Today she would meet her intended. Multiple pleas had been made to each of her parents, in turn and together, to no avail. She had even coaxed Chase into taking up her cause but he, too, had failed. They were set on this path to curse her with this dandy, this laughing stock of Society, for eternity.
To make matters worse, she absolutely knew the ton would not accept her as her father promised. No amount of money nor grandness of title nor both combined could sway such a jaded group of individuals without some recompense. They would merely shun her, making her an outsider in both worlds, her family’s tradesmen friends as well as Haute Societé. Her new life would be a lonely misery with no happy ending in sight.
“Marianne, do come and sit. The earl and viscount should be here any second.” Margaret sat calmly on the settee. As if not knowing what to do with her hands, she arranged her skirts yet again. “George, please stop pacing and sit. The both of you are making me exceedingly nervous. Where is Charles? He should be here too.”
Marianne watched as her father settled into a bergère chair, his attitude as gruff as a bear. “I caught him on his way out earlier this afternoon. He said he had no interest in what he called Marianne’s Marriage Débâcle.”
Even Chase had deserted her in her hour of need. How could she blame him? She didn’t want to be here either. Sighing, she resigned herself to the other end of the settee.
As if on cue, a knock came on the drawing room door. Baffles, their longstanding butler, opened and entered as directed, then announced, “The Earl of Reignsfield, the Viscount of Berensfeld.”
Marianne and her parents rose as one to greet their guests.
Her father must have practiced for an age as he bowed gracefully to each of the peers now in the room, then turned to present her mother.
Margaret made a curtsy so low Marianne thought her mother might disgrace them all with a fall to the floor.
So Marianne wasn’t the only one being coached to within a hair of her life.
And then her father said her name as he turned in her direction. “My lovely daughter, Marianne, my lords.”
The pride in his voice consoled her somewhat as he swept his hand toward her.
Drawing her attention directly to the two men who would control her future, Marianne swallowed hard as she took them in.
The older gentleman personified all she would expect of a peer of the realm, portly, stodgy, greying at the temples, dressed in dark clothes appropriately tailored with a simple knot to his cravat, the image of an entitled, condescending aristocrat.
But his son, her betrothed, presented a sight beyond all expectation.
Realizing she stared, she dropped her gaze as she made a low curtsy of her own while she regathered her wits. How could she take this man seriously every day for the rest of her life? True, he had worn the darkest of blues for this solemn occasion. But the gold braiding on the sides of his breeches, at his cuffs, his collar and the solid gold threads of his waistcoat were blinding. Did not her father tell her these men lacked funds? Would her dowry be spent so wantonly? Would all of her father’s hard-earned income go to buy hundreds of cravats which would be tied in such an intricate manner that her future husband’s head looked like that of a turtle peeking out from its shell? And clothes that would make a strutting peacock proud but the lords and ladies of London nothing but appalled?
“Miss Durand,” said a lilting tenor voice whose tone did nothing to reaffirm his masculinity. Though rather tall, she would estimate his height over six feet, his thinness seemed to border on frailty.
She raised her eyes just enough to see her intended in the lowest of courtly bows, his right hand extended. Taking a deep breath, she hesitantly placed her hand in his.
And felt a jolt go up her arm, her face drain of blood.
Feeling her eyes go wide, she looked up into a startlingly deep blue gaze only to find he, too, had sensed the shock when they touched.
But his manners were the more refined. He drew her up from her curtsy, then brought her hand barely to his lips and brushed a kiss there as light as a feather’s touch. His eyes, however, did not meet hers.
“Yes, yes.” Her father broke the awkwardness of the moment, “Do come in and sit down. Tea will be served directly.”
Marianne withdrew her hand to retreat to the safety of the settee and her mother’s protection. Still speechless from the confusion of the encounter, she turned her face, hot with embarrassment, away from their guests. This was not going well at all, and there was no way to know how long they would deign to visit.
~ ~ ~
Two hours dragged by as Andrew and his father made polite conversation, then made their apologies and left. The only excitement had been the moment he had touched the girl’s hand.
What of that? No beauty, this girl, out of the school room almost three years, plain and slightly plump by ton standards. Acceptable, yes, with clear rosy skin, rich dark blonde hair and pale blue eyes, but nothing compared to the débutantes of the current season and their finery and manners. His plight sealed, he would have to make the best of it. His father had been definitive: for the long-term welfare of his family he must be the sacrificial lamb.
Damned if he’d let his father take control of the dowry, though. If he must marry the wench, he’d decide where and for what the monies would be spent. Enough of his father’s scatterbrained investments. That was what had put him in this position in the first place. If only he’d paid attention to the goings-on of their estates sooner, he might have avoided all of this.
That ship had set sail long before. In point of fact, he had no idea exactly when his father had entered into dunning territory. Only one score and three himself, he felt sure it could have been as much as ten years before. If he had to make a guess, it probably started after his mother had passed. She would never have tolerated such wanton use of the family fortunes. At least, he doubted so, based on his memories of her. Her kindness and love toward him had kept his father, always finding him lacking, at bay.
Sitting back on the leather squabs of the carriage on the ride home to Mayfair, Andrew contrived how to make the marriage work. If only superficially, he must deflect the wagging tongues of Societé.
That might not be as easy as he would prefer.
Chapter 3
Her world, as she knew it, careened to its end. And, she could do absolutely nothing about it. How fair was life when a woman, any woman of any class, had no control of her destiny? When the men of both the rich spheres and the poor could tell her where to go, when to go, and whom to marry? Why could she not have been born a male? Then she could have been her father’s heir. After all, Chase had no interest whatsoever in their father’s merchant business. Then she could have picked her helpmeet and married for love or money or both as she chose fit without the humiliation of being used as a mere pawn in a game of money, power, and titles. She envied her brother’s laissez-faire attitude. He could afford to play the rake, one of The Unattainables, as long as their father lived. Once gone, Chase could run the business or sell it and live off the proceeds. The latter possibility, the more likely, in her brother’s case.
“Are you ready, my dear?” Her father came up beside her in the best suit of clothes money could buy. “Don’t worry, Marianne. It will all work out for the best.”
No, she would never be ready for this assault on her personal values and purpose but her opinion was neither wanted nor accepted. Nor could she imagine that this debacle would ever work out for the best, or work out at all.
“As you wish, Father.” Defeated, the battle, even the war, conceded now, she had lost and she would never be found. Her only victory was the small, quiet ceremony she had begged for rather than the grandiose affair her parents had planned. Her parents, her brother Chase, the earl, and her betrothed would be the only attendees before the vicar. No matter how fabu
lous the wedding would have been, the entire ton would have attended out of morbid curiosity and fodder for disparaging defamation. How could she face the gossips who snickered behind her back? Such an event would have made her plight even more mortifying.
But she had spared no expense on what she expected to be her only wedding gown. She had decided to flatter herself as much as possible with the full skirt in the palest grey silk sprigged with small pale pink flowers and a bodice in the pink of the flowers that had a wide décolleté that complimented her full bosom and tapered to her waist. There was not a ruffle or ribbon to be seen. When she added the confection of a hat with the palest of grey and pink flowers and sheer veiling, she looked and felt more beautiful than her opinion of the day warranted.
Her father cleared his throat, bringing her out of her reverie.
It was time.
He led her from the vestibule into the chapel where she looked up to see her intended dressed in his silk and satin finest and the ugliest color one could imagine. Could it possibly be puce? Ruffles everywhere. He sniffed his handkerchief. He could not be taking snuff, could he? As he saw her start toward the altar, he had the audacity to pull out his quizzing glass and, with great flair, put it to his right eye.
Her stomach roiled with the frustration of it all.
~ ~ ~
Drew girded his loins as he stood by the altar, the vicar to his right, his father to his left and his bride walking straight toward their soon-to-be joint destiny.
How sad that even a man of his station could not marry the woman he chose. Though as yet he had not found one he wanted. Rumor had it he preferred men. Not in the least true, of course. He had just never found a female who engendered his interest.
His new bride was no exception. Other than the energy that sparked between them whenever they touched, she had little to recommend her. Acceptable but no great beauty. Polite but no great passion. And no great intelligence. At least none that he could discern during the few times they had been in company over the past month. She’d hardly said a word, much less strung together a series of coherent, interesting sentences. Yet he had to take her money for the good of his father’s finances, bed her and get her with child as soon as possible for the promise of future generations.
If she would only have a son quickly so he would be free to go about his own concerns once more.
If God would only hear his prayers. Maybe it would help to be standing in a cathedral rather than this small, nondescript chapel. What a disappointing location in which a man of his stature would be married.
He perused his bride as she walked hesitantly toward him. He had to admit she looked quite lovely today. Evidently her family had pulled out all the stops and lavished a great deal of wealth on her presentation. The sprigged pale grey muslin fit her well and, as she gained her footing across from him and turned her tear-stained face up, her pale blue eyes looked all the bluer because of the blue-tinted grey silk.
He swallowed hard, realizing that the girl, too, was not exceedingly excited about their state of affairs. Evidently even a merchant’s daughter could choose not to aspire to a title.
This thought gave him little respite from his own doubts as the vicar cleared his throat and started the proceedings.
Chapter 4
“Don’t you fret, my lady.” Her new maid, Ellen, finished fussing with the nightrail her mother had gifted her only yesterday. The soft, sheer, batiste fabric floated like a cloud over her head and settled down upon her shoulders. “You look lovely and his lordship will be a happy man.”
Marianne doubted that since she was not a happy woman.
The intimacies of a wedding night, her wedding night, rapidly approached. Both families had left. Her parents had gone home. She remained in this huge monstrosity of a mansion in Mayfair with servants she didn’t know, people she hardly knew, and a new husband she didn’t want to know, much less intimately.
Marianne sighed loudly and felt a gentle pat on her shoulder from Ellen. “It will be all right, my lady. Every bride is nervous on her wedding night. It’s as it should be. Try to be excited and just tell yourself tomorrow night will be easier. And the next night will be even easier. You’ll see. It will all work out all right.”
She questioned how Ellen, barely her own age and, as far as she knew, not married could know what a wedding night would be like, much less what tomorrow night or the next night would bring.
“Thank you, Ellen, you may go now. There’s really nothing else you can do for me.”
“Do you want me to comb your hair one more time? Rebraid it once again? I can stay a while longer if you need a little more time.” Ellen tried her very hardest to ease the stress of the evening but Marianne knew she could put off the inevitable for only so long. She might as well face it and get on with it.
She would survive it, wouldn’t she?
“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning. You get a good night’s rest, and thank you for your kind attentions.”
“Yes, my lady. Until the morrow, my lady. Good luck and sweet dreams.” Ellen quietly closed the door behind her as she went out through the dressing room.
Marianne climbed onto the large, oak bed decorated with a massive carved headboard and tester and two bulbous carved posts at the foot. She had no doubt its origins could be traced to the Elizabethan era. After plumping her pillows, she crawled between the freshly scented, silken sheets and settled in to wait for her husband.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Come in, my lord.” Marianne prayed her voice did not betray her nervousness. She tugged the covers up higher and peeked over their edges.
He did not make the grand, flamboyant entrance she expected. He entered calmly and with much reserve in attire more subdued than she had ever seen him wear, a deep blue silk banyan, no ruffles or frills. The scent of perfume did not accost her as he approached the bed. His hair was combed in a style not as curly as earlier in the day. It led her to believe his usual style not natural but one created by his valet.
“My lady, are you well?” His voice still too high but at least gentle and sincere.
“As well as can be expected, my lord.” This time even she heard the quiver in her response. It would probably be best if they got this over as quickly as possible so he could return to his room and she could try to get some much-needed sleep.
He stood next to the bed, the candlelight warm on his face, his skin pale but healthy looking, his dark brown hair tinted slightly red, and his clear, midnight blue eyes, his most striking feature, unfathomable.
He let his robe slide to the floor, revealing a simple white nightshirt.
Could he possibly be as nervous as she was?
Slowly he drew the covers back, then climbed in next to her. Leaning against the pillows, he raised his arm in invitation.
Knowing she could not run, she settled in against him, her head against his chest.
“Marianne.” Finally he used her Christian name, the first time since their meeting over a month ago. “I know not what to say to make this easier on the both of us. I will try my best to be gentle with you. But unlike the rakes of the ton, I do not claim to be a great lover nor do I have much experience. Please tell me if I am hurting you too much, though I understand some pain comes along with the first time regardless.”
“As you wish, my lord.” She fumbled with the linens, twisting them as she did her handkerchief when she was nervous or fretful.
“Andrew, please. Or, if you like, you may call me Drew. I have a few close friends who call me Drew and you may wish to include yourself among their number. If nothing else, I do hope we will develop some level of friendship and rapport between us.” His voice still gentle and sincere, he showed no signs of becoming a brute in the bedroom.
And not a dandy so much either.
“As y
ou please, Andrew . . . Drew.” She still refrained from looking at him. What could she do or say to make this easier for him? Nothing that she knew of. Why hadn’t her mother given her more instructions than just relax, be cooperative, and make the best of it?
Drew turned toward her and took to nuzzling her neck, stroking his hand down the side of her hip. He snuggled down under the blankets, pulled her down with him. In moments, Marianne felt the length of his body along the length of hers as his freshly shaved cheeks rubbed against the skin of her face and neck.
She felt the hardness of his sex against her hip and failed to quell her gasp. The moment would soon be coming and nothing could stop it. This complete stranger would be in her most intimate places and had every right to be there because of the agreements between his father and her own, a few minutes in front of a vicar and a piece of paper that rendered her his possession.
“Try to relax, Marianne. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He pulled her farther down off the pillows, fully onto her back. She felt his hand fumble up beneath her nightgown. Felt a tingling as his fingertips grazed over her skin.
She sensed pressure as his hand tried to push her thighs apart. She didn’t want to. But she eased her legs apart and squeezed her eyes shut.
His fingers touched her nether regions. Please let it be over soon. Please don’t let it hurt too badly. Please help me make it through.
Then he lifted himself over her. She didn’t open her eyes, just squeezed them shut tighter and turned her head away. He really tried to be gentle but what else could he do? She was a hesitant, if not an unwilling, participant.
Then she felt him. His sex prodding and nudging, begging for entry. And she had to let him in. It was her duty, his right. She could not say no.
Seduced by the Dandy Lion Page 2