A Simple Lady (3 page)

Elizabeth opened her eyes, met Mattie’s gaze in the mirror, and grimaced. “You know they would have thought me addled—or poor Mr. Smythe deranged—if I had repeated his claims. Still, I would have been tempted to try had my stutter not interfered. I was too mortified to talk more than necessary.”

“So your stuttering came back! Well, they always did get on your nerves.”

Ah, but her problem went much deeper than nerves, Elizabeth knew. She had struggled for years to silence a nagging little voice hidden somewhere deep inside her that kept scolding her for failing to live up to her parents’ expectations. Sometimes she succeeded in quieting that voice for months on end. Sometimes, with the support of Mattie and Mr. Smythe and her other loyal friends, she felt good about herself—strong, loveable, normal.

But one minute in the company of her parents was enough to resurrect that voice, no matter how deeply Elizabeth thought she had buried it. One minute with them was sufficient to undo years of trying to convince herself that she was a person worthy of respect. She sighed deeply.

“They appear to have upset you more than usual, Miss Liza,” Mattie said, a frown accentuating the wrinkles on her brow. “What happened?”

“They told me I am to be married,” Elizabeth replied woodenly.

Mattie dropped the hairbrush, its bone handle clattering against the floor before it skidded unheeded under the dressing table. “Surely you misunderstood, Miss Liza. They would not arrange a marriage for you when they think you are daft.”

“They already have. I am to be married three days from now.”

“God as my witness.” Mattie’s breath appeared to catch in her throat as she stared, wide-eyed, at Elizabeth’s reflection in the mirror. “I would not have believed it of them. Who are you to marry?”

“The Marquess of Kenrick,” Elizabeth said, jumping to her feet quickly enough to send the dressing table bench skidding to one side. She hurried to the window and stood staring for long seconds into the leaves of the massive elm growing just outside.

Mattie immediately followed Elizabeth to the window and looked searchingly into her face for several seconds. “You know this marquess already,” she guessed. “You must have met him in London when the squire’s wife took you with her last year.”

Elizabeth shook her head, trying to dispel memories of how her silly heart had leapt on the two occasions she had caught a glimpse of the marquess’s brooding countenance. “I never met him,” she said. “Mrs. Wilson does not move in the Marquess of Kenrick’s circle. But he was pointed out to me in his box at the theater one evening and another time while driving his curricle in the park. He is very popular with the ladies of the
ton
who, I understand, are especially enamored with his dark good looks. He is also very wealthy. Mrs. Wilson said that any unmarried female in the upper ten thousand would love to attract the marquess.”

“Well, why hasn’t he married one of them?”

“I am not certain,” Elizabeth said. “However, I suspect it has something to do with his first wife. Apparently he married her when he was very young, and their union was less than blissful. That is all I know. Mrs. Wilson and her friends frequently discussed the marquess, but whenever I approached, they invariably changed the subject.”

Mattie pursed her lips. “Gossiping they were, and on a subject unfit for innocent ears. This marquess don’t sound like a fit husband for you, Miss Liza, but even if he was, I still don’t understand why he would marry somebody he don’t know when he could choose from all of them ladies in London.”

“Papa explained that the marquess must marry before his thirtieth birthday in order to secure a piece of property that would otherwise be willed away from him, and he wants a wife who will be content to live in seclusion in the country. He considers me perfect for the role.”

Mattie snorted. “I suppose I can guess where he got that idea.”

“I am sure you can,” Elizabeth agreed, aware that she sounded bitter but unable to moderate her tone, even for Mattie’s sake. “Father assured the marquess that as his wife, I would make no demands on his time because I am simpleminded.”

“Then you must explain to this marquess that your father was wrong. You must tell him that you’re not simple at all.”

“I agree, Mattie. But I am not sure I will meet him before the wedding, and even if I do, how can I explain that my father has misjudged me? Will the marquess not think it is proof of my inability to reason if I start claiming to be more intelligent than my parents say I am?”

“If the man has any sense at all, he can tell by talking to you, Miss Liza.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Elizabeth said, sighing. “But I cannot help wondering—if I convince him I am not simpleminded, will he become angry because he lacks the time needed to find another bride before he turns thirty? Perhaps, Mattie…” Elizabeth tucked her lower lip between her teeth and turned back to gaze dreamily out the window.

“Perhaps what, Miss Liza?” Mattie asked, suspicion clear in her tone.

“Perhaps I should hide from him the fact that I am not simpleminded, even after the wedding. The marquess would have achieved his goals, and I would have a secure future.”

“No,” Mattie replied in the tone she had used when Elizabeth was three and about to pull a pot of boiling broth from the stove. “You can’t do that. You must tell the marquess straight out that you are not dimwitted.”

“But just think, Mattie,” Elizabeth said, her eyes sparkling. “I would have a home of my own and perhaps enough money to buy myself some dresses. Do not scowl so, my dear! You know I appreciate Mrs. Wilson’s generosity. I am sure she sometimes has gowns especially made up for me and only claims they are Amelia’s cast-offs. But still, I would love just once to choose my own fabric and pattern. Is that so terrible?”

“Now, Miss Liza—”

“Do not interrupt me just yet, Mattie. You see, I have already informed Mama and Papa that you must go with me. You know I would never leave you behind. You shall have a bedroom with a chimney that draws properly and perhaps we can visit Mrs. Wilson and the vicar occasionally and—”

“Now, Miss Liza. You must put them temptations out of your mind right this minute. You know you can’t marry a man under false pretenses.”

“I suppose not,” Elizabeth conceded. When she turned to face Mattie, her dreamy expression had been replaced by one of indignation. “Yet, in a way he would be getting his just desserts—this man who would marry a simpleton merely to ensure that he receives a piece of property he does not need. The Marquess of Kenrick has estates scattered the width and breadth of Britain. I heard about them when I was in London last year—his principal seat in Surrey, the thirty-room hunting box in Leicestershire, the castle in Scotland, the mansion in Kent. I doubt he remembers where all of them are. Still, he is willing to marry a simpleton merely to retain ownership of one more estate.”

Mattie sniffed. “Apparently the man is guilty of the sin of greed, but, as I’ve always told you, Lady Elizabeth, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Elizabeth suddenly smiled, her indignation fading into chagrin. “Now I have earned your disapproval, but please do not call me ‘Lady Elizabeth’ again, dear. I promise that, if at all possible, I shall explain to the Marquess of Kenrick that I am not daft.”

Mattie’s lips tilted slightly. “I know you will, Miss Liza. I’ve raised ye right, and even if I hadn’t, you have a good heart. You’ll do what’s right and proper.”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “I shall try, Mattie,” she said, biting on her lower lip. “That is all I can promise. I shall try.”

Chapter Three

The Marquess of Kenrick could not remember ever having been so furious. He had been irritated hundreds of times in his life, angry dozens of times, but never had he felt such an overwhelming surge of pure fury. It was like a cancer eating into his very soul, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to assuage the pain because the man responsible for that devastating wrath was already dead.

“How very like you, my dear father,” Kenrick grumbled into the wind as he rode too fast toward the Earl of Ravingate’s country estate. “Not content with a lifetime of creating misery for your family, you arrange to reach back from the grave to decimate us. I salute you, sir. You planned it well.”

Kenrick had not been aware that he was voicing his thoughts aloud, let alone that he was nearly shouting, until his gaze fell on a farmer who had been plowing his fields near the road and was now staring with incredulous eyes at the raving rider on a pure black stallion. The unnerved farmer was in no way reassured when demonic-like laughter floated back from the direction of the galloping horseman.

“Just think, Solomon,” Kenrick said to his horse after they rounded a bend in the road, leaving the gaping farmer behind. “A demented man on his way to marry a simpleminded woman. Is there some divine justice here? No, more likely just the hand of the devil’s disciple himself—my unlamented father. Even in death he will not leave me to live happily and singly for the rest of my days. Damn him! Damn him!”

Angry as he was, Kenrick soon realized that his fury was gradually abating. In spite of the horrors of his errand, he was finding that solace was inherent in the English countryside. A cool breeze caressed his face, encouraging him to slow his pace to admire the soft green sprouts of crops and hedgerows. Even the very fragrance of the air, filled with the promise of new life, conspired to sooth his lacerated spirits.

“Ah, Solomon,” he said to his mount, a proud thoroughbred who had obviously grown accustomed over the years to being the silent recipient of his rider’s thoughts. “I wonder now why I ever agreed to the Earl of Ravingate’s plan. Obviously there is a reason he is known as the Eccentric Earl, and—had I not been so angry—I would have remembered that. Besides, I thoroughly dislike both Ravingate and his wife. Never have I seen two people so set up in their own conceit, but for all their book-learning, neither possesses a grain of common sense. Having a simpleminded child must have come as quite a shock to the two of— Damnation!”

Kenrick felt the bullet whiz past his face even before he heard the sharp retort of a pistol from somewhere in the small copse of trees to his left. In an instinctive carryover from his years in the Peninsula, he flattened himself on Solomon’s back and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. Solomon responded as he always had—by becoming a streak of black against the dark brown road beneath his pounding hooves.

The marquess did not attempt to slow Solomon’s pace until the copse was over a mile behind them. Even then, he merely reined the horse down to a trot so he could listen for any pursuit that might be coming up behind. No sound, other than an occasional bird call, disturbed the peace of the isolated country lane, and Kenrick at last slowed his mount to a walk.

“Well, Solomon, it looks as though Cousin Gerald wants the Aston Arbor estate more than I would have guessed. I wonder who he hired to shoot at me. Lord knows he could never have come so close on his own. Doesn’t the fool realize that if I were the only person involved, I would give him every estate I own rather than marry again? Apparently not.” Kenrick sighed. “I wonder if Gerald would feel better if he knew that I am almost sorry his hired assassin missed.”

Two mornings later, standing before the vicar in a crowded village church, Kenrick was silently bemoaning his cousin’s choice of an inaccurate assassin. The prospect of being buried, he was certain, would be preferable to undergoing this farce of a wedding ceremony. Still, he was careful to keep a pleasant expression on his face. He was far too proud to give anyone reason to suspect he was regretting with every fiber of his being that he was taking part in this travesty of a marriage.

Not that he had expected the ceremony to be quite this uncomfortable—or this public. Nor had he expected, upon arriving at the Earl of Ravingate’s dilapidated estate the day before, to be informed that the plans he and the earl had laid in London were being revised. The wedding, his future father-in-law had announced, would be held in the village church rather than in his home, and the ceremony would be performed by the local vicar rather than Kenrick’s chaplain. Having forgotten his promise to bring his own chaplain, the marquess could not in good conscience object to either the vicar or the village church, but he had certainly dreaded the thoughts of being wed in front of a church full of strangers. He had breathed a silent sigh of relief when the earl assured him that no one in the neighborhood had been informed of the upcoming nuptials.

Kenrick was fast reaching the conclusion that anyone who believed a word uttered by the Eccentric Earl was a fool—with himself being the prime example. Every pew was filled that morning, and not a few people had crammed themselves into the back of the church. The local squire and his wife, along with their three attractive and fashionably attired daughters, occupied one of the more prominent pews. Kenrick could not help wishing that his own betrothed was dressed even half as modishly as the squire’s daughters. Instead she stood beside him in a gown that would have shamed a beggar, looking not at all like she had yesterday at their initial introduction.

Kenrick involuntarily clenched his teeth, recalling how very much he had dreaded that meeting. Still, he had made a commitment and so, as agreed, had presented himself at Ravingate’s front door the previous afternoon, feeling totally unprepared for the ordeal ahead of him. After all, as he had reminded himself forlornly, conversing with simpleminded people was not the most polished of his social skills.

As Kenrick had waited nervously for a response to his knock, he’d found himself hoping that the Eccentric Earl had changed his mind about wanting Kenrick for a son-in-law. That hope died when Ravingate himself opened the door, a wide grin on his face that reflected his combined relief and joy.

Kenrick’s next recollection was of sitting rigidly in a rickety chair in Ravingate’s run-down drawing room waiting for his bride-to-be and trying to mentally prepare himself for her appearance. He had been determined to hide any revulsion he might feel toward her should she prove to be a pathetic creature with tangled hair, sloppy dress, and a blank expression.