The Spinster Bride Read online

  After an old-fashioned country dance, it was time for his waltz with Lady Marjorie, and he’d be damned if his leg would keep him off the dance floor this time. The throbbing ache would normally stop him from attempting such a thing, but he wanted to hold her in his arms, even if it was quite proper and in front of dozens of other people. He shook his head, amused where his thoughts were leading. He was every kind of fool, but for tonight he decided to throw caution to the wind and pretend he had a chance with her.

  “This is our dance, I believe, my lady,” he said, bowing to Marjorie as she stood next to her frowning mother. Marjorie smiled at him prettily as the older woman glared at him. Charles gave Dorothea his most polite and pleasant smile, secretly hoping it was causing the woman’s blood to boil. It wasn’t as if he were the son of a banker, for goodness’ sake. His father was a viscount. He didn’t much care for her opinion and enjoyed watching her thin lips press together in distaste.

  “I think your mother loathes me,” he said with a laugh when they were on the dance floor.

  “Oh, it’s a certainty,” she said cheerfully.

  “She does know who my father is, does she not?”

  “Of course, sir. I think she objects to your wild ways. Your hair, for instance, is a bit too long. And you seem to laugh rather loudly. It is quite not the thing to enjoy oneself in public. Or rather, to allow others to know you are enjoying yourself. And the title.” She sighed dramatically. “Despite your lofty sire, you, sir, have no title. And that is your fatal flaw.”

  He grinned down at her, watching her expression change, the way her mouth formed the words, her lips pouting as she said the word “flaw.” A surge of heat flooded him unexpectedly and his grip on her slender waist tightened just slightly, bringing to the edge of impropriety the closeness with which he held her. She was not a petite girl, so he didn’t have to strain his neck or his ears to hear her. Her forehead was aligned with his mouth, so that if he wanted to, he could lean forward and kiss that little frown line that sometimes appeared.

  “Stop it,” she said, grinning up at him.

  He raised a brow in question.

  “You’re giving me that look again.”

  “Ah. The I-want-to-ravish-you look?”

  She laughed aloud. “Yes, that’s the one. I know my mother is watching and will not be pleased.” But Marjorie sounded enormously pleased, so he gave her a look so searing no one observing the pair could mistake his thoughts.

  And Marjorie, silly, wonderful girl, laughed, delighted with his sense of play. It was at that moment, when he should have been guarding his heart, when the music and dancers swirled around them, that he fell just a little bit in love with Lady Marjorie Penwhistle. He cleared his mind so that particular thought wouldn’t be as apparent.

  “But I do want to ravish you,” he said blandly. “What would you do if I kissed you right now, right here on the dance floor?”

  “I’d slap you, very hard,” she said sternly, but there was a delighted light in her eyes.

  “And yet I sense you want me to kiss you.”

  “That’s not at all the point. If I allowed a kiss without a great show of protest, I’d be forced to walk down the aisle with you. And we both know that would be a disaster. So, yes, I would slap you.”

  At that moment, another pair of dancers jostled them a bit, causing Charles to misstep. The result was an ungodly shooting pain that all but sent him in agony to the floor.

  Marjorie looked stricken, but he smiled grimly, even as his entire body was almost instantly bathed in a cold sweat. He suffered through it, continued dancing, and it was only when the music finally, mercifully stopped and the pain began to subside that he realized, to his horror, he’d been crushing her hand. And she’d been silent, letting him do it, letting him nearly break the fragile bones.

  “My God, I do apologize, my lady. You’ll be bruised. I’m so very sorry.”

  She smiled at him and rubbed one hand with the other. “Please do not worry. It didn’t truly hurt.” She held up her hand and flexed it in front of him to prove she was unhurt, but all he saw was the glaring red marks left by his fingers. “My goodness, Mr. Norris, you look as though you just murdered my kitten. I assure you, I am perfectly fine.”

  He nodded, but he didn’t believe her. Suddenly, this business of finding a wife seemed futile. How could he court a girl if he couldn’t even dance with her, if he could hardly carry on a conversation? He wished he could forgo it all and simply pick someone.

  He knew, of course, that would never do. He was still just enough of a romantic fool to want to love his wife.

  “Who is next on your list?” he asked abruptly, almost angrily, though he wasn’t quite sure where that anger came from.

  Marjorie drew back, as if the question surprised her, but she answered immediately. “Miss Mary Crandall. Her father, Sir Arthur, was knighted some time ago. It was one of the queen’s first acts when she assumed the crown.”

  “I know the Crandalls. Their son went to school with us. He was younger, but he was an extraordinary cricket player.” He stopped momentarily when she made a face at his mention of cricket. He ignored her and continued. “Made first team his first year at Cambridge.” He tried to remember what he knew of the family, as he hadn’t seen Jonathan Crandall in more than fifteen years. “But since I won’t be marrying Jonathan Crandall, tell me about Mary.”

  “She’s a bit shy, but rather nice. She is a patron of the arts and is deeply involved with the London Asylum for Poor Orphan Girls. She is here if you’d like an introduction.”

  His leg gave him a twinge. “Not tonight. I’m not really good company and I’d like to be at my best if I’m about to meet my future bride.”

  She scanned the room and he couldn’t help letting his eyes drift to the graceful curve of her neck; one dark curl had fallen just behind her ear and he had the sudden image of himself brushing it aside so he could lay his lips there. “Ah, there she is, dancing with Lord Maplewood.”

  He dragged his eyes away from her curl and followed her gaze. “The girl in the gray dress? With the mousy brown hair?”

  Marjorie playfully tapped him on his arm. “She is a very lovely girl,” she said.

  “No. She’s too small.” Charles nodded toward a stunning young girl, her golden blond hair swept artistically upon her lovely head. He knew immediately he’d never seen her before. “What of her?” he asked with a nod toward the blonde.

  Marjorie frowned. “That’s Lady Caroline Stanley.”

  “Lord Warwick’s daughter?”

  “Yes. I imagine you know them?”

  “My father is good friends with Warwick.” He smiled. “Find out about her. Learn if she’s promised to someone. Hell, I can find out myself. I’ll write to my mother. She’ll know.”

  “But she’s . . . so young and her father’s an earl.”

  “My father is a viscount. Why do you continually forget that? Let me tell you something Lady Marjorie, there is not a single mother, with one glaring exception, who would not be overjoyed to be linked with the Norris name and the Hartley title. My family’s lineage is pristine and I daresay there are few titles as respected as my father’s. I suspect your opinion has been marred by your mother’s prejudice. Or perhaps it’s your own prejudice that is rearing its ugly head. Lady Caroline is perfect for me.” He was angry and he knew he sounded angry, so angry he didn’t even care that she looked stricken.

  Marjorie knew why she hadn’t suggested Lady Mary. It was because she was perfect for Mr. Norris. She felt purely horrified by this realization. “Of course she is. I’ll introduce her to you tomorrow night. They attend the opera the opening night of every performance and La Traviata is opening tomorrow. I’ll make certain I’m there.” Marjorie felt unaccountably like crying. She’d remembered considering Lady Mary, but had immediately crossed her from the list. And it was because her father was an earl, but part of her now realized it was also because she knew deep in her heart that Lady Mary and Mr.
Norris would be a wonderful match. And her job would be done. She would have no reason to meet him secretly, no reason to leave notes. No reason to dance with him. No reason to touch him.

  “This is my dance, I believe.”

  Marjorie looked up to see a solemn-faced young man looking at her, his gloved hand extended. Who was he again? She hadn’t the foggiest notion. But she smiled and laid her hand in his as he took her to the dance floor.

  The rest of the evening dragged on interminably. Charles had disappeared, either heading home or to the card room. She danced all her dances with little enthusiasm, noting her mother was paying little attention to her. Instead, she spent much of the evening glaring at George, who hardly strayed from the side of Lilianne Cavendish, their neighbor in Ipswich. Her father was landed gentry, a squire of good standing, who’d always been a pleasant fellow. George had danced with her twice, and Marjorie wondered if he were more than a little smitten.

  Finally, it was time to leave. Marjorie’s feet ached almost as badly as her hand did, she thought ruefully. There was a long queue of people waiting for their hats and coats; her mother stood stiff and silent by her side, no doubt still a bit miffed by her rebellion earlier that evening. Some sort of commotion ahead of them was slowing their progress, and Marjorie strained her neck to see what was happening. When she realized what it was, she blanched. Something had happened with George.

  Leaning toward her mother, Marjorie whispered, “It’s George. I’ll see what’s happening, shall I?”

  Her mother’s expression turned even more stony. “Go on.”

  Marjorie made her way to the front of the queue of people awaiting their hats and coats to find George highly agitated and holding a hat in a hand that shook.

  “This isn’t my hat, sir. My hat is from Beale & Inman.” He jabbed his finger at the silk label inside the top hat. “This hat is from Tollings. This isn’t my hat, sir.”

  The beleaguered footman kept apologizing and trying to explain that George’s hat must have been mistakenly given to another gentleman, but George wouldn’t—or couldn’t—stop objecting.

  “This isn’t my hat,” he said again.

  As Marjorie passed by, one man said beneath his breath, “I believe we’ve established the fact that it isn’t his hat. Is he daft?”

  Marjorie felt her face flush red as the footman wrested the wrong hat from George’s hand, which only created more anxiety in her brother. At that moment, a large manly shape moved past her and toward her brother, who stood now tapping his fingers together in a silent clap of fretfulness.

  “Lord Summerfield,” Mr. Norris said. “Where do you get your hats?”

  George was momentarily distracted and smiled a greeting, first at Marjorie, then at Mr. Norris, who looked down at her and gave her a reassuring wink. What a lovely gesture, that wink. “Beale & Inman. But that hat,” George said, pointing, “is from Tollings.”

  “Well then, I can certainly understand your concern. Tollings is far inferior to Beale & Inman. I, myself, get my hats there. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we go tomorrow and get you another hat, just like the one lost this evening? I’d lend you mine, but I noticed you prefer a taller top hat and mine is only six inches. Yours is nearly eight, is it not?”

  Her cousin Jeffrey sidled up next to her, apparently drawn by the small commotion. “He’s so charming, your brother, isn’t he? I must go to Beale & Inman tomorrow and tell them of your brother’s great loyalty to their hats.”

  Marjorie ignored her cousin’s words and instead watched with relief as Charles took charge of the situation.

  “Seven and three quarters,” George said, visibly relaxing. It was as if the embarrassing incident had never happened. Mr. Norris had maneuvered George aside so others could retrieve their hats and coats, and the impatient murmurs had ended. “Tomorrow is Tuesday. I could meet you there at two in the afternoon.”

  “Two it is, then.” Then Mr. Norris glanced briefly at her, and added, “Perhaps your sister can join us.”

  “She cannot,” Dorothea said in a tone so cool Marjorie half expected frost to emit from her lips.

  Mr. Norris bowed politely to her mother and turned to George. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Summerfield. Perhaps afterward we can go to Brooks.”

  Dorothea took Marjorie’s arm rather roughly and hauled her toward their wraps, which were quickly retrieved. Marjorie didn’t dare look back to give Mr. Norris a smile of thanks.

  The ride back home in the carriage was silent and thick with tension. Dorothea was livid, Marjorie could tell, and sat stiffly across from her. It was rare indeed, that her mother expressed anger toward her. She was often disappointed, but rarely angry, and Marjorie felt a bit more trepidation than usual. Still, she had no patience for her mother tonight and was feeling unaccountably depressed about the entire evening. And her hand ached terribly. She’d lied to Mr. Norris about how much it had hurt when he’d gripped her hand, but now wished she’d been more honest. She’d seen little of him at the ball after their discussion about Lady Caroline, and the entire conversation had left her feeling out of sorts. Worse, before departing the ballroom, he’d stared at Lady Caroline as if he were leaving his intended for the evening.

  When they entered their townhouse, Dorothea snapped, “I want to speak to you in the parlor.”

  “I’m tired, Mother. I’m going to bed.” Marjorie was sick to tears of her mother’s lectures on how she should or should not act. With whom she should dance or flirt or consider as a husband. All she wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep, perhaps for a week or two so she could miss watching Mr. Norris fall in love. She’d just started to turn away from her mother when the side of her face exploded with a burning pain and a loud crack of flesh hitting flesh resounded in her ringing ear.

  Marjorie’s hand flew to her burning cheek as she stared, stunned, at her mother’s enraged face.

  “You will not disobey me again,” she spat. “I have invested far too much in you to have you throw away all that I’ve worked for. You will marry and you will marry this year. I shall pick out your husband and you will marry. And you shall never speak to Mr. Norris again. I want you to know what will happen if you choose to marry someone I do not approve of. You will never be allowed in this home again. I will disown you entirely. That is how serious I am about this. Is that what you want, Marjorie? Are you trying to break my heart with your obstinacy?

  “I have sacrificed much over the years for you. I have spent money we don’t have on Worth gowns and balls and lavish entertainments, all in the name of finding you the best possible husband. And this is the thanks I get. Throwing it in my face, making a mockery of me in front of my closest and dearest friends. Do you not know the comments I had to endure this evening because of your foolishness? Do you not care about our reputation? You will never dance with that man again. You will be a good and obedient daughter as you have been up until this evening. You will do these things because you are a good daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

  Her hand still pressing to her face, Marjorie’s eyes filled with tears. Her mother, as stern and stalwart as she was, had never struck her.

  “Answer me! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “This has gone on long enough. I blame myself for my lenience with you. You’ve become willful and disobedient. I’ve allowed you to make your own decisions, but that is over. I will decide whom you marry. You have forfeited your rights in this matter this evening by blatantly disobeying me and dancing with that man.”

  Dread filled Marjorie as she realized what it would mean for her to be married, to be out of their home, to be away from George, who needed her so. Her mind reeling, and feeling her will dissolving, she shook her head. She might have laughed at her mother’s expression had she not been quite so terrified.

  “I’m not a child, Mother. You cannot force me to do your will. I understand your anger, truly I do, but you cannot force me to marry a man I do not want.”

&nb
sp; Her mother gave the most horrible smile at that moment, one that chilled Marjorie and was more frightening than the threat of being struck.

  “We shall see about that, my dear. Good night.”

  Her mother marched up the stairs, leaving Marjorie alone to wonder what sort of plan lay behind that threat.

  Chapter 6

  Forty years earlier

  It was June tenth. In just five more days, Dorothea would be on a coach headed for Ipswich and a life of isolation with her widowed Aunt Frances. Each day that passed made her more desperate to find some reason to put off the trip. She even began to pray she’d become desperately ill and unable to travel. Perhaps Lord Smythe would hear of her illness and come to visit, realize how very much he loved her, and beg her to marry him.

  She knew such fantasies were ridiculous, but couldn’t stop her mind from creating scenarios in which he fell to his knees and asked her to marry him.

  Ascot must be perfect. She must look her best. She must wear the most charming dress, the loveliest hat, especially on the first day, when the royal procession arrived. She must stand out. She must make Lord Smythe look at her anew. She wasn’t a friend. No, she could be a wife, bear his children. Never a slim girl, she tried desperately to lose weight, and succeeded a bit. Even her maid commented on how her dresses were a bit looser. It was a small triumph.

  Her maid tried a variety of hairstyles, finally settling on the one that would be the most flattering beneath a hat. Dorothea practiced her smile, her laugh. She pretended to have conversations with him so that she wouldn’t be so nervous when she finally did see him. He would look at her, stunned, and realize she was more than handsome. She was pretty and still young enough. And she had a brain and loved the same things he did. She studied her copy of Revue Horticole so they would have something to talk about. She read every article in the Spectator about the upcoming race, the competitors, the horses. Everything she did, everything she read, every thought she had in the two weeks preceding Ascot was on how to attract Lord Smythe.