The Marriage Lesson (15 page)
Read The Marriage Lesson Online
Authors: Victoria Alexander
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
“Then you should certainly continue.” She stepped
around the desk, sat on a stool and picked up the crushed poem. “How long did you say you’ve been writing poetry?”
“Forever.” He watched her cautiously.
She smoothed out the paper and studied it.
“What are you doing?
“I’ve written a bit myself.” But not like this. Her writing did seem to make sense, whereas his was an incomprehensible mix of vaguely connected phrases and cryptic thoughts.
“Really?” Suspicion sounded in his voice. “Poetry?”
“More a journal of sorts,” she said absently. “You do realize
behind
does not rhyme with
shine
?”
“Of course. I told you I wasn’t finished.” He repeated the two words under his breath.
“Whereas
gout
does rhyme with
pout
; however, I’m not entirely certain that’s the image you want to evoke.”
“I was just seeing if it worked.”
“Of course.” She stifled a smile and looked up at him. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance. Help you to express yourself.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know how to express myself, thank you very much.”
She lifted a brow. “
Gout
and
pout
?”
He studied her carefully, in the manner of a man trying to decide if he was viewing his savior or his executioner. Finally he sighed in resignation. “What would you suggest?”
“Well . . . ” She stared down at his scrawled script. She had no idea where to begin. “Well . . . ” she said again.
He came around behind her and leaned forward to
peer over her shoulder, bracing one hand beside the page and the other on the back of her chair. She was acutely aware of his proximity. His breath near her ear. The rise and fall of his chest at her back. His presence surrounded her, engulfed her. She was practically within his embrace.
A curious sense of yearning washed over her. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to melt back against him. To surrender herself with no thought of a point to be made. Or a battle of wits to be won. Or a lesson to be learned. Simply Thomas’s arms around her. His lips on hers. His flesh hot against her own. His—
“Will that work better, then, do you think?” Thomas’s enthusiastic words wrenched her from her thoughts.
“No doubt,” she murmured without so much as the tiniest clue as to what he was talking about. He shifted to grab a pen and his shoulder brushed against hers. Her heart pounded in her chest at the contact. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and scribbled on the paper, apparently unconcerned at the closeness of their positions.
“There. That’s much improved.” Thomas’s attention was focused on the page and he continued to write, nodding and muttering as much to himself as to her.
She paid scant attention, too intrigued by her newfound awareness of him to concentrate on the futile goal of rewriting bad poetry. Yesterday, this morning, even a few minutes ago she would have said Thomas Effington was nothing more to her than a means to an end. A convenient rake with which to explore the limits of her world and experience life. And yes, with
every passing day that idea included the more physical aspects of life. After all, she had no intention of marrying and no expectation of love.
But what was it she was feeling now with his body close to hers? As exciting as their intimate encounter in the garden had been, it was simply, and quite delightfully, lust. She’d thoroughly enjoyed it and indeed could scarcely wait for more.
This was different. Precisely how it was different she wasn’t sure, but it was somehow . . . what? More? Definitely more. There was an odd ache inside her. A sort of flutter somewhere below her stomach. A sweet, sad, tremulous feeling as if she were waiting for something grand to happen.
Maybe the difference came hand in hand with learning Thomas’s secret. Oh, not a notable secret as secrets go, but still in all, a significant secret, if only to him. The secret not so much in the writing of his verse but in his acceptance of the knowledge that he did not do it well.
“And I think if I used
sunset
instead of . . . ”
She nodded absently, wondering why the eagerness in his voice was now so endearing. The passion in the stroke of his pen now so compelling.
“If, perhaps, I tried . . . ”
She stared at his profile, fierce with concentration. If she turned and shifted just a bit, her lips would be close to his. She could kiss him, and then . . .
“Then I could say . . . ”
She resisted the urge to reach out and brush his hair away from his forehead. She wanted to touch him, hold him, press her lips to his.
She wanted to run.
Instead she sat immobile, mesmerized by nothing more than the look on his face.
And the growing realization that this pompous ass might not be nearly as pompous as she’d thought. He might, in fact, be something of an adventure in and of himself.
“I rather like it.” Thomas cast her a questioning look. “Don’t you?”
She stared into his eyes, dark and blue and forever. She swallowed hard. “It’s . . . better.”
He laughed and straightened. “It is definitely better. Much, much better. Oh, it will never compete with Byron’s or Keats’s or Shelley’s, but I daresay it’s no longer as dreadful as it was.” He picked up his glass, hesitated, then took hers as well and stepped to the liquor cabinet.
“No, it’s not dreadful at all.”
She watched him fill their glasses and wondered at this newfound, and rather urgent, desire to be with him. Alone. To find out more about this man who’d suddenly become important to her. An idea popped into her head. An idea he probably wouldn’t like one bit. She drew a breath for courage. “I would certainly be willing to lend you my further assistance should you desire it.”
He frowned and shook his head. “That’s quite kind of you, but you see, there are fewer than a handful of people who know of this secret vice of mine and I prefer to keep this particular aspect of my character private.”
“Oh, I quite understand, and I would never tell anyone,” she said quickly. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
“Even so . . . ” Indecision crossed his face.
She pressed ahead. “We could meet here, after everyone else is in bed. No one need know.”
“Late-night meetings? Alone?” He shook his head. “Highly improper, Marianne. I daresay—”
“Come, now, Thomas. It’s not like we haven’t met here before late at night.”
“Unexpected encounters are one thing. Planned liaisons are something altogether different,” he said in that stuffy manner that set her teeth on edge. “We have your reputation to consider.”
“Piffle. I don’t care one whit for my reputation.”
“I do.”
“Very well.” She studied him for a moment. “You are here in the library most evenings, are you not?”
“Yes,” he said cautiously.
“And if I should happen to wander in, looking for a book, perhaps . . . ”
“Perhaps what?”
“Why, it would be most impolite of me not to offer my help.”
“I don’t think—”
“I shall make a deal with you,” she said quickly, sensing victory. “We shall make a trade. Your lessons for mine. Lessons in poetry for—”
“Lessons in life?” He snorted. “I think not.”
“Pity.” She shrugged. “I’m certain there must be a gentleman or two available who would be more than willing. . . .” She frowned. “Not that I seem to be inundated with that type of gentleman; still, I can’t imagine even the most proper and boring man would find it too difficult—”
“Enough,” he snapped. She loved it when he got
that edgy, trapped look in his eye. She could practically see him weigh the pros and cons of her suggestion in his mind. And see as well his realization that she’d given him little choice. “Agreed. I shall continue your . . . lessons.” He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
“You needn’t glare at me like that. I am not a trollop.”
“I intend to make sure you do not become one.” He blew a defeated breath. “However, if I am to go along with your absurd proposal—”
“Threat.” She fluttered her lashes in exaggerated flirtation. “It was a threat.”
“Indeed,” he said wryly. “You must give me your promise not to accost other unsuspecting men.”
She laughed. “You have my word.”
“That is no doubt the best I can hope for.” His tone was grudging and she wondered if he was as inconvenienced as he sounded or as intrigued by her as she was with him. Or perhaps he too was scared. No, surely not. Marianne doubted there was anything beyond the public ridicule of his poetry that frightened Thomas.
“I suppose, at the very least, this way I can be certain of what you are up to and whom you are up to it with.”
“Do you think so?” She grinned wickedly. “You are exceedingly confident, my lord.”
“In this, indeed I am.” A determined glint showed in his eye. “Until I have you safely wed, I shall not let you out of my sight.”
“As you wish.”
And explore as well the turn her feelings had taken and precisely what they meant.
Three weeks later, Marianne sat on the library sofa staring thoughtfully at the fire, a glass of brandy in her hand. Thomas studied her and wondered, not for the first time, how they’d gotten to this point.
It had quickly become a habit, and a surprisingly enjoyable habit at that. Each night after they’d returned from whatever social event had claimed their presence, Thomas retired to the library as, he argued to himself, had always been his custom. And later, when she was confident the others in the household were firmly in their beds, Marianne would join him. She never said but he suspected she enjoyed the vague element of danger in their meetings. Should they be caught, marriage between them would be inevitable regardless of their own feelings in the matter. She, no doubt, placed these nights in the category of adventure.
She would offer suggestions as to the improvement of his poetry but equally as often they spoke of other matters; books they’d both read or artists they liked or the latest political conflict or the current scandal. Usually, their discussions took place over a glass or two of
brandy. Marianne had quite taken to the liquor and only occasionally now showed its effects. He steadfastly refused to consider what a pity that was.
Thomas enjoyed those moments when their views were in accord but found he relished the differences between them as well. She had a sharp wit and a fine mind and arguing with her was as entertaining and challenging as anything in his life had ever been. And in those moments when they shared little else they shared a great deal of laughter.
And always a kiss or two.
He’d reluctantly gone along with the ridiculous idea of her lessons, telling himself it kept her out of the clutches of less honorable men than he. In point of fact, what he was really doing was keeping her safe. But with each evening that passed in her presence, it was more and more difficult to maintain his restraint, his control. More and more difficult to remember his plan and the reasons behind it. More and more difficult to consider exactly what would happen if—when—he succeeded.
And more and more he felt like the worst kind of traitor.
“You are exceedingly quiet this evening.” Marianne tilted her head and considered him, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Whatever is on your mind?”
“We’ve become friends, haven’t we?” he said without thinking.
“I suppose we have.”
“I have never had a female friend.”
She laughed. “I never imagined you had. However, I have never had a male friend before, so we are well matched.”
She quirked a brow. “You say that as if it’s appalling to admit.”
He chuckled. “Not appalling, just surprising. I simply never expected to be able to talk to a woman—”
“As if she were as intelligent as any man of your acquaintance and not an empty-headed twit who would accept your every word as if it were law.” She smiled sweetly. “And gaze at you as if you were the sun and the stars in the process.”
“Yes, quite.” He laughed, more to cover his chagrin than anything else. He deserved her sarcasm. Had, in truth, earned it. “I admit, there is something to be said for a woman who knows her own mind. At least in your case.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, thank you, my lord. I am not merely shocked but flattered. And since I can scarce hope for anything more momentous to occur tonight”—she swallowed the last of her brandy and rose to her feet—“I shall take my leave.”
He started to stand.
“No, don’t get up.” She stepped toward him. “There is a certain amount of leniency regarding proper manners allowed between two friends in the late hours of the night.”
“But what of your lesson?” The teasing note in his voice belied the realization that he looked forward to kissing her each night with a fair amount of anticipation and an ever-growing impatience.
“Oh, I believe I have learned more than I ever ex
pected tonight.” She bent forward and placed her fingers under his chin. “Much, much more.”
“Have you?” His gaze met hers. Her brown eyes behind her glasses caught the light from the fire and glowed a rich, seductive amber. For a long moment she stared at him, a slightly puzzled expression on her face.
He caught her hand and pulled it to his lips. “Now tell me, what is on your mind?”
“My mind?” She shook her head, then leaned close and brushed her lips across his. “I very much fear I no longer know.”
She straightened, turned and left the room before he could say a word. Not that he knew what to say.
What on earth had she meant by that? If ever a woman knew precisely what was on her mind and exactly what she wanted and what she didn’t it was Marianne Shelton. She did want adventure. She didn’t want marriage. And she bloody well wanted to experience life.
And he’d thought, he was under the impression at least—oh hell, he’d hoped he was the one she’d decided to experience life with.
Still, they’d gone no farther than kissing and he had to admit that was as much her doing as his own. In the past few weeks, while her embrace had been no less enthusiastic, he’d noted a vague, tentative quality. As if she was no longer sure of the course she’d set herself. Or their encounters had become something . . . well . . . more. Whatever that meant.
He got to his feet, brandy in hand, and paced the room. Damnation, she was an annoying chit.