The Marriage Lesson Read online

  Marianne already had a definite notion of exactly what that something could be. She had no idea if she could manage it, but the more she thought about it, the more intriguing it became.

  The door swung open and she froze.

  Lord Helmsley strode into the room with a swagger in his step that spoke as much of an evening of carousing as any confidence of character. He headed to the desk and settled into the chair behind it, never so much as glancing in her direction, then placed a sheet of paper before him, dipped a pen into ink and scribbled as if possessed.

  Marianne took the opportunity to study him. He was not an unattractive sort if one liked tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered men with regular features. She’d had barely more than a passing introduction to him in spite of having lived under his roof for the last two weeks and had wondered if he was actively avoiding his guests. Tonight was the first time she’d heard him say more than a polite greeting, even if his words were not intended for her ears.

  He paused and glanced up, his brow furrowed in thought. He stared directly at her yet didn’t appear to see her. Was he that involved in whatever he was writing? Or was he simply too inebriated to focus? Of course, the long library was well lit only at either end and she stood in the shadowed midsection of the room. Whatever the reason, she didn’t dare to so much as breathe.

  An endless moment later his gaze returned to his work. Well, she had no intention of standing here like a statue all night. She drew a deep breath and started for the door.

  “By God, you’re real!” Helmsley rose to his feet. Marianne halted in midstep. It was far too much to hope that she could escape undetected. She braced herself and turned toward him. “Of course I’m real. What did you think?”

  “I thought I’d made you up.” He shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Made me up?” The man created his own people? Like . . . God? Good Lord, was he insane? She’d heard some members of the Effington family were considered a bit eccentric. A touch of madness would not be completely far-fetched. She inched toward the door. “Do you often see people you make up?”

  “No, not often.” He circled the desk and moved closer. “Never before, in fact. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Who am I?” she said slowly. She’d be insulted that he didn’t remember their meeting, brief as it was, if she weren’t more concerned about his state of mind. Somewhere she’d read one should make allowances for those afflicted with insanity and treat them as carefully as one would a small child. “Who do you think I am?”

  “I thought perhaps you were a vision conjured out of my imagination. Or an angel to escort me to heaven. Or perhaps a muse to help my feeble efforts.” He grinned and she realized his features were more than regular. He was really rather handsome. For a madman.

  “I can assure you, I am neither angel nor muse.” She resisted the impulse to lunge for the door. It might be best not to startle him. Still, she wondered if anyone in the huge house was awake at this hour, if the need arose to scream for assistance.

  “But you are indeed a vision.” His gaze flickered over her in an assessing and intimate manner and she wished she had on something more substantial than her nightgown and wrapper. “Even if now I can see you are most definitely flesh and blood.”

  His madness may well be in question, but his rudeness was not. Nor was the gleam in his eye. She’d never seen desire before, but surely that was the look of it. Abruptly she realized madness was not his affliction at all. “And you, my lord, are most definitely drunk.”

  “Drunk?” He raised his chin in an annoyingly haughty manner and stared down his nose at her. “I most certainly am not drunk. I do not get drunk. I occasionally imbibe a bit more than is wise in my effort to live life to its fullest—”

  “Its fullest tankard, no doubt.”

  “Hah. I know your type.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re one of those women who believes men should be respectable and responsible at all times and never have a bit of good fun.”

  “I am not.” She laughed in spite of herself. “I was right all along. You are a lunatic. Worse, a tipsy lunatic.”

  “I am hardly a lunatic, tipsy or any other kind. Admittedly, I have had a fair amount to drink tonight, but not substantially more than usual.”

  “I wouldn’t boast about it, if I were you.”

  “I am not you and I am not boasting. I am simply stating a fact. I am not in my cups and I am more than capable of doing whatever requires doing. Or whatever I wish to do, for that matter.”

  “Really? I doubt that. A moment ago you weren’t certain whether I was real or something you’d conjured out of thin air and shadow. Just what do you wish to do?”

  “Nothing in particular at the moment.” He stared at her and she noted that interesting gleam had returned to his eye. “Or rather, I might wish to make certain the vision who has intruded on my solitude is indeed real and not an apparition conjured by an inebriated mind.”

  “How would you determine that?”

  “A kiss should suffice for proof.” He stepped toward her. “To verify she is indeed flesh and blood.”

  “I can assure you—”

  Before she could say another word, he strode to her and took her in his arms.

  Her book slipped from her hand and she stared up at him, at once struck by how very much this was like a scene from a novel. A scene in which the dashing hero embraces the courageous heroine and kisses her senseless. She should probably be afraid but at the moment she felt rather courageous, and if nothing else, he was more than a little dashing. Excitement raced up her spine. She’d never had the opportunity to be kissed senseless before. Or kissed at all. Marianne stared into his eyes and smiled. “Very well.”

  “Very well?” He frowned down at her and his puzzled expression changed to one of horror. “Bloody hell.” Without warning, he released her and stepped back. “You’re that Merry-person!”

  “Well, I hardly feel at all merry right now, although I was beginning to feel somewhat giddy.” She tilted her head and grinned. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “No! Absolutely not! Never!” His eyes widened and he backed away from her as if she were plague-ridden.

  “Never?” She drew her brows together and planted her hands on her hips. “How very impolite of you. Whyever not?”

  “Because you’re Merry . . . Merry—”

  “I told you, I’m not at all merry, but I am getting a bit annoyed.”

  “No, blast it all, that’s not what I meant.” He blew a frustrated breath. “Your name is Merry. Merry something-or-other. What is your name, anyway?”

  She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. It was obviously too much to expect that a man who scarcely remembered her face would remember her name. “It’s Marianne.”

  “You’re Richard’s sister.” Helmsley groaned. “Good God, I almost ravished Richard’s sister.”

  “You were going to ravish me?” Delight surged through her. “How exciting. I’ve never been ravished before.”

  “And you shall not be ravished now.” He turned on his heel and stalked to a table bearing a decanter of brandy. He glanced around in obvious frustration.

  “If you’re looking for your glass, I believe you took it with you when you said good-bye to your friend.”

  “Then I shall get another.” He headed toward the cabinet, but she reached it before him and blocked his way.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had quite enough?”

  “My dear young woman, I have not had nearly enough.”

  She shrugged. “As you wish.” She selected a glass and handed it to him, then took another for herself and followed him to the table.

  He filled his glass and she held out hers. He glanced at it and his brows pulled together in disapproval. “I scarcely think—”

  “For heaven’s sakes, my lord. I am not a child.” She snatched the decanter from his hand and poured a moderate amount into her glass. “I am well used to brandy and other spirits.�
� It was a lie, of course. She’d had little more acquaintance with brandy than she had with kissing. She cast him a confident smile, raised the glass to her lips and drew a long swallow.

  The intense flavor flooded her senses, the liquor burned in her throat and for an instant she wondered if she’d die horribly right there in front of him. She stifled the need to gasp and clamped her jaws tight, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from watering.

  “How is it?” he said innocently, but a laugh lurked in his eyes.

  “Excellent,” she lied.

  “I think so.” He swirled the brandy in his glass and tried to hide a smirk. “I quite like a brandy before bed.”

  “Or two or three, no doubt,” she murmured and sank into a chair. She took another, much smaller sip and her glasses slid down her nose. Actually, it wasn’t bad. A pleasant warmth spread through her. She smiled up at him and waved at the other chair. “Would you care to have a seat?”

  “I believe I’d prefer to stay right here.” He perched on the edge of the desk and considered her thoughtfully. “So you’re Marianne.”

  “I believe we’ve established that.” She sipped again. No, this wasn’t bad at all. She pushed her glasses back into place and gazed up at him. “I’m the aging, intelligent bluestocking.”

  He winced. “You heard me?”

  “I couldn’t help it. I was on the sofa.” She gestured at the far end of the room. She hadn’t planned on letting him know she had overheard his conversation, but at the moment she couldn’t resist confronting him. “You are rather rude, you know.”

  “I never would have said a word if I had known—”

  “Piffle.” She waved away his objection. “Regardless of what you say now, it’s still what you think. However”—she took another swallow—“you are right.”

  “I am?” he said cautiously.

  “Um-hmm.” She nodded. “I am an aging intelligent bluestocking. And I quite like it.”

  “Do you, my Lady Marianne?”

  “I do indeed, my Lord Helmsley.”

  “Why?”

  “When one is viewed in such terms, one’s behavior is far less confined. People are not nearly as shocked when you do the unexpected, when you break the rules others abide by.”

  He raised a brow. “And do you break a great many rules?”

  “Not yet, but I fully intend to.” She raised her glass to him. “And I shall begin by calling you Thomas. It seems appropriate. After all, you did nearly ravish me.”

  “Don’t remind me. I didn’t realize who you were. Obviously the result of an overactive imagination coupled with a poorly lit room and, admittedly, the influence of a good deal to drink. Although”—he narrowed his eyes—“I am not drunk. Still, I would never take such liberties with the sister of my dearest friend.”

  “Why not? He’s taken such liberties with your sister.”

  “That’s entirely different. My sister was a widow when they met. You are an innocent young woman straight from the country and under my protection as well. Kissing you, or anything else, is not acceptable.”

  “What a shame,” she murmured. “Thomas, would you care to know what else you were right about?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said cautiously.

  She leaned toward him, her glasses again skidding down her nose. “I am quite attractive.”

  He laughed. “Indeed you are.”

  “But there is something you were wrong about.” She rose to her feet, stepped close to him and pulled off her spectacles. “My eyes are brown. Not a deep brown, mind you, but a not-unpleasant shade of medium brown. What do you think?” She fluttered her lashes. “Are my eyes pleasant?”

  “Exceedingly pleasant.” The corners of his lips quirked upward. His eyes were a dark blue and rather pleasant as well.

  “I thought so.” She grinned and replaced her spectacles, then turned, grabbed the decanter and refilled her glass. “And the color of my eyes isn’t the only thing you don’t know.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he said mildly.

  “Oh, no, my lord, you’re the one who’s had enough.” She shook the decanter at him. “You are drunk.” She replaced the decanter and shook her head. “Or mad. I haven’t quite decided.” She drew a healthy swallow and wondered why she hadn’t experienced the wonder of brandy years ago.

  She glanced around curiously. “This is really a wonderful room. I could happily spend my life in such a place.” The side walls of the long library were covered with shelves of books reaching from the floor to the ceiling. She crossed the room and walked slowly past the rows of volumes, scanning the titles. “There are entire worlds here just waiting to be discovered. Have you read any of these?”

  “A few. I admit I am no scholar, but I’m not a complete dolt.” He paused. “You said there were things beyond the color of your eyes that I didn’t know.”

  “I’m certain there are all manner of things you don’t know,” she said loftily.

  “Probably, but I believe this may have been about you.”

  “Well . . . ” She took a thoughtful sip. “To start with, your plan won’t work.”

  “My plan?”

  “Your plan to marry us all off as quickly as possible.” She leaned back against a bookshelf and smirked.

  “Is there anything I said tonight that you didn’t hear?” he said wryly.

  “I don’t believe so. I heard your assessment of my sisters and myself. And Aunt Louella, of course.” She laughed. “Rather accurate, actually. Oh, and then there was the offer you made to your friend to let him have his pick of us. Exceedingly generous of you.”

  “Damnation.” Thomas had the grace to look properly chagrined. “I do apologize.”

  “As well you should.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “This is a very large room, but voices do seem to carry well from one end to the other.”

  “I shall make a note of it for future reference. And remember to check the sofa for hidden visions as well.” He drew his brows together. “Why won’t my plan work?”

  “Because, Thomas, I have no intention of marrying.” She sipped at her brandy. “Marriage isn’t the least bit adventurous or exciting and I have no desire for it whatsoever.”

  He snorted. “Nonsense. Every woman wants to marry.”

  “Not me.” She stepped away from the shelves and waved in an expansive gesture toward the rows of volumes. “Look at these, Thomas. They’re filled with quests and dangers and excitements. I wish to experience some of them for myself. I want to experience life itself. There’s an entire world of things I’ve yet to do. I want to meet interesting people and have grand adventures and travel to exciting places like Venice and Cairo and, well, live what I have only read about. And I can’t accomplish any of that if I shackle myself to a husband.”

  “Come, now, Marianne,” he said in an altogether too condescending manner. “You cannot possibly—”

  “Hah! I know your kind.” She pointed her glass at him. “You’re one of those men who believes women should be boring and proper at all times and never have a bit of fun.”

  “Not at all.” He grinned in a decidedly wicked manner. “I am not opposed to women enjoying themselves. A certain kind of woman, that is. However”—a firm note sounded in his voice—“I do not extend that particular freedom to young women under my protection.”

  “You shall simply have to reconsider.” She drained the last of her brandy and headed toward the decanter. “Since I neither want nor need your protection.”

  “Nonetheless, at the moment, thanks to your brother and my mother, that is my responsibility and I will not shirk it.” He straightened and reached the decanter one step before her, removing it before she could grab it. “And also, at the moment, I’d say that’s enough brandy for one night.”

  “I don’t see why. It’s really quite tasty.” She stared at her empty glass. “Isn’t it curious the way the more I drink, the less drunk you appear?”

  “It often works that
way.” He took the glass from her hand and put it on the desk. “You, my dear lady, are foxed.”

  She lifted her chin and glared at him with all the indignation she could muster. “I most certainly am not. If anything, I’m merely a bit”—she giggled—“merry.”

  “So I see. Well, merry or not”—he grasped her shoulders and turned her to face the door—“it’s past time you retired for the night.”

  He gave her a gentle push and she started for the door. Then she swiveled and stepped back to him. “I’ll tell you something else you don’t know. I’ve never had brandy before.”

  “No?” His eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Yet you handled it so well.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” she said smugly.

  “Good evening, Marianne.” His tone was firm, but his eyes twinkled.

  “Good evening, Thomas.” Once again she started toward the door, and once again she returned to him.

  He heaved a sigh. “What is it now?”

  “I’ve never been kissed, either.” She gazed up at him expectantly.

  “And you’re not going to be kissed now.”

  She waved toward the bookshelves. “They have no doubt been kissed.”

  “They who?” He studied her as if she were the one whose sanity was in question. “The books?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Heroines. In the books.” She nodded emphatically. “Many of them have been kissed. And more than once.”

  “Perhaps. But this is not a story and you are not about to be kissed.”

  “As you wish.” She sighed dramatically. “However, if you don’t kiss me, I shall be forced to fling myself at every man I meet in hopes one will take pity on an aging, intelligent bluestocking, and I should think, given your attitude toward your responsibilities, that it would be most irresponsible—”

  “Very well!” He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. Then he released her so abruptly she was hard-pressed not to lose her balance. “There.”

  “There?” She glared up at him. “Not precisely what I had in mind.”