An Exquisite Marriage (11 page)

Dear Lady Helene,

I trust you will excuse my recruitment of Adele to act as messenger. I am writing to request the favor of a personal interview, if you would be so good. The place and time may be entirely at your discretion.

I look forward to your reply.

Your servant,

Marcus Endicott, Duke of Windford, &c.

***

Dear Lord Windford,

While I cannot imagine what would occasion you to request such an interview, I am of course perfectly ready to grant it. I have an appointment with your sister Adele at one o'clock next Thursday. Unless you have an objection to the early hour, I would be free to meet with you at eleven that same morning. If this will suit, you may send your reply by the same messenger.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Helene Fitzgerald

***

Dear Lady Helene,

That will suit me perfectly. I look forward to meeting with you.

Yrs,

Windford

As Helene waited for Lord Windford to arrive in the library, she was acutely aware of a deep disorder of her nerves. There were only so many reasons a man could request a private interview with an unmarried lady, even if she happened to be a friend of his sister. The vast majority of them were bad. Requests to discontinue an association, demands to know what all these rumors of a ball and a sensational portrait were about, insistence to know what sort of company she was leading Adele into.

Adele herself had jumped to the most romantic and least possible conclusion.

“Oh, Helene, we'll be sisters!” she'd cried, leaping up from Miss Sewell's sofa to embrace her.

“Do you think he really means to propose?” murmured Madelene. “Helene . . .”

“I have no evidence upon which to base that assumption,” said Helene tartly. “He could wish to know my opinion of his next paper on pattern detection before he submits it to the Royal Society.”

“Do you know you are the only person for whom that might be vaguely possible,” said Adele, shaking her head.

“Yes, I am very strange. We are agreed.”

Since she had sent her note agreeing to the interview with Marcus, Helene had spent a great deal of energy trying not to think about it. She had thrown herself into planning—going from assembly room to gardens, to dressmakers, to dance lessons, to the library. She went everywhere there might be something to distract her. She had argued with Adele for hours until she'd secured her friend's sacred vow of honor that she would not be in the house, in case things, whatever things there might be, did not go well.

Because despite her own vaunted strangeness, and despite the fact that she knew that it should be unimaginable, Helene did imagine.

Her last argument with Mother had not made anything easier. She'd been returning from interviewing the engravers about the invitations for the ball, and had tried to slip in quietly. She would not have gone home at all, except Suza's French tutor needed to be paid, and no one else was going to see to that.

Helene was halfway up the stairs when she heard mother's shout, summoning her to stand in the claret parlor.

“Look at her!” Mother surveyed her oldest and least satisfactory offspring. “Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. You infamous, ungrateful, wretched girl!”

“Now that we have established that, will you tell me what I am meant to have done?” Helene had some idea, of course, but with Mother there were so many possibilities it was as well not to assume.

“You've ruined us all, again!”

“Ah,” said Helene coolly. “You mean I've kept you from selling Susannah off to Lord Crispin like a prize filly.”

Her mother slapped her, a hard, ringing blow. The movement was so sudden, she had no chance to duck, or catch her mother's wrist.

“You will keep a civil tongue in your head!”

Helene faced her mother, her eyes blazing and her face burning. She made no answer; she just slowly turned her head to display the other cheek. The visual pun was entirely lost on Lady Anandale.

“You will go to Lord Crispin and you will apologize,” Mother ordered. “You will grovel if necessary, otherwise . . .”

“I will not,” replied Helene evenly. “Lord Crispin will not go near Suza, now or ever.”

“And what have you to do with it?”

“Very little. But I did make mention of a few financial truths to Lady Wrexford, and Lady Wrexford is sure to mention them to Mister Halle, who happens to be owed a great deal of money by Lord Crispin.”

“Lord Crispin is one of the richest . . .”

“Lord Crispin is in debt up to his scalp, Mother, something you would have known if you'd bothered to check properly. You were about to sell your second daughter for a mess of pottage!”

Lady Anandale sputtered. She shouted that Helene was a liar and she was infamous and all manner of other things.

Helene had left her to stew and gone upstairs to pay the tutor, and to tell Suza she did not need to worry about Lord Crispin and his repulsive suit. The relief in her sister's eyes had almost broken her heart.

There was only one problem. Lord Crispin was an accomplished liar. It was entirely possible that if Mother and Father questioned him about his financial prospects, they would believe what he told them over what Helene had discovered. He might still press them for Suza, and they might still agree. But at least she bought some time. Things were progressing. The school was that much closer to a reality. When they held their ball and it was a triumph, she would have society's heart, and their ears, and their open pocketbooks.

There were only a few more weeks to go until the ball. She could keep ahead of her parents' machinations until then. She must.

And then Lord Windford's letter had come. And now she was here.

Helene roamed restlessly about the room. Sitting still was impossible. The library was nothing like as grand as the one at Windford Park. The volumes here were mostly of a newer vintage, but still they covered an interesting range of subjects. The section on mathematics and geometry was a large one, which came as no surprise. The furnishings had clearly been chosen for comfort, and the fire was a good one. Lord Windford spent a great deal of time in his book rooms, a fact that was pleasant to contemplate.

Don't. You must not expect . . . you cannot expect . . . you are meant to be a headmistress, Helene Fitzgerald, not a duchess!

The door latch clicked. Helene drew in a breath and made herself turn slowly, with grace and dignity.

Lord Windford had dressed with care for this interview. His dark green coat was simple and precisely cut. It showed off the breadth of his shoulders and the shape of his arms. His blue waistcoat had a single gold chain across it, and his buff breeches, while not as revealing as his white silk evening clothes, fit his good legs quite well. The spring sunlight streamed through the windows and sparkled in his warm blue eyes and neatly brushed gold hair.

Helene was aware of her pulse pounding lightly in the base of her throat. So much for her supposed icy blood.

“I'm sorry if I kept you waiting,” he said. “Would you care to sit down?” He gestured toward the velveteen sofa.

“Thank you.” Helene did sit. Her skirt seemed to be unusually wrinkled because she spent a great deal of time smoothing it down. Nothing like the ridiculous amount of time she'd stood paralyzed in her shabby dressing room trying to decide what to wear, but longer than she really needed.

Absurd.
She folded her hands together and made herself look up.

Marcus was smiling. It was that intriguing smile, the one she knew she could spend years studying. The one that crinkled the edges of his eyes and turned his face from merely handsome to devastating.

The pulse at the base of her throat doubled.

“I believe you had something you wished to communicate?” she said.

“I did. I do.” Marcus shifted his weight. He was nervous. Somehow, this settled her own agitation, although only a little. “Lady Helene, I recognize our acquaintance has not been very long, nor very intimate . . . but . . .” He stopped. “No. It won't do. I had a speech, but now that you're here . . .”

“Please, Lord Windford . . .”

“Will you marry me, Helene?”

The world stopped. Heart, breath, thought, time, all of it froze into absolute stillness. Helene opened her mouth, and for once in her life, she had no idea at all what would come out.

“It was only one waltz.”

“One waltz and two walks across half of London.” Marcus's smile broadened. Merciful Heavens, his eyes twinkled. She'd heard of the phenomenon, of course, but had never had the opportunity to observe it personally. It was . . . intriguing. “There was also, if you recall, a cup of coffee in a private setting.”

“I stand corrected.”

He bowed. “I believe we can also add several warm looks from across a distance, or in passing when you were in my sister's company. Many successful marriages have been built on far less.”

She should say yes, and Helene knew it. She should say yes this very minute and make him drive straight to Father's lawyer to have the thing signed and witnessed before he came to his right senses. One word, one syllable and she would save Susannah and Annie and all her brothers.

But there still seemed to be some fault in the connection between her reason and her language, because when she opened her mouth again, that was not at all what came out. “And what are your qualifications?”

Marcus arched his brows. They were very thick and dark for a man who was so fair, which somehow added to his pleasing air of masculinity. “I beg your pardon?”

Helene smoothed her skirts, again. “You have just applied for the post as my husband,” she said. “I think I should know what you can bring to the position.”

He looked like he was about to choke. Helene's heart was pounding in her chest. She was going too far. She was going to make an utter mess of this, and yet, and yet . . .

She could not just say yes, even if she had been able to set aside what had happened with Broadheathe and their disastrous engagement. If she was mistaken in Lord Windford's character or habits, it would be ruinous for her and all her siblings. If their engagement became known and if it went badly, there would be no recovery, not even enough for her to become a headmistress.

Marcus put his hands behind his back and regarded her. “I see. Well. I suppose we could note that my first qualification is that I waltz very well.”

“That is indeed an admirable talent but hardly the foundation for a sound marriage.”

“I have taken your advice and am the better for it.”

“And you admit it, which is not only admirable, but surprising. A definite mark in your favor. You may continue.”

Marcus laid his hand on his breast and bowed. “I have a very handy umbrella,” he said.

“So does the shop on the corner.”

“My family and title are old.”

“Mine are older.”

“I'm rich and my estate is in good order.”

The corner of Helene's mouth twitched. “You have me there. Do continue.”

He blinked, and for the first time he looked a little nonplussed. She found she liked the expression. “I'm trying to make up my mind whether you're joking,” he said.

“So am I.”

This gave him a moment's pause. “I am not joking, Helene.” He words were low and soft, and yet seemed to her as strong and immediate as the touch of his hand. “I am offering you my hand in marriage.”

“And I am flattered.”

“I did not expect platitudes from you.”

Her cheeks were heating. She couldn't look at him. She smoothed her skirt again.
Get hold of yourself. You are a rational creature. Now, of all moments, you must act like it!
Helene took a deep steadying breath. “You must understand, sir, that this is sudden and there are many aspects to be considered.”
If I make a mistake, it is more than myself who suffers.
“I have spent time in your London house these past months. We may take it as written that your financials are sound.”

“Because Adele would have informed you if they were not?” he inquired.

“Or the rows with Patience would have, yes. You are known as a man of taste and discretion, sobriety and intelligence. All further points in your favor.”

“Thank you,” he said in the blandest, grandest possible tone.

This gave Helene the strength to meet his gaze again. “You also have shown signs of a sense of humor.”

“Something your husband may be in need of?”

“Something any spouse must be in need of.”

He smiled at this, and she was again reminded that it would be very easy to look at his face for a very long time. And his form as well. Really, from a simple physical point of view, there were many interesting details about his person to study. The line of his jaw, for example. The way the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled as he did now. The eyes themselves, so clear and deep a blue, with this newly discovered propensity for twinkling.

“So far,” he said softly, “it seems the list is totting up in my favor.”

Now Helene blinked, and she pulled back.
You're failing to concentrate on essentials.
“I am hardly finished,” she said, a little more peevishly than she intended.

Lord Windford, however, did not seem piqued by her tone. He simply gestured. “Pray, proceed.”

But she did not, at least, not immediately. She did not even look at him. Looking at him seemed to have a detrimental effect on her ability to reason, and she could not afford that at this time. She instead rose and walked to the far edge of the room. One of the landscapes hung slightly crookedly. She adjusted it, and when it was straight, she still did not turn around.

This moment was real. It was happening. She could not dismiss it, or ignore it. He was proposing marriage to her. Did he know all that meant? It meant nothing less than salvation, for her, for her siblings, and most especially for Suza. How could she even be hesitating?

“Helene?” Marcus said softly. “What is the matter?”

She adjusted the picture again and turned around. Despite her determination to remain detached and disinterested, Helene knew she'd gone pale. The fact did not escape his notice, and Marcus took a step forward, his hand out. She knew he meant to tell her everything would be all right. He was going to tell her she could trust him.

She did trust him. Which was unexpected.

But she held up one hand, keeping him back. He didn't know everything about her and her circumstances. In fact, he could hardly know anything, or he wouldn't be making this offer. That was why she hesitated. To accept would be to try to build her new life on lies and concealment. She wouldn't do that, not even to save Suza from Lord Crispin.

She would tell him the truth. She must.
He'll withdraw, and then we'll be no worse off than we were before
, she told herself. Except she knew in some very deep portion of her heart that was not true. If Marcus withdrew from her, something undefined and as yet unnamed that had taken root in her hollow heart would die. Then, she would be much, much worse off than before it had begun to grow.