The Spinster Bride Page 7

  “Oh, I do apologize,” she exclaimed. Then she put on a brilliant smile. “Miss Peterson, how are you? And Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. I haven’t seen you all since . . .” She pretended to search her memory. “. . . the Halford ball last season. You remember my aunt, Lady Southbridge.”

  “The Halford . . .” Mrs. Peterson said, her face turning an alarming shade of red. Mr. Peterson cleared his throat loudly and tugged at his collar. “Of course,” Mrs. Peterson said, darting a look at her husband. “We’ve been . . . traveling abroad.”

  “In Italy,” Petunia added cheerfully if a bit overbrightly. “And other places. We had a wonderful time, didn’t we?” She turned to her parents, who seemed mortified, but by what, Marjorie couldn’t begin to guess.

  “It is good to see you, Susan,” her aunt said warmly, grabbing Mrs. Peterson’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

  Mrs. Peterson gave a tremulous smile, seemingly grateful for the kind words. And leaving Marjorie completely confused. She racked her brain for any tidbit of information she might have heard about the Petersons. Had someone died? Had they lost their fortune? Something had happened since the Halford ball, that much was certain.

  “Did you enjoy Italy?” Marjorie asked, not knowing what else to say.

  “It was . . .” Petunia looked at her mother as if seeking help for the right word to describe Italy. “. . . lovely. Yes, lovely.” Petunia had said the word lovely, but she might as well have said “dreadful” if Marjorie correctly read her look of utter discomfort. And that’s when Mr. Norris walked up to the group, looking like an eager puppy.

  “Mr. Norris,” Marjorie said, pretending surprise. “This is my aunt, Lady Southbridge. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and their daughter, Miss Petunia Peterson.”

  Charles bowed to the ladies and shook Mr. Peterson’s hand.

  “We were just discussing the Petersons’ recent trip abroad,” Marjorie said, gamely forging ahead with the plan. “You have something in common with Mr. Norris, Miss Peterson. He’s just returned from being abroad, as well.”

  “Oh?” This from Mr. Peterson, who looked suddenly delighted to meet Charles.

  “Yes. I’ve spent the last ten years in India. And Africa.”

  “Mr. Norris was injured in the Ashanti War. He served under General Garnet Wolseley.”

  “You don’t say,” Mr. Peterson said, looking even more delighted, which seemed a strange reaction upon hearing someone had been injured. “So you’ve been away.”

  “I returned only a few months ago,” Charles said. “I’m a bit lost in society. I’m hoping to find someone to guide me.” Marjorie nearly winced when he looked at Petunia as he said those words. Good Lord, couldn’t he be slightly more restrained with his attention?

  “I’m certain my daughter would be more than happy to fill that role,” Mr. Peterson said with unexpected enthusiasm. Petunia stiffened, then dropped her head, and Marjorie got the distinct feeling the gesture wasn’t one of shyness, but of something else. Misery?

  And then it hit her. Marjorie remembered what she’d thought at the time had simply been a vicious statement. She’d heard it only once and dismissed it completely, given the source. She’d been at a supper more than a year ago, and Priscilla Montgomery had said something about Petunia, implying that Petunia seemed a bit unusually plump, but only in the middle and wasn’t that an odd place to gain weight when one was so thin. The other girls gasped and giggled, and Marjorie hadn’t given it another thought. For one, Priscilla had always been nasty and was known for spreading false gossip, and for another, Marjorie hardly knew Petunia and hadn’t really cared to hear such gossip.

  She surreptitiously looked at the girl’s stomach and saw nothing but a thin, flat waistline. But when she raised her eyes, she looked directly into those of Mrs. Peterson, who looked—it could only be described in one word—horrified. Marjorie gave the older woman a bland smile to put her mind at ease.

  “Would you mind very much if I called on your daughter tomorrow? Perhaps we could take a turn ’round Rotten Row.”

  “Well, Petunia, would you like that?” asked a beaming Mr. Peterson.

  “Yes. That would be quite lovely. Thank you, Mr. Norris.” But the girl looked like she might burst into tears at any moment.

  Marjorie quickly worked out the scenario, and gave an inward sigh of defeat. This girl would never do for Mr. Norris.

  Twenty minutes later, Charles was hoping to get Marjorie alone. He wanted to thank her. She was a matchmaking wonder. Petunia, despite her unfortunate name, was perfect for him. She was even lovelier up close than from afar and seemed to be an intelligent and calm girl, one who would be a wonderful helpmate and mother. He’d already pictured the two of them watching their children play around their feet. Why, he’d give his old chum John Willington a run for his money on the number of children they’d have. John had five (and counting) and Charles wanted more. More and more. And they would spend their days in the country, watching their children grow and thrive and . . .

  “She’s in love with someone else.”

  Marjorie had come up behind him as he was lost in his fantasy.

  “You are a walking, talking bucket of ice cold water,” he said darkly.

  “As I am certain you were already walking down the aisle with Miss Peterson, I thought I’d let you know immediately that she is not the girl for you.”

  Charles gave a huff of disappointment, but he was beginning to trust her judgment. God knew he couldn’t trust his own.

  “What makes you say that? How do you know? And if she’s in love with someone else, how did she end up on your list?”

  She gave him a cheeky smile and he couldn’t help but smile back. “You were so busy coddling up to her father, you didn’t notice that the idea of going riding with you made her terribly sad.”

  “She was not sad,” he said. “She smiled at me. More than once.”

  “Fine. Go riding. You must anyway, as you’ve already asked her. But do pay attention this time.”

  The Petersons lived in a lovely, if modest, townhouse in Leicester Square. It was a warm, blustery day, and the sun shone weakly through the cloud-filled sky. He cast a worried look at the clouds, giving a small prayer that it would not rain.

  He was a nervous wreck, as he always was when he was about to begin courting a woman. No matter how many times he chastised himself for acting like a boy, the thought of being alone with a woman always made his stomach roil, his hands sweat. He gave the doorbell a sharp twist and stood on the landing, hat clutched in one gloved hand as he tapped a beat against his thigh.

  To his surprise, Mr. Peterson, smiling widely, opened the door. “Good day, Mr. Norris, good day.” He stepped back, welcoming Charles into their house. Miss Peterson stood just beyond her father, a vision in a soft yellow gown, and Charles’s heart expanded. Lady Marjorie had to be wrong about her. She could not be in love with another man if she were smiling so happily at him.

  Charles gave her an elegant bow, ignoring the small stab of pain in his leg. Damn and hellfire, it would not trouble him this day.

  “Do you mind if I take a look at your cattle?” Mr. Peterson asked, and went out the door without waiting for an answer. The small group, including a plainly dressed woman Charles assumed was Miss Peterson’s maid, followed him out, Miss Peterson trailing a bit behind. Charles eyed the statue of George I sitting on his fine steed in the center of the square and wondered if Mr. Peterson had chosen the square because of the statue.

  “Fine pair,” Mr. Peterson said. They were from his brother’s stables, as Charles hadn’t been inclined to buy his own horses. He wanted to wait until he purchased a home and had a bit of permanency to his life. A home, a wife, some fine horses—what else could a man ask for?

  “They’re from the Hartley stables. I’ll pass on your admiration to my brother. He’s an excellent judge of horseflesh and I hope to get his opinion when I buy my own pair.”

  “Petunia sits an excellent horse,” Mr. Peterson said gran
dly, and the object of his praise ducked her head. Charles liked a shy girl, he decided instantly.

  “Shall we go, then?” Miss Peterson lifted her head and smiled brilliantly at him. By God, he knew she was the one that very moment.

  Charles helped first Miss Peterson, then her maid, into the carriage before climbing in himself. They were silent as they rode down Piccadilly, and Charles racked his brain to come up with some bit of conversation. Why did he become so tongue-tied around women? He wasn’t that way with his sister, but he could hardly imagine Miss Peterson as his sister. And he’d had no problem with Lady Marjorie. Why, then, was coming up with something witty to say so difficult?

  “What was your favorite part of your trip to Italy?” he said, remembering she’d been abroad.

  Her face heated instantly. “The weather. It was sunny and warm nearly every day.”

  Charles looked up at the milky sun, struggling to make an appearance through the clouds, and frowned. “The sun was my least favorite part of India and Africa,” he said.

  She darted a surprised look at him, then lowered her eyes as if confused by his statement. Their pace to Hyde Park was terrifically slow because of traffic, and Charles suddenly wished he’d suggested a different sort of outing. Beside Miss Peterson, her maid had dozed off, no doubt lulled to sleep by the soporific movement of the carriage.

  He gazed at Miss Peterson, who seemed to studiously avoid looking at him. The light and brilliance she’d shone with when he’d first arrived seemed to have disappeared entirely. She hadn’t smiled once since the carriage had pulled away from her home. Even Charles’s quip about a gentleman wearing bright purple making him long for grapes failed to produce a smile. Lady Marjorie’s words came back to him, and try as he might to push them aside, it soon became obvious that Miss Peterson wished she were any other place on Earth than sitting in his carriage on the way to Rotten Row.

  She was lovely, yes, but she seemed to be enveloped in a cloak of sadness, now her parents weren’t hovering over her with hysterical cheerfulness, that showed itself in spades. He wondered, had Lady Marjorie not mentioned anything, if he would have seen how very unhappy this girl was.

  He did try to make conversation. And to give Miss Peterson credit, she did respond the way she ought—politely. He couldn’t help but wish she could love him, and maybe with time . . .

  He stopped that thought.

  “Miss Peterson. I do apologize, but I need to ask you something,” he blurted. Her cheeks grew pale and she swallowed heavily, as if she were bracing herself for something awful. He noticed these things now, simply because of Marjorie. Hell, they weren’t even all that hidden; he’d simply been blind to them all these years.

  “Of course, Mr. Norris.” Her gloved hands were folded demurely in her lap, but he noted her grip tightened and her smile was a bit frozen.

  “Are you in love with someone?”

  Miss Peterson couldn’t hide her shock, though she did try to recover quickly. “Oh, no. Why would you think . . . No, of course not. I . . .”

  Charles held up a hand, staying her. “Please, calm yourself, Miss Peterson. And please answer the question again, honestly this time.”

  She looked at him as if trying to gauge whether he actually wanted the truth. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I am.”

  “And he is inappropriate, I gather?”

  She dipped her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “Terribly so.”

  Charles furrowed his brow, growing angry at this man for hurting this young girl so much. “Married.”

  Her head snapped up. “Oh, goodness, no. Nothing like that. He’s . . . he’s poor. A clerk at a counting house.”

  “Ah.”

  “He loves me, too. We . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Enough said, Miss Peterson,” Charles said gently. “I will not impose on you again and hold no ill feelings toward you.”

  Panic filled her eyes. “Oh, no, Mr. Norris. My parents have such high hopes. You mustn’t—” She stopped abruptly and flushed. “You don’t understand. You haven’t heard because you’ve been out of the country, but there are terrible and untrue rumors going around about me. My mother blames herself for not thinking it through, you see. She wanted to get me away from him and so thought a trip would be just the thing. But a family leaving so abruptly with a tearful girl in tow . . . Priscilla Montgomery was walking by our home as we were leaving. She’s such a hateful girl. And now there are rumors that I had to leave the country. That I . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. “And we were gone nine months. Nine. Oh, what was mother thinking?”

  She blinked back tears, and Charles watched helplessly as she gained control of her emotions.

  “You may be my only hope,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I’ve no stomach for courting a girl who’s in love with someone else.”

  “Oh, but you must,” she said, then stopped abruptly. “No, you mustn’t.” She smiled at him then, a true smile, and he felt a twinge of loss. She could have been perfect for him.

  They ended the ride and agreed to remain friends. And Charles, because he had a soft spot in his heart the size of his entire heart, it seemed, promised to find a better-paying position for the man she loved. One might have thought he’d handed her the moon, for the smile she gave him.

  “No promises. And I don’t believe you should raise your hopes too far regarding your parents.”

  “I know. I won’t. But my parents love me and they don’t like to see me so unhappy. They thought a trip to Italy would make me forget him, distract me. But I still love him. Thank you, Mr. Norris, even if it doesn’t work.”

  You were right. Fielding’s ball.

  Marjorie smiled at the cryptic note and tucked it into her pocket. “Mother,” she called as she entered the house. “Have we gotten an invitation to the Fielding ball?”

  She found her mother in the breakfast room, eating a hearty breakfast of fried eggs, black pudding, and kidneys on toast. Dorothea loved breakfast and had announced three years prior that she was no longer concerned about her figure. Marjorie had nearly sputtered out a mouthful of tea, for never in her memory had her mother seemed even the slightest bit concerned about her figure. All her concern was spent on Marjorie’s.

  “Yes, we cannot afford to miss the Fieldings’,” she said. “You may wear your blue, of course. The Crawfords have packed up and gone to the country to prepare for a wedding there.” Her mother pursed her lips, a clear sign she was still unhappy that the Crawford girl had nabbed one of Marjorie’s potential suitors.

  Marjorie’s blue gown was a spectacular Worth creation that she had yet to wear. It was a lovely gown with a skirt of the deepest blue tartalane and sinfully expensive Valenciennes lace, which was befitting a young unmarried woman. She wondered if she’d suffer wearing such light fluff for the rest of her life. Still, the dress, with its dark blue lace that accented the light blue bodice and ruffled bustle, was pretty. And it was, of course, Worth. Some days, Marjorie would think about all these gowns, all this money being spent to attract a man. It made her slightly ill to think of it. Especially because she’d known for quite some time that it was all for nothing.

  “Good morning.”

  Marjorie looked up and smiled at her brother, who had apparently escaped the clutches of his valet before he put a comb through his hair. “Good morning, George. We were just speaking of the Fielding ball. I do hope you can come.”

  George instantly grew pensive. “What night is it?”

  “Wednesday. You’ve nothing planned, have you?”

  George slowly filled his plate and Marjorie knew his mind was searching for what he typically did on a Wednesday night. “I will go,” he said finally.

  “Marjorie,” her mother said, slightly exasperated.

  “If George doesn’t go, who will dance with me?” Marjorie said lightly, and gave her brother a wink.

  “Any number of young men,” Dorothea said.

  “I’ve
been a bit of a wallflower lately, Mother.”

  “Poppycock.”

  “And George can rescue me if that happens. That is, if I can drag him away from all the pretty girls.”

  George flushed red, and Marjorie wondered suddenly if there was a particular pretty girl who caused that blush. Dorothea had said on numerous occasions that no girl would ever marry George—and secretly Marjorie wondered if she was right, for he’d shown little interest in the opposite sex. It would be lovely to see George fall in love and even more lovely to have a niece or nephew.

  The night of the Fielding ball, Marjorie arrived with her mother; George very often traveled separately, as he was quite particular about when he arrived and when he left. The Fieldings lived in a grand old house in Mayfair, a lovely neighborhood not far from Hyde Park that had seen better days but was still one of the nicer London neighborhoods. It was, Marjorie’s mother said with a sniff, a neighborhood that was attracting merchants and their ilk. But one could not skip the Fielding ball simply because they were neighbors to the fabulously rich merchant Charles Magniac.

  “Get your card, dear. I’ll meet you at the entrance to the ballroom,” Dorothea said, gazing around the room. “Wentworth is here, dear.” This last was said in a delighted whisper. A booming laugh came from their left, and Marjorie smiled. “Mr. Norris is here as well,” Dorothea said, the brackets on either side of her mouth deepening in displeasure.

  “I don’t know why you find Mr. Norris so offensive. He comes from a very good family.”

  “He’s loud, his hair is too long, his skin is too bronzed, and his sideburns too full. He looks like a farmer more than a gentleman.”

  Marjorie turned and found the object of their conversation standing with a few other men. He looked rather dashing to her, but she noted immediately that he was leaning heavily on a cane and that the knuckles of the hand grasping the head were stark white. It was the oddest thing, for at that moment, Marjorie felt the almost overwhelming need to go over to him and lay her hand on his, to let him silently know she understood a tiny bit of what he was feeling. He smiled, he laughed, but all the while gripping that cane so tightly, it was a wonder he didn’t crush the metal ball and claw head.