Promise Me Tomorrow (19 page)

Marianne let him watch for a while, but then she whipped her fan open and held it up before her face, leaning close to Bucky. “I think I shall scream if I have to listen to another insipid recital this evening.”

Bucky glanced at her, startled. Marianne dimpled at him, wafting her fan in front of her face with practiced grace. “Let us escape, shall we?”

His eyes widened at the audacity of her suggestion. A young woman did not normally leave a room of chaperones, although at a more informal gathering such as this it would not be an absolute scandal. And married women were allowed a trifle more license than an unmarried girl. But it was nothing short of bold behavior for a woman to be the one to suggest departing.

Bucky cast a quick glance around. Marianne tapped his wrist playfully with her fan. “Come, come, Lord Buckminster, don’t tell me you are a
cautious
man.” She invested the word with a wealth of scorn.

“It is just—” he cast a glance toward the piano, where Penelope still stood “—well, it might seem a bit rude, don’t you think?”

“Penelope won’t mind,” Marianne said with a dismissive shrug. “It is only a little song, anyway.”

She gave him a dazzling smile, and he stood up reluctantly. Casting another look toward Penelope, he followed Marianne out of the room. Most of the people, watching the front of the room, did not see them slip out the door, but Marianne saw that Lord Lambeth’s sharp eyes followed them. She glanced back to see him glowering blackly at her. She raised her eyebrows lazily at him and swept out the door.

“Isn’t this nice?” she asked, linking her arm through Lord Buckminster’s.

“Quite.” He grinned foolishly back at her, his recent doubts overcome by the beauty of her smile.

“What treat do you have planned for us tomorrow, Lord Buckminster?” she asked gaily, knowing full well from Nicola that they planned a hunt.

His grin broadened. “A hunt. Nothing big, of course. Not really the season, but it seems a pity to waste the opportunity.”

“A hunt!” Marianne drew her mouth down into a pout. “Oh, no, really, that is too bad. Don’t tell me that you are going to go haring off tomorrow and leave me all alone again!”

“You must come with us.”

Marianne groaned. “Another ride! Yesterday was bad enough! Going all that way on horseback just for those silly Falls. But to dash all over the countryside, jumping over hedges and such—it is really too much. Why can’t we do something else? Something fun?”

Buckminster stared at her in dismay. “But—but—I can’t call it off now, Mrs. Cotterwood. Everyone is expecting it.”

“But you don’t have to go,” Marianne pointed out. “You could stay here with me.” She smiled brilliantly at him. “Wouldn’t that be more fun?”

“Stay here?” he repeated faintly. Marianne had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from giggling at the dismayed look on his face.

“Why, yes. Everyone else can have their fun, and you and I shall have our own private tête-à-tête.”

“Ah, well, there will be some others here, of course. Lady Merridale, I believe.”

“Then that will take care of propriety,” Marianne pointed out.

“But, truly, I could not miss my own hunt,” he protested, looking rather queasy at the thought. “It—it just wouldn’t be the thing.”

“Lady Buckminster will be there. Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, but, Marianne…” He looked pained. “It is a highlight of the visit.”

“You would rather go than be with me!” Marianne cried, her eyes flashing. “You care for me so little? I can see how much all your fine protestations of respect and affection are worth. You have no regard for me at all!”

“No! No, that isn’t true!” Buckminster assured her earnestly. “My regard for you is the highest.”

“Hmph!” Marianne turned away from him and began to walk briskly back toward the music room. Bucky followed her miserably.

“Please, Mrs. Cotterwood, listen to me. I assure you—”

Marianne whirled around. “Your assurances mean nothing. It is clear how unimportant I am to you.”

“No, please, you mustn’t think that!”

“What else am I to think? You prefer the company of horses and hounds to me.”

“Never!”

Marianne used all the tricks she could remember the Quartermaines’ daughter using to get her way. She stormed; she pouted; she sulked; she froze him out with icy silence, until finally, with a hangdog expression, Bucky agreed that he would stay with her instead of joining the hunt.

She had a moment’s qualm, looking at him, but then she reminded herself that with any luck, this would be the final blow that would knock the young man out of his infatuation with her and straight into the arms of the woman who loved him.

She did not return with him to the music room, but, pleading a headache, went straight up to her room. She had no desire to be with him to hear the astonished comments and pleadings of his friends.

There was a soft tap on her door later, and when she opened it, Nicola and Penelope slipped inside. Penelope looked troubled, but Nicola was grinning.

“However did you manage that!” she exclaimed. “Bucky not going on a hunt is like—well, it’s like nothing else. It’s unimaginable.”

“I played every trick I could think of. I was, in short, an unmitigated
witch.
I was beginning to think it wouldn’t work, but then he gave in.”

“He looked so unhappy,” Penelope said worriedly.

Marianne smiled and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. It will only be a little while longer. I predict that by the time you get back tomorrow, Lord Buckminster will never want to see me again.”

Nicola chuckled. Penelope looked doubtful. “Do you really think so?”

Marianne nodded. “Absolutely. I intend to make sure that he is immensely bored and thinking all the while of all of you out enjoying yourselves. Then, when you come in, he will want to hear all about it and, hopefully, want to pour out all his disillusionment about me into sympathetic ears.”

“That’s you,” Nicola said, pointing a finger at Penelope.

“What if I muck it up?”

“You won’t,” Nicola assured her. “That part is entirely natural to you. Just look at him as you look now, brimming with empathy and love. Listen to what he says, and agree and murmur encouragement. In scarcely no time, he will have forgotten all about Mrs. Cotterwood, except to be glad that his eyes were opened in time, and he will have realized what a splendid girl you are. It’s perfect!”

“You might even suggest that he have another hunt the next day,” Marianne added. “Then the two of you can enjoy it together, and he can be reminded of how well you suit each other.”

“This is all working out perfectly.” Nicola beamed and gave Marianne an impulsive hug. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“So am I,” Marianne returned honestly. She wished, with a pang, that she could be truly close to them, that she could tell them her thoughts and hopes and dreams. But the gulf between them was huge, she knew, and if they knew what she really was, she was certain that they would shun her.
Once they returned to London, what would she do?

The other two went to their rooms, and Marianne turned to her bed, feeling immeasurably sad. It seemed to her that she no longer fit anywhere. All her old assumptions about the aristocracy had been shaken the past few days. She truly liked Nicola and Penelope and Bucky. But she was not really one of them; the life she lived here was a pretense. On the other hand, she felt separated from Della and the others; they would never understand her reluctance to take property from these titled, wealthy idlers. Something in her rebelled at the thought of continuing to live the life of deception and criminality that she had been living.
But how was she to survive and provide for her daughter if she did not? And if she stopped working with the others, she would certainly never be able to afford to mingle with her new friends.

Then there was Justin.
Just the thought of him brought tears to her eyes. He desired her, but he did not love her, and even his pursuit of her was spurred by his belief that she meant to take advantage of his friend Bucky. He had no real feeling for her—and she feared that she was beginning to care all too much for him.

It was, she thought, all a terrible mess. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, closing her eyes on her tears.
If only she had never gone to Lady Batterslee’s party…. If only she had never met Lord Lambeth….

“Y
OU ARE LATE
.” L
ORD
E
XMOOR
turned from his contemplation of the broad pond to face the man who had just entered the summerhouse.

“I came the long way, through the garden. I thought there was less chance of anyone seeing me that way. A boat is a trifle conspicuous on the pond at night.”

“Are you sure it isn’t simply reluctance? The same reluctance that causes you to make a mull of everything you try with Mrs. Cotterwood?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I am talking about your latest pathetic attempt to get rid of the woman. Pushing her into the River Lyd? Really! Even if she had fallen in—which, I might remind you, she did not—the odds are that she would have done no worse than get wet and acquire a few bruises. Besides, it was absolutely unacceptable to do it while I was there! That defeats the whole purpose of the thing.”

“Which is, of course, to protect you, and everyone else be damned,” his companion retorted bitterly.

“But of course.” The Earl allowed himself a thin smile. “Protecting me means protecting yourself, old chap, as you well know, though I realize that you have become such a paragon that it turns you quite queasy to think of doing the woman in.”

“I was
never
a murderer!” the other man snapped. “Not even in my darkest, most wicked moments.”

“I had some trouble with it myself…once,” Exmoor replied. “Fortunately, I overcame my inhibitions.”

“Then why don’t
you
kill her, if it is so easy for you?”

“We have discussed this before. It is your responsibility.”

“She has seen me several times now, face to face, and there has not been the slightest hint of recognition,” the younger man pointed out reasonably. “She has no memory of me, and I am sure she has even less of you. There is no possibility that she will turn either of us in.”

“One never knows what might trigger a memory, especially if we allow the Countess to get hold of her. Her man is looking for the woman, too. We are not the only ones. I personally have no desire to bet my freedom against Mrs. Cotterwood recovering her memory—or parts of it, at least—when she meets her grandmother. Therefore, I suggest that you finish her off before the Countess locates her. It would be most unfortunate, don’t you think, if certain persons learned the full depths of your past?”

“I will do it. I have a plan. Yesterday was not planned. I simply saw the chance and took it, knowing that it might work and it might not. Nothing was lost by it. But I have a plan laid out, and I will take care of her. But have a care, my lord. This thing works both ways, you know. We both know that if you start spreading stories about me, I can reveal just as much about you as you can about me. I am sure the Dowager Countess would be quite interested in what I have to say.”

Exmoor’s eyes narrowed. “Are you daring to threaten me?”

“No threat. Simply a reminder.”

“It would appear we are at a stalemate, then. Just remember that our interests lie in the same direction. Now, what is this plan of yours?”

The other man shook his head. “Let’s let it be a surprise, shall we? So much easier for you to appear innocent, after all. Good night, my lord.”

He turned and walked out of the summerhouse. The Earl watched him go thoughtfully.
The man could turn out to be dangerous. Perhaps, when the matter of the girl was taken care of, he might have to make certain that his accomplice would never talk, either.

W
HEN
M
ARIANNE WENT DOWN TO
breakfast the next morning, she found Lord Buckminster gloomily waiting for her. Lady Merridale, delighted to find a listening ear on a morning when she had thought to be left entirely alone, was happily describing to him her shopping expedition into the local village the day before. Bucky rose and greeted Marianne with great relief.

Marianne, suppressing her qualms, did not help him elude the talkative Sophronia, however. Much to Lord Buckminster’s dismay, she engaged in an extended conversation with Lady Merridale on the merits of shopping in the village. After that, she regaled Bucky with several tales of buying this or that dress, or the great searches upon which she had engaged for exactly the right hat.

After breakfast, she turned down Bucky’s suggestion of a stroll in the garden, declaring that it was far too warm. Instead, they joined Lady Merridale in the drawing room, where Marianne spent the rest of the morning in a verbal contest to see which of them could tell the most boring stories. Firmly she redirected every conversational gambit back to herself—her clothes, her many admirers, her home, her distaste for horses and for most forms of physical exercise. Even Sophronia, she was pleased to notice, could not surpass her in banality, and Marianne felt she quite outstripped the other woman in terms of self-absorption.

Bucky, she noticed, had trouble keeping from nodding off. When the hunting party returned, the relief on his face was laughable. He jumped from his seat, sketching as brief a bow to the ladies as courtesy would allow, and hurried out into the hall. Marianne trailed after him to the door and looked out. She was pleased to note that Penelope managed to be the first person Lord Buckminster met, and the two of them were soon engaged in an animated conversation. Smiling, Marianne slipped away.

“Y
OU SEEM TO HAVE DONE YOUR
job excellently,” Nicola murmured to Marianne, linking her arm through Marianne’s as she caught up with her in the hall after the noon repast. “I noticed that Bucky did not look at you once throughout the meal.”

“He was probably terrified that I would break into another account of one of my dresses, down to the last frill and furbelow.”

Nicola chuckled. “Oh, no, did you inflict that on the poor man?”

Marianne nodded, grinning. “Yes. It was quite fun, actually, to try to be a bore instead of trying to make people like one. I think I may take it up as a hobby.”

“I understand Lady Merridale joined you.”

“Oh, yes. We had quite a little gabfest. I don’t think poor Bucky managed to get in more than a word or two all morning. I concentrated on being egotistical and boring. I think I’ve displayed my fangs enough—although, of course, I did manage to slip in a catty remark or two about Lady Merridale when she left the room. Of course, I was sickeningly sweet to her face.”

“It sounds like a performance worthy of the stage.”

“I hope so. With luck, this should be one of the last I shall be obliged to make. I expect Bucky to avoid me like the plague now.”

“He talked with Penelope all through luncheon. Did you notice?”

“Once or twice. Between Mr. Westerton chattering in my ear about the ball Friday night and Sir William describing the hunt in exhausting detail, I had little attention to spare for anything else.” She saw no point in mentioning that a great deal of her attention had been directed toward the other end of the table, where Lord Lambeth had sat chatting and laughing with Cecilia Winborne. “I did notice, however, that they left the dining room together.”

“Yes. I think they were going to the conservatory.”

“Ah. Then I think that we should turn toward the drawing room, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

They made their way to the drawing room, where Mrs. Thurston was in quiet conversation with Mrs. Minton and Mr. Fuquay. The occupants of the room greeted them with smiles, and they spent a few pleasant moments chatting about the beauty of the Buckminster gardens.

“I particularly like the rose arbor,” Marianne admitted. “It’s a very pleasant place to sit.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Thurston agreed. “But have you visited the summerhouse? The view is absolutely marvelous.”

Marianne’s hands clenched in her lap, and she hoped that her face was not as flushed as it felt. “The—the summerhouse?”

“Yes, the charming little gazebo across the pond,” Mr. Fuquay explained.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. No, I—I am afraid I have not been there.” She hoped that no one had seen her returning from it the morning before. She simply could not admit that she had been there with Lord Lambeth; she knew that it would have been clear from her face exactly what had happened.

“Why, you should,” Mrs. Thurston commented. “Nicola, you and Mrs. Cotterwood should persuade some of the gentlemen to take you there.”

“I would be happy to accompany you,” Fuquay offered politely.

“That is very kind of you. Perhaps we shall,” Nicola agreed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

At that moment Sophronia Merridale sailed into the room, and it was all Marianne could do to repress a groan. She did not know how much more of the woman’s company she could endure. But her dismay deepened when Cecilia Winborne followed the woman into the room.

The last thing Marianne wanted was to be stuck in a conversation with Cecilia Winborne. However, there was little way she could pop up and leave the moment the two women joined their group. Instead she smiled politely and started thinking about a plausible excuse to depart as soon as she could.

Unfortunately, almost immediately Miss Winborne turned her attention to Marianne. “I have been so looking forward to getting to know you better, Mrs. Cotterwood,” she said, her thin mouth curving into a perfunctory smile.

“Really,” Marianne replied lamely.
What could she say—that she didn’t believe the woman for a second?

“Yes. My friends speak so highly of you—and I believe you have quite captured my poor brother’s heart.” She waggled a finger at Marianne in a ghastly attempt at playfulness.

“I have?” It was all Marianne could do not to gape at her. She had caught Fanshaw Winborne looking at her a number of times, but he had barely spoken to her. The one time they had been in any sort of close proximity, he had stood looking down his nose at her and saying nothing in a way that made her highly nervous. If asked, she would have guessed that the man looked upon her with contempt, not admiration.

“I don’t believe we have ever met before, have we?” Cecilia went on.

“No. I have not been much in Society, I’m afraid. The last few years I lived in Bath.”

“Bath? Then you must know Lady Harwood.”

“I have met her, of course.” Marianne was relieved that Cecilia had chosen someone who spent all her time sitting in the Assembly Rooms; everyone who had spent any time in Bath would know who Lady Harwood was. “I am sure she would scarcely remember me.”

“Her companion—what is that silly woman’s name? Fifi?”

“I believe that is Lady Harwood’s dog,” Marianne responded coolly.
Cecilia was trying to trip her up.
The awful corollary to this idea was, of course, that Cecilia somehow had guessed she was a fake. “Her companion is Miss Cummings, I believe, but the time I spoke with her, I found her quiet and grave, rather than silly.”

“I must be thinking of someone else. Mrs. Dalby, perhaps.”

“I don’t know Mrs. Dalby. Does she reside in Bath also?”

“Why, yes.”

“Oh, no, I think you are wrong,” Nicola chimed in. “If you are talking about Mrs. James Dalby, I am rather certain she lives in Brighton.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right.” Cecilia smiled grimly at Nicola.

“I doubt I know a large number of your friends in Bath.” Marianne decided to go on the offensive. “I have been in seclusion since my husband’s death three years ago, and before that, he was ill for some time.”

“I see. What part of the country are you from?”

“Yorkshire.” It was the story she had decided on before she came to this party; it was as far away as she could think of from where they were.

“Oh, really? I am afraid I’m not terribly familiar with Yorkshire.”

“Indeed? Where are
you
from, Miss Winborne?”

The other woman raised her brows a little, as if surprised that anyone would not know where the Winborne family lived. “Why, Sussex is our family seat, of course.”

“Of course.” Marianne’s gaze fell upon Nicola, who rolled her eyes expressively, and Marianne had to press her lips together firmly not to laugh.

“And I am from Buckinghamshire originally,” Nicola offered gaily, “since we are discussing our origins. What about you, Lady Merridale?”

“What? Oh, where am I from? Well, Sir George and I live in Norfolk. That is his family’s home. I was born near Newcastle.”

She proceeded to tell them in much more detail than anyone wanted to hear about both her ancestral home and the Merridale house, much of the wood of which was having to be rescued from dry rot. From the look on Nicola’s face, Marianne suspected that she regretted the teasing question she had asked. Marianne thought that perhaps her own eyes were glazing over, and she waited for the woman to draw a breath so that she could take her leave of the group.

But when Sophronia at last paused in her monologue, Cecilia Winborne stuck in quickly, “What part of Yorkshire did you live in, Mrs. Cotterwood?”

Marianne was surprised by Cecilia’s taking up the subject again, but she had prepared herself for being asked about her background, so she replied easily, “Why, Kirkham, Miss Winborne. It is a small place, not too far from York.”

“And is that where your late husband’s family was from, as well?”

“No. Actually, he was from Norton.” Marianne replied in a cool tone that suggested that the other woman’s questions were becoming impertinent.

“Ah, I see. So it is your family who lives in Kirkham.”

“Yes, except that I am afraid that my parents are no longer living.”

“I am so sorry. But no doubt you have brothers and sisters to give you comfort. What did you say your maiden name was?”

“It was Morely, Miss Winborne,” Marianne said sharply, “and I have no siblings.”

“Really, Cecilia,” Nicola commented, “you sound like the Grand Inquisitor.”

Cecilia cast Nicola a venomous look. “I am sorry,” she said stiffly. “I did not mean to pry, Mrs. Cotterwood. I was merely looking for some common ground on which to base an acquaintance. Pray forgive me.”

“Of course. But I am afraid I must leave now. I promised Lady Buckminster that I would help her with preparations for the ball Friday evening.” Marianne rose with a smile toward the general company.

Nicola bounced up right after her. “I’ll come with you. I am sure Aunt Adelaide could use an extra pair of hands. If you’ll excuse me, Cecilia…Lady Merridale.”

Marianne left the room with what she hoped did not appear to be undue haste. Nicola was right on her heels. The two of them glanced at each other, and a smile twitched across Nicola’s face, but she remained determinedly silent until they were far enough down the hall that the occupants of the room they had just left could not hear them.

“I wasn’t about to let you leave me in there with Cecilia and Sophronia Merridale!” Nicola exclaimed. “I don’t know whether I would have been driven first to murder or to suicide!”

Marianne chuckled. “Miss Winborne obviously dislikes me. Why was she asking all those questions?”

“Cecilia is a witch. You must not let her bother you. I am sure she is hoping that you will say something about your background that will reveal how perfectly unsuitable you are for Lord Lambeth. She has seen how he looks at you.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Marianne was vexed to feel her cheeks grow hot at Nicola’s statement. “He does not stare at me.”

“He does not hang about staring at you like a moonstruck calf,” Nicola admitted. “Justin is far too sophisticated for that. But when he looks at you, there is something quite different in his eyes. I have noticed it myself.”

“I am sure you are mistaken.”

“Don’t you dare go all prim and proper on me, Marianne Cotterwood. You know that Justin’s interested in you. Why else would Cecilia go to the trouble of annoying you?”

“I cannot understand how you can say that their future marriage is purely a business arrangement,” Marianne went on. “At least not on her part. She wouldn’t be jealous of me if it were.”

“You would be surprised at the depths of Cecilia’s ill nature,” Nicola retorted. “She does not love Justin, if that is what you’re thinking. She loves the title and the wealth that will be hers. But she knows better than anyone that that is not a sure thing, for if Justin should fall in love…”

“There is little danger of that,” Marianne said caustically. She glanced at her friend, realizing that perhaps her response had been too emotional. “I mean—I think you are mistaken if you are hinting that he is in love with me. His interest is the sort that men often have in a widow, and it does not end in marriage.”

“Marianne! How cynical you are.”