Secrets of a Spinster (17 page)

Anything to avoid thinking about what could happen today.

He huffed in irritation and strode from the room, startling a few of the maids who were heading down to start the fires in the kitchen. He ignored them. There was entirely too much on his mind to concern himself with the thought processes and gossip mongering of his staff.

Mary had better behave herself today.

Or she would be answering to him.

“And so, of course, I said to Mr. Peters, ‘What care I for your books? If I wanted to live in a library, I should do so… provided I saw very few books and very little of you!’”

The room erupted with laughter, and Mary attempted to join in, but really, she felt a little sick. Marianne had done nothing but tell stories about her suitors and behaviors, wherein the suitors were ridiculous and Marianne cold.

It was working, she could see, as some of Mary’s own more sensitive admirers departed the room after a few stories from Marianne. It might not even take bad behavior from Mary herself to thin the throng. Being associated with Marianne on a more intimate level and not condemning her actions seemed to suffice.

It had not taken long for her to see that Marianne was a good deal like Cassie and not in an admirable way. They were both over-emotional, highly impulsive, and prone to rash action. They were too young to understand consequences of their actions on a grander scale, and had no wish to adhere to the proper confines that had long kept Society thriving.

In short, neither of them had any sense at all. But Mary couldn’t say the same thing about herself. She had spent the last eleven years of her life specifically cultivating good sense, the latter half of those years against her will. It was what made her such a well-thought-of fixture in certain circles. Mary Hamilton was a name that may not have commanded respect or amorous admiration in the past, but one could always expect good sense and proper behavior, and that was something of a rarity in London these days.

She shook her head and looked over at Marianne, who was thriving in her element. What would it be like to be so confident and poised under the pressure of so much attention? Mary was still learning how to sit still in company such as this, let alone appear so collected.

Marianne turned to her with a brilliant smile. “What about you, Miss Hamilton? What are your thoughts on books and literature and scholars?”

She was slightly caught off-guard at being so suddenly addressed, but she somehow managed to stay composed. She offered a delicate smile, which she had been told was always an excellent way to stall for time. This was supposed to be her opportunity for exposing a harsher side, and she was fairly quaking beneath her carefully constructed outer shell. Mary allowed her smile to grow and she tilted her head in the manner her sister had praised as being ‘positively regal’.

“I find I tend to be accepting of literature in general. I happen to be a great admirer of books and the literary arts, much to my mother’s dismay. She thought I would become a blue-stocking, so often had I my nose in a book.” She tucked her chin in a bit and fluttered her lashes as if in embarrassment.

The gentlemen in the room laughed in a sort of befuddled adoration, which Mary thought was positively idiotic.

“This does not mean, however, that I want to discuss any literature at great length,” she said, turning her gaze slightly severe. “I could care less about the wild beasts of Africa or the growth cycle of a hibiscus in Paris or the history of Prussian rulers, and every time I have to sit and bear such tedious sermons on any other appallingly tiresome topic, I feel tempted to faint clear away so as to avoid the discussion altogether.”

The room fairly erupted with laughter now, save for a few suddenly pale-faced men in the back.

“And so I am left to wonder,” Mary continued, avoiding the eyes of those particular men, “if they even realize that such topics will not only bore their listener to within an inch of insanity…”

More laughter, more pale faces.

“…but will also make it so impossible that they will ever marry that the majordomo at Almack’s will neglect to even announce them, not even for the fortune of the Duke of Ashcombe.”

Guffaws and chortles exploded from the remaining men, some of them laughing to such excesses that they were incapable of remaining upright. Mary glanced over at Marianne, who was laughing, but also winked at her in approval. It should have made Mary feel extremely pleased, but the sight of four men slipping out of the room kept her amusement at bay.

“Oh, I quite agree,” Marianne sighed when the volume had returned to a more acceptable level. “If I must endure conversation with a particularly learned man, the conversation ought to be short and never vary from topics I am well versed on; dancing, music, and beauty.”

Applause rang out, and a few shouts of “Bravo!” and “Well said!” echoed in the room.

Mary barely avoided rolling her eyes, and was impressed that she didn’t succumb to her impulse to give Marianne an incredulous look. Why in heaven’s name would the girl want the entire world to think of her as being shallow and vain when she knew otherwise? Mary could still remember the venomous thrill that had lit the girl’s eyes that night at the theater when she told them what she had done to Mrs. Smythe in their honor.

But here she was, content to be thought nothing more than a pretty face without heart or feelings.

“I heard tell, Miss Bray,” one of Mary’s most devoted suitors began, “that, as we are speaking of those who bore rather than court, you at one time received the attentions of Mr. Gerrard.”

There was no hiding the lurch that Mary felt at those words and she only barely managed to avoid actually whipping her head around to look at Marianne.

Mr. Gerrard? As in… Christopher Gerrard? Or, as Marianne herself had called him just last night, Kit…

Marianne’s face paled and her smile froze into more of a grimace. “I…”

“I further heard,” the man, whose name still escaped Mary at the moment, continued, “that he was so distraught by your treatment of him that he fled London, and you remain the single reason he has for avoiding the season and London altogether.”

Marianne swallowed, her throat visibly constricting. Her hands, so calm and collected before, were twitching and fidgety and wringing with each other so tightly that Mary feared she would do them harm. Her cheeks, so elegant in their prominence and location, now appeared almost gaunt with the sickly pallor they were rapidly adopting.

“Pray, tell us, Miss Bray,” the man almost sneered. “Is that so?”

Mary had no idea what truth there was in the gentleman’s statement, if any, and she didn’t need to. If anyone had told her they could make Marianne Bray look like the small, delicate, helpless creature before her, she would have laughed in disbelief.

But there was absolutely nothing humorous about the situation at present. She needed no other excuse.

In an instant, the man’s name returned to her memory.

Mary assumed the most severe expression she could and employed every ounce of her strength behind it. “Mr. Townsend,” she said, her tone icy cold, “you will cease your abuse of my sweet friend and swallow any further falsehoods you may have swirling about in that miniscule brain of yours.”

The previous buzz of interest in the room stuttered to absolute and stunned silence, and all eyes were upon her.

Mr. Townsend looked as though he had just been slapped in the face by his mother. His mouth gaped, his eyes were wide, and all color had drained from his skin.

“You will furthermore remove yourself from my home at this moment and permanently,” she continued, fury boiling in her veins. “And the next time you will be permitted to approach Miss Bray or myself in any capacity at all, you will present Miss Bray with an apology so sincere it would make confession look like a masquerade liaison.”

She could have dropped a pin on the carpet and it would have rung like a gong. Several other men in the room were swallowing with difficulty.

“And make no mistake, Mr. Townsend,” Mary said, lowering her voice to a darker tone, “I will be informing Mr. Bray about your comments just now.”

If possible, Mr. Townsend’s face went a shade paler, and he faltered slightly. Someone in the back of the room gasped.

“And given that Mr. Bray is a very dear friend of mine,” she went on, fibbing slightly, “I have no doubts he will believe every word I say. And I would expect him to pay you a visit in the very near future.”

Really, the way his face could be completely devoid of color was impressive. She could sell tickets to such a spectacle.

Satisfied that he had received quite enough torment for one afternoon, she raised one brow and picked up her teacup as if she had only corrected his grammar. “You are dismissed,” she said in a sweet voice as she sipped.

Townsend fled from the room without a word. Mary chanced a look at Marianne, whose expression was rapidly regaining color, but whose eyes remained downcast.

Mary set down her cup and looked at the gathering. “We quite tire of the lot of you. Leave us be, and kindly mind your tongues about what you’ve heard here.”

There was a stampede of men for the door, all of whom vowed repeatedly that they would be silent. When the last man had vacated the premises, Mary sighed and dropped her shoulders and her act.

“Thank you,” Marianne murmured softly from her side.

Mary turned to her and saw that, much to her surprise, the girl was flushed and looking very young. She reached out and gathered Marianne into her arms, holding her close.

She was stunned to find Marianne clinging to her tightly, resting her face in Mary’s shoulder, and taking slow, deep breaths. There were no tears, for which she was grateful, but then, Marianne Bray was far too composed to ever let tears be shed in public.

After a few minutes, Marianne released her and sat back. “I’m sorry about all of this,” she said, her voice regaining its usual, confident air.

Mary eyed her carefully. “Not at all. I think I handled it well enough.”

Marianne grinned broadly, which was, again, unusual. The girl never exposed all of her teeth when she smiled, stating that it was too eager and not flattering. Mary disagreed. Her smile when it was full and unrestrained was a wonder to behold.

“I daresay you did!” Marianne exclaimed, bringing Mary out of her sudden stupor. “I’ve never seen men move that fast in all my years.”

She thought it best to refrain from mentioning that, in this case, the phrase “all my years” really didn’t add up to very much.

“What was that, Marianne?” Mary asked as gently as she could.

Briefly, Marianne’s face faltered, but in an instant it was controlled again. “Oh, just some rumors. You know how Society can be.”

“Marianne.”

She met her eyes and sighed heavily. “Very well, I suppose I can tell you, but only if you promise not to tell Duncan.”

Mary shook her head. “I will tell him what happened today, Marianne. He’s your brother and your guardian and he…”

“I don’t care about that,” she interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Tell him what Townsend said, by all means. But don’t tell him what I am about to tell you. He… he would think less of me, and I couldn’t bear that.”

Mary considered that for a long moment, and then nodded. “Very well, I agree.”

Geoff sat at his usual table at the club, surrounded by his friends, not hearing a word they said. Ever since he had risen this morning, his head had been positively ringing. He felt as if he had imbibed too much the night before, yet he was as sober as he had ever been. He stared off at nothing, too tired to even think. The only thing he had processed was that Nathan was at home with Moira and their new son. Again.