A Regency Match (17 page)

Marcus was glad to have been able to allay her fears so easily. His own qualms were not so readily dismissed. The past week had been inexplicably disquieting to him, and not only because his customary privacy was being invaded by visitors. Playing host for a protracted length of time was not his favorite way of passing the time, but he
was
on his own territory, and the guests were, for the most part, pleasant company. No, the houseparty was not the wellspring of his depression; its source lay in deeper waters.

He had attempted to discuss the matter with Dennis the evening before, with predictable results. His friend had immediately pinpointed the source of his problem as his impending nuptials. “I
told
you to refrain from putting on leg-shackles,” he had said bluntly. “No wonder you're depressed. You've given yourself a prison sentence—trading in your freedom for bed and
bored
!”

Marcus didn't even smile at the terrible pun. He'd heard it often enough before. There was scarcely a time, when groups of men gathered over their brandies, when they didn't exchange a goodly number of quips, jokes and generally disparaging gibes at the state of matrimony. Wedlock was called a prison, a horror, a curse. Even philosophers and writers were not above denigrating the ‘holy estate'. Menander had called it an evil, Cervantes had called it a noose. And Boswell reported that Samuel Johnson, when speaking about a man's remarriage, had declared it to be “the triumph of hope over experience.”

Nevertheless, Marcus wasn't taken in by what he knew was mere badinage. If a man chose his marital partner sensibly, marriage could be a source of satisfaction and security. He was a man of some maturity and responsibility, he hoped, and he had chosen a woman of beauty, good family and good sense. What could be wrong with that plan?

Dennis had been only too pleased to tell him: it was too proper by half. Where was the fun? Where was the excitement? “As I've warned you, Marcus, you'll be forced to live a life of complete predictability.”

“I see nothing wrong in that,” Marcus had replied staunchly. “I
like
predictability. And I don't need excitement.”

Dennis had shrugged hopelessly. “It's your decision, old man, of course. I just can't help but feel that you're far too young for such an attitude. I seem to remember an old saying, ‘Young men should not marry
yet
—'”

“‘—And
old
men never.' Yes, I've heard it. But I'm neither that young nor that old, so if you don't mind, I'll go ahead with my plans.”

He'd walked out of his friend's room with a great show of decisiveness and self assurance—Dennis's tendency to frivolous attitudes and irresponsible viewpoints always brought out in Marcus the avuncular, pompous side of his nature. But he was not so assured as he'd pretended, and the feeling of depression lingered. The little talk with Iris did nothing to ease his inner disorder; in fact, it exacerbated the problem. He began to ask himself the very questions
she
had asked—why had he so infrequently sought her company? And why had he failed to use endearments when addressing her?

He had never worried about such things before. It had never occurred to him to wonder if he truly loved Iris. Love, as Plato had said, was a grave mental disease, and he had no intention of falling victim to its disorder. When one courted a young lady, one naturally declared undying affection and the tenderest of feelings toward her—the ladies all seemed to expect such declarations—but one didn't actually
feel
them. Marcus had never heard or read that marriages were improved by the husband's possessing a wild passion for the wife. If anything, literature was full of examples of the disastrous results of such unions. A marriage partner should be chosen (as his had been) by cool, well-considered evaluation of the available, qualified females. Why, if one let one's
emotions
dictate the choice, one might very well end up wedded to someone like—terrible thought!—like Sophia Edgerton!

Therefore, he had nothing, really, to worry about. Firmly he put the matter out of his mind. During the afternoon, while the ladies were all closeted with their maids preparing for the evening, Marcus sat in his study attempting to catch up on the never-finished business matters stemming from his estates. But he couldn't seem to concentrate. After a while, he gave up and put his papers away. Wandering aimlessly about the house, he came upon his Uncle Julian dozing in the library, an open book turned over on his ample stomach. With each deep breath he took, a snore rumbled in his throat and caused his stomach to vibrate. And with each vibration the book slipped a little bit further down the mountainous incline formed by Julian's rotundity and his reclining position. To rescue the volume from the otherwise inevitable fall, Marcus reached over and gently picked it up.

Julian puffed, snorted and opened his eyes. “What—? Who—? What's amiss?” he mumbled dazedly.

“It's I, Uncle Julian,” Marcus said sheepishly. “I'm sorry I woke you.”

“No, no, old fellow. 'S perfec'ly all right.” He sat up and reached for the, watch in his waistcoat packet. “It's almost time for me to go up and get dressed, anyway.”

“Don't go yet, Uncle. I'd like to talk to you, if I may.”

“Certainly, my boy,” Julian said pleasantly, stretching and yawning contentedly. “I'm quite awake now, so fire away.”

Marcus took the wing chair opposite his uncle and leaned forward. “I was wondering, sir, why a man like you never married.”

“Aha!” the shrewd old reprobate chortled. “Having misgivings, are you?”

“What makes you think that?” Marcus asked, instinctively putting up the shield behind which he hid his private feelings.

“Simple, my boy. In all these years that I've been your bachelor uncle, you've never seen fit to ask me that question. But now, on the eve of your betrothal—”

Marcus hung his head. “Yes, you're right,” he admitted, deeply ashamed. “I'm learning all sorts of things about myself today. I seem to be a remarkably self-absorbed creature. It never occurred to me to ask you about yourself until the subject of matrimony became vital to my
own
life. I begin to see a side of myself that is not very pretty to contemplate.”

“Rubbish,” his genial old uncle laughed, dismissing his nephew's self-accusations with a toss of his head. “Self-interest is the most natural instinct in the world. Putting others first is all very well for saints and martyrs, but very few of us are made for such roles, thank goodness. But to return to your first question, I never married because the one woman I wanted didn't want me. And everyone else seemed too pale by comparison.”

“Do you mean to say, Uncle Julian, that you wanted to marry for
love
?” Marcus asked in amazement.

Julian studied his nephew with narrowed eyes. “What other reason
is
there?”

“A good many reasons, I think,” Marcus said, pursuing his argument with a kind of desperate enthusiasm. “There's the responsibility to carry on the line, for one thing. There's the obligation to maintain the solidity of the social structure by building a secure, tight-knit English family, for another. There's the comfort of stable familial values and the companionship of a sympathetic partner on one's voyage through life, for a third. There's—”

“Enough, my boy, enough! You sound like a clergyman. Your reasons are very commendable, completely unarguable and entirely inconsequential.”

“
Inconsequential
? Uncle Julian, how can you—”

“Because, when love possesses you, every other reason for marriage becomes pointless. Can't you see that? Can it be that you are not familiar with the grand passion?”

“Familiar with it? I don't even think I could recognize it,” Marcus sheepishly admitted.

“Is that so? Then your development has been sadly arrested, dear boy. It's an experience not to be missed.”

“What is it like, Uncle? Describe it to me.”

“Describe it? Impossible. Don't you read poetry? Go to the poets if you want a description, not to an old man who has no way with words and is not even sure of the accuracy of his memories.”

“Oh, I've read the poets. Even the best of them make the emotion seem unreal. Like Shakespeare's ‘Love is a spirit all compact of fire.' A lovely phrase, but what has it to do with reality?”

“A great deal, I think. That's a very
good
description, if you ask me. You see, my boy, the trouble is that love is like gout in one respect—you're not likely to believe in it until it strikes you.”

Marcus laughed and eyed his uncle with surprised appreciation. “Uncle Julian, you have hidden depths. I should have spoken to you long before … before …” He stopped awkwardly.

“Before you got yourself entangled?” his uncle asked frankly.

Marcus shook his head. “No, no. I'm not feeling entangled, exactly … only a bit blue-deviled.”

Julian looked at his nephew with a sympathetic frown. “It may only be the pre-nuptial quakes, you know. Every man gets an attack sometime before the wedding.”

“Do you think that's it?” Marcus asked hopefully.

Julian shrugged. “I'm no expert, mind. Wouldn't want you to take
my
word. Marriage is a serious business. Bound to frighten a man … unless he was so besotted with the girl that nothing else mattered.”

“I can't claim to be besotted, I'm afraid. Although Iris is everything I want in a wife.”

“Oh, yes, yes. I quite see that. Lovely girl, Iris Bethune, lovely. Not the sort I'd choose myself, but quite a commendable creature.”

Marcus looked at his uncle curiously. “What sort
would
you choose, uncle?”

“Not that the tastes of an old bachelor signify,” Julian grinned wickedly, “but I'm more readily drawn to a livelier type—like the curly-haired chit who raises such a dust at the slightest provocation. What's-her-name … Edgerton.”

“
Sophy
?” Marcus was horrified. “You'd choose her to
marry
? You're trying to cut a wheedle!”

“Not at all, my boy. Not that a girl like that wouldn't lead a fellow a merry dance. I can quite understand that
you
might not approve of such a choice.”

“Approve? I'd be convinced you'd lost your
mind
!”

“Well, you needn't be so vehement about it. Besides, we're only idling with our tongues. I'm scarcely likely to change my status at this time of my life. As I said, marriage is a serious business.”

“Yes, so it seems,” his nephew agreed a trifly glumly.

“Do you think, Marcus,” Julian suggested with a shade of diffidence, “that it might be wise to postpone tonight's announcement? Just to make sure—?”

“Oh, no. Of course not. I'm convinced you were right when you said that this is just a momentary quake. It will pass.” He smiled and stood up. “Speaking of tonight's announcement, I hope you realize that you'll be the one to make it.”

“I?”

“Yes, didn't you know? I should have mentioned it before, but I've been so involved with playing host I quite forgot. As my eldest male relative, you are the appropriate person to make the announcement. Do you mind?”

“Of course not, Marcus, my boy, of course not. I call it an honor. Be happy to oblige. That is, if …”

“If?”

Julian looked at his nephew closely. “If you're certain you want to go through with it.”

Marcus instantly replied, “Of course I'm certain.” But he dropped his eyes from his uncle's piercing gaze before he said it.

Chapter Thirteen

S
O IT WAS THAT
, a few hours later, Julian rose to make the announcement. He stood at his place near the foot of the long table at his sister's right hand, surveying the more than three dozen faces looking up at him expectantly. All the family and friends who had gathered for the evening suspected what the message would be, but they nevertheless waited in eager expectation for the words. The only sound to interfere with the hushed silence was the patter of heavy raindrops on the windows. The weather, which had been so accommodating throughout the day, had turned nasty.

The table had been set in the huge, rarely-used banqueting room in the west wing. The long board gleamed with silver and crystal. Dozens of glimmering candles lit the faces of the guests, lustrous in their evening finery and jewels. At the head of the table, his nephew Marcus sat smiling calmly at him, showing no trace of the troubled feelings he'd revealed so short a time before. At Marcus's right sat his promised bride, looking beautifully regal with a woven-gold band set on her hair like a diadem. In her cream-colored satin gown with its gold embroidery, she almost glowed in the candlelight.

Directly opposite Julian, Lady Bethune also glowed. From the top of her elaborate hairstyle (bound with a jeweled loop which held three huge ostrich feathers) to the bottom of her mauve gown, she looked triumphant. Julian's sister, Charlotte, on the other hand, was dressed in her usual, gauzy style, her blowaway hair in its customary state of controlled disarray. But there was nothing in her serene, complacent expression to give the slightest hint that she was not as happy on this occasion as Lady Bethune.

Before the silence could become awkward, Julian cleared his throat and raised aloft a glass of champagne. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said with a twinkle, “you see me here with a glass of champagne in my hand. Obviously, I'm going to offer a toast. But before I do, I have an admission to make. I've always found champagne to be paltry stuff, so I've arranged, especially for this auspicious occasion, an alternative for those among you who agree with me.”

He nodded to two waiting footmen. They stepped forward bearing trays of glasses filled with a rich amber-colored liquid. Julian went on. “A magnificent Armagnac, my friends,” he said with a flourish, “eminently suitable for the toast I am about to make. I hope those of you who wish to try it will accept it with my compliments and with no embarrassing questions about how I managed to obtain it in these troublesome times.”