Once they were inside, he closed the door and slid a heavy crate in front of it. “I knew the smoking room wouldn’t do, so I found a more suitable location. Clever of me, don’t you think?”
She sniffed, not seeming impressed. “You’ve obviously had enough clandestine meetings with women to know how it’s done.”
“My fair share,” he admitted. “But not with young unmarried ladies. That’s one of the rules, one to which even blackguards like me adhere. At least,” he amended, looking at her, “most of the time.”
She looked back at him with a wry smile. “There’s a blackguard down in Gooseneck Bend who wouldn’t agree with you about that,” she murmured, making him think perhaps she spoke from personal experience. He wondered if Arthur knew about it. On the whole, he’d imagine not.
“What happened?” he asked, curious.
Her smile vanished, and an impassive mask took its place. “The usual thing that happens to foolish girls of seventeen,” she said with a shrug. “He broke my heart, that’s all.”
She was trying to pretend it didn’t matter, but he studied her expressionless face, and he knew it mattered. To her, it had mattered a great deal.
“Well,” she said, breaking the silence, “so far, London doesn’t sound much different from New York. Back home in Gooseneck Bend, we never thought anything about boys and girls being alone together. Even Jackson wasn’t like that. Then I came to New York, and it was like a whole different world. Stuffiest place you’ve ever seen. And cold, too. I don’t mean cold like a castle in December,” she added, smiling a little. “I mean cold like unfriendly to outsiders.”
“I comprehend your meaning.” He moved away from the door to lean his back against the wall. “Yet you want to be accepted into this circle?”
She stared at him. “Of course.”
“Why?”
The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it again and looked away. He waited, and after a moment, she spoke again. “Everyone wants to be accepted,” she said without looking at him.
“Even by cold, stuffy people?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m trying to,” he confessed, and thought for a second of Evie, so different in temperament from this girl, but just the same in what she wanted. “I’ve lived in so-called good society all my life, Annabel, and I have absolutely no idea why anyone would want to be part of it.”
“But that’s because you already are part of it.”
“We all want what we can’t have? Is that it?”
“I suppose that’s true, but that’s not what I mean.” She looked at him again, her face shining with earnestness. “You were born accepted, so you don’t know what it’s like not to be. You walk through life always confident of your acceptance in any situation. You don’t know how it feels to be shunned. To be laughed at for the way you talk or the place you were born. To be looked down on, to have your whole family looked down on, as if you were dirt on the floor. Nobody,” she added, lifting her chin with dignity, “looks down on a countess.”
They would. Even if she became Rumsford’s wife, there would be many who would look down on her and laugh. If she behaved impeccably, they might not shun her, but it would be years before they would consider her one of their own. She would have to fight and kick and claw and play by every single rule to make a place for herself and her family in society, and along the way, her husband would be of little help to her.
Christian wondered how he could he make her see it wasn’t worth it.
“Well, as a countess, you’ll have to be willing to act as a chaperone,” he said, considering all the various means of changing her mind that were at his disposal. “It’s an enormous responsibility. If a scandal happens to a girl you’re chaperoning, you suffer censure as well.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem for me,” she said with a touch of humor. “I’m good at seeing when a wolf’s in the henhouse.”
He noted her pointed glance at him, and he grinned. “Good chaperones are the reason many unmarried men don’t bother going into society at all, until they’re ready to find a wife, of course.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?”
He blinked. “God, no. What put that idea into your head?”
“I—” She broke off, then shrugged. “I just assumed it. I mean, you’re a duke. Don’t you have to marry?”
“No, thank God. I have a male cousin. And even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I have no intention of ever marrying again.”
“Some might call that famous last words.”
He groaned, his head falling back to hit the wall behind him with an exasperated thud. “Why do women always do this? If they’re not matchmaking for themselves, they’re matchmaking for everyone else. Listen,” he added, straightening again to level a frown at her, “I am not a marrying man.”
“But you’ve been married.”
“Yes, exactly.” He ignored her sound of impatience at that bit of wit and went on, “Can we return to the subject of your duties as a countess? You’ll be expected to entertain lavishly and often. Your level of success there plays a key part in your success in society, but it’s an occupation fraught with hazards. You’ll have to be sure you don’t invite Lord and Lady Ashburton to the same dinner party, for example, because they haven’t spoken a word to each other in twenty years. And don’t put Mrs. Bedford-Jones anywhere near Viscount Rathmore—they hate each other. But how can you avoid it, since precedent demands they walk in to dinner together? Best to invite Mr. Smythe instead . . . oh, but he’s in love with Miss Grey, and if Miss Graham finds out he was at dinner with Miss Grey, the fat would be in the fire . . .”
He paused, noting a dazed quality coming into her expression. “A ball is even worse,” he went on mercilessly. “You’ll have to give them. Rummy will expect it, but be warned. Ball giving is a very tricky business.”
She sat down on a packing crate with a sigh. “You don’t have to tell me that. When we first learned we were rich, we moved to Jackson, bought a big, fancy house, and had a coming-out ball for me.”
“It wasn’t a success?”
“You might say that.” She looked down at her hands. “Nobody came.”
He stared at her bent head, her hushed admission hanging in the air, and anger hit him with sudden force, like a kick in the stomach. If ever he needed justification of his contempt for society and its rigid class distinctions, this was it.
He crossed the room, moving to sit on the crate beside hers. “What do you mean nobody came? Nobody at all?”
“We were so ignorant,” she said, and lifted her head with a laugh. It was a forced laugh, he knew, for there was nothing amusing about what she’d just described. It was appalling.
“We thought giving a ball in Jackson was just like giving a dance back home,” she went on, staring at the blank white wall across the room. “We didn’t know you had to send written invitations, two weeks in advance. Heck, nobody in Gooseneck Bend gave a party with invitations, not even the Hardings. We’d never heard of such a thing. So, we just did what anybody we knew would do—we told people about it at church. Yes,” she added, shaking her head as if in disbelief, “we really were that dumb.”
He didn’t know what to say, but he knew a condemnation of society wouldn’t be very comforting. “If by that you mean you were stupid, no, you weren’t. You simply didn’t know.”
“Exactly.” She turned toward him, the bitter tinge in her voice changing to one of determination, pain hardening into resolve. “That’s why I’m here. I want to know all the rules, because I don’t ever want to stand in an empty ballroom in London the way I did in Jackson. I don’t ever want to feel again what I felt that night.”
He looked at her in dismay. This was going to be more difficult than he’d first thought. In agreeing to take this on, he hadn’t appreciated that there might be deeper reasons for her ambition than mere social climbing, reasons that stemmed from old w
ounds. To succeed with this, he’d have to open those wounds, use her own insecurities to plant doubts in her head. And he was tempted, suddenly, to walk away and let the chips fall.
But then he remembered Rumsford winking at him in the House with the Bronze Door, a memory that revolted even his calloused soul. She did not deserve to be chained to an ass like that for the rest of her life, and he decided he was justified in making her see it by whatever means necessary. Still, he had to be subtle about it. Otherwise, she’d just dig in her heels as she’d done with Arthur.
“All right,” he said, breaking the silence. “Very wise of you to want to know as much about the lion’s den as possible before you go inside. Knowledge is power, after all.”
“Not in New York. I had that place figured out in three months, but five years after moving there, it still hasn’t done me any good.”
“So that’s why you decided go after a British earl.”
“I did not go after him!” She straightened up on her seat, seeming quite put out by that accusation. “A woman never chases a man. Ever. Believe me, I learned that lesson a long time ago.”
“Ah. From the blackguard in Gooseneck Bend, no doubt.”
“My mama told me from the time I was a little girl not to go chasin’ after boys.” She paused and gave him a wry smile. “I just wasn’t very good at listenin’.”
“Really?” He glanced down at her mouth, considering. “Have a soft spot for blackguards, do you?”
She jerked to her feet, answering his question without saying a word. “Are you going to behave like a gentleman?” she demanded.
He ignored that. “I’m glad to know this particular weakness of yours,” he murmured, and stood up. “It gives me hope.”
She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “There is no hope for you. Not with me. Not even after the shine’s off my tiara.”
“Now who’s using famous last words?”
“I would appreciate it if you’d stick to the subject, please. We were discussing my future life as the Countess of Rumsford.”
“Yes, of course.” He paused, considering. “You might think,” he said after a moment, “that being married means more freedom, but it doesn’t.”
“It doesn’t?” She looked dismayed, and he was quick to pounce on that.
“No. Your every move will be subject to even more scrutiny once you’re a countess, especially because you’re a newcomer. And the British girls will be the ones who most want to stick the knife in your back. From their point of view, you stole one of their eligible men, and they’d take great delight in seeing you come to social disaster. ‘Those Americans,’ they’ll say. ‘So uncivilized.’ You’ll find it hard to make friends.”
“But I have friends of my own. Once I’m settled, I hope to bring some of them over, help to launch them in British society.”
“Certainly, but it takes years to have the sort of influence you’ll need to do that.”
“Years?” she cried. “How many years?”
He shrugged. “Some women spend a lifetime building a position of influence such as you describe. In the meantime, you might technically have more freedom as a married woman, but you don’t dare exercise it, even in the smallest ways. You’ll be allowed to drink more than a single glass of wine with dinner, for example, but if you show yourself to be the least bit tipsy, it will tell against you.”
“No need for me to worry about that anyway,” she said, looking a little relieved. “I don’t much like the taste of spirits.”
He grinned and moved a bit closer to her. “You say that now, but those cold nights in the castle might change your mind. Don’t be surprised if you’re dipping into the brandy by Christmas. Still, if you don’t like spirits . . .” He paused, looking down. “There are other ways to keep warm.”
His gaze skimmed over her and his mind began to imagine various methods of applying heat to those luscious curves of hers, a flight of fancy that had the warmth of arousal spreading through his own body quick as lighting a match. But there was no acting on that, unfortunately, not with half a million dollars at stake. With reluctance, he brought his baser nature under control and forced his gaze back up to her face.
She was frowning at him. “Listen, sugar, I don’t have much time here, and I don’t need you looking at me like you’re a cat and I’m the cream jug.”
“Sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sorry, not really, but she did have a point. This might be his only chance to talk her off the cliff she was about to jump from. He couldn’t allow her luscious body to distract him.
On the other hand, he reflected, perhaps his best way of changing her mind was by making her see there were more fish in the sea than ever came out of it. A bit of harmless dalliance to show her she was an attractive woman who didn’t have to marry Rumsford, who could take her time about marrying. He rather liked that notion. He studied the generous swell of her breasts beneath her pristine white shirtwaist and decided this was an idea worth exploring.
Still, when she folded her arms and he returned his gaze to her face, he knew it wasn’t one he could explore at the present moment. She was watching him through narrowed eyes, those full lips pressed in a disapproving line.
He improvised for something innocuous to say. “It’s just that I don’t know quite where to begin. There are so many ways you could ruin your chances.”
Her lips parted and her resentment vanished, replaced by a hint of alarm. “How many ways?”
“Hundreds. Thousands.”
“Heavens,” she said, her voice a bit faint, the first sign of apprehension he’d seen yet. “Maybe it’d be best if you put these rules in order by importance then. What is the most important rule?”
“Producing a son,” he said at once.
“That’s hardly something I have any control over!”
“Fair or not, it’s in your best interests to see that you have a son. That goes a long way toward social acceptance. And there’s also the fact that until you have a son, you are constrained by absolute fidelity. You must remain faithful to your husband.”
“Well, I should hope so. I don’t need you to tell me adultery is wrong and that a married woman should be faithful!”
“It doesn’t work both ways, I’m afraid. You must be chaste, but Rumsford is allowed as many mistresses as he can afford, so long as he is discreet and doesn’t flaunt them in front of you.”
She didn’t react to that quite the way he’d hoped she would. “Men have mistresses sometimes,” she said, not seeming the least bit shocked. “It happens.”
He lifted his fist to his mouth and gave a cough. “Yes, but Rumsford is allowed to use his income from you to pay for his mistresses. He can use your money to buy them houses, clothes, jewels.”
She set her jaw. “Over my dead body.”
“How shall you prevent it? Did you put a clause in your marriage settlement cutting off his income if he acquires a mistress?”
Clearly taken aback, Annabel opened her mouth, then closed it again, and it took her several moments to answer. “Of course I didn’t! That never even occurred to me. But surely—” She stopped. Her tongue touched her lips, a gesture of uncertainty and apprehension, the most hopeful sign he’d seen yet. “Surely, I don’t need to do that. Bernard wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t use his income from me for . . . for other women.”
Pressing his advantage, Christian gave her a look of deliberate pity. “Believe that, do you?”
“Yes!” She scowled, on the defensive. “Yes, I do.”
Christian shrugged, playing this hand as if he had no stake in the game. “He’s your fiancé. You know him best, I suppose. Still, what income would he use, if not yours? He has no other. And besides, these arrangements are the norm in Britain, and no one thinks anything of it. In fact, you would be ridiculed if you complained about him spending your money on his mistresses. We British hate a fuss. So you have to bear up and smile and act the part of the contented wife no matter what.”
Her chin
lifted, a gesture he suspected was quite familiar to her family. “I don’t believe you,” she accused. “Paying for mistresses with a wife’s money is acceptable? It’s abominable. It’s indecent. Why, it’s . . . it’s just plain unfair! You must be lying.”
Sadly, he wasn’t. He might be exaggerating things a bit, but that wasn’t the same. “Fair?” he said, forcing amusement into his voice. “Love, if you think there’s anything fair about English marriage, you’d best cry off now, while you still have the chance.”
“Why?” she countered, one auburn brow arching up in skepticism. “Because you’re the sort of man who’d never lie to a girl?”
Strangely, that hurt. It shouldn’t, for he’d proved himself quite skilled at lying years ago, but it did. Still, he wasn’t going to lose his advantage by showing it. “I’m not lying about this, Annabel. I know I make light of things, and most of what I say is utter rubbish, but not this. If you go into your marriage thinking it’ll be different for you—better, happier, more fair than the marriages of the American girls who came before you—you’ll only end up being more miserable, because the greatest unhappiness a person can feel in life is unmet expectations.”
She sucked in her breath. “Bernard wouldn’t spend my money for his mistresses,” she said, sounding as if she was trying to believe it. “He would never treat me that way.”
Behind the positive words, Christian heard her doubt, and he played it for all he was worth.
“If that’s true,” he murmured, “then he must love you a great deal.”
She winced. He was watching her closely, and he saw it. She turned away, hiding it almost at once, but not before he’d seen it. “He doesn’t, does he?”
Trouble at the Wedding Page 9