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‘Naturally I spend as much time as I can with my darlings, but I have my needs also, Magnus. And I have responsibilities as George’s wife, and they take place in London, which is no fault of mine. But you need not think I neglect my children, for I leave them in the best of care.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that.’ Lord d’Arenville’s voice was thoughtful. ‘Your sturdy little cousin.’
Sturdy! How dared he? Sturdy? Tallie was mortally insulted. She might not be as sylphlike as Laetitia, but she was not sturdy!
‘You’re wandering off the point, Magnus.’
Sturdy! Insensitive beast!
‘Would you say that any of these young ladies would be willing to live for, say, ten years in the country?’
‘Ten years?’ Laetitia’s voice rose to a horrified screech. ‘No sane woman would agree to that! She would die, rather! Why on earth would you wish to immure anyone in the country for ten years, anyway?’
There was a short silence. Tallie craned to hear, but there was nothing. Suddenly Laetitia laughed—a hard, cynical laugh.
‘Good God, you want a nun, not a wife, don’t you?’ She laughed again. ‘Your father tried that, if you recall, and stuck to it for all of six months, while your mother cuckolded him with every groom, stableboy and tenant farmer in the district. And serve him right, say I. No, you couldn’t possibly think that isolating a wife in the country would ensure her fidelity, not after that.’ She laughed again. ‘And if you have any doubts on the matter, dearest coz, ask George.’
Lord d’Arenville said stiffly, ‘My decision is nothing to do with either you or my mother. It is simply that my bride must not mind spending my children’s growing years at my country seat with them.’
‘Well, I wish you’d told me earlier,’ said Laetitia, ‘for I wouldn’t have bothered wasting everyone’s time with this ridiculous charade. I am very angry with you, Magnus. I should have realised you were not serious about wanting a bride—’
‘I am quite serious.’
‘Well, you certainly won’t find one here who could accept—’
‘But I have.’
‘You’ve what?’ Laetitia sounded flabbergasted. ‘Don’t tell me one has agreed to your outrageous terms, Magnus! Oh, I cannot believe it. Who is she? No—do not tell me—let me guess. Lady Helen…no, she is positively addicted to Almack’s. And it could not possibly be Miss Blakeney—no one so à la mode would agree to be buried in the country for ten years. Oh, I give up Magnus, who is she?’
There was a long pause. Tallie waited with bated breath. Truly, she could imagine no young lady agreeing to such inhuman terms. It was a shame his mother had behaved so shockingly, but not all women were like his mother and Laetitia, and why should an innocent wife be punished for the things they had done?
Ten years in the country indeed! And would Lord d’Arenville confine himself similarly to the restrictions of country life? Tallie almost snorted out loud. Of course he would not! It was only his poor wife who would be shut away from society, breeding his heirs like a good little brood mare.
‘Well, Magnus, don’t keep me waiting all day,’ said Laetitia impatiently. ‘Which bride have you chosen?’
Tallie leaned against the doorhandle, eager to hear his answer.
‘I have decided to wed—’
Suddenly the catch gave, and Tallie tumbled out into the night, missing his reply. Fearful that her eavesdropping would be discovered, she pushed the door shut and slipped away. A little irritated to be denied the juicy morsel of gossip, she hurried towards the kitchen. Which unfortunate young lady had Lord d’Arenville chosen for his bride? She would find out soon enough, she supposed. Whoever it was, Tallie did not envy her. However, it was nothing to do with her, except that his choice would signal the end of the house party. All the unpleasant guests would return to London, the children would be released from their unnatural curfew and she would return to the peaceful life she had led before. Tallie almost skipped with joy at the prospect.
When Tallie came down to breakfast the next morning she was surprised to find many of her cousin’s guests already arisen. She paused on the threshold, feeling dowdy and unwelcome. Still, she decided, this was her home, and she had every right to her breakfast. Chin held high, she entered the breakfast room.
A sudden hush fell. Tallie ignored it. No doubt they were preparing to make sport of her yet again—the dress she wore was even shabbier than yesterday’s. She went to the sideboard and inspected the selection of breakfast dishes, uncomfortably aware of hostile eyes boring into her back. After a moment, the buzz of conversation resumed. From time to time a low-voiced comment reached her ears as she slowly filled her plate.
‘…done rather well for herself.’
‘…but, my dear, one wonders what precisely she did to ensure…’
They were talking of Lord d’Arenville’s bride, Tallie thought. He must have announced his betrothal at the ball. That would explain why so many had come down to breakfast. No doubt those who had not been chosen wished to make an early start on the journey back to Town.
‘And, of course, poor Tish is utterly furious.’
‘Naturally, my dear. Would not you be? After all she’s done for her, and now this! The very ingratitude…’
‘Trapped, undoubtedly.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly!’
Tallie wondered which of the young ladies Lord d’Arenville had chosen. It had to be either Miss Blakeney or Lady Helen Beresford—they were the only two young ladies not at breakfast. That explained why she could sense such an atmosphere of hostility in the room—failed candidates seething with frustration and anger. Tallie tried to close her ears to the vehement mutterings. It would be a relief when Lord d’Arenville, Laetitia and all their horrid friends had gone back to London.
‘Thrusting little baggage. A man of honour…no choice.’
‘And that dress last evening—positively indecent!’
‘No other word for it.’
Tallie began to eat her breakfast, though her appetite had quite vanished. Her cousin’s friends were quite unbearable.
‘More coffee, Miss Tallie?’ murmured Brooks at her ear.
A friendly face at last. ‘Oh, yes, please, Brooks.’ Tallie beamed up at him and held her cup out for him to refill.
As Brooks poured, Miss Fyffe-Temple, one of Tallie’s neighbours, roughly jogged his elbow. Hot coffee boiled over Tallie’s hand and arm. She leapt up with a shriek of pain.
‘Oh, Miss Tallie!’ exclaimed Brooks, horrified.
‘How very clumsy of me, to be sure,’ purred Miss Fyffe-Temple. ‘What a nasty red mark it has made. I do hope it won’t leave a scar.’
‘Yes, it’s quite disgustingly red and ugly. Is it terribly painful?’ Miss Carnegie added.
‘Oh, how horrid…I think I’m going to faint,’ exclaimed The Honourable Miss Aldercott. The others immediately gathered around Miss Aldercott, cooing with pretty concern.
Blinking back tears, Tallie ran from the room and headed for the scullery. She plunged her arm in a pitcher of cold water and breathed a sigh of relief as the pain immediately began to ebb. After a few moments she withdrew it and blew lightly on the reddened skin. It was quite painful, but she didn’t think it was too serious a burn. But why had Miss Fyffe-Temple done it? Tallie hadn’t missed the gleam of spiteful satisfaction in her eyes as she had made her mocking apology.
‘Are you all right, Miss Tallie?’ It was Brooks, his kindly old face furrowed with anxiety. ‘I am so sorry, my dear.’
‘It is not serious, Brooks, truly,’ Tallie reassured him. ‘It gave me more of a fright, really. It hardly hurts at all.’
‘I don’t know how it happened. She…My arm just slipped.’
Tallie laid a hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right; I know whose fault it is, Brooks. The thing I don’t understand is why.’
Brooks stared for a moment, then suddenly looked awkward. ‘I think you’d best speak to your cousin, miss,’ he said. ‘She’s still abed, but I have no doubt she’s expecting you.’
Tallie frowned. ‘I shall go up to her, then, as soon as I have put some butter and a piece of gauze over this burn,’ she said slowly. Judging from Brooks’s expression, something was amiss. She could not think what it was. No doubt her cousin would enlighten her.
‘Me?’ Tallie’s voice squeaked. She stared at her cousin, her jaw dropping in amazement. The effects of her indulgences the night before had kept Laetitia in bed, and from the sounds of things she was still inebriated. Or demented.
‘Me?’ repeated Tallie, stunned. ‘How can you possibly say such a thing, Cousin? He does not even know my name.’
‘Ha!’ spat Laetitia, holding her delicate head. ‘I’ll wager he knows you in other ways, you hussy! In the Biblical sense! Why else would he choose a wretched little nobody?’
Tallie gasped, first in shock and then in swelling outrage. It was one thing to be asked to swallow such a Banbury tale—Lord d’Arenville wishing to wed Tallie Robinson, indeed! But to be accused of immorality! She was not entirely sure what knowing ‘in the Biblical sense’ meant, but she was very certain it was immoral. Tallie was furious. She might be poor. She might be an orphan, shabbily dressed and forced to live on other’s generosity. But she was not immoral.
‘Firstly, let me tell you, Cousin,’ Tallie said heatedly, ‘no man has known me in the Biblical sense, and I am shocked that you could even suggest such a thing! Secondly, I cannot help but believe you must have made an error about Lord d’Arenville’s intentions. Perhaps you misheard him.’
‘I did not,’ snapped Laetitia. ‘Do you think I would imagine such an appalling thing?’
Tallie gritted her teeth. Imagination indeed! She could imagine no member of the aristocracy, let alone the arrogant Lord d’Arenville, choosing his cousin’s poor relation for his bride.
‘But I have not exchanged even one word with his lordship,’ exclaimed Tallie.
‘I do not believe—’ shrilled Laetitia, holding her head.
‘Cousin! I promise you.’ Tallie tried to keep her voice calm, despite her frustration. Her cousin was very angry.
‘Do not lie, girl! He told me himself he had chosen you.’
A small, cold knot of fear lodged in Tallie’s stomach. She had never seen Laetitia this furious before, and she knew her cousin well. There was a hard, ruthless streak in Laetitia. This foolish misunderstanding—the result of too much champagne, no doubt, or perhaps a jest on Lord d’Arenville’s part—could have dire consequences for herself.
‘Well, either you misheard him, Cousin, or else he is playing a nasty joke on you. Yes, that’s it—it must surely be a jest.’ People like her cousin’s friends were always playing tricks on some poor unfortunate. The joke this time might be on Laetitia, but Tallie was the poor unfortunate.
‘Jest?’ Laetitia snorted. ‘Magnus does not jest—not about marriage.’
‘Perhaps you took a little too much champagne, Cousin, and did not realise he was hoaxing you,’ Tallie suggested tentatively.
‘Nonsense! I know what I heard!’ said Laetitia, but her tone belied the words. It was clear that she was starting to entertain doubts. Tallie felt a trickle of relief.
‘I will speak to his lordship, shall I, and clear the matter up once and for all?’ Tallie rose to her feet. It just had to be some trick Lord d’Arenville was playing on Laetitia. Tallie was not amused. His little joke had already got her scalded by boiling coffee, and now it threatened her position in Laetitia’s household. But would His High-and-Mightiness think of that? Not he!
He who had been given everything his heart desired, ever since he was born—it would not occur to him that some people existed on a fine line between survival and destitution. All that stood between Tallie and abject poverty was her cousin’s good will, and no careless jest was about to jeopardise that! Lord Look-Down-His-Nose would soon learn that one person at least was not prepared to have her life wrecked for a mere lordly whim!
She found him in the downstairs parlour, idly leafing through a freshly ironed newspaper, lately arrived from London. Fortunately he was alone for a change.
‘Lord d’Arenville,’ she began, shutting the door firmly behind her. ‘I have just been speaking with my cousin Laetitia, and she seems to be under the impression that you…’
He laid the paper courteously aside, stood up and came towards her. Tallie’s voice dwindled away. Heavens, but he was so very tall. She’d noticed it earlier, of course, but now, when he was standing so close, looming over her…
‘Ah, Miss Robinson. Good morning. Is it not a pleasant day? Will you be seated?’
Miss Robinson? He remembered her name? She could have sworn he hadn’t taken a whit of notice of her the day they were introduced. Or since.
‘Er, thank you.’ Tallie allowed herself to be led to a low divan. He drew up a chair opposite, a look of faint enquiry lifting his dark brows.
‘You wished to speak with me?’
To her great discomfort Tallie felt a blush rising. It was one thing to storm out of her cousin’s boudoir, declaring she would soon clear up this whole silly mistake, and quite another to confront this immaculate, gravely polite aristocrat with a wholly impossible tale.
‘Laetitia seems to be under the impression…?’ he prompted.
Tallie felt her blush intensify. The whole thing was too ridiculous. She had to escape. She could not ask this man whether there was any truth in the rumour that he wished to marry her. It was obviously a mistake. She knew she was being cowardly, but she could not imagine this coldly serious creature considering her—even for a jest—as an eligible bride. On the other hand, Tallie would not put it past her cousin to set her up for a humiliating fall. In fact, it would be very like her…
Tallie could just imagine Laetitia entertaining her London friends with the joke…Imagine, that plain, foolish lump of a girl actually believing that Magnus wanted to marry her! When he has the pick of the ton at his fingertips! Oh, my dears, I laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks! But there, ’tis not kind to laugh at one’s inferiors…but really, if you could have seen Magnus’s face when the girl confronted him, Lord, he thought he was being pursued by a lunatic! And gales of laughter would follow.
‘Er…Cousin Laetitia was under the impression…’ Tallie’s eye fell on the newspaper ‘…that the maids might have forgotten to press the paper for you, but I see they have, so I will go at once and tell her that everything is…organised.’ She stood up to leave. Lord d’Arenville rose also.
Heavens! He was looming again, standing so close she could just smell the faint tang of a masculine cologne. Tallie took a step backwards and stumbled against the divan. A strong hand shot out and caught her by the arm, holding her until she steadied, then releasing her.
‘Thank you…So clumsy…’ she muttered, flustered, and annoyed with herself for being so.
‘Stay a moment, Miss Robinson. I wish to speak to you.’ His hand touched her arm again, a light touch this time, not the firm, warm grip of before.
Tallie looked up, puzzled. A faint warning bell sounded in her mind as she saw the purposeful look in his cold grey eyes, but she quashed it immediately. No doubt he had some complaint about a servant, or a message he wished her to carry to her cousin. Outwardly calm, she allowed herself to be seated a second time, folded her hands demurely in her lap and waited.
Magnus noted the quiet way she folded her hands. It seemed to him a pleasantly womanly gesture. Her whole demeanour pleased him. Clearly Laetitia had told her of his decision, and, whilst he wished she had not, this girl’s reactions bore out the soundness of his choice. She was neither filled with vulgar excitement nor coy flutterings. Yes, she would do nicely. He took a deep breath, surprised at how unexpectedly nervous he suddenly felt.
‘You said you had spoken with Laetitia?’
The cold knot in the pit of Tallie’s stomach grew. Wordlessly she nodded.
‘Yes, I should have expected she could not keep it to herself.’ Without waiting for her reply, Lord d’Arenville began to explain. ‘It would be best if the wedding took place almost immediately—it takes three weeks for the banns to be called. We would be married from this house and my cousin’s husband George would give you away. I would prefer a small affair, just my immediate family—Laetitia and her husband—and of course any friends or relations you wish to invite…’
It could not be true. She was not sitting here listening to this cold, proud man elaborate on the arrangements for his wedding. Her wedding! His wedding to Tallie Robinson! A girl to whom he had scarcely spoken two words.
But his cool, indifferent demeanour, his very seriousness convinced her. It was not a joke, not a malicious trick to make sport of the poor relation.
But he hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to marry him!
After a time, Tallie’s shock wore off, and she realised she was furious. And utterly mortified. She had known the likelihood of her ever marrying was slim. Living in the country as Laetitia’s unpaid governess, she came into contact with few eligible men, and with neither looks nor fortune to recommend her, her prospects were few and far between. But it was one thing to face the prospect of a lonely and loveless future, and another to be so little regarded that she did not even merit the appearance of a courtship. Were her feelings and desires of so little significance to him?
Tallie stared down at her knees, flushed and fuming, biting her lip to prevent her rage from spilling out. Her hands shook, itching to slap the smug condescension off his face. She clenched them into fists, dwelling on how pleasant it would be to box his arrogant ears! She took in very little of what he was saying!
Lord d’Arenville rose from his seat and paced up and down before her, explaining the arrangements. He noted his bride’s delicate blush, her modestly bowed head, and congratulated himself again on the excellent choice he had made. No pampered miss, this. She sat there, meekly listening to his plans for her future. Quiet, submissive, delightful!
How could he ever have been so foolish as to consider a sophisticated woman of the ton as the mother of his children? Laetitia’s candidates had been self-centred, selfish, and far too sure of themselves. Much better to have chosen this sweetly shy girl with her modest, downcast eyes. Thalia Robinson would be grateful for his offer—she had no worldly ambition, no highly strung temperament.
His eyes ran over her figure. It was difficult to tell in that frightful dress she wore, but she seemed sturdy—certainly robust enough to survive the rigours of childbirth. And this girl, he believed, had the capacity to love, and he needed that—for his children. He recalled the tender way her hands had caressed young Georgie. He wanted that for his child…yes, for his child…
Her hands were trembling, he realised. Magnus watched approvingly as she clenched her fingers tightly together in an effort to control her emotions. Excellent. Self-control was a good thing in a wife.
He gentled his voice. Doubtless such disparity in their respective stations in life made her a little nervous, a little eager to oblige. The thought did not displease Magnus. He intended to treat her kindly—her nervousness would pass with time and she would no doubt be grateful for his forbearance. It would be a start…She would find him a good husband, he hoped. He would look after her, protect her, take care of all her needs. He continued to pace the floor, describing d’Arenville, the family seat, and how much she would like living there.
Tallie fumed silently, letting his words wash over her. So she was to be his quiet, compliant little brood mare, was she? The wife he intended to keep immured in his beastly d’Arenville for ten years or more!
In a pig’s eye she was!
The nerve, the arrogance, the presumption of the man! He must have decided a plain, poor woman would give him the least trouble, a woman without prospects but with the hips and teeth and bloodlines to bear his heirs! A sturdy woman!
