She would offer suggestions as to the improvement of his poetry but equally as often they spoke of other matters; books they’d both read or artists they liked or the latest political conflict or the current scandal. Usually, their discussions took place over a glass or two of brandy. Marianne had quite taken to the liquor and only occasionally now showed its effects. He steadfastly refused to consider what a pity that was.
Thomas enjoyed those moments when their views were in accord but found he relished the differences between them as well. She had a sharp wit and a fine mind and arguing with her was as entertaining and challenging as anything in his life had ever been. And in those moments when they shared little else they shared a great deal of laughter.
And always a kiss or two.
He’d reluctantly gone along with the ridiculous idea of her lessons, telling himself it kept her out of the clutches of less honorable men than he. In point of fact, what he was really doing was keeping her safe. But with each evening that passed in her presence, it was more and more difficult to maintain his restraint, his control. More and more difficult to remember his plan and the reasons behind it. More and more difficult to consider exactly what would happen if—when—he succeeded.
And more and more he felt like the worst kind of traitor.
“You are exceedingly quiet this evening.” Marianne tilted her head and considered him, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Whatever is on your mind?”
“We’ve become friends, haven’t we?” he said without thinking.
“I suppose we have.”
“I have never had a female friend.”
She laughed. “I never imagined you had. However, I have never had a male friend before, so we are well matched.”
“It’s rather odd, you know.” He settled back deeper in his chair and cupped his hands around his glass. “It’s as if we have known each other forever. I feel I can discuss anything with you.”
She quirked a brow. “You say that as if it’s appalling to admit.”
He chuckled. “Not appalling, just surprising. I simply never expected to be able to talk to a woman—”
“As if she were as intelligent as any man of your acquaintance and not an empty-headed twit who would accept your every word as if it were law.” She smiled sweetly. “And gaze at you as if you were the sun and the stars in the process.”
“Yes, quite.” He laughed, more to cover his chagrin than anything else. He deserved her sarcasm. Had, in truth, earned it. “I admit, there is something to be said for a woman who knows her own mind. At least in your case.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, thank you, my lord. I am not merely shocked but flattered. And since I can scarce hope for anything more momentous to occur tonight”—she swallowed the last of her brandy and rose to her feet—“I shall take my leave.”
He started to stand.
“No, don’t get up.” She stepped toward him. “There is a certain amount of leniency regarding proper manners allowed between two friends in the late hours of the night.”
“But what of your lesson?” The teasing note in his voice belied the realization that he looked forward to kissing her each night with a fair amount of anticipation and an ever-growing impatience.
“Oh, I believe I have learned more than I ever expected tonight.” She bent forward and placed her fingers under his chin. “Much, much more.”
“Have you?” His gaze met hers. Her brown eyes behind her glasses caught the light from the fire and glowed a rich, seductive amber. For a long moment she stared at him, a slightly puzzled expression on her face.
He caught her hand and pulled it to his lips. “Now tell me, what is on your mind?”
“My mind?” She shook her head, then leaned close and brushed her lips across his. “I very much fear I no longer know.”
She straightened, turned and left the room before he could say a word. Not that he knew what to say.
What on earth had she meant by that? If ever a woman knew precisely what was on her mind and exactly what she wanted and what she didn’t it was Marianne Shelton. She did want adventure. She didn’t want marriage. And she bloody well wanted to experience life.
And he’d thought, he was under the impression at least—oh hell, he’d hoped he was the one she’d decided to experience life with.
Still, they’d gone no farther than kissing and he had to admit that was as much her doing as his own. In the past few weeks, while her embrace had been no less enthusiastic, he’d noted a vague, tentative quality. As if she was no longer sure of the course she’d set herself. Or their encounters had become something . . . well . . . more. Whatever that meant.
He got to his feet, brandy in hand, and paced the room. Damnation, she was an annoying chit.
He’d thought he’d wanted her married and off his hands. But the idea did not hold the same appeal it once had. Indeed, he’d set his plan in motion with those ridiculous notes and it now seemed to proceed under its own power whether he wanted it to or not. Like a rock rolling down a hill. Or an avalanche.
He’d thought he wanted to find his own bride. Someone completely different from Marianne. Now he wondered if the unnamed paragon he’d set his sights on wasn’t as dull and boring as the gentlemen he’d pointed in Marianne’s direction. Would he find that perfect bride every bit as tedious as Marianne found the perfect matches he’d selected for her?
And he’d thought their late-night meetings and their lessons were to keep her out of the hands of less honorable men than he.
Was he wrong? About all of it?
Damn, his head was more and more muddled and she was the one who had muddled it.
He had no idea what she wanted now. Worse, he had no idea what he wanted either.
Chapter 10
. . . still, I cannot forget the kiss we shared, although I suspect Lord W prefers not to think of it. No matter what his other faults may be, his honor will not allow him to take advantage of an innocent placed in his keeping. My virtue is quite safe.
Yet every moment I spend in his presence I wonder if the true value of virtue indeed lies in keeping it. I fear I have feelings for him that can no longer be denied. He is in my thoughts every minute and, worse, in my dreams every night.
I suspect he has feelings for me as well, yet whether his desires are of the flesh or of the heart, I cannot tell.
And, I confess, more and more I long to see the passion in his eyes replace the nobility of his manner. . . .
The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London
Lady Cutshall’s rout was much like every other event Thomas had escorted the Shelton ladies to. The ballroom was stuffy and overcrowded. The music could barely be heard above the clamor of the throng. The refreshments were attractively arranged but lacking in flavor. He had long suspected the same morsels, tidied up and dusted off, were simply circulated from one party to the next throughout the season. All in all, it was a usual event with the usual attendees and, as usual, only one thing occupied his mind.
Marianne.
Thomas stood near the doors opened to Lady Cutshall’s terrace, one of the few spots where the air wasn’t stagnant, and engaged in amicable conversation with Pennington and Berkley. He divided his attention evenly between responding to their idle chatter and keeping an eye on Marianne.
Pennington said something about an ongoing dispute between two of the ton’s reigning hostesses. Thomas murmured a reply. Berkley heaved a heartfelt sigh.
As always, Marianne scarcely had a moment to herself. She was continually besieged by one extremely proper gentleman or another. All of them eminently suitable. All of them perfectly acceptable to Thomas. All of them quite dull and more than a little tedious.
He tried, and failed, to stifle a grin. Marianne skillfully fended off one eager suitor after another with a natural grace and easy manner. The discarded gentlemen probably didn’t even realize they’d been rejected. No wonder they didn’t stay away for long. He shouldn’t find it all so amusing—
and wondered idly if perhaps he wouldn’t if any of the men had even the remotest chance of capturing her affection—but he couldn’t help himself.
Pennington made an observation on the quality of the champagne in his glass. Thomas nodded in agreement. Berkley sighed again.
Of course, Marianne’s attraction no doubt had as much to do with the benefits of an alliance with her as her charms. Thomas’s grin faded.
It was the height of stupidity to have sent those notes encouraging the attention of these men. What could he have been thinking? Or, indeed, was he thinking at all? If he hadn’t been so arrogant, he would have realized any match he thought was suitable wouldn’t appeal to Marianne. The men he’d so carefully selected hadn’t a prayer of winning her hand. His plan to find her a husband was doomed to failure from the beginning. Oddly enough, that no longer bothered him.
Pennington commented on a couple that had just stepped onto the terrace. Thomas responded absently. And Berkley sighed.
Thomas drew his brows together in mild concern. Berkley looked anything but happy. Thomas leaned toward Pennington. “What on earth is the matter with him?”
“He’s in love,” Pennington said with a resigned air.
Thomas lifted a brow. “Again?”
“For the last time,” Berkley said staunchly.
Thomas tried not to smile. He’d heard Berkley’s declarations of love on occasions too numerous to mention. And nearly all of them were for the last time. “And who is the lucky lady?”
Pennington and Berkley traded glances. “Well, I haven’t exactly met her yet.”
“I see. One of those smitten-from-afar type of things.”
“He’s never seen her, either.” Pennington snorted. “He doesn’t even know her name.”
“No?” Thomas raised a brow. Even for Berkley, who routinely fell in love at the barest flutter of a fan, this was uncommon. “Then can you be sure her affections are not engaged elsewhere?”
“I’m sure,” Berkley said grimly.
Pennington rolled his eyes heavenward. “Have you by any chance read the Adventures of a Country Miss in London?”
“Who hasn’t?” These so-called adventures were the talk of the ton. Thomas had picked up Cadwallender’s out of mild curiosity but had found his attention caught by the amusing and somewhat provocative stories. Now he, too, followed the weekly installments as well as the ongoing speculation as to the true identity of the innocent miss and the mysterious Lord W. “There are wages in every betting book in every club in London as to when Lord W will have his way with her.”
Berkley’s expression darkened. “He bloody well better leave her alone.”
“Come, now, Berkley, admit it. It’s most entertaining.” Thomas laughed. “The suspense of not knowing if, or more likely when, the wicked lord will ruin his sweet young charge is half the fun.”
“Not for me.” Berkley’s voice was grim.
Thomas studied him curiously. “Come, now, old man, it’s nothing more than an amusing story. It’s obviously fiction.”
“It is not.” Berkley glared. “It’s true. Absolutely true.” He stared down his nose at Thomas, not entirely effective, since he was a good few inches shorter. “It’s in print!”
“You believe everything you read?” Thomas said slowly.
“He always has and I daresay he always will. I’ve tried to tell him, but he refuses to listen to me.” It was Pennington’s turn to heave a long-suffering sigh. “I always knew it would mean trouble someday.”
“Trouble?” Thomas said in confusion.
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Pennington leaned close to Thomas as if he were about to impart a state secret. “The last great love of my friend’s life is the country miss.”
“The country miss?” Thomas shook his head, puzzled, then abruptly realized exactly what Pennington was saying. Surely he wasn’t serious. “The country miss of the infamous Absolutely True Adventures?”
“None other,” Pennington said.
Berkley’s face was a picture of the misery of unrequited love.
Thomas choked back a laugh. It would not do to show amusement; his friend’s torment was all too apparent. Still, it wasn’t easy to maintain a straight face. Thomas’s words were strangled and a tad higher-pitched than normal. “Berkley. Er, Reginald.” He glanced at Pennington for help.
Pennington raised his glass in resignation and downed the last of his champagne.
“Reggie,” Thomas began in a hopeful voice. “I strongly suspect the Absolutely True Adventures are not at all true. Why, the writer is probably the wife of the printer, with a dozen children. Or a wizened old man, with a knack for storytelling.”
“A gnome, actually,” Pennington murmured.
“She’s not a gnome,” Berkley said indignantly.
“Well, there’s a gnome who works at Cadwallender’s.” Pennington craned his neck, peered across the room, then crooked a finger to summon a waiter. “Beastly, cranky old goat.”
“He’s not the country miss,” Berkley said under his breath.
“You’ve been to see Cadwallender, then?” Thomas asked.
“Twice.” A waiter bearing a tray of champagne stopped and Pennington exchanged his empty glass for a full one. “Berkley insisted.”
Berkley took a glass and Thomas followed suit. “And did you discover she is nothing more than the figment of an overstimulated imagination?”
“We discovered nothing. Cadwallender wasn’t there.” Pennington shrugged. “And the gnome was reticent to tell us much of anything.”
“She’s not a figment.” Berkley drained his glass. “And I shall not rest until I find her.” He turned on his heel and stalked off through the open door and into the night.
Thomas stared after him. “I gather he has no intention of giving up.”
“None whatsoever.”
“It speaks well of the man, I suppose. His determination, that is.” Thomas turned to Pennington. “I daresay, I’ve never seen him so resolved over a woman, any woman, particularly one whose existence is in question.”
“Perhaps therein lies the secret.” Pennington sipped thoughtfully. “I have known Berkley most of my life, and while it may not appear so, he has a distinctly romantic nature. I think, in his mind’s eye, he sees himself as a knight on a white charger rescuing fair damsels in distress.”
“Yes, well, there’s something to be said for damsels who need rescuing.” Thomas’s gaze strayed back to Marianne. She would never need rescuing. And wasn’t there something to be said for that as well?
“While I personally have no desire to rescue anyone, I find myself rather intrigued by the question of who this young woman is.”
Thomas studied him. “So you think she’s real?”
“I’m not sure why, but I do indeed. Perhaps I’ve simply listened to Berkley for too long.” He smiled ruefully. “Or perhaps I may well be a bit of a romantic myself. Or perhaps it’s the mystery that intrigues me.” Pennington’s gaze swept the ballroom. “She could be anyone, you know. With just the twist of a fact here and the bend of a truth there, many of these young women in attendance tonight could be the lady in question.”
“Come, now, Pennington, that’s absurd.”
“Is it?” Pennington nodded at Marianne, who was about to take her place for a country dance. “Lady Marianne herself suggested she might be the country miss.”
Thomas laughed. “And would that then make me the lascivious Lord W?”
Pennington eyed him thoughtfully. “Indeed it would.”
Thomas started. “Surely you aren’t serious.”
“Probably not.” Pennington’s gaze shifted back to Marianne. “Besides, it would break Berkley’s heart. He is determined to save her and I suspect Lady Marianne would never tolerate rescuing.”
Or matchmaking. Thomas ignored a twinge of guilt. “I pity the man who tries.” He raised his glass in a toast. “So what’s the next step for our besotted knight-errant?”
&nb
sp; “He still wants to talk to Cadwallender. I expect we’ll go back to his shop until we find him in. In the meantime, he is looking into every lord in London with a W in his name.” Pennington chuckled. “I anticipate he’ll move into the V’s next.”
“Regardless of the outcome, it does sound like an amusing venture.” Thomas chuckled. “Please keep me apprised as to his progress. I’m as curious as anyone to discover the identity of the country miss. However, I must admit I do not share your conviction that she does in fact exist.”
“We shall see, Helmsley. We shall see.”
“I can certainly understand your point,” Marianne murmured and tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand, which would be a great deal easier if it was even mildly interesting.
Lord Moxley puffed up with pride as if her vague agreement were a wholehearted endorsement of whatever insignificant point he was espousing. Something regarding the social necessity of engaging the proper tailor and the lack of well-trained valets currently available.
“My lady, I have a matter of some importance to discuss.” He took her arm and tucked it in his elbow. He stared up at her with a gaze that could only be called adoring. It was distinctly disquieting. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me to a place a bit more private? Perhaps a parlor?” He attempted to steer her toward the ballroom doors.
Lord Moxley was several inches shorter than she and, given the plumpness of his form, obviously did not partake of regular exercise. Marianne was confident she could fend him off, but she had no desire to let things progress to that point. She would prefer to escape his presence completely. “My lord, that wouldn’t be at all proper.” Deftly, she guided him toward the open doors to the terrace. “However, I should enjoy a refreshing breath of air.” There were any number of people on the terrace and as long as they stayed in the lit areas there should be no problem.
In spite of her attitude about her reputation, if she were to be compromised she would prefer it to be by a man of her own height, one whose stature was significantly greater than his girth.
The Marriage Lesson Page 13