The Spinster Bride (18 page)

As they walked back to the hotel, the young couple chattering happily, Katherine said, “I don't think you understand the seriousness of what happened between you and Mr. Norris. Do you know what would have occurred had you been discovered? Scandal, that's what. You would have been compromised and Mr. Norris would have been forced to marry you. And that would have been disastrous. Just look what happened with Graham and me. Found out, shamed, forced to marry. And living happily ever after.”

“I don't find you at all amusing,” Marjorie said dryly. She had said very much the same thing—without the happily-ever-after part—to Katherine not all that long ago. She'd suspected the couple had been acting indiscreetly and had warned Katherine that a forced marriage would be the worst outcome possible. “Yours was an entirely different situation,” Marjorie said, sniffing.

“Oh? How so?”

“Lord Avonleigh was clearly intended for another.”

“They weren't engaged. At least not at first,” Katherine added a bit sheepishly. “Though when we were caught together, he was engaged.”

“See? Entirely different.”

“Should you wait until Mr. Norris is engaged before you tell him you love him and throw yourself at him? It worked for me.” Katherine let out a delighted giggle.

“You are ridiculous,” Marjorie said, but couldn't help smiling a bit. “And it is different. Avonleigh loved you.”

“You don't know how Mr. Norris feels about you.”

“Of course I do. He's asked me to help him court another woman. If he were in love with me, would he ask such a thing?”

Katherine frowned. “I don't see how he could. Perhaps you're right. But if he does love you, being compromised could be the perfect solution.”

Marjorie shook her head. “He doesn't, so it makes no sense to even think about such things.” But for the rest of the walk back to Brown's, it was all she could think of.

 

“You know, Charles, your situation isn't that much different from mine,” Avonleigh said, lazily twirling his brandy.

The two men sat in Charles's study, enjoying their brandy and each other's company. Graham was fascinated by the artifacts Charles had collected over the years he'd been gone from England, but more fascinated by the stories that accompanied each item. Charles's glass was empty and he gave a longing look to the half-full bottle on the sideboard. “Oh?”

“You need a wife—”

“Want a wife. Far different.”

“Fine, you want a wife, though I can't fathom why you think that's so. Still, it all worked out for me in the end.”

Charles gave in to temptation and heaved himself up to retrieve more brandy.

“I wonder how you would feel had you married that Von Haupt chit instead of Miss Wright.”

“I daresay I'd feel quite different, at least about marriage. The money, now, that would have been grand.”

Charles let out a sharp laugh. “I have found, sir, that money cannot buy what one really wants. A leg, for example. Or a title.”

“What need do you have of a title? It's a mantle around one's neck, I say. Duty and worry and worry and duty.”

“If I had a title, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd be well on my way to be married right now.” He cursed under his breath. “Where's John when I need him? He's much better about this sort of thing.”

“You mean he's better at thinking like a woman? He's counting all his children. They just had their fifth, you know. Good God.”

Charles smiled. He'd come from a family of three and had always been a bit jealous of larger families. He couldn't imagine being an only child. The loneliness must be crushing. Perhaps one made up for lack of siblings with friends.

“For God's sake, get that ridiculous grin off your face,” Graham said in mock anger. “If you didn't have a beard, I'd think you were a woman.”

Charles poured a large splash into his glass. “Why, because I want to marry?”

“No, because you want to fall in love.”

“You did.”

That shut Avonleigh up for a time. “Didn't do it on purpose. Just happened. In fact, I didn't want it to happen at all. Wasn't a very pleasant thing, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

Avonleigh leaned back in his chair and gave his old friend an even look. “Do you, now. Lady Caroline? No, not her. Too chatty. Too young. Let's see, who does Charles love
now
?” He tapped his head as if massaging his brain for an answer. “Title. Woman. Woman who wants title. Man who doesn't have one.” He snapped his fingers. “Lady Marjorie.”

“You should work for Scotland Yard,” Charles said dryly. “Of course Lady Marjorie. But she has no interest in a man without a title and her mother would kill me if I courted her. Have you met that woman?” Charles gave a mock shudder.

“You're afraid of her mother?”

“Who isn't? I do believe it's one of the reasons the poor girl is not married.”

Graham smiled, his eyes on his swirling brandy. “You know,” he said softly, “there's more than one way to propose to a girl who's entirely unsuited to you.”

Charles furrowed his brow and walked back to his chair. “What do you mean?”

“I would never condone such a thing, believe me. But it worked out quite well for Katherine and me. Quite well indeed.”

“She'd murder me if I compromised her.”

“Lady Summerfield?”

“No, Lady Marjorie. I could never put her in that position. I care for her far too much to bring that sort of scandal upon her.”

Graham placed his still full glass aside. “You misunderstand what I'm saying. What if you both were agreeable to being compromised?”

Charles was stunned by the suggestion. “You mean a planned compromise? One in which we'd both be culpable? She'd never agree.”

“Would you?”

Charles was silent for a long minute. Would he forge such a plan if Marjorie agreed to it? It did seem quite like the only way they could be married with her mother's reluctant blessing. Still, the scandal. Charles studied his friend, his very happy, married friend, who had suffered no ill consequences from society for his forced marriage. Indeed, even the most hardened old curmudgeons looked at the match fondly because it was so obvious the two of them were happy. “If she agreed, then, yes, I would. Happily. But Marjorie would never agree to such a thing.”

“And how do you know she wouldn't agree to the plan?”

“For one, she told me just the other day that she hated me,” Charles said, chuckling. “So you see, I'm fairly certain her heart is not engaged. No more than any other woman I've managed to foolishly fall in love with. I swear I'm cursed.”

“I wouldn't be so hasty in your assessment of Lady Marjorie's feelings toward you. Something Katherine said to me makes me think she wouldn't at all be opposed.”

That brightened Charles's mood a bit. “Something Lady Marjorie said?”

“Yes.” He tapped his head again. “What was it? It was rather obscure and open to interpretation, of course. Oh, yes, I have it. She told me Lady Marjorie was in love with you.”

Now it was Charles's turn to set aside his glass. “What? Did Lady Marjorie actually say something to your wife? Or is it supposition?”

“Supposition. But when she accused Lady Marjorie of having such feelings, she did not deny it completely.”

“What did she say?”

“Actually, she did deny it,” Graham admitted, “but Katherine is convinced she wasn't telling the truth. Apparently she couldn't keep her eyes off you the other night at the opera. And since you cannot ask for her hand with any hope that her mother would agree to the match, you really have no alternative, do you?”

Charles picked up his glass again and took a deep swallow. No, actually, he could think of no other way for them to marry. But Marjorie would have to wholeheartedly agree. And if she loved him as he loved her, then it was the perfect solution.

 

“You what?”

“I'm engaged, Mother.”

Marjorie's heart nearly broke at the way her brother was standing there, looking unkempt and uncertain, his head down. He was a different man when he stood before their mother.

“What girl would say yes to you? Some greedy little thing only interested in your title, no doubt. I can tell you right now, I'll put a stop to it.”

“It's Miss Cavendish, Mother.”

“The squire's daughter?” She let out an ugly laugh. “Oh, ho, they do have high aspirations, don't they?”

“She loves me,” George said, lifting his head in a small show of defiance. His cheeks were flushed and Marjorie wanted nothing more than to have this interview over. “She told me. She loves me. I went to her father and he gave us his blessing.”

“I'm sure he did. He's not a fool. I can tell you one thing, young man, you will not marry that girl. She doesn't love you, she loves the title, the idea of being an earl's wife. I will not allow it. It will not happen.”

Marjorie couldn't take another word. “You cannot stop him, Mother,” she said gently. Despite the awful things her mother was saying, it was clear Dorothea was concerned that George would be hurt. Frankly, Marjorie was surprised her mother was championing her son so ardently. “He is of age and is the head of this family. You cannot prevent him from marrying whom he chooses. I understand your concerns, Mother, truly I do. For I had them myself.” She shot George a look of apology. “But I firmly believe Miss Cavendish loves George, that she would marry him even if he were a commoner. And you know you have no power over George and no say in whom he marries.”

Dorothea looked at her daughter as if she'd sprouted a second head. “How dare you contradict me in front of your brother? Women who want something can be very clever. Just look at your American friend.”

“You
like
Katherine.”

“I admire her cleverness, if that's what you mean. One must, I suppose. But I will not allow an equally clever woman to marry my son for self-serving reasons. A squire's daughter, indeed. Really, George, why not simply marry a shop girl or a scullery maid? Certainly not.” She looked at George with sympathy. “It's best that you get any ideas of marriage out of your head.”

“No, Mother. I love Lilianne and I will marry her. I have her parents' blessing. I would like yours, but if you cannot give it, I will marry Miss Cavendish. I love her. We will marry September twentieth of this year. I love her and I will marry her.”

“Don't get hysterical, George,” Dorothea said with a long-suffering sigh. “You know it gives me a headache.”

George clenched his fists by his sides, and Marjorie knew he was struggling to remain calm. “I love Miss Cavendish and I will marry her. We're to be—”

“Oh, for God's sake, shut up,” Dorothea screamed. “Leave me, both of you, now. You've given me a headache.”

Marjorie and George were more than happy to leave their mother alone. When they reached the second story landing, Marjorie touched George's hand.

“I was very proud of you.”

He ducked his head, his cheeks growing ruddy. “They gave us their blessing,” he said, just in case Marjorie needed convincing.

“I know they did and I'm glad. Lilianne loves you very much, as she should. You are a wonderful man and will make a wonderful husband.”

George turned toward his room, then hesitated. “Do you think she can stop it?” he asked, sounding very young.

“No, George, she cannot. You are of age and head of this household. You are the Earl of Summerfield and can marry whomever you choose.”

He smiled and relaxed, heading to his room to change for the May Ball, but as Marjorie turned to go to her room, she frowned. She prayed Dorothea would do nothing to keep the couple apart. But what could she do, after all?

 

T
en years after Ascot, Dorothea Stockbridge bore little resemblance to the young woman she'd been that day. Though she'd traveled home to see her family on occasion, she made her home with Aunt Frances, who continued to thrive at age eighty-five. With both parents now in their graves, Dorothea rarely had the opportunity to leave. Twice a year she would travel to visit her brother and sisters, but the visits were always brief and she sensed her siblings were relieved when she waved good-bye. This past year, she hadn't visited at all, nor had she been invited. So Dorothea spent endless days with Aunt Frances, knowing that someday, should the old lady ever die, she would be at the mercy of her relatives. She felt fairly safe, as Aunt Frances was as hale and hearty as she was mean and miserable. Dorothea often thought it was the devil keeping her alive simply to torment her.

Having nowhere else to go, Dorothea remained in Ipswich in Stonebridge Hall, a drafty old place on the River Orwell, and was reminded nearly every day that she had few other options. She no longer wore the latest fashions and hadn't bought a new hat in nearly eight years. The last was for a garden party, which she'd allowed herself to look forward to, only to be told by her aunt that she looked ridiculous, as if she were a wren trying to be a peacock.

Her hair, which had long ago turned coarse and gray, was constantly pulled back into a serviceable bun. Her dresses came in three colors: gray, brown, and black. She wore the uniform of the overlooked and the expression of a woman whose life was filled with days of duty and monotony. And when she went for walks, as she did each day, she wore a man's coat.

Dorothea loved her daily walks. They were one of the few things her aunt approved of. Exercise, she would often say, kept one alive, and her aunt lamented the fact her painful knees would no longer allow it. Those walks were Dorothea's escape, the only time she could be alone with her thoughts. The only time she could hold a piece of Lord Smythe against her, his coat that she had “forgotten” to return to him. Before she'd made the move to Ipswich, she'd placed it guiltily in the bottom of her trunk and after she'd left home, she'd pulled it out frequently. Too frequently at first. Now it was simply a serviceable coat to wear on a brisk walk.

He'd married Lady Matilda of course, the vacant-headed, kind girl he'd been with that day. She'd read the
Times
issue that described their wedding and would on occasion see mention of them—or their children.

That was, perhaps, the worst of her life. She'd realized after moving to Ipswich that she wanted children far more than she'd wanted a husband. The sight of a woman walking with a small brood always made her a bit sad. It would never happen for her. Time was running out. She was thirty-six years old. Many of her old friends' children were already married or at university.

Dorothea sighed heavily as she crossed the stone bridge to the house's garden. She stood for a moment staring at the old place, hating it, hating what lay inside. Why couldn't she find contentment with her life? She knew women had far worse lives than she did. What was inside her that made her feel as if some great trick had been played and she was living the life someone far less vibrant was supposed to have lived?

With a sense of resignation, she crossed the last few feet of yard and opened a side door. Pulling off her coat and placing it on a wooden peg, she spied a servant hurrying with a tray.

“Sally, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Oh, mum, Lord Summerfield's here and in the parlor.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and went on her way as Dorothea leaned against the wall in utter defeat. With a quick look of longing at the door she'd just entered, Dorothea began walking toward the parlor where Aunt Frances always entertained guests. Of all the guests that infrequently stopped by, Lord Summerfield was her least favorite.

He was a pompous man in his late fifties whose superior attitude grated on Dorothea's nerves. It wasn't so much what he said, but rather the way in which he said it. He could tell her she looked beautiful (which he never had) and Dorothea would somehow understand he meant the opposite. When he'd first made an appearance, Dorothea had feared that he was visiting with the intention of courting her. His wife was long dead and he had no children, no heir to his great title. Over the years, she'd been relieved to realize that Lord Summerfield seemed content to let his younger brother or nephew inherit his title.

Dorothea had felt foolish to think his visits had initially been precipitated by her. Now she finally understood she had little to offer a man except a dowry, no doubt collecting dust in her father's coffers. She'd come to realize over the years that no man would want her. Not even an onerous, ugly old man like Summerfield. It was a rather sobering thought.

Dorothea entered the parlor, not bothering to even glance in the mirror to be certain she was presentable. From the look both her aunt and Summerfield gave her, she knew she was not.

“Here she is,” Lord Summerfield said, standing, his sleepy eyes regarding her. Over the years, his upper eyelids had continued to descend, so it was impossible for the man to open his eyes fully. His nose, looking much like a small tomato balancing above his too-thick lips, was constantly dripping. Dorothea on more than one occasion had had to look away. He held a kerchief in his left hand at all times and would dab at the moisture incessantly but many times to no avail.

“Here I am,” Dorothea said with forced pleasantness, and sat down next to her aunt.

“Lord Summerfield, shall I leave?” her aunt asked, and Dorothea felt a shiver of unease.

“No, no.” He waved his hand, then turned to Dorothea. “As you may know, Miss Stockbridge, I have been searching for a wife for some time now.”

Dorothea hadn't known any such thing, but nodded.

“And I've chosen you.”

“Me?”

“I know you are not young, but neither am I. And I'm quite running out of options.”

Dorothea looked to her aunt for help, knowing she would get little.

“It's wonderful, Dorothea, though I will miss you, dear. And the timing couldn't be more propitious. I'm going to live with Christina for a time.” Aunt Frances thumped her cane to punctuate her decision. “My daughter wrote to me just last week, asking me to come,” she said to Summerfield, leaving Dorothea stunned. Her aunt had known she was leaving for a week and hadn't said a word. With her mother and father both dead, she had nowhere to go.

Dorothea's brain had quite stopped.

Summerfield sniffed.

“Of course, I wholeheartedly approve of the match,” Aunt Frances went on. “Everything has been agreed to.”

“But I haven't agreed to anything.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

“Would you please excuse us, madam? I fear I do need to speak to your niece alone, after all.”

Dorothea watched in disbelief as her aunt hoisted herself up and made her way slowly to the door, her cane thumping softly on the carpet.

“I do apologize, my lord, but you've never given any indication that you even liked me, never mind wanted to marry me.”

He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if reassessing his offer. “How old are you?”

Dorothea felt her cheeks flush. “Thirty-six.”

He raised one eyebrow and tilted his head as if pitying her. “And how many men have asked for your hand?”

Her cheeks grew impossibly hotter. “None, sir.”

“And how many have courted you?”

“None.”

“Held your hand? Kissed you? Even admired you?”

Dorothea's throat began to burn.

“Answer me. How many?” He said the words gently, but with an arrogance that was humiliating.

“None.”

“None. Not one. And yet you think to refuse me? I am giving you the greatest of compliments. I am telling you that you are worthy of me and the Summerfield title. And you think to refuse me?”

A terrible feeling of inevitability fell over her. “I have not refused you, sir. Only questioned why you asked.”

He seemed to calm at her words. “I have asked because I pray you are young enough to produce my heir. You still have your flow?”

Could she possibly bear such humiliation? “Yes.”

He clapped his hands together so loudly, Dorothea flinched. “Well, then, it's settled. I'll make the announcement and have the bans read. I think a small affair is appropriate, do you not? Write to your brother and sisters, my dear. Perhaps they can be of assistance in planning the wedding.”

He left soon after, full of accomplishment. Before he departed, he took her hand in his and kissed it. She tried to smile, but cringed at the feeling of wetness that remained after he'd withdrawn his hand. When he turned his back, she wiped her hand furiously on her skirt.

Oh, God, what had she just agreed to?