Beauty in Black Page 11

  “I have been remiss, my lord. I could not let you leave without thanking you. You saved my life!”

  “Not—not at all,” he stammered.

  She put one hand on his arm, much as Mrs. Hughes had done—Louisa’s guardian had retreated and turned her back. She seemed to be giving orders to her footman, effectively ignoring them—but somehow, this young woman’s touch did not produce the same effect. He wanted to pat Louisa on the head and make her smile, but his first infatuated reaction to her had long since passed. Now when she stood near him, her presence stirred nothing in his blood. The treacherous pounding of his heart, the ache in his groin—if they lingered, it had nothing at all to do with this engaging child, lovely as she undoubtedly was. His reaction had been to another woman, a woman with smoky eyes and darker hair, a woman with spirit and—and one he could not have. Of course, physical longings were not everything; he must remember why he had come to London.

  “But you saved me from the runaway horse, like a knight swooping down to slay a dragon!” Louisa smiled at him, her adoration patent.

  John almost groaned. He had never meant to steal her heart or awaken schoolgirl fantasies which, as a husband, he could not possibly fulfill. Good God, what a fix. Having a complaisant and agreeable wife was one thing; trying to pretend to a romantic love that he would never be able to maintain was something else, a tragedy in the making.

  He had been clear and rational in his design when he had begun this quest, and he must remember his original plan. He thought briefly of his brutish father and unhappy mother, memories he dwelt on as little as possible. In his youth he had seen enough of domestic calamity, of pain that endured for years and left everyone in its wake bitter and unhappy.

  While she continued to extol his heroic virtues, he felt a most cowardly impulse to flee. “You must rest,” he said with as much firmness as he could muster. “You have suffered a most shocking experience.”

  “You will call tomorrow?” she asked, her gaze worshipful. “You will not fail me?”

  “I will come,” he agreed.

  “I knew I could depend on you, my lord.”

  “I should hope so,” he said, a bit absently. “Always.”

  “Always?” She opened her blue eyes very wide. “Do you mean—oh, my lord. I am honored beyond words!”

  If he had not still been distracted with yearnings for the wrong woman, perhaps he would have realized what he had suggested, or had seemed to suggest, to an impressionable young lady. “Think nothing of it—I mean, what did you say?” He saw that her eyes had brightened and her cheeks now showed a deeper blush.

  “Nothing? It’s everything, my lord. To spend my life by your side—oh, you will not regret it, I promise you!”

  “Good God,” he muttered. “That is, I don’t—I mean—” Then he hesitated. Would it be this simple, after all? He had not even had to get down on one knee and dream up flowery speeches of the type young ladies seemed to expect, and he had been dreading that bit of playacting.

  Still, he sputtered, “I just—I mean, I’m sure you would please any man honored by your—your favor.”

  “Oh, thank you, my lord. You have made me so happy!” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  And John realized, to his shock, that he had done just what he had set out to do—arrive in London and secure a betrothed bride within the shortest possible span of time. He waited for a sense of satisfaction to grow, but somehow, he felt instead only a vague disquiet.

  Louisa was talking; he tried to take in her words.

  “Can you come to dinner tomorrow, my lord?”

  “I do not wish to presume upon your aunt’s hospitality. Perhaps I can escort you and Mrs. Hughes—and her husband, of course—to a good hotel for the evening meal?”

  Miss Crookshank smiled sunnily. “As you like—as long as you are with us. We must celebrate this happy event!”

  Why did his mouth feel dry? “I shall make plans for a party of four,” he agreed.

  “Oh, only three,” she corrected.

  He lifted his brows.

  “My aunt is a widow, you see,” the girl said, her tone bright. “But we will both enjoy your escort amazingly.”

  Mrs. Hughes was a widow? “But earlier, you mentioned your uncle,” he reminded Louisa.

  “Oh yes, you will need to speak to my uncle—he lives in Bath with his family. He has been my guardian since my dear father died. But I am sure he will raise no objection to our match.”

  John glanced toward the woman who stood, her back turned to them, conversing at surely unnecessary lengths with her servant. She was a widow. No husband, no marital bond, no impediment to another man who might want—

  He felt the small hand on his arm, its grip as firm as an anchor which could immobilize a great sailing ship. His expression surely arrested, he looked down into the smiling face of the comely Miss Crookshank.

  “We shall expect you at seven,” she told him.

  After the marquess left, looking as weary as she herself felt, Marianne rang to request a soothing cup of tea for Louisa, with a dollop of brandy added. Marianne walked up to the guest chamber with Louisa and told the girl, “I want you to lie down for an hour. You’ve had a great shock.”

  This time, Louisa did not argue. “Yes, it has been a most fatiguing day,” she agreed, sighing. “A perfect day, if I had not been so stupid. To think that of all the women in London, I should insult one of Almack’s patronesses!”

  “No, no, I meant the runaway horse.” Marianne didn’t know whether to laugh or to groan with exasperation. “I want you to put away all thoughts of the afternoon’s calamity and think of something pleasant.”

  “Oh, I shall do that! Thank heavens I still have the marquess.” Louisa sighed heavily. “Without his proposal, I think I could not bear to go on living.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Marianne snapped, with more vigor than she’d intended. The girl would be ordering her bridal clothes, next. “You must not read too much into his rescue. He would hardly stand by and watch you be run down. But that does not mean that he is certain to offer for you . . . you must not depend on it, not yet.”

  Louisa looked determined. “But he did, Aunt, just now.”

  Marianne’s patience snapped. “You cannot be serious! I turn my back for five minutes and you manage to secure an offer of marriage?”

  Louisa’s ready tears brimmed her big blue eyes and threatened to overflow again. She looked anxiously at her aunt.”Don’t you think he cares for me? He would not jest about such a serious matter, surely?”

  Marianne gave herself a mental shake—she felt downright dizzy with shock.

  “Are you telling me that Lord Gillingham has asked for your hand?”

  Louisa nodded.

  “Oh my God.” Marianne sat down upon the edge of the bed. “I don’t mean to—that is, really, Louisa, you’ve only just met Lord Gillingham. It’s much too early to be thinking of accepting an offer from the man. Your uncle will never agree.”

  “He must!” Louisa interrupted. “It’s a wonderful match—how could Uncle Charles not approve?”

  “Perhaps he will, in time, but it’s too soon, Louisa!”

  “But I am ready to accept him. Surely, you cannot mean to forbid me.” Louisa lifted her chin with the stubborn look that Marianne knew only too well. And the girl would be twenty-one before the end of the year; she would need no one’s approval, then. Trying to think, Marianne stalled for time.

  “Of course I will not forbid it. I will write to Charles and seek his counsel—he is the one who is really your guardian, after all. But I think he will agree with me . . . you must spend more time with Lord Gillingham to be sure of your feelings. I do not want to see you hurt, my dear.”

  Louisa smiled. “I will not be.”

  Marianne had a sudden sense of déjà vu; this was just how she had felt about Harry. Oh yes, she remembered being that young and that certain. Eons ago. She sighed. “I hope not. But in the meantime, we wil
l make no public announcements yet, no puffing it off in the Times, agreed?”

  “Oh, very well. But we shall celebrate tomorrow. He is taking us to dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes, at a nice hotel, so he doesn’t presume upon us, he said. But we should invite him to dinner here, soon, dearest Aunt, don’t you agree? Perhaps plan a real dinner party.”

  “Perhaps,” Marianne agreed, her voice suddenly sounding as hollow as she felt inside. She pulled the curtains across the window and left her ward to her musing; she wasn’t sure the younger woman even noticed her go.

  Then, at last, she could go to her own room and lie down upon the coverlet, and stare up at the pale blue curtains that hung about her bed. She tried to think of commonplace things, as she had advised Louisa to do. It had been a most fatiguing day; she was very glad they had no engagement for dinner.

  Louisa. Engaged. To the marquess.

  The man wasted no time in his pursuit. Was he truly in love with Louisa? And, why not? If not in love, at least smitten with her beauty and youth and bubbly charm—which would be more than enough for most men. In addition, she had a handsome fortune to bring with her. There was no reason for any sensible man not to desire her hand in marriage.

  What man would pass up a beautiful young lady with a fortune for an older one with a smaller purse, with more lines upon her face and more cares upon her soul?

  Marianne remembered the moment of attraction between them—she was sure she had not imagined it—in the front hall. It had been so—so intense, so amazing, so unexpected. From the beginning, she had—despite her better judgment—admired his aura of strength and his restrained intensity. But she had not expected to feel so drawn, so hungry for his touch, to dream of seeing the man shed that unfashionable coat and ridiculously threadbare linen so that she might gaze upon a torso that, judging by his handling of the runaway steed, must be as firm and well muscled as a blacksmith’s . . .

  She bit her lip. No, no, this would not do. She had a clear obligation in the matter. The man was courting—had actually proposed to—her niece by marriage. Marianne was the older, wiser woman; she could not allow herself to be distracted by an instant of carnal appeal. After all, how much did such things matter, in the long run? Marriage involved so much more. This would be a most advantageous match, because even if Louisa did enjoy wealth and beauty, her family lineage was not distinguished, and to snare a marquess, of all things, would be considered by the world as an amazing coup.

  Marianne tried to imagine Louisa as Lady Gillingham, to picture the girl at the altar while the marquess smiled down at her and reached for her hand. . . . The image was so painful that she pushed it aside.

  Trying to distract herself, Marianne reflected more deeply on the marquess’ shabby appearance. Why would he pay so little heed to his apparel? Was it possible that the man was not rich, after all, despite all the rumors of great wealth? Could he possibly be attracted to Louisa’s tidy fortune? Legally, a husband controlled all his wife’s assets.

  She could not see him as a fortune hunter, but as a conscientious guardian, even a temporary one, she would have to make some discreet inquiries before this engagement became official, Marianne told herself. She had to remember her duties.

  Duty, yes. She was duty-bound to aid Louisa, and that was that. She no longer had any real qualms about Lord Gillingham’s character; she had seen no hint of cruelty or selfishness or vice in him, although his rush to marry puzzled her a little. His deep reserve hid something, yes, but she did not think he was an evil man. In fact, she thought he was a better man than he knew, and she was puzzled by the unusual contradiction.

  The fact that she herself might feel something unexpected for the marquess—it was shameful, it was improper, it was downright pathetic! What a fool she would look, at her age, if anyone fancied that she was setting her cap for a man of such rank!

  Even if his dress did make him look like a common tradesman . . . at least, until one met those deep dark eyes and commanding gaze . . .

  They must do something about that. Louisa was too entranced to realize it, just yet, but eventually she would, and Marianne had no wish to see her young charge embarrassed by the marquess’s lack of town polish. As she had told him, it was simple enough to acquire; she was sure he had the wit, the good sense, the taste to accomplish it. Perhaps with a little help . . .

  And thinking of tailors and haberdashers, Marianne put aside her own feelings and tried to believe, lying alone in her solitary bed, that all was well and she had no wish for anything more.

  Seven

  Being unhappy in a large house is little better than being unhappy in a small one, even if the service is better.

  —MARGERY, COUNTESS OF SEALEY

  The next day Marianne made sure that Louisa spent a quiet morning, but after a light luncheon, as they planned their dress for dinner, Louisa suffered a sudden setback of nerves. It was not a delayed reaction to the near accident of the day before; instead, it had to do with the delicate question of ribbons.

  “I thought I could wear the pink ribbons that I bought last week, but when I look at my new dinner dress—and I do wish to look well tonight, this is my betrothal dinner, after all, at least until we make a formal announcement and can hold a ball—it is not at all the same shade of pink,” Louisa insisted.

  They were in the girl’s room staring at her bed, which was almost hidden beneath layers of gowns, petticoats, and various items of a delicate nature, as Louisa wasted no effort in assembling the perfect outfit.

  Marianne found herself heartily sick of discussions about clothing. “Then wear the white ribbons,” she suggested. “You have the pink rosebuds which his lordship so generously sent over this morning. You can tuck a few of those into your hair, and it will be quite perfect.”

  “But it will be even more perfect if the ribbon were pink, and the correct hue,” Louisa insisted.

  Marianne tried not to gnash her teeth. “Louisa, we were going to the countess of Sealey’s house for tea.”

  “But it would only take a few minutes for a quick trip to the draper’s shop on Bond Street,” Louisa begged.

  Marianne frowned. She was, by now, familiar with Louisa’s shopping trips, and they were never a matter of minutes. She had been looking forward to meeting some old friends at the countess’s weekly tea.

  “Please, Aunt? I do so want to look quite perfect.”

  The girl’s blue eyes were clear, with no betraying laugh lines around them, and her complexion completely flawless. Marianne considered pointing out that the bloom of youth and good health was much more guaranteed to please a gentleman than ribbons of any shade at all. But she knew that Louisa would not heed her.

  “You may go to the shop. You can take Eva and Masters with you,” she decided suddenly. “I will keep our commitment to Lady Sealey.”

  “Oh, thank you, dearest Aunt.” Louisa beamed.

  So, after summoning a hackney, they set out in different directions, Marianne on foot with her own lady’s maid, and Louisa with her entourage of servants. While they strolled toward the countess’s large house in a square a short distance away, Hackett sniffed.

  “Always in the shops, that girl is,” she muttered.

  “She’s young,” Marianne said. “And she has an ample allowance—she might as well enjoy it.”

  Her maid sniffed again, but Marianne turned her head to gaze at a handsome bed of daffodils and pretended not to notice.

  When they approached the countess’s front door, flanked by its white columns, Marianne felt her spirits lift. Inside, she nodded to the footman who had opened the door, allowed Hackett to take her pelisse and gloves, and then made her way up the wide stairs to the drawing room.

  When she entered, her hostess—lovely in a lavender gown with a trim that matched her silver hair, dressed high today in a somewhat old-fashioned style that still became her—smiled.

  “Marianne, my dear, how lovely to see you. I had thought you were s
ettled in Bath for several more weeks.”

  “That had been my plan, but I was given a charge to carry out, so I came back to plunge into the gaiety of the Season.” Marianne made her curtsy, then accepted a kiss on the cheek.

  “And this is why you sound so grim? You are forced into merriment, and it displeases you?” the countess inquired, her tone severe but her faded blue eyes sparkling with her usual good humor.

  Marianne managed a laugh. “Of course not. I mean, I do not usually care that much for the Season, but—”

  “But that is because you do not take full advantage of it.” Lady Sealey gestured to her guest to sit. Marianne took the chair next to the countess and accepted a cup of tea and a plate of small cakes from a footman, resplendent in crimson livery.

  “I’ve been telling you for years, dear girl, that you should take more advantage of the men who cast admiring glances your way.”

  Marianne rolled her eyes. “And there are so many of them.”

  The countess shot her a mock-stern glance. “You would have much greater enjoyment of the balls and parties if you had a man or two with which to flirt.”

  “Or three or four? Why stop there?” Marianne took a bite of cake. “I could enlist a whole regiment.”

  “Be serious, my dear,” the countess scolded. “I am a firm believer in discretion, but nonetheless, there are sweeter things in life than petit fours.”

  Swallowing her pastry, Marianne took a sip of tea. “No doubt, but cakes are much easier to come by.”

  “Now, Marianne,” the older woman admonished. “I am sure that you are ignoring many interesting gentlemen.”

  “Like old Sir Roderick, who stands on his tiptoes to peer down my neckline whenever I am nearby? Or what’s his name, the stout poet with the fractured verses and round belly who followed me around after Harry died?” Marianne quipped. Sometimes it was a relief to be quite honest with another woman; men required such tactful handling, or at least, her husband had. And his sulks had been such a nuisance, she had tried not to upset him. “I felt little temptation to dally with such as he!”