The Madcap (8 page)

Marianne felt panic rising, memories of New York
springing forth. She wouldn’t let it happen again. She
desperately wanted to get away from Roberta, but
Roberta was prosing on now about the merits of her
cousin, Kentworth. Marianne relaxed only slightly.
Roberta’s ploy to advocate for her cousin was hardly
subtle.

“Quick, put that away. He’s coming over here,”
Roberta whispered in a rush as she suddenly broke
from her conversation topic and gestured to the scrap
of paper Marianne still held in her hand.

Marianne looked up to see Alasdair striding toward
them, combed and confident, turned out resplendently
in dark evening attire. In spite of Roberta’s news,
Marianne felt only relief at the sight of Alasdair even
though he couldn’t possibly know that he was coming
to her rescue.

Alasdair greeted them and Roberta slipped into the
crowd of people merging toward their seats. “Is she a
new friend?” Alasdair asked, taking her by the elbow
and steering her into the throng.

“I’m not sure. She and her mother have called a few
times at our at homes but I’m not sure she’s a friend in
the truest sense. I would hardly call her more than an
acquaintance.” Marianne flicked her gaze up to Alasdair’s face. It was hard to believe all of Roberta’s information when he looked so at ease, so friendly.
Standing so close to him now, she could smell the clean
scent of his cologne. She’d thought he liked her. She
couldn’t be so completely wrong in her original assumptions. She was usually a good judge of character,
but she’d been wrong about the girls in New York. Perhaps she was wrong about Alasdair too.

“What is it, Marianne?” Alasdair asked quietly.
“You seem troubled”

She wanted to blurt everything out. He seemed so
kind, so honest. She wanted to ask him about Sarah
Stewart but that would only be shrewish and she had
no claims on him to ask something so personal. Instead, she said, “Roberta showed me the article in the
World.”

Alasdair squeezed her elbow in reassurance. “I saw
it too. I am sorry for it. It’s entirely my fault. I wasn’t
as careful as I should have been” He gave her a flirting smile that melted her heart even as his words
melted her hopes that Roberta had been wrong. She
knew what he meant now that Roberta had explained it
all. He should have been more careful because he was
promised to another.

“Where are we going?” Marianne queried, suddenly aware they’d passed rows and rows of chairs and
were making their way toward the front of the ballroom.

“I’ve got seats for us close to the stage. Camberly
insisted we all sit up front and support his wife. I’ve already shown your parents. They should be waiting
for us. Camberly is thrilled to hear about your father’s
new yacht. The two of them will talk of nothing else
all night, I guarantee” Alasdair winked and Marianne
couldn’t help but laugh.

Roberta might be right about some things but she
was wrong about others. Men and women could be
friends. Marianne liked to think she and Alasdair were
fast becoming proof of that. She took her seat, some of
her concern eased. Camberly leaned past her father to
acknowledge her arrival with a nod. She was smart
enough to know that Alasdair wouldn’t have invited her
to sit with Camberly if he didn’t like her. He had no obligations to her and yet he’d elected to include her in his
elite group of friends.

Alasdair shifted in his seat. The program was a little over halfway done, Audrey had yet to play, and he
was already fidgety in the tiny chair. These folding
seats weren’t made for taller men. He wondered how
Camberly and Lionel tolerated it. They managed to
look moderately comfortable and engaged. But they
didn’t have Marianne Addison sitting next to them, vibrating with energy.

He’d hoped to arrive in time to speak with her about
the article. He’d hoped to be the one to tell her about
it. He’d not wanted her to hear of it from another. He
could imagine the speculations running through her
mind. How did this all look to her? Did she think he was only paying homage to her fortune? But he’d been
delayed by his mother, who had insisted that he drop
her off at another entertainment before he came on to
this one.

At least Marianne had not accused him of fortune
hunting. In fact, he was heartened that she’d been quite
polite, almost relieved, to see him. Still, he wanted to
whisk her out of the room and go someplace private
where they could talk, where he could explain the falsities of the article and his true intentions, whatever
those intentions were.

He was having difficulty explaining those intentions to himself, let alone to his close friends. He knew
only that the longer he was with Marianne, the more
he wanted to be with her.

Part of him felt like quite the parasite: he was more
than willing to bask in the glow of Marianne’s smile,
her joy in living, her confidence in doing what she
wanted to do, and he was happy to live off of her contagious good spirits. It was those good spirits he’d
vowed to protect from Brantley and his ilk. He didn’t
want Marianne to be changed so much by London that
she was no longer herself. Neither did he want to see
her pay the price for being that unique entity.

He snatched a glance at her in profile, taking in the
pert snub of her nose and the graceful sweep of her jaw
from chin to ear. Pearl earbobs hung delicately from
those ears. It was tempting to touch the dangling pearl
with a gentle push of a finger. He might have given in to that temptation if she hadn’t chosen that moment to
catch him staring.

“You’re not paying attention. The countess is going
to play next,” Marianne whispered. Her breath was
fresh, smelling of peppermint leaves. The urge to stand
up and walk out of the room with her was nearly overpowering.

“I don’t think I’ve ever sat next to someone so lovely
before,” Alasdair whispered glibly. But the words didn’t
do his sentiments justice. He wanted to touch her,
connect to her in some vital way before he went insane
with wanting.

Alasdair noted that a length of her gauzy wrap
had dropped into the tiny space between their chairs.
Around them, people applauded the musicians who’d
finished their string piece. Unnoticed, Alasdair reached
to retrieve the material, placing the tail of the wrap in
her lap. “It was on the floor-I didn’t want to see it
stepped on or ruined,” he said by way of explanation
when Marianne sent him a querying look.

“Thank you. I hadn’t noticed.” Marianne blushed, a
delightful rose hue staining her cheeks. It was all the
proof he needed that she’d noticed he hadn’t removed
his hand. Instead, his hand remained discreetly hidden
beneath the retrieved fabric, lightly curled over hers. He
gave her gloved hand a squeeze. He shot her a sideways
glance. Her eyes were dutifully fixed on the Countess
of Camberly taking her place at the piano bench, but
beneath the fabric Alasdair felt Marianne squeeze back.

He could not hold back the smile that lit his face.
He just might be on the brink of that very dangerous
precipice where a man teeters right before he falls in
love.

The card room at the Radcliffes’ was technically
empty. All but one man had managed to drift into the
ballroom to hear the renowned countess play a Schubert piece. A second figure, this one female, stole into
the room, casting furtive glances behind her at the
door for fear of being caught.

“There’s no need for such antics. Everyone wants to
hear the countess play, goodness knows why. I don’t
see why Camberly lets her get away with a career.”
Brantley was sprawled on a sofa, brandy in hand, his
tone bored. He idly swirled the brandy in the snifter.
“Did you give the article to Miss Addison?”

The young woman nodded. “She hadn’t seen it.”
There was an overt touch of malice to her voice.

Brantley gave the girl a sardonic smile. “I hope you
commiserated appropriately with her?”

She nodded, encouraged by Brantley’s comment.
“Of course. I don’t think Miss Addison was too pleased
to hear that the viscount was promised to another, either. I could tell she didn’t know what to make of that”

“You’ve done well, Roberta” Brantley rose from the
sofa and moved toward her. “We’ll need to get Pennington’s engagement to Sarah Stewart mentioned more
publicly, or at least hinted at in the social columns, to remind people of his prior commitment. It would reflect
poorly on our Miss Addison if she were stealing another girl’s intended.” Brantley made a mock moue.

Roberta gave a slight pout. “What about me? I want
to be mentioned in the columns. You said you’d get
me noticed if I did this for you”

Brantley tipped her chin up with his forefinger.
“You’ll be mentioned in the right way, my dear. Not all
mentions are positive press. I wouldn’t want your reputation tainted before we can announce our own engagement. You understand, of course?”

Roberta beamed. “I understand perfectly. It’s so
good of you to look out for me”

“Now, back to the party. I don’t want anyone to miss
you unduly” Brantley dismissed her, his thoughts already leaping ahead to the next part in his campaign to
make the Viscount Pennington very sorry he had ever
contrived to spill champagne on him.

If all went as planned, Brantley wouldn’t be marrying the pretty but petty Miss Farnwick. He’d be marrying the American heiress. Desperate girls often did
desperate things, and when he got done with the viscount, she would be very desperate indeed. There was
no getting around it: in order to get to the viscount,
Miss Addison would have to be sacrificed.

Marianne strolled along the packed gravel path of
the garden behind the town house. This morning, she
appreciated the absolute luxury of their rented home.
Only the older Mayfair homes could boast gracious,
open garden spaces and deep horseshoe-shaped drives
where a carriage could pull in to drop off passengers.
There simply wasn’t anywhere left to build. Newer
townhomes were constructed right on the street’s edge.
The solitude provided by the high hedges and fences of
the garden blocked out the street noise, effectively leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Those thoughts were riotous and confusing. She’d
preferred to have sorted through them with her hands
immersed in sourdough, but she’d quickly been banned
from the kitchen the last time she’d tried it. The cook that came with the house was as uppity as Snead the
butler. Everyone had their place and Marianne’s place
was not the kitchen. The garden would have to do.

Marianne absently fingered the soft petals of a rosebush, the flowers’ silky texture reminding her of Alasdair’s hand on hers during the recital. She knew she
was re-creating something of a fantasy. Their hands had
been gloved, and with the barriers of cloth between
them there’d hardly been any real contact. But it was
the gesture that had mattered more than the realities
of the situation. The gesture was not the action of a
friend-it was far too risky for that. Friends did not
defy protocol and flirt with scandal to hold hands, no
matter how discreetly, in a place as public as a recital
hall or ballroom. No, the gesture itself was the act of
an ardent suitor, undeclared though he was.

Was that what Alasdair was? An ardent suitor?
The thought brought a halt to her absent caress of the
rose petals. This was where things became confusing.
He could not be a legitimate suitor if his affections
were engaged elsewhere. His actions last night did not
speak well of him if indeed there was a fiancee tucked
away in the country. It was quite deflating to think of
Alasdair in terms of his being a rake, wooing one
woman while bound to another.

Marianne knew there were men like that, but she’d
perceived Alasdair to be above such behavior. It was
even worse to think of Alasdair against the backdrop of
the horrid news clipping, to think that he was wooing her for her fortune and that he would contemplate throwing over his intended for the sake of a larger dowry.

She was further troubled to think that Alasdair may
have pursued such a dubious course of action because
he felt that neither of the women involved would find
out. If Roberta Farnwick was to be believed, Miss
Stewart never came up to Town. Likely, she was entirely unaware of her intended’s behaviors when he
was away. Marianne also knew herself to be an ideal
candidate. She was new to Town and couldn’t possibly
know about the arrangement.

A stem snapped under the pressure of Marianne’s
hand. She looked down regretfully at the broken bloom.
She’d not realized how much turmoil her thoughts had
created until the flower had broken. Was this to be the
measure of her days? Wandering the garden, picking apart every action, every nuance, trying to make a
whole?

When she’d concocted her idea to come to England, it had all seemed so simple. She had planned
for every contingency. The trip had been meticulously
outlined over the course of the months before they had
traveled. Appointments had been set at Worth, the big
town house had been arranged, and apartments in Paris
and Venice had been contracted for their short visits
there. All the details had been firmly established right
down to the first few vital invitations that Marianne’s
mother had networked for them through a friend of a
friend.