The Marriage Lesson (2 page)

Marianne was no more thrilled with the change in plans than Helmsley was, especially after hearing him tonight. She had to admit she did agree with him on one point: Richard did indeed have remarkably bad timing.

She got to her feet and stretched her arms high over her head. Well, Helmsley needn’t worry himself about her. She had no intention of looking for a husband this season or any other. Her parents’ marriage was not a shining example of wedded bliss.

Her mother had died when Marianne was six years old and she remembered her as kind and loving but weak in both body and spirit. While Marianne had been told her father had married her mother for love, she certainly never saw any evidence of it. At least not on his part.

Marianne reached her hands out to warm them before the fire and stared thoughtfully at the low-banked embers. No, what little she’d seen of marriage did not entice her in the least. The world held the prospect of far too many adventures to limit herself to the less-than-exciting idea of marriage. From Shakespeare to Miss Austen, the stories she’d read since she was old enough to turn a page were of grand adventures, peopled with courageous heroines and noble heroes. She wanted nothing less than to be such a heroine.

As for heroes—she shrugged—they had no more substance than the words that created them. Heroes were only to be found in books or dreams. And, except in very rare instances, so was love.

She picked up her book and stepped toward the door. Oh, she fully intended to enjoy all that the season and London had to offer, but her plans went well beyond that. After all, if she wasn’t going to pursue marriage, she should pursue something. Something that would lead her to the independence she needed in order to pursue adventure. Something that paid.

Marianne already had a definite notion of exactly what that something could be. She had no idea if she could manage it, but the more she thought about it, the more intriguing it became.

The door swung open and she froze.

Marianne took the opportunity to study him. He was not an unattractive sort if one liked tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered men with regular features. She’d had barely more than a passing introduction to him in spite of having lived under his roof for the last two weeks and had wondered if he was actively avoiding his guests. Tonight was the first time she’d heard him say more than a polite greeting, even if his words were not intended for her ears.

He paused and glanced up, his brow furrowed in thought. He stared directly at her yet didn’t appear to see her. Was he that involved in whatever he was writing? Or was he simply too inebriated to focus? Of course, the long library was well lit only at either end and she stood in the shadowed midsection of the room. Whatever the reason, she didn’t dare to so much as breathe.

An endless moment later his gaze returned to his work. Well, she had no intention of standing here like a statue all night. She drew a deep breath and started for the door.

“By God, you’re real!” Helmsley rose to his feet. Marianne halted in midstep. It was far too much to hope that she could escape undetected. She braced herself and turned toward him. “Of course I’m real. What did you think?”

“I thought I’d made you up.” He shook his head as if to clear it.

“No, not often.” He circled the desk and moved closer. “Never before, in fact. Who are you, anyway?”

“Who am I?” she said slowly. She’d be insulted that he didn’t remember their meeting, brief as it was, if she weren’t more concerned about his state of mind. Somewhere she’d read one should make allowances for those afflicted with insanity and treat them as carefully as one would a small child. “Who do you think I am?”

“I thought perhaps you were a vision conjured out of my imagination. Or an angel to escort me to heaven. Or perhaps a muse to help my feeble efforts.” He grinned and she realized his features were more than regular. He was really rather handsome. For a madman.

“I can assure you, I am neither angel nor muse.” She resisted the impulse to lunge for the door. It might be best not to startle him. Still, she wondered if anyone in the huge house was awake at this hour, if the need arose to scream for assistance.

“But you are indeed a vision.” His gaze flickered over her in an assessing and intimate manner and she wished she had on something more substantial than her nightgown and wrapper. “Even if now I can see you are most definitely flesh and blood.”

“Drunk?” He raised his chin in an annoyingly haughty manner and stared down his nose at her. “I most certainly am not drunk. I do not get drunk. I occasionally imbibe a bit more than is wise in my effort to live life to its fullest—”

“Its fullest tankard, no doubt.”

“Hah. I know your type.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re one of those women who believes men should be respectable and responsible at all times and never have a bit of good fun.”

“I am not.” She laughed in spite of herself. “I was right all along. You are a lunatic. Worse, a tipsy lunatic.”

“I am hardly a lunatic, tipsy or any other kind. Admittedly, I have had a fair amount to drink tonight, but not substantially more than usual.”

“I wouldn’t boast about it, if I were you.”

“I am not you and I am not boasting. I am simply stating a fact. I am not in my cups and I am more than capable of doing whatever requires doing. Or whatever I wish to do, for that matter.”

“Really? I doubt that. A moment ago you weren’t certain whether I was real or something you’d conjured out of thin air and shadow. Just what do you wish to do?”

“How would you determine that?”

“A kiss should suffice for proof.” He stepped toward her. “To verify she is indeed flesh and blood.”

“I can assure you—”

Before she could say another word, he strode to her and took her in his arms.

Her book slipped from her hand and she stared up at him, at once struck by how very much this was like a scene from a novel. A scene in which the dashing hero embraces the courageous heroine and kisses her senseless. She should probably be afraid but at the moment she felt rather courageous, and if nothing else, he was more than a little dashing. Excitement raced up her spine. She’d never had the opportunity to be kissed senseless before. Or kissed at all. Marianne stared into his eyes and smiled. “Very well.”

“Very well?” He frowned down at her and his puzzled expression changed to one of horror. “Bloody hell.” Without warning, he released her and stepped back. “You’re that Merry-person!”

“Well, I hardly feel at all merry right now, although I was beginning to feel somewhat giddy.” She tilted her head and grinned. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“No! Absolutely not! Never!” His eyes widened and he backed away from her as if she were plague-ridden.

“Never?” She drew her brows together and planted her hands on her hips. “How very impolite of you. Whyever not?”

“I told you, I’m not at all merry, but I am getting a bit annoyed.”

“No, blast it all, that’s not what I meant.” He blew a frustrated breath. “Your name is Merry. Merry something-or-other. What is your name, anyway?”

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. It was obviously too much to expect that a man who scarcely remembered her face would remember her name. “It’s Marianne.”

“You’re Richard’s sister.” Helmsley groaned. “Good God, I almost ravished Richard’s sister.”

“You were going to ravish me?” Delight surged through her. “How exciting. I’ve never been ravished before.”

“And you shall not be ravished now.” He turned on his heel and stalked to a table bearing a decanter of brandy. He glanced around in obvious frustration.

“If you’re looking for your glass, I believe you took it with you when you said good-bye to your friend.”

“Then I shall get another.” He headed toward the cabinet, but she reached it before him and blocked his way.

“Don’t you think you’ve had quite enough?”

“My dear young woman, I have not had nearly enough.”

She shrugged. “As you wish.” She selected a glass and handed it to him, then took another for herself and followed him to the table.

He filled his glass and she held out hers. He glanced at it and his brows pulled together in disapproval. “I scarcely think—”

The intense flavor flooded her senses, the liquor burned in her throat and for an instant she wondered if she’d die horribly right there in front of him. She stifled the need to gasp and clamped her jaws tight, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from watering.

“How is it?” he said innocently, but a laugh lurked in his eyes.

“Excellent,” she lied.

“I think so.” He swirled the brandy in his glass and tried to hide a smirk. “I quite like a brandy before bed.”

“Or two or three, no doubt,” she murmured and sank into a chair. She took another, much smaller sip and her glasses slid down her nose. Actually, it wasn’t bad. A pleasant warmth spread through her. She smiled up at him and waved at the other chair. “Would you care to have a seat?”

“I believe I’d prefer to stay right here.” He perched on the edge of the desk and considered her thoughtfully. “So you’re Marianne.”

“I believe we’ve established that.” She sipped again. No, this wasn’t bad at all. She pushed her glasses back into place and gazed up at him. “I’m the aging, intelligent bluestocking.”

He winced. “You heard me?”

“I never would have said a word if I had known—”

“Piffle.” She waved away his objection. “Regardless of what you say now, it’s still what you think. However”—she took another swallow—“you are right.”

“I am?” he said cautiously.

“Um-hmm.” She nodded. “I am an aging intelligent bluestocking. And I quite like it.”

“Do you, my Lady Marianne?”

“I do indeed, my Lord Helmsley.”

“Why?”

“When one is viewed in such terms, one’s behavior is far less confined. People are not nearly as shocked when you do the unexpected, when you break the rules others abide by.”

He raised a brow. “And do you break a great many rules?”

“Not yet, but I fully intend to.” She raised her glass to him. “And I shall begin by calling you Thomas. It seems appropriate. After all, you did nearly ravish me.”

“Don’t remind me. I didn’t realize who you were. Obviously the result of an overactive imagination coupled with a poorly lit room and, admittedly, the influence of a good deal to drink. Although”—he narrowed his eyes—“I am not drunk. Still, I would never take such liberties with the sister of my dearest friend.”

“Why not? He’s taken such liberties with your sister.”

“What a shame,” she murmured. “Thomas, would you care to know what else you were right about?”

“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously.

She leaned toward him, her glasses again skidding down her nose. “I am quite attractive.”

He laughed. “Indeed you are.”

“But there is something you were wrong about.” She rose to her feet, stepped close to him and pulled off her spectacles. “My eyes are brown. Not a deep brown, mind you, but a not-unpleasant shade of medium brown. What do you think?” She fluttered her lashes. “Are my eyes pleasant?”

“Exceedingly pleasant.” The corners of his lips quirked upward. His eyes were a dark blue and rather pleasant as well.

“I thought so.” She grinned and replaced her spectacles, then turned, grabbed the decanter and refilled her glass. “And the color of my eyes isn’t the only thing you don’t know.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he said mildly.

“Oh, no, my lord, you’re the one who’s had enough.” She shook the decanter at him. “You are drunk.” She replaced the decanter and shook her head. “Or mad. I haven’t quite decided.” She drew a healthy swallow and wondered why she hadn’t experienced the wonder of brandy years ago.