Chapter 2
Marianne gazed out the open window over the back garden. Despite the verdant growth and brilliance of the early April day her thoughts were those of the doomed and hopeless. The fabulous beauty of the newly blooming flowers—daffodils, crocus, magnolias—did nothing to improve her mood.
Today she would meet her intended. Multiple pleas had been made to each of her parents, in turn and together, to no avail. She had even coaxed Chase into taking up her cause but he, too, had failed. They were set on this path to curse her with this dandy, this laughing stock of Society, for eternity.
To make matters worse, she absolutely knew the ton would not accept her as her father promised. No amount of money nor grandness of title nor both combined could sway such a jaded group of individuals without some recompense. They would merely shun her, making her an outsider in both worlds, her family’s tradesmen friends as well as Haute Societé. Her new life would be a lonely misery with no happy ending in sight.
“Marianne, do come and sit. The earl and viscount should be here any second.” Margaret sat calmly on the settee. As if not knowing what to do with her hands, she arranged her skirts yet again. “George, please stop pacing and sit. The both of you are making me exceedingly nervous. Where is Charles? He should be here too.”
Marianne watched as her father settled into a bergère chair, his attitude as gruff as a bear. “I caught him on his way out earlier this afternoon. He said he had no interest in what he called Marianne’s Marriage Débâcle.”
Even Chase had deserted her in her hour of need. How could she blame him? She didn’t want to be here either. Sighing, she resigned herself to the other end of the settee.
As if on cue, a knock came on the drawing room door. Baffles, their longstanding butler, opened and entered as directed, then announced, “The Earl of Reignsfield, the Viscount of Berensfeld.”
Marianne and her parents rose as one to greet their guests.
Her father must have practiced for an age as he bowed gracefully to each of the peers now in the room, then turned to present her mother.
Margaret made a curtsy so low Marianne thought her mother might disgrace them all with a fall to the floor.
So Marianne wasn’t the only one being coached to within a hair of her life.
And then her father said her name as he turned in her direction. “My lovely daughter, Marianne, my lords.”
The pride in his voice consoled her somewhat as he swept his hand toward her.
Drawing her attention directly to the two men who would control her future, Marianne swallowed hard as she took them in.
The older gentleman personified all she would expect of a peer of the realm, portly, stodgy, greying at the temples, dressed in dark clothes appropriately tailored with a simple knot to his cravat, the image of an entitled, condescending aristocrat.
But his son, her betrothed, presented a sight beyond all expectation.
Realizing she stared, she dropped her gaze as she made a low curtsy of her own while she regathered her wits. How could she take this man seriously every day for the rest of her life? True, he had worn the darkest of blues for this solemn occasion. But the gold braiding on the sides of his breeches, at his cuffs, his collar and the solid gold threads of his waistcoat were blinding. Did not her father tell her these men lacked funds? Would her dowry be spent so wantonly? Would all of her father’s hard-earned income go to buy hundreds of cravats which would be tied in such an intricate manner that her future husband’s head looked like that of a turtle peeking out from its shell? And clothes that would make a strutting peacock proud but the lords and ladies of London nothing but appalled?
“Miss Durand,” said a lilting tenor voice whose tone did nothing to reaffirm his masculinity. Though rather tall, she would estimate his height over six feet, his thinness seemed to border on frailty.
She raised her eyes just enough to see her intended in the lowest of courtly bows, his right hand extended. Taking a deep breath, she hesitantly placed her hand in his.
And felt a jolt go up her arm, her face drain of blood.
Feeling her eyes go wide, she looked up into a startlingly deep blue gaze only to find he, too, had sensed the shock when they touched.
But his manners were the more refined. He drew her up from her curtsy, then brought her hand barely to his lips and brushed a kiss there as light as a feather’s touch. His eyes, however, did not meet hers.
“Yes, yes.” Her father broke the awkwardness of the moment, “Do come in and sit down. Tea will be served directly.”
Marianne withdrew her hand to retreat to the safety of the settee and her mother’s protection. Still speechless from the confusion of the encounter, she turned her face, hot with embarrassment, away from their guests. This was not going well at all, and there was no way to know how long they would deign to visit.
~ ~ ~
Two hours dragged by as Andrew and his father made polite conversation, then made their apologies and left. The only excitement had been the moment he had touched the girl’s hand.
What of that? No beauty, this girl, out of the school room almost three years, plain and slightly plump by ton standards. Acceptable, yes, with clear rosy skin, rich dark blonde hair and pale blue eyes, but nothing compared to the débutantes of the current season and their finery and manners. His plight sealed, he would have to make the best of it. His father had been definitive: for the long-term welfare of his family he must be the sacrificial lamb.
Damned if he’d let his father take control of the dowry, though. If he must marry the wench, he’d decide where and for what the monies would be spent. Enough of his father’s scatterbrained investments. That was what had put him in this position in the first place. If only he’d paid attention to the goings-on of their estates sooner, he might have avoided all of this.
That ship had set sail long before. In point of fact, he had no idea exactly when his father had entered into dunning territory. Only one score and three himself, he felt sure it could have been as much as ten years before. If he had to make a guess, it probably started after his mother had passed. She would never have tolerated such wanton use of the family fortunes. At least, he doubted so, based on his memories of her. Her kindness and love toward him had kept his father, always finding him lacking, at bay.
Sitting back on the leather squabs of the carriage on the ride home to Mayfair, Andrew contrived how to make the marriage work. If only superficially, he must deflect the wagging tongues of Societé.
That might not be as easy as he would prefer.