At two o’clock, Lady Thornleigh’s ancient black carriage with the lozenge on the door drew up in front of the house on Grosvenor Square. Marianne felt a tingling excitement as the liveried footman helped her up the stairs into it. The long-awaited day had arrived, and she tried very hard to forget John and enjoy it, but she was dreadfully aware of an aching emptiness inside that had not been there before.
Unfamiliar with London, she anticipated a long drive through fashionable streets and was disappointed when the carriage stopped after only three blocks. This trip did not take half an hour by any means. By leaving home early, Lady Thornleigh achieved her aim of sparing her team the excitement of heavy wedding traffic, though Marianne did enjoy a glimpse of a few elegant rigs drawn by blood teams.
The ladies entered the Corinthian portico into St. George’s, where a few eager guests sat waiting. The ladies were escorted halfway up the aisle and shown into a pew. The duchess planted herself firmly on the aisle seat and didn’t budge. The other guests sharing her pew had to scramble in over her legs.
She gave Marianne a sharp poke in the ribs when Prince George and his two sisters strutted up the aisle. It would be wrong to say Marianne was disappointed in the prince. He was certainly an elegant figure; it was just that there was so much of him. His portly person was encased in blue satin and bedecked with ribbons and medals enough to impress a maharaja. The royal sisters were undistinguished as to either face, figure, or fashion. They would have been right at home in Bath. They looked like a couple of frumpy provincial matrons.
The bride was a vision of loveliness and the groom another disappointment. He was a pale, chinless, slender young gentleman who looked frightened to death. A wedding always appeals to the ladies, and with the prince, two princesses, and more tiaras than could be counted, Marianne was well enough entertained. She knew it was impossible that Macheath could be there, but she found her eyes searching the fashionable throng for him while the traditional vows were exchanged.
When the ceremony was over, the couple and their guests went in a cavalcade to Berkeley Square, another trip of only a few blocks, but all of the scenery along the way was most elegant. The duke’s house, the guests, the rich and plentiful feast—all were as Marianne had been imagining. It was the largest and most exquisite party she had ever attended or could hope to attend. Once she was close enough to the prince to touch him.
She was excited, but still she could not seem to be happy. She was very much aware that she was an outsider here. If she had only one friend, one special someone, it would make it complete. She didn’t know any of these people, who all seemed to know one another. She looked and listened as if she were attending a theater performance.
She remained with the duchess and was presented to a few aging people who smiled dismissively at her when they heard the words “my companion.” She kept thinking about Macheath, how much more handsome he was than any of the grand noblemen who were here, talking and laughing too loudly and drinking too much of the duke’s champagne.
In the evening, they were led to the ballroom. The duchess and Lady Thornleigh headed directly to the bentwood chairs around the room’s perimeter and had soon gathered a group of their coevals around them. Sir Gervase was the youngest person there, other than herself. After half an hour’s conversation, he turned to Marianne and said, “Would you care to stand up with me, Miss Harkness?”
Tired of sitting, she accepted. He was a good dancer, but more importantly, he introduced her to a few people younger than eighty. One of them was even younger than Sir Gervase. Mr. Thompson was a sprig of forty. He had been the groom’s tutor and remained his friend. He had been rewarded with a living on one of the ducal estates. While the least demanding of spinsters would not have called him handsome, he was by no means ugly. His brown hair had very little gray in it. His nose was not so very long, and his eyes were quite nice. He was exactly the sort of gentleman Marianne had hoped to meet. He seemed to like her, but she did not go an inch out of her way to attach him. She had lost her taste for mere eligibility in a husband. After her dealings with Macheath, she demanded more.
She had the cotillion with Mr. Thompson, and when it was finished he said, “The waltzes are next. I daresay no one would notice if we stood up together again. I own I feel a little out of my league here amongst so many titles.” He did not say, but it was implicit in his manner, that he realized she, too, was out of her league.
“I’m sorry. I don’t waltz,” she said.
“Perhaps later, another set?”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I would enjoy it.” It was better than sitting with the oldsters. They remained on the floor talking during the short intermission.
“Have you seen much of London yet?” he asked.
When she said she had not, he spoke until the musicians returned of the various sights she might enjoy seeing, then he took her back to the duchess, where Marianne sat, watching the waltzers.
She was not looking at the doorway when he arrived. It was Sir Gervase who spotted him and said, “There is young Lord Fortescue. He was not at the wedding, was he?”
Marianne looked and her heart gave a leap. It was him! But it was impossible! What could Macheath possibly be doing at the Season’s most stylish wedding—unless he had come to rob the guests, and he was not wearing his mask. He wore a mulberry velvet jacket and gray pantaloons. In the fall of immaculate lace at his throat, a ruby glowed richly.
“Fortescue, you say?” the duchess asked sharply, staring with narrowed eyes at the new arrival.
“Aye,” Sir Gervase said. “He was in Spain with Wellington when his uncle stuck his spoon in the wall. Quite a hero, they say. We all thought he would make a name for himself in Parliament and amongst the ladies when he returned, but he makes himself pretty scarce. His uncle left the estate in a shambles I expect, and Fortescue is busy shoring up the cracks.”
“He has come spying out a well-dowered bride,” Lady Thornleigh said approvingly.
“Fortescue, you say?” the duchess repeated.
“Aye, his estate is close by,” Gervase told her. “Fernwood is just a few miles west of London. I see him at a ball or the theater from time to time.”
“Oh yes, Fernwood. It is on the other side of Chertsey, is it not?” she asked in a casual manner.
“That’s it,” he said, nodding. “A great old Gothic heap. I used to hunt there when his uncle was alive.”
While they discussed him, Marianne stared in disbelief. Her highwayman was a lord! Rather than cheering her, this news was a crushing blow. A reformed highwayman might marry her, but a lord! He had come to spy out a fortune, as Lady Thornleigh had said. She watched with an aching heart as he looked all around the room, from one pretty lady to another. Then he turned his gaze toward the bentwood chairs around the edge of the room, examining each face until he saw the duchess.
A small smile lifted his lips. His gaze continued until he saw Marianne. Then he began to walk purposefully toward her.
Chapter Twenty
Marianne had the strange sensation that she was suffocating. She heard excited voices echoing around her but had no idea what they were saying. Every atom of her attention was riveted on John. The voices were a mere babble in the background, until a sharp pinch on the arm jarred her to attention.
“Don’t say a word. Let me do the talking,” the duchess hissed in her ear. The command was unnecessary. Marianne could not have spoken if her life depended on it.
In seconds, Macheath was standing in front of her, bowing to the older ladies first, before allowing himself the pleasure of a close scrutiny of Marianne.
“Fortescue,” Her Grace said, allowing him to take her hand. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you. I was telling Lady Thornleigh how you rescued me when my carriage slid into the river.”
“I am happy to see you looking so well, Your Grace.” His eyes just flickered to the diamonds. The duchess patted them and smiled. Then he turned again to Marianne. “And you, Miss Harkness.”
“This is my sister, Lady Thornleigh,” the duchess continued. He bowed to Lady Thornleigh and Sir Gervase.
“Nice to see you, Fortescue,” Gervase said, nodding. “How is your mama? I did not see her at the wedding.”
“She is at Fernwood, Sir Gervase. I shall tell her you were asking for her.”
“I hope you are not planning to dart off to Fernwood immediately?” Her Grace said. “You recall we had some plans for you, Cap—Fortescue.”
“Indeed I am not, ma’am. I shall do myself the honor of calling on you tomorrow, if you permit?” The duchess nodded graciously.
Having done the pretty with the oldsters, he could at last turn his full attention to Marianne. “May I have the pleasure of a waltz, Miss Harkness?”
“I don’t waltz,” she said in a stricken voice.
“The patronesses of Almack’s would not approve,” Sir Gervase mentioned.
This was enough to incite the duchess to objection. “I do not require Lady Jersey’s approval!” she said at once. “If a young lady under my charge wishes to waltz at my great-granddaughter’s wedding, she may do it.”
“Aye, it is a private party after all,” Sir Gervase said at once.
“But I don’t know how to waltz,” Marianne explained.
Macheath gave her an impatient look. “I’ll teach you,” he said, and taking her hand, he helped her from her chair and marched her out of the room into a lofty corridor where a few groups of guests stood talking. As they walked off, he said, “Really, Marianne! You made it demmed awkward to escape.”
She turned to him and said, “Why did you lie to us?”
“If you are referring to my being Fortescue, you knew my name wasn’t really Macheath. You charged me with it some time ago.”
“I didn’t know you were a lord,” she said accusingly.
“I felt it the wiser course to conceal my identity until I was away from the inn. A careless word could have been disastrous. If Bow Street ever tumbled to it that Fernwood was harboring a felon, it would have been embarrassing for Mama.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Celebrating the nuptials of an old friend. I was invited! I was too late to get to the church, so I came here, looking for you. Why did you think I had come? To steal the ring off the bride’s finger?”
“You need not worry the duchess will reveal your secret, milord.”
“It is not the duchess I am worried about.”
“I won’t tell, either. No one would believe me if I did.”
“Good. Now that we’ve got that sorted out, let us find some place to talk.”
He took a crippling grip on her arm and led her at a lively gait down the corridor, past the ballroom to a door on the left. He peered into a small parlor and, finding it vacant, drew her inside and closed the door.
His dark eyes moved over her hair, her face, lingering on her lips. “I have come to claim my reward, Marianne,” he said softly.
“You must speak to the duchess, but I doubt she will pay a reward for her diamonds, as you stole them in the first place.”
When he replied, his voice had lost its softness and become impatient. “Have you suddenly lost the use of your wits, woman? Duchesses and diamonds have nothing to do with it. I have abandoned my life of crime as you recommended.” His hands closed possessively over hers, drawing her closer to him. His dark eyes devoured her. “The reward I have come to claim is—you.”
A tide of trembling joy surged inside her. She looked at him uncertainly and felt any future with him was impossible. He was too handsome, too dashing, too rich, and titled besides. Every heiress in the room would be after him. “But you’re a lord!” she said.
“And you are a lady. I hope to make you
my
lady, Marianne. You know I love you. Will you marry me?”
“How can I marry you?” she asked angrily. “First you are too low—a common felon, and now you are suddenly a lord. Why can’t you be a vicar or a—a clerk or some such thing?”
He considered this absurdity a moment. “I was a soldier for a few years. Will that do?”
“You were probably a general,” she said with another accusing look.
“A colonel was the highest rank I made. My dear, this is mere quibbling,” he said with a shake of his head. “I am me, whatever title Society hangs on me. You know me better than most. You have seen the worst of me. Let me show you the better part.”
“You must marry an heiress. Fernwood is falling apart, and I haven’t a sou to my name.”
A glinting smile flashed out. “We know how to take care of that, don’t we? The roads will be thick with well-inlaid folks returning home from this wedding.”
“John! You mustn’t even think of it!”
A well-feigned frown furrowed his brow. “Without a good woman to keep me on the right path, I fear I shall be lured back into that dangerous life.”
After a pause she said, “Is Fernwood very derelict?”
“Falling apart,” he lied.
“Really?” she said, smiling. “And the rents?”
“Every sou goes to pay off the mortgages. We shall have to live on my officer’s half pay.”
“I am rather good at slumping,” she said consideringly.
“So I have observed. You have even skimped on giving me an answer.”
“I should hate to think of you falling back into that dangerous life.”
“Then you’ll just have to marry me, won’t you?” he said reasonably.
He palmed her cheeks with his warm hands, forcing her to look at him. He gazed into her eyes, glowing with hope and happiness. “Won’t you?” he repeated in softly caressing tones, as his lips grazed hers.
Ripples of pleasure coursed along her veins. She tried to answer, but with his lips nibbling at hers, she managed only a soft “Mmmm ...”
“I’ll take that for a yes,” he murmured, and drew her into his arms for a long, deep kiss.
Marianne felt her heart pounding against his hard chest. The masculine strength of him surrounded her, turning her knees to water and her blood to flames as his hungry kiss savaged her heart. An answering strength grew in her to match his need. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tightly. One hand moved higher and she ran her fingers through his crisp hair. How had she thought she could settle for a modest vicar or a dull clerk? This was life! This was love! Highwayman, soldier, lord—what did it matter? He was John, he loved her, and she loved him with a fierce, consuming passion she had never imagined herself capable of.