The Marriage Lesson Page 4

  “Stuffy. Besides, the Messenger only comes out on Sundays and I doubt many outside of London have ever heard of it. At any rate, I wrote to Mr. Cadwallender about the possibility of writing of my adventures—”

  “What adventures?” Becky asked.

  “Well, I haven’t had any yet, but I fully intend to.”

  “What kind of adventures?” Jocelyn said cautiously.

  “The adventures,” Marianne paused dramatically, “of a country miss in London.”

  Again, the younger girls traded glances. Marianne ignored them and shook open the folded sheet with a flourish. “And I received Mr. Cadwallender’s response this morning.”

  “And?” Jocelyn raised a brow.

  “And he says he quite likes my writing and he further likes the idea of the adventures of a country girl in town. I propose to write the stories as a series of letters. As you’ve noted, I can write letters.” She couldn’t hide a triumphant smile. “I sent him the first.”

  Becky rose to her feet, plucked the letter from the older girl’s hand and scanned it. “He also says his readers are not interested in ordinary, everyday occurrences.” She frowned. “What exactly did you send him?”

  At once Marianne’s euphoria vanished. “That is a bit of a problem. I believe I wrote of the thrill at seeing the Tower of London for the first time. And the delight of a drive through Hyde Park. And the enjoyment to be had—”

  Jocelyn groaned. “I know I would certainly wish to read that.”

  “You don’t read anything that isn’t a report of a soiree or the descriptions of the latest in fashion,” Becky murmured. She studied the paper, then glanced up. “Forgive me for agreeing with Jocelyn once again, but your adventures thus far are exceedingly ordinary and the potential for anything more exciting, especially with Aunt Louella hovering over you, is rather slim.”

  “I know. I’ve been giving that a great deal of consideration.” Marianne pulled off her glasses and tapped them against her palm. “Mr. Cadwallender thinks my proposal is intriguing, but he does say he would like to see another adventure before he decides whether or not to print my work. I suspect if he doesn’t like what I send him he’ll find someone else to write them. I’m not entirely sure how to make my experiences more exciting.”

  “You can stop writing about the sights, for one thing,” Jocelyn said firmly.

  “No doubt, but the problem still remains as to precisely how to entice Mr. Cadwallender’s readership.”

  Becky shook her head. “Surely with all the books you’ve read you know better than anyone what makes a good story.”

  “Certainly I do. I just . . . ” Marianne paced the room and tried to put her thoughts in order. “I don’t want to make up stories. I want to write about my adventures.”

  “You haven’t had any. Let me see that.” Jocelyn stood, snatched the letter from Becky and skimmed it quickly. “There’s nothing here that says your writing has to be entirely truthful.”

  “I wouldn’t want to lie—”

  “Nonsense. We’re not talking about lying, exactly, we’re talking about . . . ” Jocelyn thought for a moment. “Embellishing. Simply making whatever experiences you may have more interesting. It’s merely a matter of perception.”

  Becky nodded in agreement. “It’s the difference between saying a woman is fat and dowdy and saying she’s voluptuous with the beauty of a harvest goddess.”

  “Exactly.” Jocelyn grinned at the younger girl. “It all depends on one’s point of view. Take your country miss—”

  “Or rather, me,” Marianne said.

  “Yes, yes. She, or you, would be much more interesting . . . ” Jocelyn paused, then her eyes lit. “If she was alone in the world. An orphan.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Of course you are,” Becky said. “We all are by definition orphans. Our parents are both dead.”

  “Yes, but we’re not exactly alone in the world. We have a titled brother with a respectable fortune,” Marianne said wryly. “Scarcely the stuff to provoke sympathy.”

  Jocelyn ignored her. “An orphan raised in the country. Yes, that will do nicely. Very innocent and quite naïve.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Nonsense.” Jocelyn waved away the objection. “You were raised in the country. It’s not a lie, it’s simply bending the truth a bit to make a better story.”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “And if she’s an orphan, she needs a guardian.” Becky grinned wickedly.

  “A guardian who has brought her to London to live under his protection.” Jocelyn’s smile matched Becky’s. “In his house.”

  “This is absurd.” Marianne laughed, but her mind raced.

  While not entirely truthful, none of her sisters’ suggestions were complete lies, either. After all, they were, in the strictest meaning of the word, orphans. And the Marquess of Helmsley was, for the moment, acting as a sort of guardian. And they were indeed living in his home. . . .

  “The guardian should be handsome,” Becky said.

  “And wealthy,” Jocelyn added. “And titled.”

  “And arrogant,” Marianne murmured.

  “A rake, I should think.” Jocelyn nodded. “Definitely something of a scoundrel.”

  “And he can ruin her!” Becky fairly shouted with excitement.

  At once shocked silence fell in the room.

  “What?” Becky’s eyes widened innocently. “It’s just a story. It’s not like you’re actually going to be ruined.”

  “Certainly not.” Although if she truly wasn’t planning on marriage, and she really wanted to write about her own adventures . . . Good Lord, what was she thinking? She pushed aside the outrageous thought.

  “It would be nicely scandalous, though.” Jocelyn’s brows pulled together. “And it does seem to me people do love to read about scandal.”

  “Which means Mr. Cadwallender will love it.” Excitement surged through Marianne. “It will work. I know it will.”

  “However”—Jocelyn pinned her with a firm glance—“no one must know about this. It is one thing to write about scandal and quite another to be in the midst of it.”

  “Should your name appear in a paper, any paper”—Becky shuddered—“the consequences would be dire. No one will believe what you write isn’t completely accurate. It would destroy your reputation and ours as well. As for Aunt Louella, she’d—”

  “Not if Aunt Louella and everyone else doesn’t find out. I have fully considered the secrecy this endeavor of mine requires. If you’ll notice, the letter is addressed to Miss Smythe. I thought it best to conceal my identity from the outset. And it’s not necessary to meet with Mr. Cadwallender on a regular basis. I’m confident most of our business can be conducted through letters, so the risk of discovery there will be minimal.

  “I’ve already decided the adventures should be published anonymously. It will add more excitement for readers if the author is unknown.”

  “No one can resist a secret.” Jocelyn grinned. “Or a scandal. And if Becky or I”—she glanced at the younger girl—“should have any interesting adventures of our own, you may use them for your stories. Besides, no one is going to know you’re the author and if you don’t use real names for any other characters—”

  “I can use initials,” Marianne said quickly. “Let’s see, the guardian could be Lord . . . ” H for Helmsley? E for Effington? R for Roxborough? T for Thomas? The annoying man had so many names and titles he claimed half the alphabet. Lord . . . who? Marianne grinned. Of course. Lord Who. “He shall be Lord W. That will work.”

  “W for What’s-his-name.” Becky giggled.

  “Or Wonderfully Wealthy.” Jocelyn laughed.

  “Or Wildly Wicked.” Marianne nodded with satisfaction. “Perfect. Now all I have to do is actually write my first adventure.” At once she knew exactly what that first adventure would be. She started toward the door. “If anyone wants me, I shall be in my room for the rest of the morning.”

/>   “Don’t forget, the duchess’s ball is in two days,” Jocelyn called after her, “and we have a dancing lesson this afternoon. If you aren’t prompt, Aunt Louella will—”

  Marianne shut the door behind her, cutting off her sister’s warning. Not that she had paid it more than scant attention, anyway. Right now her head was far too full of possible adventures for a country-bred orphan and her rakish guardian.

  Adventures beginning with a bit of brandy and a forbidden kiss in the night.

  Chapter 3

  My Dear Cousin,

  London is indeed the most exciting city in the world. I have scarce been here a fortnight and already I have received my first kiss!

  The auspicious event occurred late in the evening when the rest of the household was asleep and I found myself alone with his lordship.

  It is shameful to admit, but I was not in the least apprehensive, although in hindsight I should have been quite concerned, as I wore nothing but my nightclothes and the heady aroma of fine brandy. . . .

  The Adventures of a Country Miss in London

  Thomas strode to the baluster overlooking the grand foyer and surveyed the scene beneath him with annoyance. His valet had warned him Effington House was already a veritable hive of activity in preparation for the ball, now only two days away. Still, Thomas wasn’t entirely prepared for the sight that greeted him.

  Below, servants scurried across the black and white check-patterned marble floor. Maids armed with cloths and dusters polished and waxed. Footmen carried chairs and tables. Everywhere he looked, there was activity of some sort in an impressive ballet of chaotic organization.

  Not that Effington House hadn’t seen its share of galas in the past, but his parents, or rather his mother, had always been here to oversee the arrangements. Luckily, she’d been deep in the throes of planning the event before deciding to leave the country. Invitations had been sent, menus compiled, flowers ordered and an orchestra already hired before his parents abandoned him for the wilds of America.

  The duchess had done everything she could to ensure the ball was a success. After all, the event did carry her name, even if she wasn’t present, and there were standards to be maintained. She’d left detailed instructions in the hands of the house steward. And had, as well, exchanged a flurry of letters with the girls’ aunt, Lady Dragon, who probably had a real name, but he could not for the life of him remember it. She was now ostensibly overseeing the chaos here in addition to readying her nieces for their debut into society.

  Still—Thomas uttered a silent oath—as the only Effington in residence, he was essentially responsible for the success or failure of the fete, a responsibility he’d neither asked for nor wanted. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what, if anything, he should be doing, and thought it was probably best if he simply stayed out of the way. The staff was well trained and Thomas was confident they could carry it off without incident. Or, at least, he prayed they could.

  At the moment, all he really wanted was to escape from this bedlam to the sanctity of his club. In barely more than forty-eight hours his life was as much as over.

  Once he presided over this traditional offering of sweet young things to the gods of society, his evenings, and no doubt many of his afternoons, would be occupied with the duties of escort and protector.

  Protector? He snorted to himself. The oldest needed nothing less than a jailer. All that nonsense she’d spouted last night about adventure and excitement and experiencing life. Well, she’d change her mind soon enough when presented with the right suitor. Thomas had already mentally compiled a list of possibilities and there were a considerable number of acceptable matches. He was not the only eligible bachelor in England under pressure to marry.

  It shouldn’t be all that difficult to find a decent match for Marianne, as long as she kept her mouth shut. She really was quite lovely, with that halo of blond curls rebelliously dancing around her head. He couldn’t resist a smile. No wonder, in the dim light of the library, he’d thought she was a celestial vision. And when they’d kissed . . .

  His smile faded. Blasted woman. Why had she insisted he kiss her? Of course, if he hadn’t he had no doubt she would have carried out her threat to find someone who would. The best thing for her, for them both, was to get her wed as quickly as possible.

  He straightened and started toward the broad double stairway that swept downward in a gracious curve to the ground floor. Thomas dodged a servant with an armful of linens and another carrying a silver tray and wondered if he’d make it out of the house in one piece.

  “Lord Helmsley.”

  He flinched at the piercing voice and turned slowly, forcing a polite smile to his face. “Good day, Lady Dra—er, my lady.” The older woman stood in the open doorway of the ballroom, a diminutive figure with the commanding, no-nonsense air of a general about her. “It appears preparations are well in hand for the festivities.”

  “Indeed they are.” She sniffed as though the very idea that all was not under control was inconceivable. “I have no concerns about the duchess’s ball whatsoever, although I do wish your mother could be with us. Nonetheless, I have tried to carry out her instructions and wishes to the best of my abilities.”

  “And admirably, too, I’m certain. I have no doubt this will be one of the highlights of the season. Now, then, if there is nothing else, I shall bid you good day.” He nodded and stepped toward the stairs.

  “Oh, but there is something else, my lord.”

  His heart sank. He’d known the moment he’d seen her she had more on her mind than a mere exchange of pleasantries. The determined glint in her eye gave her away. He drew a deep breath and turned back to her. “How may I help you?”

  “If you would be so kind as to join us in the ballroom.” She moved aside and waved him into the room.

  He struggled to maintain his smile, silently bidding farewell to any hope of escape, and walked past her into the grand ballroom. The three Shelton sisters stood at the far end of the room by the pianoforte accompanied by a gentleman he didn’t recognize, the sisters’ furry beast of a dog lying under the instrument.

  Lady Dragon started toward the girls, and he had no choice but to fall in beside her. “We are finishing a dancing lesson and it would be helpful if there was a new partner available.”

  “I am nothing if not helpful,” he said under his breath, mentally adding dancing partner to the list of grievances he planned to present to his mother upon her return. He wasn’t entirely certain what, if any, satisfaction he’d get from such a presentation; still, it did ease his irritation somewhat to acknowledge he was prepared.

  Lady Dragon cast him a sharp glance. “I’m certain you understand it would not do to have them stumble about the floor like drunken sailors.”

  “Of course not,” he murmured, pushing aside the unbidden but annoyingly delightful image of a tipsy Marianne.

  They approached the group at the end of the room and he noted for the first time the resemblance between the sisters.

  All three were of a similar height, taller than he personally preferred but not overly so. Marianne was the fairest, her light blond hair a charming contrast to the eyes he now knew were brown behind her spectacles.

  The girl beside her had hair a bit darker, more gold than blond, and squinted slightly at his approach. He wondered if she wore glasses as well.

  And the last, and obviously youngest if the frankness of her gaze was any indication, had distinctly red hair. He wished he’d paid more attention to their names, but he’d been far too busy avoiding them, and the very thought of them, to pay heed to anything more than his quest to marry each off as efficiently and quickly as possible.

  Lady Dragon pursed her lips. “Lord Helmsley, surely you remember my nieces, although I must say we have scarce seen hide nor hair of you since our arrival. I’m certain that has been nothing more than an oversight on your part.”

  “Indeed it has.” He smiled in his most charming manner. “An oversight I shall do my best
to remedy.”

  The trio studied him with a common expression of amusement mixed with challenge. There was something vaguely familiar about that look, but he couldn’t quite place it. He ignored a faint sense of unease. Had Marianne told them of his plans? It little mattered, he supposed. After all, wasn’t it the goal of every young woman to marry? Marianne was the exception—and he didn’t quite believe her protests.

  It was obviously in his best interest to learn as much about these ladies as possible. If he were to find them husbands, it would help to determine what type of men would suit. Well, he’d certainly never had any problem talking to attractive women, and they’d never hesitated to talk to him.

  He stepped to the redhead and raised her hand to his lips. “My dear Lady . . . Lady . . . ” He faltered and groaned to himself.

  “Rebecca,” the dragon said firmly.

  “Becky,” the redhead said, just as firmly. She stared at him as if he were an interesting insect for her examination. “Everyone calls me Becky.”

  “Do try not to confuse him.” Marianne’s tone was light. “Lord Helmsley has a bit of a problem with names.”

  “How would you know?” Becky said.

  She shrugged. “I’ve no doubt heard it somewhere.”

  “However,” he said quickly, “I shall have no problem whatsoever now remembering the names of my lovely guests.” He turned to the next sister and took her hand. “And you?”

  “Jocelyn.” She too considered him carefully. He had the distinct impression she was assessing his merits and potential and wondered if he measured up to her standards. “Delightful to see you again, my lord.”

  “Yes, well, I have been remiss in my duties and I will do my best to rectify that failing.” He kissed her hand. “Rest assured I will do everything in my power to make it up to you all now by being as attentive as possible.”

  She tilted her head and favored him with a brilliant smile. Even as he returned it he realized neither she nor Becky would do anything they did not particularly wish to do. Up to and including marriage.

  Abruptly he realized why the look the sisters had shared was so familiar. He’d seen it before on the face of every stubborn woman in the Effington family. Very well. He was an Effington man well used to dealing with women exactly like these three. Marrying them off might prove to be more of a task than he’d originally thought but what fun would life be without an occasional challenge? He was certainly up to it. And at the moment, he rather relished the idea of pitting his determination against these stubborn sisters. One in particular.