The Marriage Lesson Page 3

  “It shall have to do,” he said haughtily.

  “I’m sure others could do better.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I don’t. However, you leave me no choice but to find out at the first opportunity.” She grinned. “Actually, I rather like the idea of throwing myself on the mercy of one gentleman after another for however long it should take, although I can’t imagine it should take any time at all––because you did agree that I was attractive . . . very attractive, you said—until at last some kind soul is willing—”

  “Blast it all, you are an annoying bit of baggage,” Thomas snapped. Again he grabbed her, jerked her closer and planted his lips on hers in a kiss hard and firm.

  For a moment, the shock of his touch held her still. His lips were nicely warmed and surprisingly soft and tasted deliciously of brandy. She tilted her head and the pressure of his mouth against hers relaxed.

  One hand slipped from her shoulder to her back and pressed her tighter to him. She rested her hands against his chest. He slanted his mouth over hers and at once she wished this moment would last forever. Her breath met and mingled with his and she marveled at the intimate nature of what she’d always assumed was simple and not at all complicated.

  He pulled away and stared down at her with an odd, cautious look in his eye.

  “Oh, my.” She exhaled a long breath. “That was . . . that was . . . ”

  He stepped back and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I do hope that was satisfactory.”

  “Quite.” A lovely warm glow washed through her. More than satisfactory. “Although—just to be certain, you understand—I think you should try again.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his expression puzzled, as if he were trying to determine precisely what she meant.

  “I think you should kiss me again,” she said, with deliberate emphasis on each and every word. Perhaps the man was mad after all. Or simpleminded. Or maybe he just didn’t want to kiss her again.

  He shook his head slowly. “I think not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ve had too much to drink, I’ve had too much to drink. You’re Richard’s sister. You’re under my protection.” He ran his hand through his hair and glowered. “How many more reasons do you need?”

  “Those will serve.” She grinned. “For the moment.”

  “Forever.”

  “We shall see, my lord,” she said primly and headed toward the door, resisting the urge to glance at him over her shoulder. “We shall see.”

  Chapter 2

  “The neckline should be lowered a bit.” Jocelyn frowned down at the décolletage of her new ball gown. “Don’t you agree?”

  She stood on a hassock, elevated barely a few feet above the floor, yet high enough to allow her to gaze over the small assembly with the attitude of a queen surveying the peasants. A seamstress’s assistant blessed with the patient soul of a saint was busy trying to pin Jocelyn’s hem in place. Becky and Marianne together had taken less than half the time with their gowns as Jocelyn was taking with hers.

  Marianne perched on the edge of a chair and paged through a book in an effort to force her attention on something other than the letter hidden among its pages and the need to speak to her sisters in private. Without their support, she couldn’t possibly succeed in her plan.

  Becky lounged on a nearby chaise and tried to stifle a yawn. “I think if it was any lower your bosoms would spring free of their own accord.”

  “Rebecca,” Aunt Louella snapped.

  “At least I have bosoms worthy of springing free,” Jocelyn said loftily.

  Aunt Louella narrowed her eyes. “Jocelyn.”

  “My bosoms are worthy of springing free.” Becky frowned, staring down at her own bust. She drew a deep breath and slowly released it, then nodded as if satisfied. “More than worthy.”

  “That’s quite enough from both of you. I’ve never heard such nonsense. You are well-bred young ladies and I expect you to behave as such.” Aunt Louella’s glare pinned first Jocelyn then Becky. “And well-bred young ladies do not discuss the worthiness of their bosoms.”

  “Of course, Aunt Louella. And I do apologize,” Jocelyn said sweetly, “to you.”

  Becky opened her mouth to respond and Marianne shot her a quelling glance. Indecision washed over the younger girl’s face, then she clamped her mouth shut, but rebellion still glittered in her eyes. Marianne groaned to herself; this was a truce at best, uneasy and more than likely brief.

  She should have said something when the squabbling began. Since their older sister Emma had married last year, Marianne had been thrust into the role of peacemaker between the younger girls, a position she did not relish. Still, she should be grateful, since on those rare occasions when Jocelyn and Becky cooperated with each other they were a force to be reckoned with.

  The dressmaker rocked back on her heels, studied Jocelyn’s hem, then raised a questioning brow. Aunt Louella first frowned in consideration, then nodded her approval. “That will do. Now, then, I wish to speak with you about some of the patterns—”

  “Why don’t you take her in the other room?” Marianne said brightly and got to her feet. “That way you can discuss whatever you’d like without us hanging about and adding our opinions every two seconds.”

  “I quite like adding my opinion,” Jocelyn said indignantly. “I think my opinion should be taken into consideration, given as the discussion is what I shall be wearing.”

  “As do I,” Becky said with a frown. “Come, now, Marianne, you can’t possibly think—”

  “Oh, but I do.” Marianne hooked her arm through her aunt’s and steered her toward the door. “After all, Aunt Louella has experience and knowledge far beyond our own as to what is truly fashionable and it can only be to our benefit to allow her to guide us in such things.”

  Jocelyn and Becky traded glances and Marianne bit back a sigh.

  Once again, alliances had shifted and foes were now allies. Still, there was never a question that when matters were of a serious nature the Shelton sisters would always form a united front. More often than not, that front was against Aunt Louella. Even with Jocelyn, who most among the girls had fallen prey to the elderly woman’s stories of the glories of London and the joys of the social season, there was no question of her primary allegiance.

  Not that Lady Louella Codling’s heart wasn’t in the right place. It had been ever since she’d moved in to take care of her dead sister’s daughters a dozen years ago. But the woman brooked no nonsense and never so much as laughed more than once or twice a year. In addition, Aunt Louella had always hated the girls’ father, the late Earl of Shelbrooke, not that Marianne could blame her, and until recently hadn’t seemed to care much more for their brother, Richard.

  Her aunt studied her for a moment. “Excellent idea.” She nodded at the dressmaker and the woman followed them. Louella glanced back at the younger girls. “I shall send a maid to help you, Jocelyn.”

  “No.” Marianne jerked opened the door. “I mean, it’s not necessary. We can help her.”

  “Not me,” Becky said under her breath.

  “Very well.” Aunt Louella turned to the seamstress. “You must thank Madame Renault for being so kind as to permit you to do these final fittings here rather than at her shop. I do hope . . . ” They stepped through the door and Marianne closed it behind them.

  “Kind?” Becky scoffed. “Given the scandalous amount of money we’ve spent, the woman should come and dress us on a daily basis.” She grinned. “It is great fun, though, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed.” Marianne laughed. After living most of their lives having to watch each penny, the girls still weren’t used to being able to purchase whatever they wished without worry. Only Jocelyn had taken to spending money without Marianne’s twinge of guilt or Becky’s sense of wonder. “Now, then,” she said brightly, “let’s talk.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” Idle curiosity sounded in Jocelyn’s vo
ice. She reached out and Marianne helped her off the stool.

  Becky smirked. “Whatever it is, she was certainly eager to get rid of Aunt Louella first.”

  “I wasn’t eager at all,” Marianne lied. “I simply wanted to talk about . . . well . . . our lives and futures and our expectations. It’s so much easier to speak freely without Aunt Louella here.”

  Once again, Jocelyn and Becky exchanged glances.

  “Not if that’s all you want to talk about,” Becky said slowly. “I thought it was understood. The only purpose of a London season is to make good matches. It’s our lot in life.” She stood and reluctantly moved to assist Marianne. “We are, as Aunt Louella never fails to point out, well-bred young ladies with a responsibil-ity to our family. And substantial dowries.” Becky’s words rang with all the sincerity of a memorized recitation.

  Marianne stared at her. “But that is what you want, isn’t it?”

  Becky shrugged. “Eventually.”

  “I, for one, have no intention of wedding after my first season.” Jocelyn turned to allow her sisters to undo the variety of pins, tapes and other fasteners that held her dress in place.

  “What do you intend?” Until this moment Marianne had no idea Jocelyn had planned anything beyond snaring herself the most eligible bachelor to be had as quickly as possible. Obviously she hadn’t paid nearly as much attention to her sisters as she should have.

  “I intend to fully avail myself of the pleasures of the season; and more, I intend to be the toast of London. I shall attend each and every ball of note. I shall drive in the park during those hours when it is fashionable to do so.” Jocelyn’s face took on a dreamy, yet determined, expression. “I shall amass proposals of marriage as one gathers flowers in a field—”

  Becky snorted.

  Jocelyn ignored her. “—and shall, no doubt, break more than one heart. Although I will— Ouch!”

  “Sorry,” Becky said sweetly. “A pin slipped.”

  Jocelyn shot her a wicked glare. “As I was saying, I shall endeavor to be kind and gracious in my rejections and leave each and every discarded suitor thinking of me with fondness even in his disappointment.”

  “I may be ill,” Becky said under her breath.

  “I’m sure your thoughtfulness will be appreciated,” Marianne said wryly.

  The dress slipped off Jocelyn’s shoulders and the girls helped her step out of it. “And at some point in time, when I have found a exceptional candidate with a considerable fortune, of course—”

  “Of course.” Marianne fought back a grin. She had heard Jocelyn’s litany before but never with quite as much detail. Or perhaps she hadn’t ever really listened. She laid the gown carefully across the chaise and handed Jocelyn a day dress.

  “—and a lofty title.” Jocelyn paused thoughtfully. “I should very much like to marry a prince, but that does seem somewhat far-fetched, as they are exceedingly rare. A duke would be lovely, although there are rather too few of them. And most are terribly old.”

  “Thomas Effington will be a duke someday,” Becky murmured, fastening Jocelyn’s dress. “And I think he’s quite attractive.”

  “If you like arrogant men who think they know everything and, further, think they know what’s best for everyone,” Marianne said without thinking.

  Becky and Jocelyn stared with identical expressions of surprise.

  “Why do you say that?” Becky said. “The man’s scarcely said more than a few words to us since our arrival.”

  Jocelyn sniffed. “Rather rude, really.”

  “And doesn’t that spell arrogant to you?” Marianne wasn’t sure why she had no desire to tell anyone about her late-night encounter with the marquess or his brandy. Perhaps it was simply because it had been her very first adventure and she wasn’t yet ready to share. “Besides, I know the man’s type.”

  “You don’t know anything about men,” Jocelyn said with a haughty sniff.

  “And you do?” Becky scoffed.

  Jocelyn crossed her arms. “I certainly know more than she does. She’s had no experience whatsoever that hasn’t come from a book.”

  “And all yours comes from little more than the smitten son of the butcher in the village.” Becky smiled in an overly sweet manner.

  “A man is still a man regardless of his station, and a real man is far preferable to a fictitious one,” Jocelyn said in a superior tone, then frowned. “Not that I had much of anything to do with him.”

  “Of course not.” Becky nodded. “He has warts.”

  Jocelyn shrugged. “One has to have standards.”

  Becky laughed and Marianne joined her. The butcher’s son’s infatuation with Jocelyn had been a source of amusement for the girls for some time. A stranger listening to Jocelyn’s high-flown ambitions would never suspect that even as she’d tried to dissuade the young man’s suit, Jocelyn had never treated him unkindly. While in many ways Jocelyn thought only of herself, Marianne had never seen her deliberately hurtful.

  “And what of your desires, Becky?” Marianne said, deftly changing the subject.

  “Oh, I quite agree with Jocelyn.” Becky collapsed back onto the chaise. “I, too, plan on savoring all that London has to offer: the routs, the soirees, the eligible men.” She flashed Jocelyn a grin. “I have no desire to wed this year, either. I’d rather like to enjoy several seasons before I agree to marry.”

  “And what are your requirements in a match?” Jocelyn said, apparently as surprised by the genuine interest in her voice as her sisters.

  “Well.” A thoughtful frown furrowed Becky’s forehead. “I’m not terribly concerned about a man’s title, although I should like him to have a grand estate with a lovely manor house, perhaps even a castle, and incomparable stables with the finest horses in all of En-gland.” A wistful look crossed her face. “I should like him to be the kind of man who prefers to spend most of his time in the country. Who likes children and dogs—”

  “Where is Henry, anyway?” Marianne glanced around the room, half expecting to see the wagging tail of the big, furry beast sticking out from beneath a desk or behind a sofa.

  “In the kitchens, I suspect.” Becky grinned. “He seems to have quite charmed the servants.” Probably why, in spite of Aunt Louella’s decree that Henry be kept out-of-doors, Becky managed to keep him in the house and by her side more often than not.

  “Why this sudden interest in our plans?” Jocelyn sank down on the hassock and studied Marianne curiously.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Becky said. “It’s not as if we, especially Jocelyn, haven’t talked about it all over and over again.”

  “Curiosity, nothing more than that. So,” Marianne said carefully, “neither of you is in any great hurry to wed.”

  “Not this season. After all, Becky is but ten and seven and I am only a year older.” Jocelyn studied her. “You, however, are one and twenty, practically on the shelf.”

  Becky nodded. “She’s right, you know. It is past time you wed.”

  As confident as she was that her sisters would assist her, there was still the possibility of objections. She drew a deep breath. “I have no intention of marrying. I want to make my own way in the world.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Jocelyn stared in disbelief.

  “Marriage holds no appeal for me.” Her sisters were far too young when their mother died to remember much of anything of their parents’ marriage, and that was probably for the best. “I want to know what adventures life holds beyond the confining world of wedlock. And in order to do that I need to be independent. Financially independent.”

  “I see. And how do you propose to achieve this financial independence?” Becky eyed her as if she were afraid of the answer.

  “Admittedly, my skills are minimal. All I’ve ever really done is read and study. Still, I thought . . . that is, I’ve considered . . . ” She’d never said it out loud before, never told another soul, and for the barest moment wondered if indeed she could. If Emma was he
re . . . She sighed to herself.

  She’d always been closer to Emma than anyone else. With barely a year between them, she and Emma had been natural allies, as were Jocelyn and Becky when the need arose. Now Marianne found herself without a confidante. The age difference between her and the younger girls had never seemed greater than today. She squared her shoulders. “I’m going to write for a living.”

  “Write what?” Jocelyn frowned. “You’ve never written anything but letters. I can’t imagine it’s possible to make your fortune in letter writing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Becky stared at her older sister thoughtfully. “You’re going to write books, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps eventually.” The excitement Marianne had kept bridled all morning surged through her. “But not at first. I believe it takes rather a long time to write a book, and I admit I’m somewhat impatient. Frankly, I’m not entirely sure I can write an entire novel.

  “However”—Marianne opened her book and pulled out the letter she’d kept folded between the pages—“when we arrived in London, I sent an inquiry and a sample of my work to a gentleman who publishes a newspaper—”

  “Good Lord, you sent something to the Times?” Jocelyn’s eyes widened.

  “It’s not exactly the Times.”

  “The Morning Chronicle, then?” Becky said. “Or the Observer?”

  “No, no, nothing quite so traditional.” Marianne waved off the suggestions blithely. “I sent it to Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger.”

  Becky stared. “What is a Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger?”

  “Is it a real newspaper? It doesn’t sound like a real newspaper.” Jocelyn frowned. “I’ve certainly never heard of it.”

  “Not that you would,” Becky said dryly. “However, I’ve never heard of it, either.”

  “And you’re so aware of current affairs.” Jocelyn rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  “I daresay I—”

  “It’s a very small publication,” Marianne said quickly. “Not nearly as old as the Times, with a philosophy not quite as . . . ”

  “Legitimate?” Becky suggested.