Three Proposals and a Scandal: A Sons of Sin Novella (6 page)

“Oh, would you? Bless you. I need someone to speak to Chef about the five extra guests and head off a tantrum.”

“Done.” Marianne headed for the kitchens, only remembering as she went downstairs that she never did find out what Tranter wanted to tell her.

Elias dropped full length onto his makeshift bed in Barstowe Hall and stared gloomily up at the ancient oak beams crossing the ceiling. Every attempt to break through Marianne’s reserve ended in frustration.

Never in his life had he had such trouble with a woman. Flirtation had always come easily to him, although unlike his brother Harry, he’d never been called a rake. But then, none of those ladies had engaged his heart and dalliance had been an enjoyable game.

A game was a million miles from his turbulent courtship of a lady determined to see him as a money-grubbing scoundrel. When he’d never been so sincere in his life.

What a cruel irony that he could flatter and persuade when his emotions weren’t involved, while in the presence of the woman he loved, he could hardly put two words together without causing offense. He cringed to recall Marianne’s contemptuous reaction to his declaration of love. He’d set his heart out before her and she’d kicked it.

Any sensible man would retire to lick his wounds. But no Thorne had ever been called sensible. When Sidonie Merrick had written, offering a bed in barely habitable Barstowe Hall, he’d leaped at the invitation like a trout after a juicy fly. Women confided in one another. Perhaps Marianne had confessed a penchant that she was too proud to own to his face.

His darling’s stricken reaction today put paid to that theory. She didn’t want him here.

Although what about those searing moments when she’d nearly kissed him?

Was that wishful thinking? He’d already paid the price for undue optimism when she’d so summarily rejected his offer of marriage. But for a few seconds, the heat between them had turned the freezing day tropical.

“My lord?”

Elias angled his head to see the fellow who acted as his servant in between making repairs on the house. It was sad to see the old building so neglected. The previous viscount had been close to ruin when he’d taken his own life. Having spent last night in this gloomy place, Elias saw why Jonas and Sidonie preferred Ferney.

“What is it, John?” He sat up and wearily ran his hands over his face. Sleep had proven elusive over the past months.

“A letter from Ferney.” The lanky fellow extended the sealed paper—Barstowe offered no frivolous touches like salvers for correspondence.

Elias glanced at the mullioned window. The ancient glass turned everything mottled and distorted, but there was no doubt that the rain came down in buckets. “Through this?”

“Yes, my lord.”

This must be important. Had Marianne written to say she’d changed her mind and that she was madly in love with him after all? Chance would be a fine thing. His beloved more likely ordered him back to London.

Sighing, he accepted the letter and tore it open. It wasn’t from Marianne and its contents made him smile. Sidonie extended an invitation to move into Ferney.

“Is the messenger waiting for an answer?”

“No, sir.”

Briefly Elias had toyed with the idea of retreating back to London, and after that, darkest Africa for all he cared. If Marianne meant to marry anyone, it was that ass Desborough. But Sidonie’s help sparked fresh hope. Surely a smart woman like Lady Hillbrook wouldn’t encourage him if his quest was doomed. “I’ll be moving to Ferney as soon as there’s a break in the weather.”

Marianne retreated to her bedroom for the afternoon to finish her letters in privacy. She’d tried to write in the library, but the public rooms felt crowded with the confined huntsmen clumping around seeking distraction, not to mention the addition of five noisy young bloods.

Or perhaps she felt hemmed in because Tranter clung to her skirts like a burr. He’d made his interest embarrassingly overt, hardening her vague tolerance into irritation. She’d shuddered every time she raised her eyes to find him staring adoringly at her as if the act of moving a pen across a sheet of paper was a miracle of nature.

London’s ladies were mad for Lord Tranter and she should be flattered that he chose her. She wondered why she wasn’t. Oh, he mightn’t be the most scintillating company, but he was patently eligible—and twenty years younger than Desborough. Perhaps he made her ill at ease because from the start, she’d never penetrated beneath his flawless social polish. Whatever lurked in his heart, good or bad, remained a complete mystery.

This scheme to maneuver himself into the Hillbrooks’ house party was the most definite action she’d ever seen him take. She was sure he meant to keep any other dog from stealing his bone.

An old dog, Lord Desborough.

Marianne wondered how Tranter would feel to know that on this particular patch, he had another rival. Although if Elias had any sense, he’d surely go back to London after this morning’s distressing encounter. She felt a twinge of worry—if the flooding was as bad as Sidonie said, he could run into trouble.

Except she never in a thousand years thought he’d accept his dismissal. He’d come to Wiltshire to harry her and a few sharp words wouldn’t deter him.

It would be so much easier to forget Elias if he didn’t keep appearing to remind her that while he mightn’t be the sensible choice, he was the only man who stirred her pulse. Reconciling herself to Desborough became nearly impossible when she suffered this penchant for a man she couldn’t trust.

Since Tranter’s arrival, her father and Desborough hadn’t left her alone either. If ever she glanced beyond Tranter’s lovelorn stare, she met two frowns of disapproval.

Her bedroom offered sanctuary. But she’d just settled at the pretty mahogany desk under the window when she heard a knock on the door.

“Blast,” she muttered, setting her pen down so hard that ink splattered her letter to her old governess.

On unsteady legs, she rose to open the door. When she saw Genevieve, Lady Harmsworth, she realized she was henwitted to expect Tranter or Desborough. She felt so hunted, she abandoned common sense. Neither of her swains would risk scandal by coming to her bedroom. Her father had every right to see her, though. The prospect of another harangue was almost worse than more of Tranter’s sickly worship.

Genevieve laughed and her hand dropped to Sirius’s furry head. The dog stood beside his mistress and regarded Marianne with perceptive black eyes. “Peace, Marianne. You look ready to draw your saber.”

Feeling a fool, Marianne laughed, too, although it emerged with a forced air. “I’m sorry, Genevieve. I expected—”

“Not one of your admirers, surely. That would be too wicked.”

Marianne gestured her friend inside and toward one of the elegant chairs near the blazing fire. The bedroom was huge and extravagant with expansive views over the soggy Wiltshire countryside.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Marianne said, although it wasn’t entirely true. The beautiful blonde was famous for her intellect—and inquiring mind.

Genevieve sat and after studying Marianne with discomfitingly clever eyes, smiled. “You’re terrified that I mean to quiz you on Tranter and Desborough.”

Marianne took the other chair and folded her hands in her lap, trying to appear untroubled. “I can’t blame you for curiosity.”

“It’s my besetting sin. Richard’s always complaining that I won’t leave well enough alone.” As Sirius settled at her feet, she subjected Marianne to another penetrating inspection. “Although I’m not sure this situation could be described as well enough.”

Marianne’s heart sank anew. She’d seen Genevieve Harmsworth on the track of answers. She was worse than a terrier after a rat. “Would it do me any good to say I don’t want to talk about this?”

Genevieve tried to look shocked. “I’m here to see how you are.”

“I’m very well, thank you.” And was pleased to witness her friend’s frustration.

“You don’t look well. You look beleaguered.”

“I wonder why,” Marianne responded drily.

Genevieve had the grace to look a little shamefaced. But just a little. “Even before I arrived to pester you.”

Stubbornly Marianne remained quiet. As a motherless and only—not to mention lonely—child, she’d learned to keep her own counsel.

Genevieve made a sound low in her throat, half laugh, half grumble. “You’d give the sphinx a run for her money.”

Despite wishing Genevieve far away, Marianne smiled. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

“Because nobody answered the poor cat’s questions,” Genevieve retorted. “Are you going to marry Desborough?”

“I’m not sure.”

Genevieve’s lips compressed in displeasure. “A suitably sphinx-like answer. Has he asked you?”

“Genevieve—”

“Well, has he?”

“Yes,” Marianne admitted in exasperation. “If it’s any of your business.”

With the generosity of heart that always disarmed Marianne, Genevieve leaned across and took her hand. “I’m asking all this because I care, not because I want to pry.”

“You want to pry as well.” Marianne didn’t withdraw. She was so confused and unhappy, the contact comforted, even if she paid for it with information she’d rather keep to herself.

“Well, yes.” Genevieve paused. “I’ve got your best interests at heart.”

That was true—or at least Genevieve’s interpretation of her best interests. Marianne relented enough to answer. “My father wants the marriage.”

“Your father doesn’t have to live with Desborough afterward.”

“I don’t dislike Desborough,” Marianne said, and winced when pity softened Genevieve’s gray eyes.

“I could honestly kill Cam.”

Surprised, Marianne pulled free and straightened in her chair. “What’s Cam got to do with it?”

“Everything. Or a good proportion of everything. When he courted then abandoned you, he convinced you that you’re worthy of no more than a lukewarm attachment.”

Marianne frowned. She was sick to death of defending herself from accusations like this. “Pen and Cam are in love.”

“And so should you be.”

“I wasn’t in love with Cam.”

“No, of course you weren’t. That’s at least a blessing.”

“Well, you can dismiss any thought that I’m pining for my former suitor.”

“No, you’re pining for Elias Thorne.”

Silence crashed down with the force of a hammer striking a nail square on the head.

Marianne finally remembered to breathe. She strove to sound as if Genevieve’s announcement didn’t make her want to cry. Over the last year, her pride had taken such a beating; the thought that the world snickered at her infatuation made her quail. Her hands formed claws in her green skirts.

“Is that what everyone thinks?” she asked sharply.

Genevieve, curse her, continued to look sorry for her. “It’s what I think.”

“And Sidonie,” Marianne forced through stiff lips.

“And Sidonie. I suspect both of us understand you better than the general run.” She touched Marianne’s arm in a conciliatory gesture. “You’re afraid of gossip and after the fuss last year, that’s perfectly natural. Don’t worry—society has noticed Elias’s interest in you, but most people would wager on you choosing Desborough. Although I’ve heard more than a few say you’ll become Lady Tranter.”

“He hasn’t proposed.”

“He will. At least he’s younger than Desborough. Has Elias proposed?”

On an annoyed inhalation, Marianne rose. “You really are nosy.”

Genevieve smiled up at her. “I know. You’re wondering why you made friends with such a sticky beak.” Her voice lowered to seriousness. “Marianne, I don’t want you settling for second best. Not when best can be extraordinary. I never imagined I’d marry. I couldn’t see any decent man putting up with my odd ways. Then when I fell in love with Richard, it was beyond belief that the ton’s darling could ever want an eccentric bluestocking like me.”

Usually Genevieve hid her vulnerabilities. It was something they had in common. This confession of past insecurity soothed Marianne’s resentment. “And now you’re blissfully happy.”

“In my wildest dreams, I never pictured falling in love with someone like Richard. And nobody would ever expect someone like Richard to love me. Yet I know he’d die for me if I asked him. Although he’d make sure he selected the appropriate coat first.”

Marianne smiled. Richard Harmsworth was famously always dressed
comme il faut.
“That’s true.”

The amusement faded from Genevieve’s eyes. “So I’m begging you to listen to your heart when you make your decision, even if your head—and your father—say you’re making a mistake.”

“It would be a mistake to marry a fortune hunter,” Marianne said sourly.

Genevieve frowned. “I can’t believe that’s all Elias wants of you. Last Christmas, he looked at you like the embodiment of his dearest dreams.”

Agonized longing stabbed Marianne, but she pummeled it back and clung to harsh reality. “The embodiment of his dearest dreams is a new roof on Houghton Park and paying off Peter’s mortgages.”

Genevieve gave a huff of disgust and stood up, disturbing Sirius into a doggy complaint. “I never knew you were such a cynic.”

“Elias needs to marry an heiress, Genevieve. Just now he thinks I might solve his financial troubles. If it means playing the ardent admirer for a few weeks, the eventual returns make it worthwhile.”

Genevieve’s expression was sad. “What a miserable view of life.”

“I’m being sensible.”

“I think you’re blind,” Genevieve said shortly. “And if you’re not careful, you’re going to stumble into a ditch you can’t climb out of. See how sensible you feel then.”

“Well, if it isn’t my old chum, Noah.”

Jonas glanced up from staring into the fire to see Richard in the doorway, looking ready as ever to grace a drawing room in Mayfair. Sirius pushed past his master and stopped for Jonas to scratch his ears, before flopping beside the hearth with a groan of pleasure.

“The devil with you, shut the blasted door and your mouth as well.” Jonas kept his voice low, although the rain hitting the windows was loud enough to cover anything short of a gunshot.