An Exquisite Marriage

by Darcie Wilde

  “Let me know when you’ve made up your mind. In the meantime, shall we go in? What I’ve got to say is for your ears only.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I think we’d be better off in my study. There seems to be an unusual amount of traffic in the library tonight.”

  He didn’t wait for Rutherford to answer. He just turned his back on the library door and walked away, and tried very hard not to hear how it was his sister Adele’s voice speaking to Lady Helene.

  ***

  The house at Windford Park had originally been built during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and every duke since then seemed to feel his duty included making additions or improvements. The results were decidedly mixed, and rambling. The family told stories—not entirely jokingly—of ghosts of former guests who’d simply gotten lost roaming the corridors.

  Marcus’s study was on the main floor of the east wing. The window overlooked the broad drive with its winter-bare beech trees lining either side. The fire was going, so the room was warm, and it was probably safe from random females with unusual attitudes.

  “Something has happened,” said Rutherford. He was a tall man with a commanding presence. Time had turned his hair gray and given him a comfortable paunch around his middle, but Marcus still wouldn’t have wanted to have to take the man on in any kind of fight, verbal or physical. “You’ve got the oddest look on your face, Windford, like you can’t decide whether you should be amused or furious.”

  “Do I?” Marcus gestured Rutherford to one of the two leather chairs in front of the fire while he poured out whiskey for them both. “Well. I had a little brush with one of our guests.” He handed Rutherford a glass and took his own seat. “In fact, I’m beginning to suspect she quite deliberately chased me out of my own library. Do you know Viscount Anandale at all?”

  “Oof. I should say. Man’s a menace. I didn’t think he was here.”

  “He’s not. At least, if he is, he hasn’t menaced me. Some of his womenfolk are here, apparently. I’ve just met Lady Helene.”

  “Now that’s an encounter I would have paid to see. They say she’s got the sharpest tongue among the ton, except possibly for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not around enough for people to say such things.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Rutherford took a sip of whiskey. “You’re commonly regarded as both infamous and unyielding.”

  “That’s what she said. And rather promptly, too.”

  Rutherford raised his glass. “Round one to Lady Helene then.”

  “I don’t concede,” muttered Marcus.

  “You should. I haven’t heard you talk so much about a woman you weren’t related to in years.”

  “You did not come here to talk about Helene Fitzgerald.”

  “No, more’s the pity. I’ve come to ask you to work for me.”

  Marcus did not answer. He did take a long swallow of whiskey. He’d had a feeling this was what Rutherford wanted to talk with him about. Rutherford had been a ship’s commander once, Now he worked in the naval office, but no one knew exactly what it was he did. It was widely thought it had to do with deciphering coded messages intercepted during the wars. That, however, was as much of a guess as anyone was prepared to venture.

  “I don’t know what you’d need me for,” said Marcus. “We’re at peace now.” He eyed his friend over the tumbler’s rim. “Aren’t we?”

  “We are, but what kind of peace is it going to be?” Rutherford pointed one finger at him. “That’s the question. With Napoleon gone for good, the Continent is going to be shaken up, from the Russias down to Rome. And there are all the Germanies smack in the middle rubbing their hands and redrawing their maps. We have to know what they’re thinking. Then there’s the new king in France. Frankly, I think we’ve backed the wrong horse there. The plots are already swirling. Everybody wants a king, but they want him to be their king. Except for the Republicans, of course. Or the Bonapartists. And Talleyrand’s still bobbing about everywhere. God only knows which way he’ll jump. You see, Windford?”

  “Clearly, except for what it has to do with me.”

  “I read that paper you wrote for the Royal Society.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  Rutherford chuckled. “Don’t be. I didn’t understand a word of it. But I talked to some men who did. They said it was a masterpiece on the detection and prediction of patterns in seemingly random sets of numbers.”

  “I will send them a thank-you note.”

  “Damn it, Windford, I’m serious.” Rutherford set his glass down. “We need brains like yours in the naval office.”

  Marcus just shook his head. “I have too much to do right here.”

  “I won’t have one of the best mathematical minds of our generation wasted as a country squire when we need him at work on the Prussians’ codes.”

  “Wasted?” Marcus laughed harshly. “I’ve got three hundred tenants and servants depending on me to keep my family in check. You can tell that to your Prussians and your French and whoever else is out there. I’m needed here.”

  “All right, all right. I can’t argue with a man’s duty to his estate. But if you change your mind, the offer stands.”

  Marcus thanked his friend and showed him to the door. Then he turned to the windows and stood staring out as he finished his whiskey. He thought about Rutherford and he thought about all the duties and complexities of an estate and businesses and new factories and family. Especially family, and all that his dead father had left behind.

  And he thought about Rutherford again. Then, unaccountably, he found he was thinking of Lady Helene, and for the first time since he’d closed the study door, Marcus smiled.

  ***

  “Oh, Helene, there you are!” cried Madelene Valmeyer as Helene walked into the room they shared. “I was afraid you’d be late for dressing!”

  “But as you see, here I am.”

  Madelene Valmeyer was a petite and beautiful girl. She and Helene had become friends at the end of the previous season, when they’d met at a lady’s bookshop. Helene had been arguing with a clerk over her order for a particular volume of poetry, and Madelene was, as it turned out, hiding between the shelves to avoid her stepbrother.

  Madelene was the shyest person Helene had ever met. What in another girl would be called “becoming modesty” in Madelene amounted almost to an illness. It took a great deal of coaxing and persuading to get her to venture out into any kind of company at all. Much of their friendship had formed in a series of letters written after that initial bookshop meeting. When Madelene had confessed her terror at being dragged to the Windford Ball by her stepmother and siblings, Helene had offered to come and act as her companion. To everyone’s surprise, Madelene’s stepmother, Lady Reginald, had actually agreed to the arrangement. Privately, Helene thought this was because Lady Reginald didn’t want to have to be bothered with actually looking after her stepdaughter.

  If it hadn’t been for Madelene, Helene would never have considered coming to the country house party. If she was with Madelene, it would be considered she was in proper company. Helene herself had no chaperone. Helene’s mother, Lady Anandale, did not venture out into society, and since Helene had publicly broken her engagement, none of her female relatives was willing to be seen sponsoring her. And there was too much to oversee at home. Helene had two younger sisters and three younger brothers who needed her help and care. Not to mention a household that required constant contrivance to keep running.

  Yes, she had two living parents, but her parents . . .

  Helene bit her lip. She should not think about home right now. It was not going to help anything.

  “I’ve laid your dress out, Lady Helene.” The maid’s quiet voice cut through her thoughts. “If you’ll just allow me to finish with Miss Valmeyer, I will be able to assist you.”

  Helene gave her agreeme
nt and drifted over to the bed, where her own dress waited. It was a simple gray satin, and she’d chosen it quite deliberately because it was severe and plain. Helene had no eye for style, and she knew it. The last thing she wanted to hear was the soft snickers about the bluestocking’s attempt to fit the fashions.

  But now, she found herself wishing she’d brought something just a little more, well, festive. Surely a ribbon or two or some beading would not have been out of place. Even she could have managed that much.

  “What kept you so long downstairs, Helene?” Madelene asked from behind her.

  The image of Lord Windford’s handsome face flashed in front of Helene’s vision.

  “I was doing a favor for a friend,” she told Madelene. “Lady Adele Endicott.”

  “Oh. You’ve met Lady Adele? How is she?”

  Helene considered this. “She seems very pleasant. Much different from her sister, Patience. Perhaps we will meet her at the ball.”

  “Oh, well, I . . . I’m sure that will be very nice,” Madelene murmured.

  Helene went at once to her friend. She was seated in front of the dressing table while the maid arranged her red gold ringlets into a fashionable pile and pinned them into place.

  “Madelene.” Helene took her friend’s hand and met her gaze in the mirror. “I know you’re worried, but you don’t need to be. I promise. We will take our places by the wall, and we will stay long enough to be polite. If you need to get away sooner, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll take you out. All right?”

  Madelene nodded and squeezed Helene’s hand. “Thank you so much for being here, Helene. I don’t know how I would get through this without you.”

  “You would do just fine,” Helene told her firmly. “And perhaps we’ll even see Lord Benedict.”

  “Oh,” breathed Madelene. “Oh. Yes. Perhaps we will.”

  Madelene would have died before she confessed it, but Helene had seen her watching the notorious artist at dinner and at the little musicales Mrs. Kearsely arranged. She strongly suspected that Madelene had somehow managed to find a place to watch as Lord Benedict worked on the mural that was supposed to be the crowning glory of Mrs. Kearsely’s ballroom decorations. This was unusually enterprising of her, and for Madelene, indicated the presence of a marked preference.

  Helene stared at her plain gray dress and wondered how she might convince her friend to actually speak to the man. Someone, she thought with a frown, should come out of this long, dreary house party with hope in their lives and a chance at some sort of happiness.

  Helene squashed the thought at once, and the vision of Lord Windford that came with it. She could not think of him. He certainly would never think of her. She was who and what she was, and that could never be changed.

  Could it?

  ***

  “Oh my goodness, Helene,” Madelene whispered behind her fan. “Is Lady Adele dancing with James Beauclaire?”

  Helene turned her attention to the couple at the center of the crowded dance floor. The Windford New Year’s ball was always popular. and the floor was filled to the brim. But James Beauclaire was clearly an expert dancer and smoothly guided the enraptured Lady Adele between the other couples.

  Well. That answered the question as to who had been behind the curtains in the library with Lady Adele. How terribly interesting. M. Beauclaire was popular, debonair, and—even viewed critically—rather more handsome than many a ballroom beau. On the other hand, Lady Adele, like Helene and Madelene, was regarded by the haut ton as one of society’s disappointments. None of them fit where and how they should. Madelene, for instance, was an heiress, but her connections and her timidity had relegated her to the ranks of the wallflowers. Helene herself was of an old and titled family, but she was . . . well, there were all sorts of words thrown about for what she was. Lady Adele was of excellent family, but unfashionably plump and poorly dressed. Tonight, for instance, she’d been put in a dreadful creation of buttercup yellow and ruffled lace, with, for some unfathomable reason, a ruff of starched lace that was probably strangling the poor girl half to death.

  But just now, Adele was also glowing, and the whole room was whispering to see her danced across the floor by such a popular and handsome man.

  “I wish . . .” began Madelene.

  “What is it you wish?” Helene asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Please tell me. We must talk about something.” She and Madelene had been amusing themselves by deciding who among the current guests they would have invited if they’d been able to host their own party. They were, however, rapidly running short of candidates, and even speculations about the controversial Miss Deborah Sewell had begun to run out.

  “I wish I could dance like that,” Madelene said. “Adele looks so happy.”

  Adele did look happy. Come to that, so did M. Beauclaire. Helene watched them and tried to muster some generous feeling. She did not know Lady Adele very well yet. From their brief conversation earlier, though, Helene had a feeling that they could become friends. One should be happy for one’s friend at such a moment.

  Instead, however, Helene was conscious of a distinct lowering of her spirits. She found herself looking again through the crowd. Although she knew it to be entirely ridiculous, she had been hoping to catch another glimpse of Lord Windford. She’d seen him earlier, talking with Benedict Pelham, and once talking with Miss Sewell. Now, the crowd had shifted, and wherever he might be, he was hidden entirely from her view.

  Helene had not cherished anything so ridiculous as the hope Marcus might ask her to dance. A duke did not dance with a disgraced bluestocking. But he was her host, and so no one would take exception to them exchanging a word or two. He had the most extraordinary eyes. She would like to see them again. She would like to tease him again, just a little, and hear his answers. She’d had so few chances to speak with a sensible man lately, especially one with an agreeable sense of humor . . .

  Stop it, Helene, she instructed herself firmly. This is pointless.

  “They’re coming over.” Madelene laid a hand on her arm.

  Helene pulled her attention back to her friend, and the ballroom, to see Madelene was right. M. Beauclaire was leading Lady Adele through the crush as expertly as he’d led her in the dance. When the couple reached Helene and Madelene, M. Beauclaire bowed to them with perfect aplomb.

  “Good evening, Lady Helene. James Beauclaire, at your service. We met last year, at Lady Pritchard’s, I think it was.”

  Helene met his gaze coolly but curtsied politely. She also introduced Madelene.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle.” M. Beauclaire bowed smoothly over Madelene’s hand, but something clearly caught his eye. His mouth moved silently, and Helene had the distinct feeling that what he said was anything but polite.

  The reason for it was not at all hard to discern. Before any of them could speak another word, Adele’s sister, Lady Patience, and her aunt, Mrs. Kearsely, swept up to them all. Helene, mindful of Madelene’s anxieties, did her best to draw the girl aside and shelter her from Patience’s contemptuous glare and cutting remarks.

  Of which there were plenty. Mrs. Kearsely and Patience clearly did not believe that M. Beauclaire could be permitted to show any interest or kindness toward Lady Adele, who was, after all, socially awkward and not pretty or “quite the thing.”

  All this time, Helene was conscious of a mounting pressure inside her. It was not fair. There was nothing wrong with Adele. There was nothing wrong with any of them.

  M. Beauclaire eventually either took the hint or was aware of how very uncomfortable Adele was being made. He tossed off a laughing remark to Lady Patience that ended with, “It is our dance, is it not?”

  “Why yes, it is. I had quite forgotten,” Patience said carelessly, but she took his arm just the same. As her youngest niece was escorted to the dance floor, Mrs. Kearsely cast a weary glanc
e toward Adele that said they would continue this conversation later, then sailed away to speak with another set of guests.

  It was utterly, completely, and entirely unfair.

  Adele faced Helene and Madelene, her fingers knotted together around her fan. Helene grit her teeth. So. Here they all were, three wallflowers, alone, disregarded, at best pitied. Not because of their character, but because of their dresses, their figures, their manners.

  It was not unfair. It was worse. It was unjust.

  But there was nothing to be done.

  Was there?

  ***

  For Marcus, the New Year’s ball proceeded as it did every year. The decorations were applauded and admired. Even Marcus had to admit that Benedict Pelham had done a magnificent job on the mural for the floor, and he said so. There were hands to be shaken, girls to be danced with politely, mamas and their meanings to be ignored, or escaped from, also politely.

  As he moved about the room, Marcus found his mind more than half occupied by his conversation with Rutherford. Damn the man, it was too intriguing to be entirely ignored. When he’d written his paper on pattern detection, it had been wholly an intellectual exercise. Now, Rutherford was offering him the chance to take his theories and test them in the real world. That idea excited him, whether he wanted it to or not.

  “Marcus!”

  “Eh?” Marcus glanced around, and down, to see Aunt Kearsely glowering up at him.

  “You are woolgathering and ignoring your guests. It is time for supper, and I want you to escort Lady Augusta Beale in.”

  Lady Augusta was eighteen years old and an acknowledged beauty with about as much conversation as a hothouse daffodil, as Marcus learned during his one quadrille with her.

  “Must I? Couldn’t you give me to . . .” He glanced about the room.

  “To whom?” demanded Aunt Kearsely. “Have you a preference? Why didn’t you tell me? Who is she, Marcus?”

  “Lady Helene,” he said.

  Aunt Kearsely’s mouth closed like a box lid. “Helene Fitzgerald? Oh, Marcus, what a time to joke!”