments, only black ribbons. Her dress was one she had made over from Tibby’s old things, and still held that old style of dress long out of fashion, and required Marianne to fasten her corset more tightly so as to make it fit.

  It was a deep midnight blue, with black lace trimmings that was actually quite flattering on her, which made her consider more of the same style of dresses for the future. She had chosen black elbow gloves and a simple black domino that covered most of her face, her lips and chin being the only visible features.

  She could have been a nun or a mournful widow for all her blandness.

  And it was exactly how she wished it.

  Imagine the shock when people discovered her!

  She fought to keep from biting her lip as she handed the requisite invitation to the servant at the door, who then stepped back with a bow to let her pass. The house and the ballroom were just as exquisite as she remembered, even more so, perhaps, for the brilliance of the candlelight, the mystery of the masks, and the feeling of freedom cascading through her frame.

  She had never thought she would be admitted here again.

  The room was already filled with people, and she slowly, shyly, ambled her way around, waiting for the moment when someone knew her gait or her figure. Then they would call out to her or approach her, as had inevitably happened before.

  The moment never came.

  A satisfied smirk spread across her face. Her disguise was even better than she had predicted. She had perfect anonymity tonight.

  She could say anything, be anything, and no one would ever know.

  She searched the room for anyone that she might know, and was a bit discouraged that everyone else seemed to be just as well disguised. Not that she had expected to immediately know anyone, but she wished Gemma and Lily had received invitations as well. The three of them were becoming better friends than she would have thought, given their vast differences in personality and experience. But Gemma was so overtly friendly and cheerful, and Lily gentle yet witty, that it was impossible to be anything but warm with them. They had even been so bold yesterday as to take her down a few notches when she had said something too haughty, and she had not even minded it.

  She had not minded at the time that they had not been invited, and promised to share details with them. She doubted she would have spent much time with them anyway, considering how she would be flocked.

  Now, however, she was rather desperate for their company.

  A scant few moments into the event, and she was already feeling eerily similar to the shy, retreating girl in her first Season who had attracted the attention of nobody at all. Despite her perfect figure and posture, her effortless gliding, all of which had taken her years to perfect, not a single head turned in her direction.

  No one looked for her. No one marked her.

  No one missed her.

  She frowned and was tempted to fling off her mask, but she could not risk endangering future invitations from the Rivertons. If they wanted an anonymous masquerade, then she would comply with those wishes.

  Eventually, someone would know her. She was one of Society’s brightest gems, as she had been told repeatedly, and her popularity was unmatched. This idea of complete anonymity was not as entertaining as it had once been. Surely she could not be this invisible.

  She floated amongst the groups, ears straining for anything of value, but people only spoke of costumes, of the heat of the room, and of recent decisions of Parliament, of all things. Who spoke of the government at an event such as this? Whoever that was, she made a note to avoid them in the future.

  “No, I heard it from Colin Gerrard’s own mouth. Miss Bray had been carried off by Marksby against her will, and her brother rallied his friends to save her from certain ruination.”

  Marianne’s ears perked up and she moved closer to the masked group of people nearby, a small, secret smile forming. Now, at last, she might hear something worthwhile.

  A derisive snort escaped from someone in the group. “If she was unwilling, I will eat my hat. That girl has been an impudent hoyden for years. Takes after her mother, you know. She was a harlot as well.”

  “Surely you are not suggesting that Miss Bray is a fallen woman.”

  “All I am saying is Mr. Marksby would not have been inclined to pay any interest in her without the proper inducements. And given her family history, it is little wonder that she is so without morals.”

  Marianne was too stunned to even gasp and hid herself behind a pillar, allowing her to listen without being seen, despite her costume.

  “She is rather cold and cruel,” a man said in a tone of reluctant consideration.

  “Her talents for polite society are minimal at best. All the accomplishments she can boast are for things about which we refined persons do not speak. I have no doubt her mother taught her well. Perhaps even her mother’s lovers.”

  “Lovers? I thought there was just the one.”

  “Yes, the one the late Mr. Bray killed before her eyes, and then dispensed with his wife afterwards.”

  “Idiot. Do you think Eleanor Bray only had one lover? Scores, gentlemen. Scores of men seduced by her wiles and then tossed aside, entirely ruined. And the daughter is on the same path, mark my words.”

  “But her brother is so fine a gentleman.”

  “Duncan Bray is a wild man dressed in a gentleman’s clothing,” retorted the same, sharp voice. “Do you know how many men he has thrashed to keep his sister’s supposed honor intact? Townsend, for example…”

  “If she has had so many lovers, why do we not know of them?”

  “Are you disappointed to not have been one of them?”

  The group chuckled darkly, and Marianne felt her face burn with shame and embarrassment. She raised a gloved hand to her cheek and found no relief from the cool fabric covering her numb fingers.

  “Not at all, I have no desire to be among the unfortunate souls taken in by such a woman. I tried to court her, you know, before her true nature was known. Even then, she was a heartless wretch.”

  “She always has been. Not a single friend, and I doubt anyone would miss her if she were gone.”

  “I rather think London would be more polite for it.”

  “Why is she so popular then?”

  “Oh, because she says what nobody else dares to, and one never knows what she will do next. She is more of a spectacle than anything else.”

  “Her aunt is quite eccentric…”

  “Yes, but Lady
Raeburn also has grace, class, and encourages accomplishment. She fosters goodwill and brings a spark of life to dull events such as these. Her niece lacks all that is good and polished for a well-bred lady.”

  “She is not well-bred. Her father was a tradesman!”

  “He was the son of a very respectable family.”

  “Yes, and was cut off! Nobody knows why, but that should tell you how serious it is.”

  “To think, Marianne Bray parades herself around as a fine lady. She has no accomplishments, you know. Nothing to recommend her but a fortune.”

  “A man would have to be truly desperate to want such a creature, no matter how vast her fortune.”

  “How do you explain Kit Gerrard, then?”

  “Simple. He could get her for an easy time of it. She was quite ruined, you know, whatever the circumstances of her departure from London. Gerrard fancied the girl, and her brother knew no one else would have her. One should know by now that not even a respectable marriage could save such a woman. She will never be truly admitted by polite society, not even her husband can stand her.”

  “She will have to bear him children…”

  “It will be impossible. He will never know which children she bears are legitimate.”

  “From bad blood comes bad blood. The whole family will be ruined because of her. Shame it’s the Gerrards who will suffer.”

  Marianne could hear no more. Her ears rang with the mocking laughter, the flagrant lies that this particular group was so lightly tossing about. She could not feel her extremities, all of her sensation focused on the erratic and painful beating of her heart.

  She wandered to another portion of the room, and found others discussing her marriage, and not politely. Still others were delighted that she had not attended, feeling they might actually enjoy the evening. And still another, with people she recognized as being among her circle of regular friends and admirers, criticizing everything about her, from her laugh to her nose to her accomplishments, or lack thereof. She had known she was a household name, but she had never expected this.

  What would be the point in remaining now?

  She moved back towards the entrance as if in a daze, occasionally being jostled or bumped by people who did not see her, or had imbibed too much. She managed a glance at a large clock in the entryway, and found she had not even been at the party for two hours. But it was enough.

  Her carriage was summoned, her dark cloak fetched, and wordlessly she loaded herself in, ignoring the questioning looks from her footman and driver.

  She felt nothing as she rode back, her eyes seeing nothing though she stared out the carriage window. There was nothing around her, nothing touching her, nothing in her head…

  Nothing.

  It was as if no time at all had passed before she was back at the house, wondering faintly if this place might become a refuge for her. This home that was not yet a home, but could it become a source of comfort and hope? Or would it become a prison for her?

  The footman, sensing she was not quite right, escorted her inside and wordlessly took her cloak and mask, and asked her something, probably feeling the need to see her safely to her rooms, but she waved him off, and he disappeared.

  She started towards the stairs, but found her step faltering. She teetered on her slightly heeled shoes, feeling as if she had not eaten in days. Her chest ached and her dress felt too tight, her legs too weak, her arms too heavy. She managed to reach the stairs and the railing, and hand over trembling hand, she pulled herself up the stairs, tripping over her long and heavy skirts at scattered intervals. Her lungs started to work in a frantic, heaving pattern, and dry sobs soon found their way out.

  Everything burned and ached, and her eyes flooded with hot tears of shame, embarrassment, guilt, agony… She could not bear the load suddenly thrust upon her, the weight pressing against her back and her chest and her shoulders. How could she not have known? How could people say and think such horrible things about her?

  Was it the truth?

  Had she really given such impressions?

  No wonder Kit hated her.

  That, it seemed, was the final blow, and at last, safely in her bedchamber, she crumpled to the floor awkwardly, her feet tangling in her skirts, sending her crashing down hard. She did not care, though her shoulder ached from the impact. She wrapped her arms around herself, curling into a ball, her frame wracked with sob after sob.

  It could not have been long after her fall that her husband appeared, though time had ceased to hold any meaning or significance to her.

  “What was that noise?” he asked, not seeing her in the dark of the room. “It sounded as though…” His feet shuffled a little. “Good Lord… Marianne?”

  She could only answer with more sobs. Embarrassed at being discovered so, she flung an arm over her face and mouth, desperate to stifle the pitiful sounds emanating from her and hide her face from him.

  “Did they not light your room before you returned?” Kit asked, sounding irritated. “Idiot staff, they will wind up killing one of us. To be fair, you are back earlier than expected, but that’s no excuse. We can train them better. I will speak with Caldwell and Mrs. Wilton about it. At least your fire is still going, but what did you trip over? Are you hurt?”

  He entered the room more fully, shutting the door behind him softly, then seemed to notice her state. He stopped, and then she felt a surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder. “Marianne?”

  The soft surprise, even kindness in his voice undid her, and the painful sobs returned with a vengeance. She twisted away from him, burying her face into the hard floor beneath her.

  Kit muttered to himself softly, and tried to get her to look at him. “Marianne, look at me. What is it? Are you injured?”

  She shook her head frantically, wishing he would just go and leave her in peace. She could not face anyone now, perhaps ever again.

  She heard him shift, and then suddenly she was lifted from the ground and into his arms. A bleating cry of protest was wrenched from her and she struggled in his hold, her hands now fists.

  “No, no,” he scolded, though his tone sounded odd. “Easy. It’s all right.”

  She needed him to be hard, to be unfeeling, to kick her while she was down, to join the others in their condemnation of her. Not this…

  He carried her across the room, his hold on her sure. “Relax, Marianne,” he ordered softly, still not sounding himself.

  Something about his steadiness shook her and the stubborn resistance evaporated. She found herself curling against him, turning her face into his coat and sobbing even harder, her lungs gasping for air that she could not find.

  His hold shifted and tightened briefly, then she was set on the divan near the fire. Kit ran his hands along her shoulders and back. “Are you hurt?” he asked again. “Did the fall injure you?”

  She shook her head, now swimming in faintness, and covered her face with her hands.

  His hands slid down her arms and her hands were suddenly pulled from her face and held in his, his grip nearly clenching. “What happened, Marianne? What is wrong?”

  Eyes still closed, she shook her head again, unable to bear his inquisition. She was broken and still breaking, and he could not see it.

  She heard Kit swear softly, which was impossible, for Kit never did any such thing, and her forearms were suddenly seized, and she felt him on the floor in front of her.

  “Marianne, what is it?” he asked again, sounding almost panicked now. “For heaven’s sake, tell me!”

  She hiccupped on a few more sobs, unable to draw in a full breath and swaying a little from the effort. Even with her eyes closed, she could almost see dots before her eyes and her blood pounded in her ears.

  Kit made a noise of irritation and went around the divan, his fingers suddenly at her back and unhooking her dress, then loosening her corset laces. She inhaled sharply, the acute relief washing over her. She heard him give a satisfied grunt, then felt a shawl being draped around her, whi
ch he proceeded to pull tightly around her when he faced her again.

  Back on his haunches before her, he took her hands. “Breathe, Marianne,” he murmured, rubbing her hands a little. “That should help you now.”

  She obeyed his calm directions, and found herself settling a little.

  “That’s it,” he praised softly. “Can you look at me?”

  She slowly shook her head, her frame still shaking with unreleased sobs.

  He sighed, then got to his feet. “I will call a servant to light the room and help you change.”

  “No!” she cried, her hand shooting out to seize his arm. She could not bear to be seen in this state of disarray and distress by one in her employ. It was bad enough to be seen by her husband this way, but that she could get over.

  And for some inexplicable reason, she wanted him to stay.

  She forced her eyes open and looked up at Kit through her tear dampened lashes, more tears falling from her eyes down her cheeks. “Please stay.”

  Kit stared at her for a long moment, then he slowly nodded once. “All right. Let me light the room while you settle yourself.”

  She dropped her arm with a nod, closing her eyes against the urge to cry again. She heard Kit moving about the room, lighting several candles and stoking the fire. It must have been a sight, the proud gentleman and master of so many now acting a servant. What had gotten into him? She ought to have laughed at the sight, but she could not even bear to see him brought so low for her.

  She ought to be alone in the darkness, laying where she fell.

  “There, you already seem more yourself,” Kit said at last.

  Marianne looked over at him, standing with his hands on his hips by the fireplace, watching her intently.

  She swallowed as she realized there were no more hysterics, no more frantic pounding of her heart and lungs. Tears were still there, but they now fell slowly down their path across her cheeks.

  Kit came to her again, slowly going down before her, and taking her hands in a comforting hold. “Tell me what happened,” he said gently.