The Marriage Lesson (4 page)
Read The Marriage Lesson Online
Authors: Victoria Alexander
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
“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.
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.
“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 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 interest
ing . . . ” 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—”