The Pursuit of Pleasure (5 page)

“You can hardly do any worse than I. I’m a sailor, Lizzie, not a cit. And you’re a sharp enough lass. You’ll do fine.” He drew a knuckle along the line of her chin and marveled again at the contrast between the infinite softness of her skin and the sharp line of her jaw.

At his touch a slow smile blossomed across her face, warm and untutored, rising to stretch over the curve of her cheekbones, until it reached the corners of her eyes.

Devil take it, he wanted to kiss her. Here, now, in front of her father and the rest of the world. And she knew it. The marmalade brow slid upwards, daring him. One of these days, soon, very soon, he was going to lick it.

“Why Jamie Marlowe,” she whispered as his mouth descended, “you
have
grown sentimental, haven’t you?”

Unfortunately, Lady Theodora, trailing a brace of panting, goggle-eyed spaniels, chose that moment to drift out onto the terrace in a cloud of lily-of-the-valley perfume.

“Oh, Elizabeth, at last, there you are! Come in and sit with me so we can make arrangements. I’ve called for tea. Where are you going?”

“To change my dress, Mama. I’m off to the rectory to get married.”

“Married? Right now? Oh, Elizabeth, my dear, no!” A lace handkerchief fluttered out of nowhere. “We must make some preparations. How will it look? I do so hate to see you do something so rash.”

Lizzie kissed her mother’s cheek fondly.

“Well then, Mama, I’d advise you to close your eyes.”

C
HAPTER 3

I
n the end, they prevailed upon her to wait another day. Had she only to consult her own feelings, Lizzie would have proceeded to the rectory without delay. But such haste would have seriously discommoded both Mama and Papa. And despite their philosophical differences, and despite the fact they often exasperated her, Lizzie was too fond of her parents to want that.

She was especially fond of her mother, with all her charming, diverting eccentricities. Lizzie could not find it within her to see Mama made uncomfortable or unhappy by a ceremony that wasn’t all it ought to be. And if Jamie was in no great rush to be off to the other side of the world, then she could have no reasonable reason to press for expediency.

Tomorrow would be soon enough. It would even give her an extra day with Jamie. The thought brought an agony of anticipation. Perhaps tomorrow there would be more kissing.

Of course, Papa would insist on things being done properly, between
gentlemen.
He was particularly thunderous in his emphasis, as if he doubted Jamie’s right to the epithet. It was terribly, hopelessly old-fashioned, and nothing short of ridiculous. That Jamie was indisputably not only a gentleman, but also an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, was obvious toanyone who had eyes and had read a Dartmouth newspaper within the past five years. But Papa chose to remain stubbornly oblivious.

Papa also chose to insist upon speaking to each of them separately. He and Jamie were closeted up in his book room for the longest time, while she was sent away to the morning room with Mama, who went on happily about the necessity of lace and fresh bonnet ribbons for the wedding, glad to have both an occasion and an excuse to fuss.

But Lizzie never could attend to matters of wardrobe with any real enthusiasm. She would much rather know what was being said in the book room. Her ears began to ring with the efforts of straining to hear any word from that direction.

When she was finally called, she ran straight in to the mahogany-paneled room, looking for Jamie, who was nowhere to be seen.

“What did he say? What did you say to him?”

“Sit down, Elizabeth.” Her father sounded wearied, but still far from resigned to her marriage.

But Lizzie had learned stubbornness at her father’s knee. “I’ll not be dissuaded, Papa.”

“Now Elizabeth, I don’t like it.” He shook his head side to side like a stubborn bulldog, refusing to unlock his jaws.

“Why? I thought you’d be pleased.” Indeed, this was not their first conversation on the worthiness of a proposed suitor, nor even their second. Papa had very easily entertained, and even promoted, previous offers from gentlemen of far lesser means than Jamie’s. She could not understand his objection to Jamie, nor the stubborn vehemence of his dislike, which bristled from him like the wayward strands of orange and white hair escaping in hostile abandon from his queue.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all,” he repeated.

“Is it the money?” She had absolutely no reason to suspect Jamie’s fortune, nor his ownership of the house. Such facts were too easy for Squire Paxton to discover. Indeed, she had agreed to delay the wedding in part to allow her father to make his inquiries and put his misgivings to rest.

Papa did not answer.

“What specifically don’t you like?” she prompted.

“We don’t know the man. We know nothing of his conduct.”

“Papa, I’ve known him all my life.”

“Not true a’tall, my girl,” he objected. “Haven’t heard a thing about him for—what is it? Eight years now?”

“Ten, Papa. Obviously, he’s been in the navy. Fighting the wars. Advancing in his profession. He’s been promoted all the way to Post Captain at a young age. Surely that speaks for his conduct? Surely the confidence of the Admiralty is recommendation enough?”

“But what of his means of achieving his ends? We know nothing of his conduct, his character.”

“Papa.” Lizzie could hear exasperation creeping into her voice. “I know you read the newspapers. They were full of how he was cited by his commander for conspicuous bravery at Toulon, among other things. Does that not show he is a man of character?”

He would not meet her eye, but finally, he spoke in so low a voice, she had to lean closer to hear.

“I am simply loath to trust you to him. Your high spirits and pursuit of …” He would not permit himself to say the word she longed to hear. He would never acknowledge the truth of her assertions—she ought to be able to live her life as independently as any man. It was simply anathema to his view of the world. “Your temperament calls for a firm hand from a husband. You should have a man who is more than your equal, who can command your respect.”

She knew he spoke from fear and love, a father’s love for his daughter, but she could not abide it when he began to use words like
command
and
respect.
It meant he was working himself up to his usual lecture about conforming herself to the“natural abilities” of women and forgetting her “unnatural inclinations” for study and independence.

And she would get so frustrated and so angry, she would say truthful but imprudent things, or simply walk out the door, and they would still have no agreements, no marriage settlements, and no wedding.

“Papa.” She endeavored to speak with the deep conviction she felt. “You must understand. Jamie
is
worthy of my respect and my trust. Indeed, he has both. I have never been able to even contemplate any other offer of marriage. You must know, I truly think this is what is best for me.”

When he made a sound of objection, she cut him off.

“Papa, do my feelings count for nothing?” she asked quietly. “I want to marry him. He is the only man I ever have, or will ever, consider marrying.” It was as close to an admission of her private feelings and true emotions as she was ever likely to come with her father.

Thankfully, it had the required effect. He passed his hand over his face and stared into the cold grate of the fireplace for an uncomfortably long time before he finally spoke.

“I cannot give you my blessing, but if you must, you have my consent.”

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” The Reverend Marlowe’s words echoed through the big, empty stone nave of St. Savior’s.

Jamie was her husband, at least temporarily. Until God put them asunder.

“By joining of hands, I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Might as well have said “Man and Chattel together” from her point of view, but all in all, it was for the best, though it had not been the prettiest or most auspicious of weddings.

Gray skies had dripped with rain, and Jamie’s father, the Reverend Doctor Marlowe, had seemed uneasy, anxious almost. He repeatedly lost his place in the well-worn book of prayers he clutched in his knobby, arthritic fingers. He kept darting nervous glances at her, as if he expected her to take flight or bolt down the aisle for the door.

For heaven’s sake. It wasn’t as if
she
was the one who’d bolted.

Indeed she had been as nervous as a chicken waiting for the ceremony to come. Contrary to her hopes, they’d not been allowed any further time together yesterday. Jamie had been sent away, and she’d been kept at home, busy with preparations, until this morning. Waiting to see if he would indeed come back again.

But Jamie was here now. He had come back, to give her respectability and independence. Yes. She would concentrate on her independence and not think about the inconvenient little flip-flop her stomach made when Jamie turned his penetrating gray eyes to hers.

Her giddy feeling was all due to the astonishing accomplishment of her goal—an independent life. It could have nothing to do with the large, masculine hand pressing warmly into the small of her back as he escorted her to the vestry to sign the registry. Nothing whatsoever.

But all would be right. She knew he was leaving this time. It wouldn’t be as bad. She would be prepared. And really, he’d already been gone from her life for so long it hardly mattered.

She had what she needed.

A house. A place to live her life according to her own tastes and the dictates of her education. A place where she could develop her own style of living and thinking. Her happiness was nearly complete.

All that remained was to see the house. Her head was teeming with ideas for it. With ideas for how she would learn to manage it and the land. How she would learn useful skills and truly merit her place in this world. Live a life of purpose and usefulness, not one of idle, pampered indulgence.

Her lady mother’s chief skill, other than her exquisite embroidery, was the ability to charm and delight anyone and everyone who came within the warmth of her circle—a pleasant, gracious woman. Celia and any number of young ladies of her acquaintance were content to live their lives as pleasing, decorative ornaments for their suitors, husbands, and society in general. But Lizzie could not. She would not.

She was simply not made for idleness or stillness. She could not sit quietly when she might be out of doors, walking, riding, or sailing. Doing something. Despite the calculated air of indifference she had achieved, she had never been content to lounge about drawing rooms, waiting for life, for experience, to come to her.

Because she did not possess, nor had she been able to cultivate, the happy talent of making men feel pleased with themselves. In fact, she rather made them feel the opposite—edgy and uncomfortable—with her sharp observations and tart tongue.

But now that she had the security of her marriage, she could truly do as she pleased. It was a heady thought.

A small but elegant wedding breakfast, attended only by her parents and Jamie’s, was held at Hightop House. Mama’s arrangements were, as always, beautiful and charming. Flowers from the gardens graced the tables and their scents filled the moist early summer air with heady perfume. Jamie sat next to her at the long, linen-draped table, looking both very handsome and very pleased with himself, though he spent the meal being wonderfully charming and solicitous of her mother and his own.

“How disappointed I am,” her mother was saying, “to find you must leave us so soon, dear Captain.”

He was a wonder to watch, this accomplished man, his comportment easy and laughing, his manners fine as French brandy and his clothing tailored to perfection. The very image of the prosperous, happy bridegroom.

It made her wonder if she imagined it, the dark masculine hunger that slid from his eyes when he looked at her from under that errant lock of dark hair as he answered.

“It is unfortunate, Lady Theodora, but duty calls.”

No, she hadn’t imagined it. For Papa could see it, or sense it. It was the only explanation she could find that would account for his bristling hostility and stubborn objections.

And clearly, her father was still opposed, though the deed was already done. His face remained a study in tense resignation. He sat through the meal as if he were having a tooth pulled: unhappy, uncomfortable, and very nearly in pain.

His brooding silence affected the Reverend Marlowe, who was nothing like his normal, garrulous self. The rector mirrored his host, lapsing into uneasy silence. Without Mama’s and Jamie’s efforts, the whole affair would likely have been an unmitigated disaster.

“But you will at least spend some time with us before you go. You will of course spend your wedding night here. I’ve had the blue room prepared so you might have the east wing to yourself.”

Lizzie nearly choked on her wine. Wedding night? Here? Mama had never so much as mentioned it to her. Good Lord, what an idea. Whatever Jamie’s dark looks held, she was not about to discover it in her childhood home. She needed to begin as she meant to go on. Independently.

“I thank you, my lady, but I had thought to spend the evening more privately. I have taken rooms at the Red Harte.” Jamie spoke evenly, in an easy, matter-of-fact tone, but the skin on the back of Lizzie’s neck and on her cheeks began to prickle with heat.

How ridiculous. It should be a relief to know Jamie had made such plans to keep the nature of their arrangement private. It was a relief to know the details of their marriage would not be made privy to her parents, nor to every servant in the house.

“You’d be better served to stay here.” Papa’s voice was rough and dogged. He must have finally imbibed enough wine to make him overcome his stubborn silence.

“Papa,” Lizzie tried to appeal to him quietly, to reassure him she was quite safe with Jamie. “I’m sure Jamie’s arrangements are more than suitable. I am entirely at my husband’s disposal.”