by Nikki Poppen
To reinforce the high standards of the night, the Radcliffe home on Curzon Street was turned out in all its glory. The chandelier in the main foyer cast brilliant light up the grand staircase to the ballroom that had been partitioned into a slightly smaller venue for the evening. Inside the ballroom, potted plants and gilt screens had been set up to minimize the enormity of the room, as the event had outgrown the music room in which it had been originally hosted. Chairs were set up in neat rows around a temporary stage that had been erected for the evening. The piano had been moved from the music room to the impromptu dais and other instruments were propped up along the edge.
It was very impressive to behold, Marianne thought, as she walked through the door with her parents, her father having just arrived back from a quick trip to Cherbourg. They had been invited to the event by Camberly himself, but since the earl’s wife was playing the piano that evening and had to be present earlier, the Addisons arrived on their own.
Marianne and her mother greeted a few of the people to whom they’d been introduced over the past weeks but the larger span of Marianne’s attention was spent searching the room with her eyes for a sign of Alasdair. She had not encountered him yet today at any of the places she’d gone. It was the first time in several days she had not seen or heard from him in some way, and the day seemed incomplete, unbalanced in some indistinguishable way without him.
She was aware of how odd such a realization was. She’d only known Alasdair for a few weeks. Yet in that time she’d become accustomed to his presence. If she’d been asked who she’d acquired as a friend during her time in London, she would have said him.
Mrs. Farnwick and her daughter, Roberta, stopped to say hello. Roberta smiled knowingly, catching Marianne’s distraction. She linked her arm through Marianne’s and drew her aside. “The viscount will be here, don’t worry. He’ll want to hear the countess play the piano.”
Marianne cast her eyes downward. She’d best be careful not to give herself away so completely. It wasn’t proper for a girl to seek out the attentions of a gentleman even if he was just a friend. In America, it had been far more common for young men and women to mix socially than it was here. She’d gone on any number of picnics with other young people of her social station in San Francisco. But here, Marianne had been surprised to learn just how cloistered girls were until they came of age.
“Would you care to stroll with me around the room, Miss Addison?” Roberta asked. “We can walk past the refreshment table. I’ve heard the Radcliffes have a carved-ice swan for the centerpiece that’s supposed to be magnificent.”
Several other young women strolled the perimeter of the room with their friends, heads close together as they chatted. It was the perfect ruse for sharing gossip and showing off one’s lovely gown all at the same time. Marianne sensed that Roberta Farnwick was disposed to use the activity for the same reason, although she couldn’t imagine what Roberta would want to gossip about with her. After all, Roberta was not a close acquaintance.
They passed the long tables of refreshments set against the far wall out of the way of the performance area and made the obligatory comments about the ice swan. A length of silence fell as their conversation diminished. Marianne had no idea how she’d fill the time until their walk was completed. She didn’t know Roberta all that well and she’d exhausted her store of small talk. She needn’t have worried.
Roberta had things to say. “Miss Addison, you are new to London, and as such is the case, I feel I must inform you of some bad news,” Roberta said, her voice so quiet that Marianne had to lean quite close to pick up the other girl’s words. “The viscount is not exactly an eligible parti, my dear.” Roberta fussed with the fan hanging from her left wrist. “This is so difficult to say, but you must know. He’s all but betrothed to a Miss Sarah Stewart, who prefers to stay in the country. It’s not official but everyone knows his mother and her father have been promoting this match for eons. Their estates share a border.”
A cold pit formed in Marianne’s stomach. Alasdair was to marry another? Everyone knew? It did come as something of a shock. Surely he would have mentioned it. Then again, mentioning it may not have crossed his mind. If everyone knew, he probably felt there was no reason to bring it up. It could be easy to forget that newcomers wouldn’t know something that had become de rigueur for everyone else.
And why bring it up when it wasn’t relevant to their friendship? If she was disappointed by the news, it was her fault. He’d not spoken outright of any desire to court her, nor had he spoken any inappropriate words of love. There were no expectations except the ones she’d created in her head, and even those certainly had not gone as far as marriage. She simply enjoyed being with him. She’d come to count on his friendship-that was all. Roberta Farnwick simply misunderstood the situation.
“I am happy for him, then,” Marianne replied. “I didn’t know, of course, being so new to Town. The viscount has been a good friend to me during our brief acquaintance. I would wish nothing but the best for him.” She wanted to be clear with Roberta as to exactly what the status of her relationship to Pennington was. Perhaps she also wanted to be clear with herself, just so her heart and mind didn’t misunderstand one another.
Roberta stifled a laugh. “Friend? My dear, since when have men and women been friends? It’s simply not done. What’s the point anyway? After one marries, one has to give up their friends. No husband keeps female friends and no wife I know of keeps any male friends, if she had any in the first place. Hardly makes it worthwhile.” She looked slyly at Marianne. “Besides, I don’t believe the `friend’ bit and neither do the social columns. Have you seen the latest World?”
Marianne looked puzzled. She occasionally read the Society papers upon her mother’s recommendation that she keep up with the goings-on about Town, but she hadn’t gotten into the habit of reading them daily. She had, however, met some ladies who waited earnestly for the new editions to arrive.
Roberta dug into the reticule she carried. “I clipped this out for you, in case you hadn’t seen it.” She handed Marianne a small piece of newsprint.
Marianne scanned the little scrap of paper. Such a scrap shouldn’t matter so much. But it did. The suggestions were horrifying. Against the backdrop of Alasdair’s engagement to another, the insinuation that he was after Marianne’s money and possibly willing to jilt another for it was positively lurid. Roberta was studying her intently, waiting for a reaction. Marianne carefully schooled her features, forcing them into blandness in order to not give herself away.
“I felt you should know,” Roberta said with a sincerity Marianne didn’t quite believe. Instinctively, something about Roberta bothered Marianne, compelling her to believe this “bosom-bow” act was just that. Marianne was convinced that Roberta hadn’t told her this news out of a genuine desire to protect a friend; they didn’t know each other well enough for such confidences. There was another reason, a hidden reason, for these disclosures; and yet, whatever her reason for sharing these things, it didn’t make the items untrue. The article in the paper wasn’t a fabrication. It had been printed and read by countless people.
Marianne felt panic rising, memories of New York springing forth. She wouldn’t let it happen again. She desperately wanted to get away from Roberta, but Roberta was prosing on now about the merits of her cousin, Kentworth. Marianne relaxed only slightly. Roberta’s ploy to advocate for her cousin was hardly subtle.
“Quick, put that away. He’s coming over here,” Roberta whispered in a rush as she suddenly broke from her conversation topic and gestured to the scrap of paper Marianne still held in her hand.
Marianne looked up to see Alasdair striding toward them, combed and confident, turned out resplendently in dark evening attire. In spite of Roberta’s news, Marianne felt only relief at the sight of Alasdair even though he couldn’t possibly know that he was coming to her rescue.
Alasdair greeted them and Roberta slipped into the crowd of people merging toward their seats. �
�Is she a new friend?” Alasdair asked, taking her by the elbow and steering her into the throng.
“I’m not sure. She and her mother have called a few times at our at homes but I’m not sure she’s a friend in the truest sense. I would hardly call her more than an acquaintance.” Marianne flicked her gaze up to Alasdair’s face. It was hard to believe all of Roberta’s information when he looked so at ease, so friendly. Standing so close to him now, she could smell the clean scent of his cologne. She’d thought he liked her. She couldn’t be so completely wrong in her original assumptions. She was usually a good judge of character, but she’d been wrong about the girls in New York. Perhaps she was wrong about Alasdair too.
“What is it, Marianne?” Alasdair asked quietly. “You seem troubled”
She wanted to blurt everything out. He seemed so kind, so honest. She wanted to ask him about Sarah Stewart but that would only be shrewish and she had no claims on him to ask something so personal. Instead, she said, “Roberta showed me the article in the World.”
Alasdair squeezed her elbow in reassurance. “I saw it too. I am sorry for it. It’s entirely my fault. I wasn’t as careful as I should have been” He gave her a flirting smile that melted her heart even as his words melted her hopes that Roberta had been wrong. She knew what he meant now that Roberta had explained it all. He should have been more careful because he was promised to another.
“Where are we going?” Marianne queried, suddenly aware they’d passed rows and rows of chairs and were making their way toward the front of the ballroom.
“I’ve got seats for us close to the stage. Camberly insisted we all sit up front and support his wife. I’ve already shown your parents. They should be waiting for us. Camberly is thrilled to hear about your father’s new yacht. The two of them will talk of nothing else all night, I guarantee” Alasdair winked and Marianne couldn’t help but laugh.
Roberta might be right about some things but she was wrong about others. Men and women could be friends. Marianne liked to think she and Alasdair were fast becoming proof of that. She took her seat, some of her concern eased. Camberly leaned past her father to acknowledge her arrival with a nod. She was smart enough to know that Alasdair wouldn’t have invited her to sit with Camberly if he didn’t like her. He had no obligations to her and yet he’d elected to include her in his elite group of friends.
Alasdair shifted in his seat. The program was a little over halfway done, Audrey had yet to play, and he was already fidgety in the tiny chair. These folding seats weren’t made for taller men. He wondered how Camberly and Lionel tolerated it. They managed to look moderately comfortable and engaged. But they didn’t have Marianne Addison sitting next to them, vibrating with energy.
He’d hoped to arrive in time to speak with her about the article. He’d hoped to be the one to tell her about it. He’d not wanted her to hear of it from another. He could imagine the speculations running through her mind. How did this all look to her? Did she think he was only paying homage to her fortune? But he’d been delayed by his mother, who had insisted that he drop her off at another entertainment before he came on to this one.
At least Marianne had not accused him of fortune hunting. In fact, he was heartened that she’d been quite polite, almost relieved, to see him. Still, he wanted to whisk her out of the room and go someplace private where they could talk, where he could explain the falsities of the article and his true intentions, whatever those intentions were.
He was having difficulty explaining those intentions to himself, let alone to his close friends. He knew only that the longer he was with Marianne, the more he wanted to be with her.
Part of him felt like quite the parasite: he was more than willing to bask in the glow of Marianne’s smile, her joy in living, her confidence in doing what she wanted to do, and he was happy to live off of her contagious good spirits. It was those good spirits he’d vowed to protect from Brantley and his ilk. He didn’t want Marianne to be changed so much by London that she was no longer herself. Neither did he want to see her pay the price for being that unique entity.
He snatched a glance at her in profile, taking in the pert snub of her nose and the graceful sweep of her jaw from chin to ear. Pearl earbobs hung delicately from those ears. It was tempting to touch the dangling pearl with a gentle push of a finger. He might have given in to that temptation if she hadn’t chosen that moment to catch him staring.
“You’re not paying attention. The countess is going to play next,” Marianne whispered. Her breath was fresh, smelling of peppermint leaves. The urge to stand up and walk out of the room with her was nearly overpowering.
“I don’t think I’ve ever sat next to someone so lovely before,” Alasdair whispered glibly. But the words didn’t do his sentiments justice. He wanted to touch her, connect to her in some vital way before he went insane with wanting.
Alasdair noted that a length of her gauzy wrap had dropped into the tiny space between their chairs. Around them, people applauded the musicians who’d finished their string piece. Unnoticed, Alasdair reached to retrieve the material, placing the tail of the wrap in her lap. “It was on the floor-I didn’t want to see it stepped on or ruined,” he said by way of explanation when Marianne sent him a querying look.
“Thank you. I hadn’t noticed.” Marianne blushed, a delightful rose hue staining her cheeks. It was all the proof he needed that she’d noticed he hadn’t removed his hand. Instead, his hand remained discreetly hidden beneath the retrieved fabric, lightly curled over hers. He gave her gloved hand a squeeze. He shot her a sideways glance. Her eyes were dutifully fixed on the Countess of Camberly taking her place at the piano bench, but beneath the fabric Alasdair felt Marianne squeeze back.
He could not hold back the smile that lit his face. He just might be on the brink of that very dangerous precipice where a man teeters right before he falls in love.
The card room at the Radcliffes’ was technically empty. All but one man had managed to drift into the ballroom to hear the renowned countess play a Schubert piece. A second figure, this one female, stole into the room, casting furtive glances behind her at the door for fear of being caught.
“There’s no need for such antics. Everyone wants to hear the countess play, goodness knows why. I don’t see why Camberly lets her get away with a career.” Brantley was sprawled on a sofa, brandy in hand, his tone bored. He idly swirled the brandy in the snifter. “Did you give the article to Miss Addison?”
The young woman nodded. “She hadn’t seen it.” There was an overt touch of malice to her voice.
Brantley gave the girl a sardonic smile. “I hope you commiserated appropriately with her?”
She nodded, encouraged by Brantley’s comment. “Of course. I don’t think Miss Addison was too pleased to hear that the viscount was promised to another, either. I could tell she didn’t know what to make of that”
“You’ve done well, Roberta” Brantley rose from the sofa and moved toward her. “We’ll need to get Pennington’s engagement to Sarah Stewart mentioned more publicly, or at least hinted at in the social columns, to remind people of his prior commitment. It would reflect poorly on our Miss Addison if she were stealing another girl’s intended.” Brantley made a mock moue.
Roberta gave a slight pout. “What about me? I want to be mentioned in the columns. You said you’d get me noticed if I did this for you”
Brantley tipped her chin up with his forefinger. “You’ll be mentioned in the right way, my dear. Not all mentions are positive press. I wouldn’t want your reputation tainted before we can announce our own engagement. You understand, of course?”
Roberta beamed. “I understand perfectly. It’s so good of you to look out for me”
“Now, back to the party. I don’t want anyone to miss you unduly” Brantley dismissed her, his thoughts already leaping ahead to the next part in his campaign to make the Viscount Pennington very sorry he had ever contrived to spill champagne on him.
If all went as planned, Brantl
ey wouldn’t be marrying the pretty but petty Miss Farnwick. He’d be marrying the American heiress. Desperate girls often did desperate things, and when he got done with the viscount, she would be very desperate indeed. There was no getting around it: in order to get to the viscount, Miss Addison would have to be sacrificed.
Marianne strolled along the packed gravel path of the garden behind the town house. This morning, she appreciated the absolute luxury of their rented home. Only the older Mayfair homes could boast gracious, open garden spaces and deep horseshoe-shaped drives where a carriage could pull in to drop off passengers. There simply wasn’t anywhere left to build. Newer townhomes were constructed right on the street’s edge. The solitude provided by the high hedges and fences of the garden blocked out the street noise, effectively leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Those thoughts were riotous and confusing. She’d preferred to have sorted through them with her hands immersed in sourdough, but she’d quickly been banned from the kitchen the last time she’d tried it. The cook that came with the house was as uppity as Snead the butler. Everyone had their place and Marianne’s place was not the kitchen. The garden would have to do.
Marianne absently fingered the soft petals of a rosebush, the flowers’ silky texture reminding her of Alasdair’s hand on hers during the recital. She knew she was re-creating something of a fantasy. Their hands had been gloved, and with the barriers of cloth between them there’d hardly been any real contact. But it was the gesture that had mattered more than the realities of the situation. The gesture was not the action of a friend-it was far too risky for that. Friends did not defy protocol and flirt with scandal to hold hands, no matter how discreetly, in a place as public as a recital hall or ballroom. No, the gesture itself was the act of an ardent suitor, undeclared though he was.
Was that what Alasdair was? An ardent suitor? The thought brought a halt to her absent caress of the rose petals. This was where things became confusing. He could not be a legitimate suitor if his affections were engaged elsewhere. His actions last night did not speak well of him if indeed there was a fiancee tucked away in the country. It was quite deflating to think of Alasdair in terms of his being a rake, wooing one woman while bound to another.