The Marriage Lesson (3 page)

“A few. I admit I am no scholar, but I’m not a complete dolt.” He paused. “You said there were things beyond the color of your eyes that I didn’t know.”

“I’m certain there are all manner of things you don’t know,” she said loftily.

“Probably, but I believe this may have been about you.”

“Well . . . ” She took a thoughtful sip. “To start with, your plan won’t work.”

“My plan?”

“Your plan to marry us all off as quickly as possible.” She leaned back against a bookshelf and smirked.

“Is there anything I said tonight that you didn’t hear?” he said wryly.

“I don’t believe so. I heard your assessment of my sisters and myself. And Aunt Louella, of course.” She laughed. “Rather accurate, actually. Oh, and then there was the offer you made to your friend to let him have his pick of us. Exceedingly generous of you.”

“Damnation.” Thomas had the grace to look properly chagrined. “I do apologize.”

“As well you should.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “This is a very large room, but voices do seem to carry well from one end to the other.”

“I shall make a note of it for future reference. And remember to check the sofa for hidden visions as well.” He drew his brows together. “Why won’t my plan work?”

He snorted. “Nonsense. Every woman wants to marry.”

“Not me.” She stepped away from the shelves and waved in an expansive gesture toward the rows of volumes. “Look at these, Thomas. They’re filled with quests and dangers and excitements. I wish to experience some of them for myself. I want to experience life itself. There’s an entire world of things I’ve yet to do. I want to meet interesting people and have grand adventures and travel to exciting places like Venice and Cairo and, well, live what I have only read about. And I can’t accomplish any of that if I shackle myself to a husband.”

“Come, now, Marianne,” he said in an altogether too condescending manner. “You cannot possibly—”

“Hah! I know your kind.” She pointed her glass at him. “You’re one of those men who believes women should be boring and proper at all times and never have a bit of fun.”

“Not at all.” He grinned in a decidedly wicked manner. “I am not opposed to women enjoying themselves. A certain kind of woman, that is. However”—a firm note sounded in his voice—“I do not extend that particular freedom to young women under my protection.”

“You shall simply have to reconsider.” She drained the last of her brandy and headed toward the decanter. “Since I neither want nor need your protection.”

“I don’t see why. It’s really quite tasty.” She stared at her empty glass. “Isn’t it curious the way the more I drink, the less drunk you appear?”

“It often works that way.” He took the glass from her hand and put it on the desk. “You, my dear lady, are foxed.”

She lifted her chin and glared at him with all the indignation she could muster. “I most certainly am not. If anything, I’m merely a bit”—she giggled—“merry.”

“So I see. Well, merry or not”—he grasped her shoulders and turned her to face the door—“it’s past time you retired for the night.”

He gave her a gentle push and she started for the door. Then she swiveled and stepped back to him. “I’ll tell you something else you don’t know. I’ve never had brandy before.”

“No?” His eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Yet you handled it so well.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she said smugly.

“Good evening, Marianne.” His tone was firm, but his eyes twinkled.

“Good evening, Thomas.” Once again she started toward the door, and once again she returned to him.

He heaved a sigh. “What is it now?”

“I’ve never been kissed, either.” She gazed up at him expectantly.

“And you’re not going to be kissed now.”

“They who?” He studied her as if she were the one whose sanity was in question. “The books?”

“Don’t be absurd. Heroines.
In
the books.” She nodded emphatically. “Many of them have been kissed. And more than once.”

“Perhaps. But this is not a story and you are not about to be kissed.”

“As you wish.” She sighed dramatically. “However, if you don’t kiss me, I shall be forced to fling myself at every man I meet in hopes one will take pity on an aging, intelligent bluestocking, and I should think, given your attitude toward your responsibilities, that it would be most irresponsible—”

“Very well!” He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. Then he released her so abruptly she was hard-pressed not to lose her balance. “There.”

“There?” She glared up at him. “Not precisely what I had in mind.”

“It shall have to do,” he said haughtily.

“I’m sure others could do better.”

“I doubt that.”

“I don’t. However, you leave me no choice but to find out at the first opportunity.” She grinned. “Actually, I rather like the idea of throwing myself on the mercy of one gentleman after another for however long it should take, although I can’t imagine it should take any time at all––because you did agree that I was attractive . . .  very attractive, you said—until at last some kind soul is willing—”

For a moment, the shock of his touch held her still. His lips were nicely warmed and surprisingly soft and tasted deliciously of brandy. She tilted her head and the pressure of his mouth against hers relaxed.

One hand slipped from her shoulder to her back and pressed her tighter to him. She rested her hands against his chest. He slanted his mouth over hers and at once she wished this moment would last forever. Her breath met and mingled with his and she marveled at the intimate nature of what she’d always assumed was simple and not at all complicated.

He pulled away and stared down at her with an odd, cautious look in his eye.

“Oh, my.” She exhaled a long breath. “That was . . .  that was . . . ”

He stepped back and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I do hope that was satisfactory.”

“Quite.” A lovely warm glow washed through her.
More than satisfactory.
“Although—just to be certain, you understand—I think you should try again.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression puzzled, as if he were trying to determine precisely what she meant.

“I think you should kiss me again,” she said, with deliberate emphasis on each and every word. Perhaps the man was mad after all. Or simpleminded. Or maybe he just didn’t want to kiss her again.

He shook his head slowly. “I think not.”

“Why not?”

“Those will serve.” She grinned. “For the moment.”

“Forever.”

“We shall see, my lord,” she said primly and headed toward the door, resisting the urge to glance at him over her shoulder. “We shall see.”

Aunt Louella narrowed her eyes. “Jocelyn.”

“My bosoms are worthy of springing free.” Becky frowned, staring down at her own bust. She drew a deep breath and slowly released it, then nodded as if satisfied. “More than worthy.”

“That’s quite enough from both of you. I’ve never heard such nonsense. You are well-bred young ladies and I expect you to behave as such.” Aunt Louella’s glare pinned first Jocelyn then Becky. “And well-bred young ladies do not discuss the worthiness of their bosoms.”

“Of course, Aunt Louella. And I do apologize,” Jocelyn said sweetly, “to you.”

Becky opened her mouth to respond and Marianne shot her a quelling glance. Indecision washed over the younger girl’s face, then she clamped her mouth shut, but rebellion still glittered in her eyes. Marianne groaned to herself; this was a truce at best, uneasy and more than likely brief.

She should have said something when the squabbling began. Since their older sister Emma had married last year, Marianne had been thrust into the role of peacemaker between the younger girls, a position she did not relish. Still, she should be grateful, since on those rare occasions when Jocelyn and Becky cooperated with each other they were a force to be reckoned with.

“Why don’t you take her in the other room?” Marianne said brightly and got to her feet. “That way you can discuss whatever you’d like without us hanging about and adding our opinions every two seconds.”

“I quite like adding my opinion,” Jocelyn said indignantly. “I think my opinion should be taken into consideration, given as the discussion is what I shall be wearing.”

“As do I,” Becky said with a frown. “Come, now, Marianne, you can’t possibly think—”

“Oh, but I do.” Marianne hooked her arm through her aunt’s and steered her toward the door. “After all, Aunt Louella has experience and knowledge far beyond our own as to what is truly fashionable and it can only be to our benefit to allow her to guide us in such things.”

Jocelyn and Becky traded glances and Marianne bit back a sigh.

Once again, alliances had shifted and foes were now allies. Still, there was never a question that when matters were of a serious nature the Shelton sisters would always form a united front. More often than not, that front was against Aunt Louella. Even with Jocelyn, who most among the girls had fallen prey to the elderly woman’s stories of the glories of London and the joys of the social season, there was no question of her primary allegiance.

Her aunt studied her for a moment. “Excellent idea.” She nodded at the dressmaker and the woman followed them. Louella glanced back at the younger girls. “I shall send a maid to help you, Jocelyn.”

“No.” Marianne jerked opened the door. “I mean, it’s not necessary. We can help her.”

“Not me,” Becky said under her breath.

“Very well.” Aunt Louella turned to the seamstress. “You must thank Madame Renault for being so kind as to permit you to do these final fittings here rather than at her shop. I do hope . . . ” They stepped through the door and Marianne closed it behind them.

“Kind?” Becky scoffed. “Given the scandalous amount of money we’ve spent, the woman should come and dress us on a daily basis.” She grinned. “It is great fun, though, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.” Marianne laughed. After living most of their lives having to watch each penny, the girls still weren’t used to being able to purchase whatever they wished without worry. Only Jocelyn had taken to spending money without Marianne’s twinge of guilt or Becky’s sense of wonder. “Now, then,” she said brightly, “let’s talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Idle curiosity sounded in Jocelyn’s voice. She reached out and Marianne helped her off the stool.

“I wasn’t eager at all,” Marianne lied. “I simply wanted to talk about . . .  well . . .  our lives and futures and our expectations. It’s so much easier to speak freely without Aunt Louella here.”

Once again, Jocelyn and Becky exchanged glances.

“Not if that’s all you want to talk about,” Becky said slowly. “I thought it was understood. The only purpose of a London season is to make good matches. It’s our lot in life.” She stood and reluctantly moved to assist Marianne. “We are, as Aunt Louella never fails to point out, well-bred young ladies with a responsibil-ity to our family. And substantial dowries.” Becky’s words rang with all the sincerity of a memorized recitation.

Marianne stared at her. “But that is what you want, isn’t it?”

Becky shrugged. “Eventually.”

“I, for one, have no intention of wedding after my first season.” Jocelyn turned to allow her sisters to undo the variety of pins, tapes and other fasteners that held her dress in place.

“What do you intend?” Until this moment Marianne had no idea Jocelyn had planned anything beyond snaring herself the most eligible bachelor to be had as quickly as possible. Obviously she hadn’t paid nearly as much attention to her sisters as she should have.