The Marriage Mart (15 page)

Mary laughed then, and the mood in the carriage lightened, as was inevitable whenever they laughed together. It had been uncomfortable, this unusual constraint between them, and John was happy to put it behind him.

***

Uncomfortable moment,
Mary thought, adding
almost as uncomfortable as having to conduct my growing relationship with Charles under John’s keen eyes.

It was difficult, Mary considered as the occupants of the carriage went quiet, for with Charles she acted one way, and with John another, more direct way.

But that way, after all, was what John had always insisted upon, and he ought not to take it amiss if she acted more circumspect with others. Indeed, she thought somewhat militantly, what business of his was it if she had chosen even, say, to be an outright hypocrite? She need spare no blushes for the inanities that society forced her to utter, the “ladylike” conduct that was expected, not if those things meant Charles was to be drawn to her. This other relationship, with John, now
there
was the peculiar one!

No, she could not follow her instincts--the ones that cried out to be far and away from those bright blue, searching eyes whenever she happened to be in Lord Bretwyn’s company. Of course John would have to be a witness to such. If she felt any awkwardness, well, she must simply make herself
not
do so.

She avoided Mrs. Pennett’s gaze, as did John, for the remainder of the ride.

Mary stepped away from her partner, her cheeks flushed from their exertions and the lieutenant’s conversation. He might be a trifle dull when it came to discussing a number of subjects, but one had merely to breathe a word of “the army” or “politics”, and suddenly he was erudite and witty, a repository of any number of sparkling tales from his military experiences.

“Sir, you make me believe I have been to India myself,” Mary complimented him.

“I should think you would enjoy India. Not every woman can adapt, but I know you would see beyond the beggars and the uncleanliness, and see much of the beauty that I have seen there.”

His eyes glowed as he spoke, as much for her as for India, she fancied. The compliment, and the hint of more than mere approval were not lost on her. She was therefore in the best of moods when a late entrance was made. It was hard to miss the occurrence, for a ripple spread through the crowd, bringing more than just Mary’s eyes in the direction of their hostess, Mrs. Throgmorton, who stood greeting the latecomer.

It was none other than Miss Yardley, which in and of itself was unexpected, but then, too, there was John as escort, with Miss Yardley’s hand plainly set upon his sleeve.

Mary was not aware that her smile had faded; she did not realize the blood drained from her face, and that she had caught her lower lip between her teeth. She knew, however, that the dark head so near the fiery glory of John’s own made for a remarkably striking picture, and she heard the murmurs of assent to that fact all around her.

“I’m here for my dance,” Lord Faver said near her, causing her to jump. She’d had no idea he was there.

“Yes,” she said a little unsteadily, but when he took her hand in his, she was glad he had come for her. It gave her time to recover from her surprise, and to paste a smile back on her face. Somehow she found herself speaking of the very thing that had nonplussed her. “Do you know the lady who has just arrived?”

Lord Faver glanced in the direction of the dark-haired beauty. “No.”

“Well, I do. She is Miss Annalee Yardley.”

“Yardley? Seems a name I might have heard once or twice.” Lord Faver pondered, his young face reflecting curiosity until he shook his head.

“They keep mostly to their estate in Kent,” Mary explained. “We met in the country. Lovely family. Do you wish for an introduction?” Mary asked, almost biting her tongue as soon as the words came out. What was she thinking of, offering to make introductions? Well, why shouldn’t she? They
were
acquaintances. It was just she had not expected to see the lady...or John…tonight.

What a ninny!
she chided herself, vowing she would recover her poise right now. Right this minute. Immediately.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she suddenly recalled herself and realized Lord Faver had answered her, and she had not heard him.

“I said ‘No, thank you’. I want nothing to do with a high flyer such as she.”

“Why, Lord Faver, you surprise me. What do you think
you
are, if not a high flyer?”

“I’m not, Lady Mary, not a bit of it. Look at her, a beauty on Rothayne’s arm. She’ll be called an
incomparable
before the evening is out. But me, I know I’m far too bookish, and serious-minded. The ladies tell me so all the time. They laugh at me, and tell me it’s a good thing I can dance, as I cannot speak.”

“My lord--”

“No, it’s true. Some fellows have the gift of gab, but I do not. Not in a crowd like this, anyway. Oh, with you it’s different, because you’re not…”

“A high flyer?” she supplied for him, one eyebrow arched, but her smile softened the effect.

“Well, no. You are. And you’re not.” He flushed. “Dash it all, you know what I mean! Such as right now. Most ladies would give me a rap with their fans and never speak to me again, but I know
you
won’t take particular umbrage and make me squirm and feel like a buffoon. You might laugh, but it would be kind laughter, you understand?” he finished, obviously aggravated. “High-flyers are never so kind as you.”

“Well, thank you for the compliments, my lord,” she gave the words the chime of truth, not wanting to fluster him further by letting on he’d insulted her several times despite his efforts otherwise. “And as a favor, I will take you away to the punch bowl, where we both may linger and watch the goings-on.”

He approved heartily, if his relieved expression was anything by which to judge, and they found themselves quite unmolested for a quarter hour behind the punch bowl. In time, when Mary spied a singularly inoffensive and gentle girl, Miss Lupton, she made the effort required to set the two together for a dance. Seeing them safely among the other dancers, Mary sighed and made as if to move among the matrons and take a seat for a spell, but it was not to be. For when she turned in that direction, she all but collided with John.

“I have been looking for you for hours,” he said.

“Hardly. You arrived not even half an hour ago.”

“So you noticed? I didn’t think you had. Did you save me any dances, you scamp? Or has Bretwyn demanded all of them?”

“I have been tending Lord Faver, poor pup. He would be the happiest of lads if he could only bring himself to find some nice, steady girl to marry.”

“Yes, I had heard there were fellows such as that, ones who actually
desire
the end of bachelorhood.”

“You are the matchmaking expert here. Perhaps you should see he meets the proper girl,” Mary said, warming up to their usual bantering style.

“One match at a time, dear girl. Speaking of which, is Bretwyn not here tonight?”

She refused to react to his implication. “No, he is very involved right now in his investments. He deplores the fact it means his absence, but duty calls.”

“Then I will claim several of what would have been his dances.”

“As with any gentleman, he was promised but two.”

“I am not ‘any gentleman’, so I am to have four.”

“Two.”

“Mary, Mary,” John shook his head mournfully. “You are forever squelching my attempts to ruin you.”

“Duty calls,” she repeated, smiling, but not sweetly. “But, in truth, what of Miss Yardley? Have you so soon abandoned her?”

“Never that,” John said, looking over his shoulder to where a knot of gentlemen stood around the lady in question. “As I feared, Miss Yardley is inundated with offers of dance partners. ‘Tis why I chose to arrive with her, that I might have first choice before she promised all her other dances away.”

“When did she arrive in London?” Mary asked, biting back the additional--and impertinent--questions of “how” and “why.”

“This morning. She sent me a note, as I am one of her few acquaintances in London.”

“Never say she sent a note to a bachelor’s resident!” Mary didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled.

John gave a seemingly unperturbed nod. “Mary, did you know she is but sixteen?”

“Truly?” she asked, her face registering further surprise. “Hers is not the round-cheeked look of great youth. I admit I would have guessed she had at least several years more.”

“It does rather explain why she seems…uninformed. Or perhaps better say
shy
at times. I do not think her parents intended for her to have a season this year.”

Until you came into their orbit,
Mary said to herself.

“And why she seems…sometimes unclear as to what she means to be saying.”

So you noticed her blatant/innocent combination, did you?
Mary thought. And what was the dancing light in his eyes: was that amusement? Or a growing attraction, perhaps? Mary surveyed the group of would-be dance partners, catching an occasional glimpse of the fluttering, smiling Miss Yardley among them. Well, for pity’s sake, how could John not be attracted to the young lovely?  Perhaps Hortense was right, and it would take a particular kind of female to bring John to the altar. He couldn’t fail to note how much stir she had caused already, just by making an appearance. Such a pretty creature could easily become the
incomparable
Lord Faver had already named her, with a little luck and a little skill. If Rothayne wished it, he could lend his support in that direction…and what man would not want a woman he was thinking of taking to wife to be the greatest social success?

“My dance, dearest. The music is beginning,” John said to Mary, taking her hand in his. As usual, his touch sent a shiver up and down her arm, but she turned into the dance without allowing herself to consider it.

After the last note faded, he excused himself. “To check on my protégée,” he explained.

Mary noted Lord Bretwyn had made a belated entry--but she avoided him by making sure her promised partners found her and took her into the dance sets. Just when she thought Charles might have left the dance altogether, he reappeared far across the room. It seemed he was making his way to her side, just when Mrs. Pennett stepped up to her. Mary claimed she did not feel well, and they managed to slip out of the house without engaging him. She was tired, of dancing, of smiling, of being polite and tactful. Charles deserved better company than she would have given him. Thankfully, as the carriage carried her home, Gladys seemed lost to her own thoughts and said not a word.

***

Mary could not know that Mrs. Pennett had spent well over a quarter hour in Lord Bretwyn’s company before rejoining her charge. She had struck up a conversation with the man, persuading him into an alcove that others might not steal him away for a dance.

She had seen too much in her charge’s eyes, seen things that worried her. If she had ever seen those same things in Lord Rothayne’s eyes, she might not have worried so, but whenever the marquess’s eyes had met hers when Mary was otherwise occupied, he had given her a big, blank look that spoke volumes.

His lack of comprehension had spurred her on, reminded her that Mary was seeking a husband, not a mere friend, and that she, Gladys Pennett, had sworn to find such for the girl, and the sooner the better. The season was winding down; time was running short. There was no time for mere games; it was time to have a declaration, from one gentleman if not the other. And the one was so much more likely than the other anyway, so far as husband-making material went.

So she had cornered Lord Bretwyn, running a list of Mary’s attributes up one of his sides and down the other. He, being a gentleman, had kindly agreed with her, and had even been so bold as to utter a few words of praise for the lady himself, until Mrs. Pennett actually asked him what were his intentions.

“Well, er, that is to say…my intentions, you ask?” Lord Bretwyn had sputtered.

“Yes.”

“I…uh, well, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Pennett, I have not been all that convinced Lady Mary has set her heart in my direction. In point of fact, I have wondered if she and Lord Ro--”

“But, my lord, this is why I asked to speak with you! I was worried Mary’s natural shyness would manifest itself as a sign of indifference. I must tell you, she speaks of you constantly when we are alone together. She tells me how kind you are, how cultured, how well-read,” she went on, adding any number of compliments, some of which Mary had actually uttered.

Lord Bretwyn colored in an attractive, flattered fashion. “Does she, by Jove?” he murmured.

Mrs. Pennett assured him it was true.

He shrugged, and half-laughed, clearly embarrassed to be discussing such a matter with a mere companion, but doing so anyway, a tell-tale sign to Mrs. Pennett’s mind. “But how I am to know these things for myself?” he finally asked, the tips of his ears still scarlet at the abundant praise she’d heaped upon his head.

“Well, you’ve only to ask if she’ll marry you. Either answer will tell you the truth, won’t it?” Mrs. Pennett said, and her eyes actually glowed when Lord Bretwyn considered for a long moment, and finally nodded.

After that she had let him go, unable to do more to promote her darling Mary with the eminently eligible gentleman. She had planted the seed, and now she could only stand back and watch to see whether it would bloom and grow, or not.

***

“Lady Mary,” Charles greeted her three nights later as he approached her side.

“Lord Bretwyn,” she said, not using his first name since they were in public. Everyone had moved outside--thrilled the rain had ceased for an hour now--to enjoy a short fireworks display with which the host had surprised them.

She looked at Charles, heard the seriousness of his tone. Over their heads, another display exploded, all red, momentarily lighting their features a bit ghoulishly before their features settled back into indistinct shades of gray. He put a hand on her sleeve, pulling her back a few steps, so they were near to neither Lady Hammand nor Mrs. Pennett. “I shan’t be flowery. It’s not my way. But, what say you? Will you marry me, then, dearest Mary?” he asked in a low voice, near her ear, that she might hear him over the sound of the next exploding firework that momentarily gilded both their faces.

She’d been prepared for the question for two days--since the morning after having fled from him at the Throgmorton cotillion. She’d avoided him then--she’d admitted to herself as she’d pushed aside her morning tea--because the sight of him had brought with it the possibility of his making her an offer. Mary’d had no answer for him then, had he had the chance to ask--but she’d had time since to recollect what she must say should the moment come.