by Regina Scott
The fellow could not even refrain from gossiping about his own cousin, even when trying to arrange an introduction. Thomas shook his head in disgust. He didn't much like the way the fellow was maligning Miss Munroe. He also didn't like being told that a woman with severe social deficits was all he could get as a bride. As if he needed to find some ape leader, some maladroit, lackluster, impoverished spinster to fawn over him. The very idea made his bile rise. Surely there existed some intelligent, talented, beautiful woman of breeding who would be as pleased to marry him as he would be to ask her. Why should he settle for less?
Pinstin obviously took his brooding silence for agreement, for he seized Thomas’ arm again. “She's perfect, I tell you, a complete contrast to Lady Janice. I'll introduce you, and you can see for yourself."
Horrified, Thomas attempted to remove himself from the fellow's clutches even as Pinstin drew him inexorably toward the ballroom door. He had no interest in starting another courtship after the dismal endings of his last two. He certainly had no interest in meeting the Original Miss Munroe. And he had absolutely no interest in appearing in public on the arm of a mad man. But it was too late. Just as he managed to disengage his arm, Pinstin stumbled against him, forcing him through the open door and straight into the arms of Margaret Munroe.
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Chapter Two
Margaret Munroe had not been having a particularly enjoyable evening. At her stepmother's insistence, she had agreed to allow the woman's nephew Reginald Pinstin to escort her to the Baminger ball. Margaret adored dancing; it was one of the three greatest loves of her life. Unfortunately, she had little use for Reggie. Narrow of face, mind, and character, the gangly fellow could not be counted on to comport himself in any manner resembling usefulness. His family, her family, had forced him into escorting her, but they could not make him dance with her. As it was, the makebait had circulated through the ballroom in search of gossip, claiming a sore foot and a weak back and any other ailment to prevent him from having to take the floor. As soon as she had gone to fetch herself some refreshment, he had disappeared. If she intended to dance that night, she would have to hunt for better game.
She had spotted several of her companions in the press of the entryway earlier and now gladly left the ballroom to find them. While she could not state that she currently had a single suitor, she did have a solid set of gentlemen who admired her. She scouted out Robbie Whattling, who was always willing to make a cake of himself. Dark haired and dark eyed, he had the same double-edged personality as Byron—joyous one moment, dejected the next. She was usually able to bring him out of the darkness. Tonight, however, he was already deep into a card game with the odious George Safton and unwilling to be disturbed even to dance with her. Safton cast her one of his venom-tipped glances that had earned him the appellation of The Snake, but she ignored him. She had already warned Robbie twice that the man was no good. She did not intend to waste her breath a third time.
She ran down Chas Prestwick, with whom her stepmother generally refused to let her dance, for all that he was heavenly on his feet. True to the reputation her stepmother feared, he was attempting a tryst with their host's oldest daughter Belinda. Of course, Margaret hadn't realized it until she had cornered Chas in the fire-lit sitting room next door to the study. She hadn't even glanced at the nearby sofa to notice Belinda reclining there expectantly. She had been halfway through her explanation to Chas when the silly chit had sat up and glared at her. Chas had burst out laughing at Margaret's maladroit attempts to extricate herself from the situation. Margaret had laughed with him. Belinda Baminger had leaped to her feet and stalked off in a huff, threatening like an irrational child to tell her father, who would only have had to call Chas out. Poor Chas had had to decamp before Margaret had gotten so much as a country dance. Still, his parting wink in the ballroom door had made her laugh again.
She wandered back inside, hoping she might see someone else she recognized. It wasn't a large room, and half the guests were safely ensconced in the card room next door. Of the fifty or so people left, a few lounged in the sofas lining the narrow, satin-draped walls and most were on the parquet dance floor. Couples were moving through the steps of a country dance, silks and jewels glinting in the lights of the dual chandeliers overhead. Their movements were so slow and wooden that she wanted to scream in vexation. Was there no one in all this house who knew how to enjoy life?
She stalked around the edge of the floor, feeling like a hungry lioness forced to watch a herd of fat gazelle. Reggie was nowhere to be seen. He had either exhausted his limited appeal and was curled up on another sofa somewhere asleep or had found some pompous personage to flatter and cajole into revealing a tantalizing secret, as was his specialty. That was one thing she could say about her cousin—he was a marvelous little gossip. She didn't much admire the trait in general, but she appreciated anyone who used their gifts to advantage, especially gifts she did not possess.
And she made a hideous toady. For one thing, she lacked the tact necessary to excel at flattering her betters. For another, she had to contend with an honest streak and an appreciation of absurdity. Of course, right at the moment, she found it hard to appreciate her situation. Her stepmother had insisted that she wear an awful pink satin gown that washed out her dark coloring even as the puffy flounces along the neckline and hem made her look as if she were about to take flight. It was the outfit of a simpering girl fresh from the schoolroom, not a mature young lady who was almost done weathering four full Seasons. Dressed so hideously, pressed into her cousin's company, forced to watch while others danced, was there nothing that could go well this night?
She completed her circle of the dance floor and approached a group of older people watching the dancers. One of the gentlemen, a staunch military fellow, the Earl of Rillson, stiffened as she approached. Refusing to meet her eye, he excused himself from the group and scurried away, face going nearly as pale as his white mustache. She vaguely remembered recently telling him he looked very well for a man of his age and habits. Was she to blame that he had liver spots and gout? Her stepmother had had apoplexy.
"Honestly, Margaret,” she had chastised as soon as the embarrassed man was out of earshot, “can you never think before you speak? How am I to find you a husband if you cannot behave in a civilized fashion?"
That was the problem, of course. The second Mrs. Munroe was determined that Margaret not waste her fourth season. Having married Margaret's widowed father when Margaret was seventeen, the second Mrs. Munroe had immediately set about to prove she was the perfect society matron and just as good at arranging parties as the renowned Mrs. Ermintrude Munroe, Margaret's aunt. Aunt Ermintrude was a legend for her good taste and impeccable breeding. Her one area of failure was that her daughters had not married well. Therefore, it was imperative that Mrs. Helen Munroe do better by Margaret. The quest had cost Helen over five years so far. With her reputation at stake, she was getting desperate. Margaret must find a husband, before the end of the Season, which was only a six weeks away.
Margaret tried to remember that the relentless prodding toward finding a mate came from her stepmother's firm belief that the only way to happiness was marriage. All women married; that was how one lived. No Munroe had ever remained a spinster; it was unthinkable. Helen could not be so ignoble as to fail in this sacred duty.
Unfortunately for her stepmother, Margaret was equally certain that marriage would doom her to misery. She was smart enough to recognize that she had little in common with most young ladies her age. They minced through dances as if afraid to wrinkle their gowns; she gave herself over to the joy of the music. They perched on horseback and trotted along flower-bordered paths. She donned breeches in the country and slung herself across saddles built for men to pound across open fields. Only in London did she succumb to her stepmother's pleas to wear a riding habit and ride side-saddle. While the other London ladies paid house calls on each other and congratulated themselves on their proper bre
eding, she spent her days looking for the most despised of citizens and helping them return to useful roles in society. Her stepmother despaired of her. Even her father prophesied that only a husband would curb her strange tendencies. Yet, if her father and stepmother could not appreciate her many eccentricities, how could she expect a husband to understand her?
Not that she abhorred the male sex in any way. That was one thing she shared with the other young ladies here for the Season—a healthy fascination with the male. She certainly couldn't dance without one, and it was much more fun to race when she was racing against one. True, some of the more stuffy gentlemen seemed appalled by her antics. Viscount Darton, whom she had beaten soundly in a private race last year, was a good example of that breed. He preferred his young ladies docile and colorless. A woman who could best him in anything clearly confused and frightened him. She'd never forget how stunned he'd looked at the end of the race when she'd peeled off the coachman's cape to reveal herself. It still smarted that her father had made her return the mare she had fairly won.
"We can't have people talking,” he had scolded her. “You're a fine girl, Margaret, but some fellows can't abide a girl who shows them up. I know the Bible talks about not hiding our lights under a basket, but sometimes it's perfectly all right to tone down the brightness."
She, of course, did not agree, but she loved her father too much to argue about something so trivial. She had a wonderful thoroughbred gelding named Aeolus, far better than the three-year-old mare. The horse had gone home.
Much as she disliked the self-important types like Viscount Darton, however, any number of the gentlemen she had met last year and this were intelligent and had some appreciation for the activities she found interesting. Lord Leslie Petersborough was nearly as good a rider as she was, even if he couldn't win a carriage race over Chas Prestwick. Chas Prestwick was always up for an adventure, although she had to be careful not to let their adventures become known. The curricle race to Lincoln's Inn Fields last month had nearly cost her a week of dancing before she was able to convince her father that no one else would have recognized the groom at the back of the curricle as her.
Then there were the Whattlings. She had only managed to wind Robbie in a dance once, and he had been foxed at the time. He was in such good shape from boxing, she knew. Of course, she also couldn't admit to have seen several of his bouts. Ladies did not watch boxing matches. His older brother Kevin, on the other hand, would never have danced with her but was always willing to fund her charities. He was especially kind to the abandoned ladies at Comfort House, her latest pet project. If only he had been nobly born, then he might have been able to fight the bill Leslie had told her was brewing in the House of Lords to amend the Poor Laws. The wording of the bill might spell doom for her charitable efforts. But Leslie had yet to ascend to his title, and none of her other gentlemen friends were likely to hold seats in Parliament. Still, they were fine fellows and seemed to enjoy her company as much as she enjoyed theirs. Yet none of them would have considered courting her, much less marrying her.
Nor would she have considered marrying them. They clearly had other ideas about what a woman should be than what she was. Sometimes she thought they saw her as a younger sister; other times she wasn't sure they saw her as female at all. The fact did not trouble her. She had had enough fellows ogle her figure to know she had some attraction. She was just as glad she did not have to worry about breaking any of her comrades’ hearts. It made enjoying their company so much easier.
Besides, she could hardly marry them when she was in love with someone else. None of them knew that; she had never even told her father or stepmother. It had happened suddenly, at the very beginning of the Season last year. She had always read of love at first sight, but she had never credited it would happen to her. Yet she had gone to the ball, looked across the ballroom, and known that the only man she would ever love was standing there.
He was perfect. That both excited and depressed her. What must it be like to be loved by the most intelligent, handsome, man in London? And why would such a paragon ever notice the unconventional Miss Margaret Munroe? True, he raced. She had watched any number of his races since then, cheering for him. He had not noticed. He also danced, yet he had never asked her to dance. She had been in his company any number of times, in fact, and he had not paid her the slightest attention.
Unlikely as it seemed, that did not diminish her love. She watched, applauded when he did well, and cried for him when he did not. She read about his exploits in the paper and eavesdropped shamelessly whenever he was mentioned in passing conversations at balls. He was the one of the few topics she would allow Reggie to discuss in her presence. She pressed her comrades to tell what they knew about him until they bored of the subject. As she asked about many other people as well, no one had ever noticed a particular interest in the Marquis DeGuis.
She had, in fact, only confessed to her cousin Allison that she was in love, though she had refrained from naming her hero. Margaret might lack tact, but even she knew it was unthinkable to tell one's dearest cousin that you are in love with the man she is about to marry.
But he hadn't married Allison. She found that as difficult to understand as everyone else. Certainly her stepmother was baffled.
"Whistling her future down the wind!” Helen had declared when they had received the letter from Somerset last autumn. “What can your cousin be thinking? The Marquis DeGuis is the catch of the Season—handsome, refined, well bred, and richer than Midas! With Allison's looks and breeding, they would have made such a handsome pair. Oh, your poor aunt must be beside herself. Another Munroe sacrificed to a country nobody!"
Margaret could not weep for her aunt or cousin. At the reception, following the couple's elopement to Gretna Green, Allison had appeared radiant beside her country nobody. No, Margaret had felt for the marquis, believing him to have lost his heart to her lovely cousin. Surely he was the one who was weeping.
She had been surprised, and a little disappointed, to find that he immediately re-entered the lists when he returned to London after Christmas. As his own father had died at a young age, rumor had it he wanted to ensure the continuity of the line. After nearly two years of searching for a bride, he grew more impatient in setting up his nursery. The mamas with marriageable daughters mobbed him wherever he went.
Margaret stayed out of the way. She had little interest in being one of the pack, and she doubted he'd notice her even if she did join the hoards of ladies vying for his attentions. From his pursuit of first Allison and then Lady Janice, it appeared to Margaret that the Marquis DeGuis, like most of the gentlemen of the ton, was looking for the kind of wife he could display along with his trophies for fox hunting, boxing, and riding. Margaret Munroe refused to be anyone's trophy.
By May, it was clear that Lady Janice Willstencraft had gained the lead. That made it all the more difficult for Margaret, who had more than a passing acquaintance with Lady Janice. To have him court two of her friends was the outside of enough. Reggie told Margaret that betting at White's was heavily in favor of an engagement by June. Like so many others, Reggie had lost money on that wager, for here it was early-July, and Lady Janice was still not making an announcement. Margaret wasn't sure why the marquis had waited, but she was certain it was only a matter of time. Lady Janice was beautiful—raven-haired, emerald-eyed, ivory-skinned. She was intelligent and spirited. She had the perfect flair to carry off the haughtiness required of a marchioness. The marquis would have his match at last. Reggie reported they were supposed to seal the deal within the week. The Marquis DeGuis would be forever beyond her reach, and she had never so much as danced with him.
In front of her, the dance had ended. The couples were regrouping for the next set. She could see no one she knew. She sagged in defeat. Much as she was tempted to accost a likely stranger and convince him to dance with her, she knew the deed would not go unpunished. Whether he agreed or not, someone would be sure to relay the tale to her stepmother. S
he wasn't sure the resulting scold was worth a dance, especially among so sedate a fellowship.
She sighed heavily and mentally consigned herself to surviving a boring evening until Reggie reappeared to take her home.
Behind her came the sound of a struggle. She turned in surprise and fell into a sturdy male body. Stumbling backward to apologize, she felt every ounce of blood drain from her body. Finding Reggie beaming at her, the whiff of alcohol tainting his breath, was bad enough. Seeing who she had collided with was much worse. The Marquis DeGuis looked anything but pleased by the event, handsome face positively scowling. She wondered if anyone would tell her stepmother if she simply bolted.
But it was too late for that.
"Cousin Margaret!” Reggie caroled as if he had been actually looking for her instead of avoiding her all evening. “I'm so pleased to find you."
Margaret took another step back from the powerful breath, but he reached out to snag her. Before she could pull away, she was thrust practically into the arms of the marquis, who actually cringed.
Please Lord, Margaret prayed. Could I just die of mortification now?
Her cousin by marriage had the audacity to turn his fatuous grin on her as she once more hastily separated herself from the marquis. “I was just telling my good friend the marquis how well you dance,” he explained. “Be a dear, and partner him?"
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Chapter Three
The poor woman stumbled back for the second time and stared at them, obviously aghast. Thomas inwardly cursed Pinstin's ineptitude. He shrugged him off at last and bowed to her. It was unthinkable to back out now. If she agreed, he would have to dance with her. As he straightened, she was still staring, and he offered her his best smile in hopes of putting her at her ease. Her pallor indicated she was stunned by Pinstin's precipitous suggestion, as would be any proper young lady of the ton. She was obviously a young lady of refinement, and her eccentricities were only a figment of Pinstin's drunken imagination and need to gossip. It would take all his tact to smooth over this gaff.