Promise Me Tomorrow (20 page)

Marianne shrugged. “Aware of the ways of the world is more like it. The future Duke of Storbridge is hardly likely to marry plain Mrs. Cotterwood from an obscure village in Yorkshire.”

“I think you do Lord Lambeth an injustice. I have always thought he was a man who did exactly as he wanted.”

“I am sure he does—but I am also sure that what he wants is a wife with status equal to his own…and a mistress on the side for enjoyment.”

Nicola’s eyes opened wide, and she giggled. “For shame, Marianne. You say the most shocking things.”

“He as much as told me so on the ride to White Lady Falls.” Marianne paused at the stairway. “Well, now that we have made our escape, where shall we go?”

Nicola considered, then smiled. “Let’s look for Penelope and see how our scheme is working.”

“Excellent suggestion.”

They strolled down the hall and into the conservatory, a sunny room filled with plants. At the far end was a conversational grouping of wicker chairs and couch, and it was here that Penelope and Lord Buckminster sat, their heads close together, talking. Marianne and Nicola glanced at one another significantly, and Nicola pulled Marianne behind a tall palm.

“It looks as if everything is progressing rather nicely,” Nicola murmured.

Marianne nodded. “Yes. I wonder…perhaps another dose of the ‘wicked widow’?”

“It would make a nice contrast,” Nicola agreed.

Marianne winked and sailed forth. Nicola stayed behind the tall palm, prepared to enjoy the scene about to unfold before her.

“May I hide, too?” a man’s voice murmured in Nicola’s ear, and she turned to find Lord Lambeth beside her.

“Justin, you startled me,” she whispered, taking his arm and pulling him behind the palm. “Watch. This should be a treat.”

“My lord!” Marianne’s voice emerged in an annoying whine as she approached Lord Buckminster and Penelope. “There you are! I had wondered where you had gotten to. Sitting with Miss Castlereigh—how nice of you.”

Both Penelope and Bucky started and looked up a little guiltily. Marianne bared her teeth at Penelope. “How are you, Penelope? I hope that Lord Buckminster has been keeping you entertained.”

“Oh, yes. I mean, it was very kind of him to keep me company,” Penelope’s look of dismay was quite real. She had been having such a pleasant time with Bucky that she had forgotten all about their scheme, and she hated being brought back to it.

“It was quite unfair of you, Lord Buckminster,” Marianne told the man archly. “I have been pining away for you.”

She settled onto the cushioned wicker couch with a litany of complaints and requests, asking Bucky to fetch a stool for her feet, then pillows to make her more comfortable on the couch, most of which she pulled out again almost immediately. They were too soft, too lumpy, too hard, too much, or not enough.

Behind the palm, Nicola had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep her giggles in, and Lambeth stared in amazement.

Finally, with a sigh, Marianne settled back against the cushions and said, “I am so dreadfully thirsty, Bucky, dear.”

“What? Oh. Certainly,” the harassed-looking man answered. “Wait. I’m sorry. The conservatory doesn’t have a bellpull. I cannot ring.” He paused, then offered, “I shall go to the hall and ring for a servant.”

“Heavens, no,” Marianne answered, her hand on his arm to keep him seated. “I am sure Penelope would be happy to do it.”

Bucky gaped at her. “You’re asking Penelope to fetch you a glass of water?”

“Why, yes, dear. I am sure Penelope doesn’t mind, do you, Pen, darling?”

“No. No, of course not,” Penelope answered; it had taken all her ability not to laugh during Marianne’s superbly carping performance, and she would be frankly delighted to get away where she could let a grin escape. She jumped up and hurried away.

Buckminster gaped at Marianne. “I say, Mrs. Cotterwood, that’s a little, well, high-handed, don’t you think? Sending Penelope to get refreshment, as if she were a servant.”

Marianne looked at him with wide eyes. “I am sure Penelope does not mind. She is such a dear creature.”

“But that is all the more reason not to take advantage of her.”

“I could think of no other way to get you alone. She has occupied your attention all afternoon!” Marianne snapped. “It is quite clear to me what is going on, even if it is not to you!”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me. It is clear what you and Penelope have been doing. I have eyes. I can see.”

“Are you implying that I—that we—” Buckminster goggled at her.

“I am not naive, Bucky,” Marianne said severely. “It is obvious that you find Penelope attractive. It is equally obvious that you and she were hiding from me. Did you kiss her?”

“Mrs. Cotterwood! How can you say such a thing? Penelope would never—”

“Ah, I notice that you say
Penelope
would never. No such assurance that
you
would not!” Marianne surged to her feet while Buckminster simply stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. “I should have known that you were playing fast and loose with me.” She whirled and started toward the door leading out into the garden.

“But…but…Marianne! That is, Mrs. Cotterwood, you have it all wrong!”

Marianne whipped back around to face him, her expression cold, her back straight. “Have I? I think not. I suggest you search your conscience, Lord Buckminster. Can you honestly say that you have no feeling for Miss Castlereigh?”

On that parting note, she turned once again and strode out the door. Buckminster stood looking after her for a moment, then sank down on the sofa, staring thoughtfully at the floor.

“Oh, masterful!” Nicola whispered. “Well done, Marianne, well done, indeed!” She turned to Lambeth and took his hand, nodding her head toward the door behind them. She tiptoed to the door, Lambeth following her just as stealthily.

“What the devil was that all about?” Justin demanded as soon as they were out of earshot, walking along the hall toward the stairs. “What does she think she’s up to? That is scarcely the way to capture Bucky’s heart.”

Nicola shot him an odd look. “Capture Bucky’s heart! Is that what you think Marianne has been trying to do?”

“Why, yes, of course.”

“Honestly, Justin…men can be so thickheaded.”

“What else would I think? She has clung to his arm the past few days, flirting and laughing and—”

“And keeping him with her instead of going hunting this morning. Flirting heartlessly with all the other men, as well. Complaining incessantly. Let’s see, what else? Oh, yes—filling his ear with boring stories about herself and her clothes and the many men who admire her. Making rude remarks about Penelope—and planting it in his mind that he is interested in Penelope!”

Lambeth stared at her. “But why?”

Nicola rolled her eyes. “Why, to nip his infatuation in the bud, of course. ‘Tis much more effective and far less likely to bruise his heart to see that his goddess has feet of clay. Plus, it gave her an opportunity to angle him in Penny’s direction. We made sure that Penelope was there, handy for him to commiserate with or to ride with when Marianne was a slug on horseback or, like this afternoon, handy for him to sneak away with to avoid spending the rest of the day with Marianne. I added my own bits of subtle nudging, of course.”

She grinned smugly. Justin studied her.

“So this was a scheme that the three you of you cooked up together.”

“Yes—well, at least the details of it. Marianne came up with the idea.”

“When?”

“In the carriage on the ride down here. It was obvious that Bucky was head over heels about Marianne, and of course Pen was being quite resigned about it, but Marianne told us what she meant to do.”

“That little minx,” Lambeth murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.” He stopped, turning to face Nicola. “Where did she go, do you think?”

Nicola gave him a long, considering look. “I’m not sure. Perhaps to the rose arbor. She likes to sit there, she said.”

“Thank you, Nicola. Now, if you will excuse me…”

M
ARIANNE SIGHED AND SAT DOWN
on the wooden bench that stretched beneath the arbor. Roses grew thickly over the latticework, shading the area below with green coolness and perfuming the air with their heady scent. She closed her eyes, contemplating with a certain smug satisfaction the scene she had just played. She had, she thought, taken care of the problem of Lord Buckminster.

There was the crunch of boots upon the gravel path, disturbing her contemplation, and a moment later Lord Lambeth appeared around the side of the arbor. He stood for a moment, silhouetted against the light, his expression unreadable. Marianne rose to her feet slowly, as if pulled up by invisible strings. He came toward her, his hand going to her arm. He pulled her forward, and she had a glimpse of his face, eyes blazing with some unidentifiable emotion. Then his face blocked off all vision, and Marianne closed her eyes as his lips sank into hers.

He kissed her hungrily, deeply, with little of the practiced artistry with which he had kissed her in the summerhouse. Yet this kiss was even more stirring, and Marianne found herself leaning into him, her arms sliding naturally around his waist.

At last he pulled his head away and looked down into her dazed face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked fiercely. “Why did you lead me to believe—”

Then he kissed her again, cutting off his words. She wasn’t sure what he was talking about—or of much of anything else, except that her world was trembling and tilting upon its axis, as wildly out of control as the breath in her lungs. His arms were around her like bands of iron, squeezing her hard against him, yet she wanted to be even closer, to melt into him. She strained against him, and he ran a hand down her back, pressing her more tightly to him all the way up and down.

He broke the kiss to rain more kisses over her face and up and down her throat, mumbling broken words of endearment against the tender flesh. Marianne’s heart thrilled within her at the sound of the words. She was trembling with passion. Justin sat down on the bench, pulling her into his lap, and continued to kiss her, his hand roaming over her breasts and stomach. Heat blossomed in her wherever he touched, and she arched back, a groan of desire escaping her.

He cupped her breast with his hand, teasing and caressing it through the cloth of her dress. The nipple pointed, pressing against the material, arousing him further. He buried his face in her neck, drawing a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, if we keep on, I shall take you right here,” he groaned.

Marianne did not think she would mind, but she could not form a sentence coherent enough to express the thought. She sat for a few moments, wrapped in his arms, her head against his chest. Gradually the tumultuous pounding of his heart began to slow a little.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asked again, pulling back a little to look down into her face.

“Tell you what?” She gazed back at him in a dazed lack of comprehension.

“About your scheme regarding Bucky. Worse than that, you made me think that you were trying to catch him!”

“Oh. That. How did you find out about that?”

“Nicola enlightened me. Why would you want to make me believe that you were a heartless, conniving little baggage?”

“You already thought that!” Marianne retorted with returning spirit and hopped off his lap, turning to face him. “I did not have to make you believe that. You
accused
me of it. If you will remember, you warned me away from him. I had never had the least intention of trying to ensnare Lord Buckminster’s heart. But you believed me so lacking in honor, so…so willing to sell myself that I—” She broke off, remembered fury surging up in her again.

“So you decided to confirm my misconception?” he asked in amazement.

“I was angry.”

“But why didn’t you tell me the truth? Set me straight?”

Marianne cocked one eyebrow. “You think you would have believed me? You had already made up your mind about me. Nothing I could have said would have changed it.” She shrugged. “I decided it would be much more fun to tweak your nose a little bit.”

“Fun!” he repeated, slack-jawed, rising to his feet. “You call that fun? Making me suffer the—” He stopped abruptly, and a momentary confusion came over his face.

“Suffer what?”

“Nothing. It does not matter.” Lambeth knew that he had been about to say “suffer the pangs of jealousy,” but the idea rocked him back on his heels. He had never been jealous over a woman in his life. He had, frankly, rarely had cause to be, for it had usually been he who ended his
liaisons
and who had been diligently pursued by marriageable maidens. But, more than that, there had been no woman about whom he really cared enough to be upset if she decided that she preferred another man. It would have been a blow to his masculine pride, but nothing more, easily assuaged by the company of some other bit of muslin.

Had it been the fires of jealousy that had eaten at him these past few days, not a desire to protect his friend?