The Marriage Lesson (14 page)

He wasn’t certain why he’d asked her about love in the first place. He’d never particularly considered it one way or the other. At least not when it came to matches for himself or the girls. Love didn’t play a role in the practicalities of selecting a mate. And he had always considered himself a practical man.

“However, I suspect, when love is true”—her words were measured—“it can be a very powerful force.”

“No doubt,” he murmured. He thought Richard and Gillian had that kind of love. And perhaps his parents as well. Come to think of it, most of the matches in his own family had been for love and most were successful and happy.

He’d been in love, of course. No less than a dozen times in his younger days, though none of it had turned out well. With age he’d grown cautious, and perhaps a little jaded and disillusioned. Now he wanted to select a wife for more sensible reasons than mere emotion. Odd, for a poet to be so pessimistic about that which all poets write.

“Do they want love, do you think?” Again his gaze settled on Marianne.

“They are sisters, but what they want, or rather what they think they want, is decidedly different from one to the next. I know them far better than they suspect.” She nodded at Jocelyn. “Jocelyn wants wealth and position. She is preoccupied with appearance to the point that she refuses to consider spectacles, even though she cannot see clearly beyond a score of feet or so. But while I have seen her thoughtless, I have never known her to be deliberately unkind.

“As for Marianne, she is perhaps the most complicated.” Lady Louella studied Marianne for a moment. “She was very young when her mother died, but not so young that she doesn’t remember her.” The lady sighed. “My sister was a wonderful woman but with never an opinion or thought of her own. She was as weak as her husband. If she had been stronger, their lives together would have been different. And perhaps the lot of her daughters would have been better after her death.”

Thomas was well aware of the family’s history. How Marianne’s father had gambled away everything and left his son and daughters struggling to make ends meet. He could not imagine a childhood in such circumstances. At once he understood Marianne’s longing for independence and adventure. What could be more different from a bare existence in the English countryside than the excitement she’d only found thus far in books? And why shouldn’t she want to taste that excitement for herself?

“Marianne has always been a dreamer. But she is also headstrong and opinionated. While not always qualities one would wish in a woman, I think they will serve her well. She will not allow any man, husband or otherwise, to destroy her life.” There was a touch of pride in the older woman’s voice.

Thomas smiled. “I daresay I needn’t ask who she takes after.”

“Exactly what I thought,” Thomas murmured.

A few moments later he excused himself and headed for the library. The type of man who could capture Marianne’s hand was the type of man who was more than likely to ruin her instead. Men like his friends. Admittedly exciting and prone to adventure. Granted, adventure of a scandalous nature but adventure nonetheless.

In spite of her protests, it was obvious she was intrigued by Pennington and Berkley. Of course, they’d never explored the Amazon but they did have an air of adventure about them. Exactly the quality that would catch her eye. Exactly the wrong kind of man for her. And exactly what he wanted to avoid.

Thomas closed the library doors behind him and sat down at the desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a few pieces of stationary, hesitated, then grabbed a thick stack of the writing paper. Who knew how many tries it would take to get this right?

If he couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, entice her with men of the qualities she desired, he’d have to concentrate on quantity. Sheer numbers would wear down her resistance. And sooner or later, preferably sooner, she’d accept an offering of marriage.

Exactly how did he want to phrase this?

He didn’t want to be crass yet he did want to make certain the gentlemen he had in mind were well aware of the benefits of marriage to Marianne. No, he shouldn’t actually say marriage; he wouldn’t want to scare anyone off. But he could casually mention her impressive dowry and how an allegiance with her would mean connections with the Earl of Shelbrooke and the Duke of Roxborough.

He would also urge discretion. Marianne knew he wished to find her a husband but if she ever found out the lengths he was willing to go to . . .  he shuddered at the thought.

He’d have his notes delivered at once and by the end of the week, the Effington House parlor would be filled with any number of proper suitors for Marianne. She would select one and then his duties toward her would be at an end. She would be out of his life. He brushed aside a twinge of regret.

Oh, certainly he would see her socially now and again or at the occasional family gathering. But she would be wed and so, by that time, would he. To a nice biddable woman who would never defy his wishes or question his judgment or argue with his decisions. To a woman who would never cause him a moment’s concern.

Dull and tedious.

A woman who would never make him sputter.

He’d escorted them to Lord Attwater’s soiree and Lady Millbanks’s rout, and so on, nearly every night. He’d no sooner introduce them to their hostess then disappear, although she had the feeling he was never far from reach. Not unexpected, given his overprotective nature.

His presence would have been pointless, at any rate. Jocelyn, of course, was always surrounded by admirers. Becky was only slightly less occupied. Even Marianne drew a surprising amount of attention. Not at all bad for an aging, intelligent bluestocking, even if the men she attracted were cut from the same cloth. An exceedingly dull cloth. She’d never considered herself particularly vain, yet the caliber of gentlemen seeking her out was annoying and humbling. It only reinforced her resolve
not
to hunt for a husband.

Marianne had discovered she rather missed Thomas. And missed, as well, the kisses they’d shared. If this was the result of their alleged truce, she wanted no part of it. It was past time to take matters into her own hands—if she was to have anything at all interesting to write about.

Another installment of
The Absolutely True Adventures of a Country Miss in London
had come out, and indeed it was the talk of the ton. Rumor and gossip was rife as to the true identity of Lord W and his innocent charge. It was at once thrilling and terrifying. She quite enjoyed hearing her stories discussed, even as she didn’t dare dwell on the consequences if she were discovered.

“Looking for something in particular?”

“Not really.” She took a sip of the brandy and continued to stare at the volumes before her. “Something amusing, perhaps.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“No, thank you. I’m quite capable of choosing a book on my own. After all, I know my likes and dislikes better than anyone.” She slanted him a pointed glance. He’d gotten to his feet. “Please, do go on with whatever it was you were doing. Just ignore me.” She smiled sweetly. “You seem to have become quite adept at that.”

He glared for a moment, then took his seat, muttering under his breath.

“Did you say something?” She moved closer.

“No,” he snapped.

“You needn’t be so surly.”

“I am not surly,” he said in a manner that she’d be hard-pressed to describe as anything but surly.

She snorted with disbelief.

“I’m not. I’m simply”—he glanced at the paper before him—“preoccupied.”

“With what?” She leaned forward over the desk to try to catch a glimpse of whatever he was writing.

She circled the desk to stand behind him. “Nonsense, it’s not nothing if you’re so concerned about it.”

“I’m not concerned.” His voice was casual, but he hunched his shoulders to shield whatever it was he had.

“Come, now, Thomas.” She placed her free hand on his arm and leaned forward. He tensed beneath her touch. She smiled with satisfaction and bent close to whisper in his ear. “Tell me what you’re doing.” She nibbled at his earlobe just for good measure.

“Bloody hell.” He jumped to his feet and stood back. “What are
you
doing?”

“I simply thought, as we hadn’t had a lesson for a while—”

“There will be no more lessons,” he thundered.

She laughed. “Of course there will. Now, then.” She snatched the paper off the desk before he could make a move. “What is this?”

“Give it to me.” He held out his hand in a commanding manner.

She handed him her brandy.

“You know perfectly well this is not what I want.” He drained the drink and slapped the glass down on the desk. “Now hand it over.”

She shook her head and hid the paper behind her back. “Not until you tell me what it is.”

He clenched his teeth and approached her. “Give it to me right now.”

She moved back and fluttered her lashes at him. “What will you give me for it?”

“Another lesson.”

“Absolutely not.”

Stubborn beast. “Very well, then. I suppose a kiss alone will suffice.”

He glared at her as if she’d asked for something that would cost him his life or his fortune. “No.”

She waved the page at him. “Yes.”

“N—” He huffed a short breath. “If you insist.”

“Indeed I—”

He grabbed her shoulders, jerked her to him and planted his lips on hers in a kiss resolute and far and away too brief. “There. Now give me my paper.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, her voice a touch breathless.

“Why not?”

She paused, thoroughly enjoying his look of annoyance, and tried not to laugh. “I don’t think it was up to your usual standards.”

“Marianne,” he growled.

“Or mine, either, for that matter.” She shook her head in exaggerated regret. “No, I believe you’ll have to do better.”

For a moment she thought he was going to do just that. Instead he shrugged. “Very well, read the blasted thing, for all I care.”

She shook the paper out with a flourish and scanned it. “Your handwriting is barely legible.”

“If you can’t read it—” He made a grab for it, but she moved out of his reach.

“Oh, I can read it.” She studied the sheet, then glanced up at him. “What exactly is it?”

She drew her brows together and read his words again. “I don’t think so.”

“It is,” he said through clenched teeth. “I wrote it. It’s poetry. It rhymes.”

“Not much of it,” she murmured.

“I’m still working on it.” He snatched the page from her hand, crumpled it into a ball and threw it onto the desk. “I know it’s not good.”

“Not good?”

“Very well, it reeks. More than likely it always will. I’ve written since my school days and it does not seem to get any better. It is a complete waste of time. However”—his eyes shone with grim determination and challenge, as if he dared her to argue—“I don’t particularly care. I will not give it up.”

“Really? You’ve never struck me as a man who tolerates failure in anything. Even poetry. Why continue?”

“Because it’s how I express myself,” he said loftily.

“Oh?” She tried not to smile.

“Because it has no practical application whatsoever.” He blew a long breath. “Because it’s the work of Thomas Effington and has nothing to do with the Marquess of Helmsley or the future Duke of Roxborough. Because, even if it’s the worst thing ever written in the history of mankind, I enjoy it.”

She considered him thoughtfully. She’d never in a hundred lifetimes guess Thomas Effington wrote poetry, and never suspect he’d indulge in anything he didn’t do splendidly, regardless of how much he enjoyed it. It spoke rather well of the man. What else didn’t she know about him?