The Marriage Lesson Page 10

  “Thomas, I . . . you . . . ”

  “Now who is sputtering?”

  At once anger swept away disappointment. She clenched her teeth. “You are something of a beast, my lord.”

  He chuckled. “Exactly.”

  “Who suits me and who does not is not for you to decide.”

  “It is precisely for me to decide,” he said in that overbearing manner she detested. No doubt he would begin that lecture on his responsibility to her brother again. “I have been given—”

  “Oh, do shut up!” She whirled around and started off then turned back. Before he could say a word, she threw her arms around him, planted her lips on his and pressed her body against him.

  He froze and for a moment she was afraid he’d push her away. She opened her mouth and traced the line of his lips with her tongue. And his so-called control vanished.

  His arms wrapped around her, slipping down her back to cup her buttocks and hold her firmly against him. Her breasts crushed against his chest. She could feel his arousal through the layers of fabric between them. His lips met and matched her eagerness, her hunger. It was a kiss as glorious as the last.

  She steeled herself against the sea of sensation threatening to drag her under and pulled back, her lips lingering lightly on his. “And that, my lord, is a lesson for you.”

  “A lesson?” He stilled. “What lesson would that be?”

  She pushed out of his arms and stepped back. “A lesson in the risks of underestimating your opponent. I may well be less experienced than the women you are used to dealing with but I would wager that I am also more intelligent than most.

  “I shall advise you one more time. I shall dance with, or kiss, whom I want when I want. Be that Pennington or Berkley or—” She grabbed the edges of his jacket, pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him firmly. “You, you pompous ass.” She released him, pushed her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose and nodded. “Good evening, my lord.”

  She turned and started back to the ballroom half expecting him to grab her and stop her. Or call out. Or come after her. But no footsteps sounded behind her. And why on earth was that so annoying?

  Of course he wouldn’t follow her. That would draw attention to them both and he couldn’t have that. No, it would be scandalous if the Marquess of Helmsley and a woman who, like it or not, was ostensibly under his protection were discovered pawing at each other in the dark.

  She kept to the shadows, avoiding those who still gathered in the illuminated areas of the terrace, and slipped back into the ballroom. With Thomas’s watchful eye on her she might well have the chance to dance with the Penningtons and Berkleys, not to mention the Helmsleys, of the ton but she had no doubt he’d never allow her to escape his scrutiny long enough to do anything else. She’d already realized rakes provided the only interesting adventure within the limits of the world allowed her. If she didn’t have the opportunity for adventures she’d have nothing to write about. And if she didn’t write she wouldn’t get paid and she’d never be able to leave England in search of real ad-venture.

  She scanned the throng for a moment and noted three of the gentlemen Thomas had presented had spotted her and were now heading toward her from three different directions. She plastered a smile on her face and steeled herself for their endlessly dull company.

  Any lingering doubts she might have had vanished. If she was going to experience life, she needed a rake. And there was obviously only one rake within reach.

  The pompous ass.

  The last guests had finally taken their leave barely an hour before dawn, The ballroom was empty, all but a few lights extinguished. If the debris were any indication, the ball would be counted a success. Thomas had told the house steward to let the servants leave the cleaning until morning and remembered to thank him for all he’d done.

  To Thomas’s poetic mind, the room looked like the sad aftermath of a love affair: bedraggled and untidy, with only the memories left behind. He shook his head at the fanciful thought.

  He wasn’t sure what had made him return to the ballroom. He’d originally gone to the library, intending to write a verse or two, but nothing came to mind and he’d found himself wandering back here. Now he admitted that wasn’t entirely true. There was a great deal on his mind that could be summed up in one word.

  Marianne.

  He sat on the steps leading into the ballroom and propped his chin on his fist. After their encounter, she’d spent the rest of the night actively avoiding him. It certainly wasn’t much of a challenge. He couldn’t have gotten near her if he’d tried. All evening she’d been surrounded by eager males, those he approved of and far too many of those he didn’t. He could have sworn she’d danced every dance. And not one with him.

  Whatever possessed him to pull that stunt on the terrace? He’d wanted to make a point, of course, and thought he had, until that last moment when she’d kissed him. And bloody hell, he’d kissed her back. And wanted to keep kissing her. To caress her silken skin. To taste her—

  “Do I owe you an apology?” Marianne stood in the doorway.

  He got to his feet and ignored a sense of pleasure at seeing her. “No more than I owe one to you.”

  She still wore the gown she’d had on for the ball, and even after the long evening he was not immune to its effect on him. Or was it the woman inside the dress? She walked down the steps to join him. “I would say the match is a draw.”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, for once we agree.” He chuckled. “Although no man wishes to know he cannot best a mere woman.” Even as he said the words, he knew they were a mistake.

  She studied him for a moment. “Perhaps you need to stop considering women as mere.”

  “At least I need to stop considering you as mere.” No, she was more than a match for any man. “Agreed.” He extended his hand. “A truce, then?”

  “A truce.” She nodded and took his hand. She’d discarded her gloves and her hand was warm and soft in his. A shock ran through him at her touch.

  Her gaze met his and at once the air was charged with tension. He stared at her for a long moment.

  “Why are you here?” he said quietly.

  “I’m not entirely sure.” Her voice was low and throaty, as if she’d spent much of the evening laughing. He pushed aside the annoying knowledge that she had not spent that time with him. “I suppose I didn’t want to leave things as they were between us. I know you’re just trying to do what you believe is best.”

  “We pompous asses are like that.”

  “Really?” She raised a brow. “I shall have to take care, then. I’m certain there are any number of pompous asses among those gentlemen you introduced to us tonight. I daresay, most of them would—”

  “Enough.” He laughed. “I thought we had agreed to a truce.”

  She grinned. “An uneasy truce at best.”

  He still held her hand and had no desire to release it. She made no effort to pull free. At once it struck him how very nice it was to stand here with her hand in his.

  She tilted her head and considered him. “We never did dance together tonight and, after all, we did practice.” She smiled. “Another lesson, of sorts.”

  “Then I have been remiss in my responsibilities.” He stepped back and swept a low bow. “My lady, would you do me the great honor of joining me for this dance?”

  “The musicians have all gone. There’s nothing to dance to.”

  “Isn’t there?” He cocked his head as if listening. “I’m certain I hear the strains of a waltz.”

  “Do you?”

  “Can’t you hear it?” He stepped closer. “I distinctly hear the sounds of violins. And listen.”

  “What?”

  He nodded solemnly. “It’s a flute. Definitely a flute.”

  She laughed. “Thomas, you are a madman.”

  “Ah, but there are few things more enjoyable than a dance with a madman. Now, then . . . ”

  “Very well, although I do try not to dance wit
h madmen.”

  “This will be an exception, then.”

  She placed her free hand lightly on his shoulder. “I still don’t hear anything.”

  He pulled her a bit closer than propriety dictated.

  “You will,” he said confidently and started off. The next moment they circled the floor in time to music only he could hear. They had not a single misstep; she followed his lead flawlessly. He had noted during their brief lesson how easily she fit into his arms. How effortlessly her body meshed with his. He’d disregarded it then. Now . . . “Do you hear it, Marianne? The melody?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps, but I can’t be sure.” She gazed up at him with a tolerant smile. “How does it sound?”

  “Magnificent. The musicians are highly accomplished. No, wait.” He frowned and shook his head. “The cellist struck an discordant note, but . . . ” He paused, then nodded. “Yes, he seems to have recovered nicely.”

  “Did he?” she said with amusement.

  “Ah, yes. They play together as if they were made for each other.” Just as we dance together.

  “Do they? And the tune they play?”

  “Exquisite. A melody redolent of lighthearted summer days and star-spattered nights. Of love poems and moonlight and magic.”

  “Magic,” she whispered.

  He stared down into her eyes. His steps slowed and they drifted to a halt. For a long moment they stood unmoving, as if waiting for a new dance to begin. Or a word to be said. Or a declaration to be made.

  “I should retire or the sun will be up before I have been to bed,” she said but made no move to leave.

  “As should I.” He had no desire to let her out of his arms. To say good night. To go to his bed. Alone.

  She stepped back. “Good evening.” She laughed lightly, the stange, uncomfortable laugh of someone who is ill at ease. “Or rather, good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Thomas.” She hesitated. “I should thank you for this evening.”

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Nonetheless, this is your home and we are guests and—”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  She smiled, and a strange feeling swept through him. As if her smile were a gift, rather personal and intimate. She turned and left the ballroom. He stared after her. A gift of affection or friendship—or something more? He swallowed hard.

  He wanted to go after her. Take her in his arms. Take her to his bed. Without thinking, he started toward the door. He wanted her. More than he could remember wanting any woman.

  Realization slammed into him and stopped him in his tracks.

  What was he doing? This girl was under his protection. His responsibility. Damn it all, she was his best friend’s sister! Anything that occurred between them would be a betrayal of Richard’s trust. And hadn’t he already betrayed that trust? He’d already gone much further with her than prudence dictated.

  Thomas ran his hand through his hair. There could never be anything of a serious nature between them. She was not the woman for him—not the kind of woman he wanted for a wife. She was independent and headstrong. She’d insist on having her voice heard and her opinion matter. She’d question every decision he made, every step he took. And she’d never look at him as if he were the moon and the stars.

  Whatever was between them, whatever sizzled in the air when they were alone together, was nothing more than pure lust. He could handle lust. It was, as he’d told her tonight, simply a matter of control.

  He had to redouble his efforts to find her a husband. He had to do much more than introduce her to a few men at a ball. One way or another, he would find her a match, even if it took parading every bachelor in the city in front of her day and night.

  She’d been at no loss for attention tonight; how difficult could it be to find one man she’d deem acceptable? One man who would make her forget about adventurers and explorers and men who were found only in books? One man she’d be willing to give up her dreams for?

  Bloody hell, it didn’t sound easy at all. But he’d manage it. Because he knew as surely as he’d ever known anything, if he didn’t get her married and out of his life, and soon, it would be too late.

  She’d be ruined or heartbroken or both.

  And he wouldn’t fare any better.

  Chapter 8

  . . . dwell for a moment on the nature of men. They are odd and unusual creatures, prone to comments both rash and incomprehensible. I daresay I shall never understand them.

  I do not know if Lord W is typical of his gender or unique in disposition. One moment he is quite reserved, as if I am beneath his notice, and the next he looks at me as if to devour me whole. A prospect I am surprised to discover rather intrigues me.

  It may well be that proximity has alleviated my fears and indeed replaced them with a certain amount of courage, for I do not find Lord W as intimidating as I did upon my arrival. Admittedly he is both arrogant and disdainful.

  Yet I find him extremely compelling. . . .

  The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London

  “I daresay, my lord, there are many people who enjoy Lord Byron’s work,” Marianne said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, but can you truly separate the man from his words?” Lord Pennington shrugged. “I find his actions less than honorable and therefore I cannot approve of his work.”

  “Really?” She raised a brow. “To hear Lord Helmsley talk, you are cut from the same cloth as Lord Byron.”

  He laughed. “Helmsley is scarcely one to speak. His reputation is no better than mine.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she murmured.

  Pennington continued expounding on his assessment of Lord Byron’s life and work. He was surprisingly astute. Still, Marianne’s attention wandered.

  Only the Effington House parlor was grand enough to hold today’s gathering. And even it appeared overstuffed with the many gentlemen who’d arrived late in the afternoon to call on her and her sisters. The number of bouquets filling the room was three times that of its occupants.

  The flowers had started arriving before noon, each offering accompanied with a note claiming the sender had quite been swept away by her presence last night or by Jocelyn’s or Becky’s. A few notes mentioned all three sisters. Obviously those senders weren’t as particular.

  Jocelyn’s laughter rang out from the other side of the room where a tight knot of men was clustered, one or two literally at her feet. Becky sat in another corner with a smaller complement of admirers. Aunt Louella oversaw the scene with the air of a guardian lion, although Marianne was confident she was pleased by this homage to her charges.

  Thomas was noticeably absent. After last night, Marianne had thought . . . well, perhaps it didn’t matter what she’d thought. And now was not the time to dwell on it.

  At the moment, she chatted with Pennington alone and was quite enjoying their conversation. He was far more intelligent than she’d expected, even if his views seemed rather at odds with his nature. Stuffy, even. Was she doomed to only meet rakes who were stuffy beneath their disreputable veneer? A respectable rake, Thomas had called himself. She smiled.

  “I was not aware I was that amusing,” Pennington said.

  “Nonsense, my lord. I have no doubt you are well aware of your ability to amuse, and anything else.”

  He stared for a moment, then laughed. “And you, my dear lady, are delightful.”

  “You two are having entirely too much fun. May I?” Berkley pulled up a chair and plopped into it without waiting for an answer. “It’s far too crowded near your sisters. I can’t get so much as a word in on my own behalf, so I thought I’d join you.”

  “My lord, you will quite turn my head with such compliments,” she said wryly.

  Berkley’s eyes widened. “Oh, I daresay, I didn’t mean . . . that is, I never intended . . . blast it all.” He huffed. “It’s your own fault, you know. Yours and his.”

  “Indeed?” Pennington lifted a disint
erested brow. “And how is it my fault or the fault of this lovely lady?”

  “For one thing, your conversation is deadly. All about poets and authors and books.” He snorted. “Damned boring, if you ask me. Might as well talk about politics.”

  She traded an amused glance with Pennington. “And what would you suggest we talk about?”

  “Well, you know. What everyone else is talking about. Nothing of significance, really. Gossip more than anything, I suppose.” He thought for a moment, then brightened. “I say, I know something.”

  “I hazard to guess,” Pennington said.

  “I read the most intriguing thing today.” Berkley’s voice rang with eagerness. “I can’t remember the name of it, but it was most amusing and a touch wicked and it purports to be true. What was it?” His brows drew together.

  “So the amusing aspect was in the content and not that you actually read something?” Pennington asked.

  Marianne laughed. The insults between the two had an effortless feel and she suspected they were indeed good friends.

  Berkley narrowed his eyes and sat a little straighter. “I’ll have you know I read a great deal. The Times, of course, and the Observer and the Messenger—”

  “The Messenger?” Marianne said. “What Messenger?”

  “Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger. It’s extremely entertaining.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. That’s where I read it.”

  “Where you read what?” Pennington’s tone was mild, as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

  Marianne held her breath.

  “The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London,” Berkley said with a flourish.

  “Absolutely true?” She managed to keep her voice unconcerned, but her stomach leapt.

  Berkley nodded. “That’s what it’s called, and it certainly sounds true. Today’s was the first installment. It’s about an orphan who comes to London.”

  “I can’t imagine the activities of an orphan, absolutely true or otherwise, to be of any interest,” Pennington said.