The Marquis Takes a Bride (3 page)

“May I sit down?” he asked in a light, pleasant drawl. His blue eyes under their heavy lids surveyed the sleeping dogs. He crossed to the most comfortable chair, which was occupied by Caesar, and looked down.

“Get down, boy,” he said to the dog in a pleasant voice which carried no hint of command. To the amazement of the watchers, Caesar immediately awoke, slid down from the chair and lay down on the rug.

The Marquis looked thoughtfully at the chair, he flicked the seat of it with his handkerchief, and then sat down. He lazily snapped his fingers to the waiting footman, handed him the soiled piece of lace and cambric and then looked thoughtfully at his future bride, who was staring at him open-mouthed. A strong smell of unwashed dogs and bad drainage assailed the Marquis’ nostrils and, in front of Jennie’s scornful eyes, he took out a small silver vinaigrette and held it to his nose.

“Fop!” said Jennie in a low voice to Guy. The amiable blue eyes looking in her direction suddenly seemed to narrow a fraction and, for one moment, Jennie was sure that he had heard her. But the next minute, he was looking just as sleepy and amiable as ever and she put it down to a trick of the light.

“Well,” said Lord Charles in a jovial voice, “well, well, well, well, well.” Everyone waited anxiously for him to go on but his lordship had fallen silent.

“Since no one is going to present me, I may as well present myself,” said Jennie impatiently. “I, my lord, am Miss Bemyss.”

“Charmed,” murmured the Marquis, giving her a bow from his chair.

“This is my cousin, Mr. Chalmers… oh, I am doing things the wrong way around,” exclaimed Jennie in pretty confusion. “I should have introduced my grandparents first… Lord and Lady Bemyss.”

This time the Marquis rose to his feet, made Lady Priscilla a magnificent leg, and then sat down again.

A heavy silence fell upon the room, broken only by the whispering and ticking of the clocks.

Lord Charles cleared his throat noisily. “Hah!” he said. “Yes. Well.”

Everyone looked helplessly at one another.

A diversion was created by the ancient footman who staggered forward bearing a small table laden with decanters, saffron cakes and Shrewsbury cakes.

Lady Priscilla appeared to come out of some very pleasant dream. The Marquis had bitten into a Shrewsbury cake and was staring at the remains of it in mild astonishment. “Is anything wrong?” she asked anxiously.

“No, indeed, ma’am,” drawled Chemmy politely, letting the remains of the cake fall on the floor where it was eagerly gobbled up by Caesar, who was promptly sick.

Jennie took a cake from the plate offered to her by the footman and anxiously bit into it. It tasted as bitter as acid.

“Grandmama!” she choked. “What on earth is in this Shrewsbury cake?”

“Oh, dear,” replied Lady Priscilla. “I was afraid it might not answer. Cook told me we had no caraway seeds left and I found some pretty seeds lying in the garden and I thought they would do just as well.”

“Do not worry about it,” said the Marquis. “The madeira is excellent.”

“It
is?
” cried Lady Priscilla, with such surprise that the Marquis sniffed warily at his glass and wondered if she could possibly have made it herself.

Another long silence fell, this time broken by Guy. “It’s deuced stuffy in here,” he said. “I shall just take Jennie for a breath of air in the garden.”

“No, you won’t,” barked Lord Charles, breaking into articulate speech for the first time. “The young couple want to be alone to get acquainted.” He got stiffly to his feet and held out his arm to his wife. Jennie nervously watched her grandparents leave the room.

Guy grinned down at her. “Best be off, Jennie.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t forget…”

Jennie watched him go with her heart in her eyes. Then she reluctantly turned her attention to her betrothed.

“Do you wish this marriage?” asked the Marquis, in a pleasant, uninterested sort of voice.

Jennie looked at the large dandy with amused contempt. He was idly playing with his vinaigrette. She noticed that his cambric shirt was so fine it was nearly transparent and was embroidered with small bunches of forget-me-nots.

Take away his tailor
, she thought in disgust,
and there would be nothing left but a great oaf
.

Summoning up her courage, she got to her feet and walked to stand in front of the Marquis. He politely rose from his chair and Jennie found to her dismay that she had to crane her neck to look up at him.

“My lord,” she began, “I am sure you do not want this marriage any more than I do. It would be more dignified to cease this charade.”

“Oh, no,” remarked the Marquis with great good humor, “I don’t consider it a charade at all. I wish to be married.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” remarked Jennie crossly, her temper rising. “You
can’t
want to marry me. You don’t even know me.”

“That can be remedied.”

“You can’t
force
me to marry you,” said Jennie, tears of anger beginning to sparkle in her large hazel eyes.

“No?” he said. “I can, in a way. We were legally betrothed when you were in your cradle. What frightens you about this marriage?”

“I do not love you,” she said tremulously.

“Of course not,” replied the Marquis with infuriating calm. “I do not believe in love at first sight. But I think we should deal together tolerably well. Come, my child, be reasonable. Would you not like to have your own establishment and fine clothes and a Season in London?”

“Y-yes, of course I would like that. But I cannot be your wife.” Here she flung her head back in an overdramatic gesture worthy of that well-known actress, Mrs. Jordan… “unless you agree to a marriage of convenience, a marriage in name only.”

He took so long to answer that her neck began to hurt and she had to relinquish her dramatic pose.

At last he said mildly, “I shall expect you to produce an heir at some time or another, you know. But you are very young and I am prepared to wait. At the beginning of our marriage, at least, you may lead your own life and follow your own amusements.”

Jennie thought quickly. Oh, that she could marry Guy! But since she could not, surely it would be better to have a complaisant husband.

“Very well,” she said sulkily, staring at the Marquis’ waistcoat button.

He drew her gently to him and kissed her on the forehead.

“Why did you never marry before?” asked Jennie, suddenly shy.

“I must have been waiting for you,” he answered lightly, “although my friends tell me I am married to my tailor.”

If he cares only for clothes as Guy said
, thought Jennie, beginning to relax,
he will have little time to think of his wife
.

Lord Charles and Lady Priscilla came into the room. They showed no surprise at the news that the couple were to go ahead with the wedding.

“Jennie has been trained to come to heel,” said Lord Charles. “You should have no trouble with her.”

“I hope, my lord,” said Jennie sweetly, “that you will put a ring on my finger and not a collar around my neck.”

“I shall supply you with whatever is necessary, I assure you,” remarked the Marquis. “I think we should be married in three weeks’ time.”

“So soon,” said Jennie faintly.

“Capital!” said Lord Charles.

“I see no sense in waiting,” remarked the large Marquis. “After all, my dear, we have been betrothed for such a long time!”

The announcement of the Marquis’ engagement to Miss Jennie Bemyss caused a certain flutter in London society, which had considered him a hardened bachelor.

One of the most astounded was his friend, Peregrine Deighton.

Peregrine was waiting impatiently for the Marquis on that gentleman’s return from Runbury Manor. He was a small, dapper man with a small, military moustache and thick, pepper-and-salt hair. He had a broad forehead and large, slightly protruding brown eyes, a thin, straight nose and a small, severe mouth.

It had long been a source of wonder why the elegant and indolent Marquis should choose such an old-maid for a friend. For Mr. Deighton was inclined to be very prissy and had an embarrassing habit of speaking exactly what was on his mind at the time. But Peregrine had fought in the Marquis’ regiment during the earlier years of the Peninsular Wars and the Marquis knew him to be gallant and brave, and sensitive to a fault, and repaid his little friend’s loyalty with the same regard.

The Marquis entered the drawing room of his town house in Albemarle Street and looked with lazy amusement at the small, trim figure of Mr. Deighton, who was perched on the edge of a chair with the knob of his cane in his mouth.

He unplugged himself at the sight of the Marquis and immediately burst into speech. “Tell me it’s not true!” he cried. “I could scarce believe my eyes when I read the
Morning Post
. You set out to tell the Bemyss family that you had no intention of getting married. What happened?”

“I must have fallen in love,” remarked the Marquis languidly, stripping off his York tan driving gloves.

“You? Love? Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Deighton, who then, in his usual embarrassing way, plunged straight on into the reason for his distress over the forthcoming nuptials. “What will happen to all the fun we have?” he said. “What will happen to all the races and prize fights? The clubs and the opera? The days in the park? A wife will put a stop to all that!” He bounced up and down on the edge of the chair, his dapper little figure fairly quivering with distress.

“Down, boy! Down!” said the Marquis good-humoredly, and indeed his small friend did look rather like an agitated puppy who had just been refused a walk. “My affianced bride assures me that ours shall be a marriage of convenience. We shall go our separate ways until such times as I feel it necessary to produce an heir. If you go on in this heated fashion, Perry, the world will begin to wonder about my… er… tastes. Play me no jealous tragedies, Perry.”

“You mean… you… me… people would think…
you
think,” spluttered the enraged Perry. “Well, sirrah, if that is how you regard my devoted friendship… you may name your seconds!”

“I have absolutely no intention of getting up at dawn so that you can put a bullet through me,” said the Marquis. “Take a deep breath and
think
, man… think how you sound.”

“Jealous,” replied Perry gloomily, with his usual forthright honesty. “Sorry, Chemmy. I’m jealous of a girl. But, damn, what kind of a girl is it that wants you in name only? Answer me that!”

“An enchanting, spoiled little minx,” said the Marquis, smiling reflectively.

“And to add to the complications, Miss Bemyss is in love with her first cousin, Guy Chalmers.”

“Not that loose screw,” gasped Perry. “It’s as well she can’t marry him. Ruining servant girls and rolling old women in the kennel is more in his line.”

“Tell me more,” said the Marquis. “I do not know anything of Mr. Chalmers.”

“He claims to be a Corinthian, which is simply an excuse for sloppy dress and the manners of the rabble,” said Perry roundly. “He tries to emulate everything that set does, only he does it all badly. He boxes badly, shoots worse, wounded a gamekeeper at Lord Belling’s shoot instead of hitting the bird he was supposed to, attends cock fights and bear baitings at Islington in the most shady company, claims to be up to every rig and row in town, claims to be a lady’s man and yet when he stayed at the Harrington’s a month ago, ’tis said he got Mrs. Harrington’s maid with child and then paid the girl to say that Mr. Harrington was the father, except that she confounded him by telling the truth… do you want to hear any more?”

“No,” said the Marquis faintly. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

“You say this marriage will not affect our friendship,” went on his friend relentlessly. “But what of Mrs. Waring’s ‘friendship?’”

“Alice Waring knows my intentions towards her are, and always have been, strictly dishonorable,” said the Marquis. “She will soon find another protector.”

“Not her!” cried Perry. “I’m sure she thought you would marry her, sometime or other. After all, you haven’t looked at another woman these past few years.”

“You must be mistaken,” said the Marquis, jolted slightly from his customary good humor. “I am not a fool, Perry. Had I thought that Alice expected more from me than the payment of her rent and jewels, I would have terminated that connection long ago.”

“You ain’t a fool,” said Perry slowly. “But sometimes you can’t see what’s under your nose.”

“Enough!” said the Marquis. “You will be best man at my wedding, I hope?”

“You mean you’re really going through with it?”

“Oh, yes. I’m really going through with it.”

Then I shall stand by you,” said Perry.

“Thank you,” said the Marquis, and then surveyed his friend’s brooding face. “I would appreciate your loyalty to my bride, Perry,” he said quietly. “You are not to give her that piece of your mind you have so obviously reserved for her.”

Perry flushed slightly. “Oh, well,” he said sulkily. “But life won’t be the same with Miss Jennie Bemyss around. Just you wait and see!”

After Perry had taken his leave, the Marquis sat for a long time, deep in thought. He had not intended to honor the betrothal. Although he had been aware from a long time back that it existed, he had never taken it very seriously. His parents had firmly believed in arranged marriages and had been close friends of Jennie’s parents. Before their death, from one of the many typhoid epidemics which ravaged the English countryside, they had told the young Chemmy of the beautiful baby girl who would grow up to be his bride. He had put it far in the back of his mind, being for years too concerned with the managing of his estates which he had found in bad repair after a three years’ absence in the Peninsular Wars.

As the years passed and no communication arrived from the Bemyss family, the Marquis had begun to think they had either forgotten about the whole thing or had found this “baby betrothal” as ridiculous as he did himself. That was until a letter had arrived from Lord Charles informing him bluntly of Jennie’s approaching eighteenth birthday and firmly stating that the Marquis was expected to honor his dead parents’ wishes.