by Jane Goodger
“He’d squander it the same way his father squandered everything that was given to him. He may have been the second son, but he had properties that produced a good income. Now all they have left is that ramshackle estate up in Nottingham. I hear it won’t be long before that’s gone, too.”
Marjorie waved to her friend Theresa, who had been one of her first friends to marry. She hadn’t seen her in ages. “I hadn’t realized things were so bad,” Marjorie said.
“Is that Theresa Billings coming toward us?”
“It’s Lady Westcott now, Aunt Gertrude. She’s been married for . . .” She paused, counting in her head. “. . . five years. My goodness, five years.”
“When I was your age, I’d been married for six,” Gertrude said with a nod. “And had four children. How many children does Lady Westcott have?”
“Two. A boy and a girl.” Marjorie’s smile widened as Theresa reached them. Funny, she looked like a woman who’d been married for five years. She was a bit thick around the middle and her dress was decidedly matronly. She was only twenty-three years old but looked much older.
“It’s so wonderful to see you, Margie,” Theresa said, brushing her cheek with a kiss.
“It seems like ages. I was so happy to get your note. You remember my aunt, Gertrude, do you not?”
“Of course,” she said, turning to her aunt. “It’s lovely to see you again, madam. Marjorie looks exactly like that young debutante at her first ball, does she not?”
Marjorie was certain her friend meant that as a compliment, but something in her tone was slightly off. Or perhaps she was imagining things. “I don’t feel much like a debutante,” she said, laughing.
“Marriage isn’t for everyone,” Theresa replied, and this time Marjorie was certain she detected a tiny bit of smugness. “Why, this is the first ball I’ve been to in two seasons. Caring for my little ones takes so much of my time.”
Marjorie smiled, but her expression had gone decidedly cooler. “You don’t have a nanny?”
“And a nurse, of course. And Lord Westcott hints at having more children.” Her eyes went to Marjorie’s flat stomach and tiny waistline. “Children give one such joy.” She looked suddenly stricken. “I’m so sorry, Margie. How thoughtless of me.”
“I don’t think you were being thoughtless at all,” Marjorie said, hoping her friend understood that she suspected her small jibes were well-thought-out indeed. She hadn’t remembered Theresa being quite so unpleasant. Or perhaps she was being overly sensitive. She wanted to shout to her friend that she was getting married, would be married within the month. Instead she said, “I wouldn’t have given up these last years for anything. I’ve had such a pleasant time, gone to so many parties and balls, it’s been one long whirlwind of amusements.”
Next to her, Aunt Gertrude coughed.
“Doesn’t it get tiresome after a while?” Theresa asked with what seemed like sincere curiosity.
“Yes, but I’ve a feeling this will be my last season.”
“Oh, but you’re not so old,” Theresa said, her eyes widening.
Marjorie lifted one eyebrow. “That’s not quite what I meant, my dear.”
Theresa and Gertrude gave a collective gasp.
“Truly? You are to marry? I didn’t know that. Did I miss the announcement in the Times? First your brother, now you. How wonderful. Who is the lucky man?”
Darn. Why had she said anything? Silly, stupid pride. “Lord Shannock has expressed great interest.”
“That old goat?” This from Gertrude, who looked about as enthusiastic over the prospect of her marrying him as was Marjorie.
Marjorie couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing. “We’ll see, Aunt Gertrude. One never knows what will happen.”
After Theresa had gone, Aunt Gertrude sniffed and said, “That girl is decidedly jealous of you. Always was.”
“I hardly think so, Aunt. She was gloating about how wonderful her life was.”
“Because she is jealous, my dear. Now, what is this about this being your last season? And do not patronize me with news about Lord Shannock. That man has been lusting after you since you were a girl, and if your mother allows his suit, then I will have lost all respect for her.”
Marjorie considered telling her aunt, but decided against it. “I was simply trying to put her off. There is no one.”
Gertrude gave her a disbelieving smile. “My dear, you are in love. I am not blind. It is that Mr. Norris fellow, isn’t it? And your mother does not approve. I do hope you are not planning to elope.”
“Who is Mr. Norris?” It wouldn’t hurt to pretend ignorance.
Gertrude laughed. Apparently it would do no good, either. “You forget, my dear, that I’ve been at many balls you have attended. The Hartford ball, for example. Poor, dear, Lady Smythe. I hear she is rallying, though. I found it odd, however, that you were not in the room during all the hubbub. And neither was Mr. Norris.”
Marjorie could feel her cheeks bloom with heat, not only from getting caught in a lie but also from remembering what she’d been doing.
Gertrude waved a hand, dismissing Marjorie’s discomfort. “I planned to speak to you of that particular indiscretion, my dear, but since you’ve brought it up, we might as well discuss it now.” She looked past Marjorie and waved someone over. Marjorie turned and nearly fled when she realized her aunt was waving over Charles. And he was walking toward them. With a silly and clearly besotted look on his dear, dear face.
“Good evening, Mr. Norris,” Gertrude said enthusiastically, drawing the pair to a corner of the room where they could have relative privacy. “My niece and I were just discussing you and how you could manage to get married when Lady Summerfield is so violently opposed to you. Though, I must say, I don’t understand her reasoning at all.”
Marjorie would have laughed aloud at the expression on Charles’s face, but she was too horrified at Gertrude’s forthrightness. “I said nothing, Charles,” she said, quick to reassure him, then giving her aunt a glare. “Aunt can be quite canny.”
Charles darted Marjorie a look, then smiled broadly at her aunt. “How we’ll go about it is a secret. And foolproof.”
“Not entirely,” Marjorie mumbled, reminding him of their failed effort the previous evening.
“The plan is foolproof,” he insisted.
“A foolproof plan that doesn’t involve elopement,” Gertrude murmured. She thought for a moment, then blanched. “No. You mustn’t. Really, Marjorie, are you trying to murder your mother? Or yours, Mr. Norris? You cannot think to . . . to . . .” The poor old lady couldn’t even bring herself to speak it aloud.
Marjorie touched her aunt’s hand. “I know at first it will be difficult. But I firmly believe this is one time when the ends justify the means.”
Gertrude shook her head and tried an appeal to Charles. “My dear young man, have you even gotten up the courage to ask Lady Summerfield? I know my sister can be stubborn, but she has surprised me on occasion.”
He gave Marjorie a quick look. “I did, actually.”
“You did?” Marjorie asked, completely stunned.
“She refused me out of hand. Which is why we are forced to take drastic measures.”
“When did you . . . ?” Her voice trailed off. “Oh. I suppose it doesn’t matter when, only that she refused. Does no one tell me anything?”
“She asked me not to and after some consideration, I thought it best.”
“She is so opposed to you. Did you know, Aunt, that Mother threatened to strip George of his title if I allowed Mr. Norris to court me?”
“But that’s absurd,” Gertrude said.
“Not to mention impossible,” Charles added, grinning, the maddening man.
“Something’s not right here. I know Dorothea can be stubborn and has a ridiculous fascination with titles, but Mr. Norris is the son of a viscount. He has an excellent income.” She looked to Charles for confirmation, and he nodded. “Who is your mother?”
“Lady
Anne Hartley.”
“No, no. Who was she before she married your father?”
“Anne Wadsworth.”
“Wadsworth. Wadsworth.” A look of dawning spread across Gertrude’s face. “Eureka, my dear. Your mother loathes Charles’s mother.” She began laughing, then coughing, waving a hand at the pair when their expressions grew alarmed. “I’m fine,” she choked. “Oh, dear. It all makes sense now. She will do everything in her power to prevent our families from merging. Oh, dear. I’m afraid she will never agree to a marriage between you two.”
“We already knew that,” Marjorie said. “You’re saying there’s bad blood between Charles’s mother and my mother?”
“That’s putting it excessively mildly, my dear.”
“Was your mother Dorothea Stockbridge?” Charles asked hesitantly, as if he truly didn’t want to hear the answer.
“You knew my mother before we met?” Marjorie said, sounding confused.
Charles started to laugh, but it was a laugh slightly tinged with tragedy. “I knew of your mother. She’s legendary in my family. We even bring her up on occasion just to tease my mother when we want to torture her a bit.”
“Is it that awful, what happened between them?” Marjorie whispered.
“It caused such a stir at the time that we all thought your mother and Lady Anne would be tainted with scandal for years and never marry.” Aunt Gertrude clucked her tongue.
Charles chuckled softly. “Turns out, though, that was the moment my father realized how much he loved my mother.”
Marjorie clenched her fists in frustration. “Would one of you please tell me what happened?”
“Fisticuffs!” Gertrude said with an emphatic nod. “At Ascot—of all places.”
“They fought over a horse race?” Marjorie asked, flabbergasted.
“Oh, goodness, no. More significant than that. They were fighting over—a hat.”
“What?” This was impossible. Her entire future was being ruined by a hat? Marjorie wanted to cry, but laughed instead. How was it she’d never heard this tale?
“It was quite a row,” Charles said. “My mother, of course, said Miss Stockbridge started it. Apparently, and this is my mother’s side, understand, your mother saw a hat at the milliner they both used. My mother had ordered the hat and designed it. Your mother saw it and asked for a duplicate. My mother was quite a bit younger than yours, you see, and quite a bit spunkier than she is now. She was incensed when she saw your mother wearing her hat—at Ascot, no less. She strode up to your mother and demanded to know where she’d gotten her hat.”
“She must have known,” Marjorie said.
“Of course. But she demanded to know anyway. And you know your mother, she can be rather intimidating. Your mother just stared at my mother and said, ‘Yours doesn’t suit your coloring at any rate.’ And that was it.”
Marjorie cringed. “What happened?”
“You have to remember that my mother was quite, quite young . . .”
“What. Happened.”
“She snatched your mother’s hat off and crushed it beneath her foot. Even as she did so, my mother told me she knew she’d been horrid. She always did have something of a temper. And then all hell broke loose. They ended up on the ground, pummeling each other, surrounded by some of the most important people in society. They were in the royal enclosure, you see. In the scuffle, your mother’s dress was ruined. Very ruined.”
“She was exposed,” Gertrude said succinctly.
Marjorie wished she could bury her head in her hands but there were too many people. “Oh no. No, no, no. Why didn’t either of us know?”
Charles shrugged. “Dorothea is quite a popular name among women your mother’s age. I know several. And my mother is so much younger than yours, I never put the facts together.”
“My mother didn’t marry until she was thirty-six.”
“Ah. And mine married at eighteen. So, there it is. We’ve discovered the real reason for her opposition.”
“And now we’re truly doomed.” Marjorie felt like crying. No one she knew held a grudge the way her mother did. And to think she was in love with the son of the one woman on earth Dorothea despised above all others. At least now her obstinacy made sense.
“None of this changes our plans,” Charles said. “I love you and we will marry. We simply have to be compromised in grand style. The more witnesses the better.”
“A terrible idea,” Gertrude said, but something in the older lady’s tone gave Marjorie pause. It was almost as if Gertrude was saying the things she ought, but didn’t really believe. Perhaps when the time came, she could with a clear conscience tell anyone who wanted to hear that she had warned the couple not to act rashly.
Charles couldn’t believe his bad luck. Of all the women to fall in love with, it had to be with the infamous Dorothea Stockbridge’s daughter. In his house, the story was legendary. How many times had his sister donned a hat, only to look askance at their mother and feign fright that she might attack and rip the thing from her head? They’d all had so many laughs over the years. His mother would be horrified to learn that her actions of so long ago had caused so much trouble now.
How ironic was it that when he finally found a woman who loved him as much as he loved her, she would be the daughter of his mother’s nemesis. Obviously, it was not a story that Lady Summerfield repeated. No doubt the entire episode was humiliating to her, and he wondered if that were the reason Lady Summerfield had married so late. Had the scandal nearly turned her into an old maid? Had she been forced to marry someone simply to be married?
He thought about her features, the bushy eyebrows, the iron gray hair, the mustache, and tried to picture her young and vibrant. He could not. But had she been? Had she worn that hat thinking how pretty she looked, only to face one of the worst humiliations of her life? And at the hands of his own mother. No wonder she was so opposed to their marrying.
It would be diff icult, indeed, to have a mother-in-law who loathed one’s family. The wedding would be . . . painful. No doubt the two women hadn’t seen each other since that fateful day. He wondered how they would handle the meeting. Over the years, his mother had expressed real remorse over what she’d done—and all over a silly hat.
As her Aunt Gertrude left them to talk with a friend, he could tell Marjorie was upset by the news. He wished he could just whisk her away from this ballroom, from London, and take her home. Instead, he laid a gentle hand on the small of her back to give her just a bit of comfort. It was highly improper for him to do, as they were not officially engaged, but at this moment he didn’t give a damn. She looked up at him with gratitude before her eyes grew stony, and he had the distinct thought that Marjorie had indeed inherited some of her mother’s steel.
“Let’s do it tonight and let’s not muck it up. The terrace, shall we say at eleven?”
He smiled, loving the fierceness in her gaze. “Why not right now? I just saw a couple go out there. I don’t know who and I don’t really care. I only know that we’ll be certain to have an audience. It’s too early in the evening for them to be intoxicated.”
The two walked toward the French doors that led out to a large terrace, then down to a garden where Charles could see the shadows of several people walking about. “Perfect,” he said, indicating the garden. “We’ll find a not-so-private private spot, I’ll kiss you silly, then we’ll get caught.”
“And be shocked and horrified. You mustn’t look too pleased.”
“That will be the most difficult part of this entire charade,” he said, closing the doors behind them. He grabbed her hand and practically ran down the stairs, loving the feel of her hand in his, loving that she laughed as he tugged her toward their fate. “Let’s go to the folly, shall we? That seems like a likely destination for anyone going out for a stroll.”
Lanterns, their candles flickering in the slight breeze, had been strung along the paths, lending a bit of magic to the air. Charles could hear the murmur of voices,
and smiled. Getting compromised in this crowded garden would be certain.
“How many children should we have?” she asked.
He tightened his grip on her hand. He felt his chest swell to impossible dimensions just thinking about their children playing at their feet as they sat by the fire on winter evenings. He remembered how wonderful his own childhood had been, the long days of fishing with his father or climbing trees with his sister and their good friend John. He wanted his own children to have that same sort of carefree, happy childhood. “Six,” he said finally.
“That’s quite a lot. How about three? That’s a fine size.”
“No, it’s uneven. We need an even set. We were a family of five and it was always difficult to find seating in a restaurant.”
Marjorie laughed, then stopped, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, a quick gesture that seemed so wonderfully natural. “Certainly seating eight would be far more difficult.”
“Very well. Four.”
“Four it is.”
It was settled. Now all they had to do was get married.
The evening was warm, the stars above them visible through thin, milky clouds. Charles wanted to remember every detail of this night. He’d waited for it for so long.
At the steps to the folly, he stopped. “This will do,” he said, drawing her into his arms.
“But we’re not even hidden.”
“Precisely. Besides, I can’t wait to kiss you.” He brushed her lips with his and she sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck. God, she was soft and lovely and smelled so sweet. He could stand like this forever, hold her against him forever. He deepened the kiss, and she let out a small sound that acted like a bold caress, and he grew instantly hard. They kissed each other, slow and deep, as if they had all night to explore one another. She tasted of chocolate with a hint of champagne and felt like heaven in his arms.
He smoothed his hands down her back to her behind, round and firm and so very lovely. He squeezed gently and let out a stifled groan as he pulled her more firmly against his arousal. Why he was torturing himself, he couldn’t say. He only knew he needed to have her against him, needed to hold her, kiss her. What he truly needed was to have her naked, but that would have to wait for another time. A tantalizing image came to him of her lying in his bed on her stomach, her beautiful creamy bum glowing softly in the candlelight. And then a second torturous thought: Marjorie lying on her back, naked, looking up at him as he entered her, closing her eyes in pleasure, wrapping her slim arms around his neck, moving her hips in uncontrollable . . .