Trouble at the Wedding (10 page)

“I should have known,” she said. “A cad always expects something in return for doing a woman a favor.”

“It was your idea,” he pointed out. “But despite that, I shall resist the temptations of my baser nature. I am happy to give you these rules freely, without any expectation of recompense. The problem is that I don't see how such a thing can be managed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you, it's not a proper subject, not one I can discuss with you in front of chaperones, particularly your mother.”

Thinking of what he'd said about the king, she had to concede the point, but she didn't see why that should matter.

“So why don't you tell me right now?”

As if in answer to this question, the sound of voices floated through the open doorway, and Annabel glanced apprehensively in that direction, for the last thing she needed was to be caught unchaperoned with a man, especially this one. But though the couple talking passed by the reading room without pausing, it was a reminder not to linger here. On the other hand, she badly wanted to know what these rules were. What if she went into London society and made some horrible gaffe that got her shunned? Then all her efforts would be for nothing. If there were rules, and he wasn't just talking nonsense, then she needed to know what they were.

“Meet me the day after tomorrow,” she whispered, and lifted a novel from the shelf. “Ten o'clock in the morning, by the second-class smoking room. Since it'll be Sunday, everyone will be at services, but I'll plead a headache. No one either of us knows is likely to be down in second class anyway.”

“You're willing to be alone with me?”

He was surprised, she could tell. “As long as you keep your hands to yourself,” she shot back, and departed, ignoring his laughter as she walked away.

Chapter Five

W
hen Christian arrived at the men's smoking room at half past nine Sunday morning, it was empty, but that didn't really matter anyway. Women weren't permitted in the smoking rooms, and even if they were, it wasn't as if he and Annabel could expect to maintain privacy there. Nor could they linger out in the corridor. As he'd told Arthur, the risk of being seen or overheard by someone who might be in a position to spread gossip was too great for that. So he'd come to this rendezvous a little early to find a more private place for their conversation.

Having obtained a map from the purser, he spent the next thirty minutes inspecting various rooms and stairwells, and by the time he had succeeded in locating a suitable spot and returned to the smoking room, he found Annabel waiting for him.

From what he'd seen thus far, Arthur's assessment of his niece had been an accurate one. Christian had already had occasion to witness her stubborn streak, and now as he came toward where she stood, he was also glad to note that Arthur had been right about her in other respects as well. She had abandoned her usual wardrobe of luxurious Worth gowns, and was plainly dressed in a white shirtwaist and navy-blue skirt, her dark red hair falling in a braid down her back, fitting in perfectly with other travelers in second and third class. The girl had plenty of common sense. She wasn't exercising it in matters of romance, but that was why he was there.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, and even though his voice was a low murmur, she put a finger to her lips, stopping him from saying any more. “There's a man in there,” she whispered, nodding to the room behind her.

He glanced past her to the mustachioed, military-looking gentleman puffing a cigar and reading the
New York Times
, and he was glad he'd done some preliminary reconnaissance. “People who don't attend church are so disobliging,” he whispered back, and turned, taking her by the elbow. “Come on.”

He led her down the stairs to third-class steerage and into the storage room he'd selected, which was at the very end of a remote corridor. After taking a peek inside to verify that it was still unoccupied, he stepped back and nodded to her. “Watch your step,” he cautioned as she moved to precede him into the room, and she nodded, stepping with care over the coaming and into the room of white-painted steel and gray linoleum, a room littered with stacks of packing crates and cleaning supplies.

Once they were inside, he closed the door and slid a heavy crate in front of it. “I knew the smoking room wouldn't do, so I found a more suitable location. Clever of me, don't you think?”

She sniffed, not seeming impressed. “You've obviously had enough clandestine meetings with women to know how it's done.”

“My fair share,” he admitted. “But not with young unmarried ladies. That's one of the rules, one to which even blackguards like me adhere. At least,” he amended, looking at her, “most of the time.”

She looked back at him with a wry smile. “There's a blackguard down in Gooseneck Bend who wouldn't agree with you about that,” she murmured, making him think perhaps she spoke from personal experience. He wondered if Arthur knew about it. On the whole, he'd imagine not.

“What happened?” he asked, curious.

Her smile vanished, and an impassive mask took its place. “The usual thing that happens to foolish girls of seventeen,” she said with a shrug. “He broke my heart, that's all.”

She was trying to pretend it didn't matter, but he studied her expressionless face, and he knew it mattered. To her, it had mattered a great deal.

“Well,” she said, breaking the silence, “so far, London doesn't sound much different from New York. Back home in Gooseneck Bend, we never thought anything about boys and girls being alone together. Even Jackson wasn't like that. Then I came to New York, and it was like a whole different world. Stuffiest place you've ever seen. And cold, too. I don't mean cold like a castle in December,” she added, smiling a little. “I mean cold like unfriendly to outsiders.”

“I comprehend your meaning.” He moved away from the door to lean his back against the wall. “Yet you want to be accepted into this circle?”

She stared at him. “Of course.”

“Why?”

The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it again and looked away. He waited, and after a moment, she spoke again. “Everyone wants to be accepted,” she said without looking at him.

“Even by cold, stuffy people?”

“You don't understand.”

“I'm trying to,” he confessed, and thought for a second of Evie, so different in temperament from this girl, but just the same in what she wanted. “I've lived in so-called good society all my life, Annabel, and I have absolutely no idea why anyone would want to be part of it.”

“But that's because you already are part of it.”

“We all want what we can't have? Is that it?”

“I suppose that's true, but that's not what I mean.” She looked at him again, her face shining with earnestness. “You were born accepted, so you don't know what it's like not to be. You walk through life always confident of your acceptance in any situation. You don't know how it feels to be shunned. To be laughed at for the way you talk or the place you were born. To be looked down on, to have your whole family looked down on, as if you were dirt on the floor. Nobody,” she added, lifting her chin with dignity, “looks down on a countess.”

They would. Even if she became Rumsford's wife, there would be many who would look down on her and laugh. If she behaved impeccably, they might not shun her, but it would be years before they would consider her one of their own. She would have to fight and kick and claw and play by every single rule to make a place for herself and her family in society, and along the way, her husband would be of little help to her.

Christian wondered how he could he make her see it wasn't worth it.

“Well, as a countess, you'll have to be willing to act as a chaperone,” he said, considering all the various means of changing her mind that were at his disposal. “It's an enormous responsibility. If a scandal happens to a girl you're chaperoning, you suffer censure as well.”

“That shouldn't be a problem for me,” she said with a touch of humor. “I'm good at seeing when a wolf's in the henhouse.”

He noted her pointed glance at him, and he grinned. “Good chaperones are the reason many unmarried men don't bother going into society at all, until they're ready to find a wife, of course.”

“Is that what you're going to do?”

He blinked. “God, no. What put that idea into your head?”

“I—” She broke off, then shrugged. “I just assumed it. I mean, you're a duke. Don't you have to marry?”

“No, thank God. I have a male cousin. And even if I didn't, it wouldn't matter. I have no intention of ever marrying again.”

“Some might call that famous last words.”

He groaned, his head falling back to hit the wall behind him with an exasperated thud. “Why do women always do this? If they're not matchmaking for themselves, they're matchmaking for everyone else. Listen,” he added, straightening again to level a frown at her, “I am not a marrying man.”

“But you've been married.”

“Yes, exactly.” He ignored her sound of impatience at that bit of wit and went on, “Can we return to the subject of your duties as a countess? You'll be expected to entertain lavishly and often. Your level of success there plays a key part in your success in society, but it's an occupation fraught with hazards. You'll have to be sure you don't invite Lord and Lady Ashburton to the same dinner party, for example, because they haven't spoken a word to each other in twenty years. And don't put Mrs. Bedford-Jones anywhere near Viscount Rathmore—they hate each other. But how can you avoid it, since precedent demands they walk in to dinner together? Best to invite Mr. Smythe instead . . . oh, but he's in love with Miss Grey, and if Miss Graham finds out he was at dinner with Miss Grey, the fat would be in the fire . . .”

He paused, noting a dazed quality coming into her expression. “A ball is even worse,” he went on mercilessly. “You'll have to give them. Rummy will expect it, but be warned. Ball giving is a very tricky business.”

She sat down on a packing crate with a sigh. “You don't have to tell me that. When we first learned we were rich, we moved to Jackson, bought a big, fancy house, and had a coming-out ball for me.”

“It wasn't a success?”

“You might say that.” She looked down at her hands. “Nobody came.”

He stared at her bent head, her hushed admission hanging in the air, and anger hit him with sudden force, like a kick in the stomach. If ever he needed justification of his contempt for society and its rigid class distinctions, this was it.

He crossed the room, moving to sit on the crate beside hers. “What do you mean nobody came? Nobody at all?”

“We were so ignorant,” she said, and lifted her head with a laugh. It was a forced laugh, he knew, for there was nothing amusing about what she'd just described. It was appalling.

“We thought giving a ball in Jackson was just like giving a dance back home,” she went on, staring at the blank white wall across the room. “We didn't know you had to send written invitations, two weeks in advance. Heck, nobody in Gooseneck Bend gave a party with invitations, not even the Hardings. We'd never heard of such a thing. So, we just did what anybody we knew would do—we told people about it at church. Yes,” she added, shaking her head as if in disbelief, “we really were that dumb.”

He didn't know what to say, but he knew a condemnation of society wouldn't be very comforting. “If by that you mean you were stupid, no, you weren't. You simply didn't know.”

“Exactly.” She turned toward him, the bitter tinge in her voice changing to one of determination, pain hardening into resolve. “That's why I'm here. I want to know all the rules, because I don't ever want to stand in an empty ballroom in London the way I did in Jackson. I don't ever want to feel again what I felt that night.”

He looked at her in dismay. This was going to be more difficult than he'd first thought. In agreeing to take this on, he hadn't appreciated that there might be deeper reasons for her ambition than mere social climbing, reasons that stemmed from old wounds. To succeed with this, he'd have to open those wounds, use her own insecurities to plant doubts in her head. And he was tempted, suddenly, to walk away and let the chips fall.

But then he remembered Rumsford winking at him in the House with the Bronze Door, a memory that revolted even his calloused soul. She did not deserve to be chained to an ass like that for the rest of her life, and he decided he was justified in making her see it by whatever means necessary. Still, he had to be subtle about it. Otherwise, she'd just dig in her heels as she'd done with Arthur.

“All right,” he said, breaking the silence. “Very wise of you to want to know as much about the lion's den as possible before you go inside. Knowledge is power, after all.”

“Not in New York. I had that place figured out in three months, but five years after moving there, it still hasn't done me any good.”

“So that's why you decided go after a British earl.”

“I did not go after him!” She straightened up on her seat, seeming quite put out by that accusation. “A woman never chases a man. Ever. Believe me, I learned that lesson a long time ago.”

“Ah. From the blackguard in Gooseneck Bend, no doubt.”

“My mama told me from the time I was a little girl not to go chasin' after boys.” She paused and gave him a wry smile. “I just wasn't very good at listenin'.”

“Really?” He glanced down at her mouth, considering. “Have a soft spot for blackguards, do you?”

She jerked to her feet, answering his question without saying a word. “Are you going to behave like a gentleman?” she demanded.

He ignored that. “I'm glad to know this particular weakness of yours,” he murmured, and stood up. “It gives me hope.”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “There is no hope for you. Not with me. Not even after the shine's off my tiara.”

“Now who's using famous last words?”

“I would appreciate it if you'd stick to the subject, please. We were discussing my future life as the Countess of Rumsford.”

“Yes, of course.” He paused, considering. “You might think,” he said after a moment, “that being married means more freedom, but it doesn't.”

“It doesn't?” She looked dismayed, and he was quick to pounce on that.

“No. Your every move will be subject to even more scrutiny once you're a countess, especially because you're a newcomer. And the British girls will be the ones who most want to stick the knife in your back. From their point of view, you stole one of their eligible men, and they'd take great delight in seeing you come to social disaster. ‘Those Americans,' they'll say. ‘So uncivilized.' You'll find it hard to make friends.”

“But I have friends of my own. Once I'm settled, I hope to bring some of them over, help to launch them in British society.”

“Certainly, but it takes years to have the sort of influence you'll need to do that.”

“Years?” she cried. “How many years?”

He shrugged. “Some women spend a lifetime building a position of influence such as you describe. In the meantime, you might technically have more freedom as a married woman, but you don't dare exercise it, even in the smallest ways. You'll be allowed to drink more than a single glass of wine with dinner, for example, but if you show yourself to be the least bit tipsy, it will tell against you.”

“No need for me to worry about that anyway,” she said, looking a little relieved. “I don't much like the taste of spirits.”