Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
M arina, a Londoner born and bred, knew the common complaints lodged against her city. It was dirty. Crowded. The Thames was an appallingly pungent river of filth that no doubt led straight to Tartarus. She'd never been able to see it, though. She had always loved London, and had found, even in her darkest days, some enjoyment of the vivacious city. She loved that you could find people from all walks of life here, loved that the sprawling green of Regent's Park could live side by side with a bustling metropolis, and if the Thames was perhaps a bit smelly, at least the ships that sailed up it, their majestic masts jutting tall, made for a picturesque silhouette. London was her home and she adored it.
She did not love it now.
She'd not yet been back for even two full days and yet, as she gazed sullenly out her bedroom window onto the rainy, gray street, she found herself longing for green, rolling fields. But she could not allow herself to ruminate on such things, because if she did, the green of the meadows became, all too easily, the green of a pair of teasing, clever eyes, and that way lay madness.
It was over . She just had to keep telling herself this again and again until it sunk in. In the meantime, though, Marina intended to spend her free time indulging in just a bit of sulking. She felt she deserved it, after the week she'd had.
Not to mention the weeks she was due to have.
Yesterday morning, as Marina had pulled herself reluctantly from bed, her body aching for every minute of that long carriage ride, her eyes dry from yet another night where she'd tossed and turned, her sister had burst into her room.
"Goodness, Marina, are you still abed?" Julia had cried with a truly appalling level of exuberance. Julia had been touchingly excited for Marina's arrival home in a way that Marina had hardly expected. It was true that they'd scarcely been separated for more than a day in the past five years, at least—Marina had become Julia's primary caretaker during their mother's increasingly frequent spells of melancholy. Still, it was very gratifying to have been missed, even if Marina's general malaise made it hard to access that gratitude at present.
"Obviously not," said Marina from her vanity, struggling to keep her ill-temper from her tone.
Julia rolled her eyes and bounced cheerfully on the end of Marina's as yet unmade bed. "Oh very well, what I meant was, 'Goodness, Marina, are you only very recently out of bed ' because—" Julia paused for dramatic effect, practically vibrating with excitement. "—you have a caller!"
Through the mirror, Marina looked at her sister's bright eyes and giddy smile and tried her very hardest to summon some positive reaction. "I do?" she asked. She should be excited, she supposed. But there was no chance it was the right caller, was there?
Julia nodded eagerly then bobbled her head, as if to temper Marina's expectation. "Oh, well, it is just Viscount Gloustoshire, and he's here all the time. But!" Julia perked back up. "He asked to see you specifically. He didn't come for Martin and then happen to inquire about you. He said it outright: 'I'm here to call on Lady Marina.' And he brought flowers—for you and for me! Wasn't that so kind of him?"
If Marina were in the habit of thinking charitable thoughts about dreadful, sneaky men who cornered women in hallways, she would have to give it to Viscount Gloustoshire: bringing flowers for Julia was a nice touch. Marina's sister was at an age where her debut was all she thought about, even as it felt eons away. Including Julia in the social niceties of Society courtship had earned him an ally in Julia, as he'd no doubt anticipated.
Marina herself might have even liked him for it if she didn't know his true character beneath all that politesse.
Still, she summoned up a faint smile for her sister, not wanting to ruin Julia's experience of her first-ever flowers from a gentleman, even if that gentleman was a rat—and courting her sister.
"That was very nice of him," she agreed. "I assume he's waiting in the parlor?"
Julia, who had been sitting with a dreamy look on her face—mentally arranging her flowers, no doubt, and deciding where to place them for maximum adoration—leapt to her feet. "Oh, goodness, he is! I'll go tell him you shall be down shortly, shall I?" She hurried from the room before Marina could reply.
The instant her sister was gone, Marina dropped her head into her hands. She'd known the viscount would be sniffing around—he'd promised her as much, hadn't he?—but he couldn't give her one blasted day ?
When Marina made it downstairs, having dawdled in her toilette as much as she dared, she found Martin, Julia, and her mother all sitting with the viscount, who smiled at her happily as if she hadn't kept him waiting for the better part of an hour.
"Lady Marina," he said brightly, standing to greet her. "How lovely you look!" That was patently untrue; Marina wore her sleepless night plainly on her face. The viscount kissed the back of her hand—Marina's mother let out a tiny sigh at the romantic gesture—squeezing a little too tight for just the barest instant.
Marina got the message. She would have been hard pressed not to, as it was the same message she was always receiving: you have no power over this.
Thus began the longest hour of Marina's life.
Viscount Gloustoshire put on a charm offensive that delighted Marina's mother and sister. Marina's mother, in particular, kept shooting Marina not-so-covert little glances as if to check that Marina was appropriately pleased with the viscount's genial chatter and effusive compliments. Julia was so full of giggles that it made her seem even younger than she was. Martin spent the entire time looking decidedly smug, as if he were somehow responsible for this turn of events.
Only Marina seemed to notice that the viscount's smiles never reached his eyes.
When the viscount finally stood to leave, Marina had a blistering headache from the effort it had taken to keep the pleasant smile on her face.
"Lady Marina," the viscount had said, making public a conversation that would have been much more polite to have as a private word, "may I escort you to the Westford ball tomorrow?"
"Of course!" interjected Marina's mother, who hadn't been to a ball in years, before Marina had a chance to respond for herself. "And you needn't bother with the formality. Call her 'Marina.' We are all friends here, are we not?"
Keeping the smile on her face now took so much effort that Marina feared she was going to break a tooth.
"Marina," the viscount said, smiling and with a gleam of triumph in his eye. "You must call me Andrew." And he pressed an unpleasantly damp kiss to the back of her hand.
"You're too kind, my lord," Marina said stiffly, noting the flash of anger when she used the title.
Her family and the viscount (who, Marina vowed inwardly, she would never call 'Andrew,' even if she was forced to marry him and see him every day for the next fifty years, just out of spite) made plans for her upcoming social schedule without once asking Marina's input. Marina just stood there, trying to fight the sinking feeling that this was how things would be from now on.
She couldn't tell if things were worse now than they'd ever been, or if the brief feeling of freedom, of choice, that she'd gotten when she was with—well, when she was with the person she was not thinking about—had just made the usual sense of powerlessness feel more dreadful than usual.
That black cloud of a thought had followed her around all of yesterday and today, to the point where her mother had all but commanded her to act more cheerful about her suitor—a decidedly ironic order, coming from her mother. Eventually, Marina had retired to her room, citing the need to rest before tonight's ball, rather than deal with her family that she not only allow the courtship from Viscount Gloustoshire, but actively enjoy it, as well.
The afternoon dragged on. Marina continued staring out the window at the busy streets, wishing herself anywhere else but here.
Percy sat at his club, glaring daggers at the drink in his hand, forcing himself to sip at, rather than knock back, its contents. It was a time-honored tradition for a gentleman to get positively soused at the club, and Percy longed to do his part in withholding up that distinguished history, but he couldn't. Tonight was Lucy's first London ball—she'd begged off her own debut ball, hosted at Haddington House, the family's London residence, citing her advanced age. Judging from the open curiosity and thinly veiled hostility his sister had been throwing his way over the past few days, Lucy would probably stab him in his sleep if Percy showed up to her big night drunk.
Christ, how he longed to drown himself in brandy, though. Anything to get a reprieve from this thrice-cursed mood that had been hanging over him for days.
Unfortunately, though, Percy hadn't had a choice but to remain aggressively sober in the endless hours since the house party had ended. First had been the preparations for their departure for London. Normally, this was the kind of thing that Percy would have happily left to his valet's highly competent care—this was, after all, precisely the reason he hired a valet, to care about sartorial concerns that Percy cared naught about. Strangely, though, his mother had shown an unusually high level of interest in Percy's packing.
"You should only take your very best garments," she had said, poking through Percy's trunks as his valet, Jacoby, who had only just finished arranging the luggage, tried not to look as though he wished for death. Percy could commiserate; the last thing a grown man wanted was his mother nosing through his possessions.
"What does it matter?" Percy asked as his mother discarded a mustard-colored vest that, in fairness, was not exactly Percy's best color. "This Season is about Lucy, not me."
"It never hurts to look your best," replied his mother absently, holding a shirt up to the light, which was ridiculous, because it was a plain white that matched a half dozen others. "Who knows what you'll find yourself up to over the next few months."
"I have a fine idea," said Percy, snatching the garment from his mother and tossing it back into the trunk and slamming it shut before his mother, God help him, managed to uncover his smallclothes. "Besides, have you suddenly become an expert in men's fashion? Because Jacoby is and yet here you are, mussing about."
Jacoby looked torn between preening at the praise and mourning the newfound disarray of his employer's wardrobe.
"Do excuse me, Jacoby," the dowager duchess said, offering the valet an apologetic smile. Jacoby—for God's sake, Percy thought, would he never know peace?—blushed, no matter that the dowager was easily twenty five years the servant's senior. "I did not mean to question your abilities, nor to create more work for you. My sincerest apologies."
"No apology needed, Your Grace," said Jacoby with an extraordinarily deep bow, red to his hairline. "Think nothing of it."
Percy's mother had shot him a triumphant look, as if this constituted a victory of some sort.
"It will be a wonderful Season, don't you think, my dear?" she'd asked, patting Percy on the cheek. Then, not waiting for an answer, she'd left.
"What on earth was that?" Percy asked aloud. He, of course, received no answer. He did notice, however, as Jacoby began carefully re-packing Percy's trunks that he did not include the mustard vest.
The next day had been the journey itself.
They had set out bright and early, which was to say, dreary and early, given the dampness that hung over the morning. Percy felt a kinship with the low, gray clouds. Maybe they would help him sleep away a journey that would, otherwise, give him far, far too much time to think.
And perhaps he would have managed that, except his sister, who Percy loved more than his own life, would not stop talking .
And, worse, she kept asking him questions.
"I'm terribly excited to attend the Westford ball," Lucy announced with far, far too much energy. It was going to be a long day. Didn't she realize she needed to ration it? "What are you going to wear that evening, Percy?"
Percy, who had already shut his eyes and tipped back his head in the universal sign of please do not speak to me, I am trying to sleep , cracked open a single eye to regard his sister. "I have no idea, Lucy," he said.
"Well, think about it now," she urged. "Choose something that will make you look your best. It will be my first Society event, after all. And who knows who else will be there."
She looked at him expectantly and Percy had groaned. What was going on with the women in his life? Why did they suddenly care about his attire? He glanced down at himself. It wasn't as though he looked particularly slovenly.
Still, he gave Lucy a half-mumbled answer about a blue waistcoat and hoped that would satisfy her.
It did not.
Lucy carried on like this for some time, chattering happily about the upcoming Season, and then demanding Percy offer his opinion on things. She asked questions. She pushed him for decisions. And on and on and on.
"Do you think I'll receive a proposal this Season?" she mused at some point. This was actually a welcome derivation from which events Percy did and did not hope to attend. He opened both eyes for that one.
"Do you want to receive a proposal this Season?" he asked. While he of course knew, in an abstract sense, that for young ladies the Season was equivalent to the marriage mart, he hadn't really gotten as far as to consider that his little sister—who yes, yes, was not so little anymore, but Percy couldn't help the surge of protectiveness—might engage in courtship. Or flirtation.
That thought brought to mind Percy's own most recent flirtation, and the miserable way in which it had ended. Despite his efforts to repress it, he had a flash of the wounded look on Marina's face when he'd sent her away. Percy would have to murder any man who made his sister look that way—which, of course, made him feel three times as terrible as he already did.
"Oh, I don't know," said Lucy, waving this thought away. "I do wonder what a proposal would look like. How would you propose to someone, Percy?"
Was this punishment for his sins? Was he victim of some sort of curse?
"I don't know, Lucy," he said. "I'm not in search of a bride. I haven't thought about it."
The quickest image of Marina's smiling face passed through his thoughts before he could block it out.
Lucy went on and on like this. Perhaps she'd attend a wedding; where did Percy wish to get married, when he finally decided to wed? What did gentlemen look for when choosing a bride? Was that what Percy looked for, specifically? How did a gentleman show he was attracted to a lady?
This last was a step too far. Percy was not discussing attraction with his little sister.
"Why don't you ask Mother?" he said. "She was married for decades; she'll know better than I."
Percy's mother, who had spent the ride embroidering with impressive precision given the imperfect lighting, the jostling of the carriage, and the inherent danger of bouncing about with a sharp object in one's hand, shot him a look that said she was disappointed in him. "Humor your sister, Percy," she ordered. "She's nervous."
Lucy, who did not give the slightest impression of being nervous—Percy thought again of Marina, who had so wonderfully soothed his sister's concerns—nodded, smiling angelically.
And then she resumed her endless litany of questions.
When they stopped at a roadside inn for lunch, Percy rented a horse, unable to bear even a moment longer of his dear, beloved sister's interminable bloody interview. When he told his sister and mother of his plan to ride for the remainder of the journey, they looked at him as if he'd just informed them that he intended to cut off his own right hand.
"It's begun to rain!" his mother exclaimed. "You'll catch your death."
"Good," said Percy, and meant it.
And while the remainder of the ride had been quieter—a bloody battalion at war would have been quieter, Percy thought sullenly—it did, alas, leave him with far too much time alone with his own depressing thoughts. Plus, he did get very wet.
And now, despite being situated in a very comfortable chair at his club, his entire body ached with the long hours of hard riding. He'd spent too many blasted hours hunched over his desk in the past few years, trying to get the dukedom's finances in order. Half a day in the saddle and he felt like an old man sliding rapidly into his decrepitude. He should ride more when he returned to the country.
This thought, alas, led him to wonder if Marina knew how to ride. It was possible she didn't, not if she'd been raised in the city. He could teach her. He would conveniently forget a mounting block, so he'd get to lift her into the saddle—in his brief fantasy, there was nary a groom to be found—and his hands would linger on her waist and…
Percy gave in and downed his drink.
"Good Lord, man. Who died?" Richard's ebullient voice rang out across the room and Percy regretted finishing his drink. He had the sneaking suspicion he'd need it now more than ever.
He looked up to see Richard and Joseph headed towards him.
Percy was not too rigid to admit that he adored his friends. They'd been there for him during the hectic, stressful days after his father's death, and the frustrating ones before it, when Percy had no choice but to watch his father drive the dukedom resolutely towards poverty. They had been there during his mischievous youth, during his wild university years, and now, in his more tempered adulthood. Generally speaking, he was happy to see them.
He was not currently happy to see them.
The problem with best friends was that they never let you get away with being a sad, sulky bastard. No, they would stroll in here, and try to get to the heart of things and look out for Percy's best interests . It was annoying, is what it was. Couldn't a man be left to suffer in peace?
Apparently not. Without an invitation—because best friends didn't bother with things like common courtesy, either, apparently—Joseph and Richard took seats at Percy's table. They both looked at him expectantly.
"What?" Percy asked, sounding peevish.
His friends—who were, again, so deeply bloody annoying—grinned at him. Richard's smile was broad and mischievous. Joseph, at least, had the dignity of trying to hide his behind his hand.
Percy scowled at them, which only served to make them smile more. "You were right," Richard said to Joseph.
"Right about what?" asked Percy.
"I did tell you," Joseph commented mildly.
"Tell him what?" Percy demanded.
"Still," Richard said, ignoring Percy. "I didn't realize it was this bad."
"Again," said Joseph, also ignoring Percy . And he was supposed to be the polite one. "I did tell you."
"What are you talking about?" Percy said, a little more loudly this time. Was he asleep? Was this one of those dreams where, no matter how loudly you spoke, nobody could hear you? Or maybe he was dead. Maybe he had caught his death, as his mother had warned, and now his ghost was destined to haunt a gentleman's club for all eternity, listening to his irritating friends talk in riddles.
"Should we do something about it? Or just let it be?" Richard asked Joseph.
Percy rubbed his temples aggressively.
Joseph shrugged one shoulder.
Just as Percy was wondering if he should just leave—as it appeared his friends did not actually need him for whatever conversation they were having—Richard turned to him. "I heard you had a successful business deal at the party. Personally, I wouldn't go into Packley for all the money in England, but if you feel that you can look at his weaselly face and listen to the words 'Your Grace' thirty times a minute, more power to you, I suppose."
"Wait—what?" The alcohol hadn't done much to dull Percy's senses; one drink wasn't enough to affect him in that way. But this conversation made him feel as though he'd been hitting something much harder than brandy. Opium, maybe, not that he'd ever tried it. Or his head, repeatedly, against a brick wall.
"The Earl of Packley," Richard said slowly, as though he were explaining something to a particularly obtuse child. "Highly wound chap, constantly dogging your heels last week? You agreed to invest in his ice shipping scheme? You do recall this, don't you? It would be very worrisome if you didn't recall this."
If Percy could give his childhood self one piece of advice, it would be to never make friends. Forget the years of camaraderie and support. This one conversation made it not worth it.
"I know," said Percy through gritted teeth, "who the Earl of Packley is." Even if it weren't for the man's unforgettable manner or for their business together, there were other reasons Percy would never be able to banish the unpleasant fellow from his mind. "But what were you and Joseph talking about before? It wasn't Packley."
Richard adopted a solemn expression. It was a good facade, but Percy knew the man well enough to see the mirth lingering beneath.
"Oh, don't fret over that. You have enough to worry about." He looked Percy up and down pointedly. "For one, you might consider washing that sour look off your face before the ball tonight or your sister will slaughter you."
Percy considered arguing one last time, but then simply gave up instead. There was no sense trying to budge Richard when he didn't wish to be moved. Percy had a stubborn streak, but Richard made a bull look like a reasonably flexible conversationalist. Joseph was implacable in a different way; he would use courtesy like a bludgeon to break you down until you found yourself amiably chatting about the weather.
"Are you attending?" he asked them instead.
Both men nodded.
"Lucy has us on strict instructions that we are both to ask her for a dance, unless she seems too popular to need us—and to prevent you from asking her for a dance, even if she seems hideously un popular," Joseph said. "Her words," he added quickly when Percy frowned at the implication that Lucy might not be well-received.
"Why can't I ask her?" Percy demanded. In the back of his mind, he registered that Richard had succeeded in getting Percy off course. He could worry about that later.
"Because," Richard answered, "and again, her words, she doesn't want to look like a pathetic wallflower who has no other option but to dance with her own brother."
"She did," added Joseph with a small smile, "say she would have preferred Seth, since his reputation—" Seth tended a bit more towards rakishness than any of the rest of them. "—would make her seem more interesting but said she would just have to make do with us."
"It's going to feel like dancing with my own sister," Richard grumbled.
"You don't have a sister," Joseph pointed out.
"Still." Richard shrugged.
"Please," Percy scoffed, feeling the need to defend his sister in some capacity, even if she had been driving him absolutely mad over the last few days. "Who do you have to dance with that's better than Lucy?" Richard, like Percy, was not in the market for a bride, and knew the perils of dancing with any eligible miss as an unmarried duke. The matchmaking mamas of the ton were no laughing matter.
Which was why, when Richard's response was a broad, delighted grin, Percy found himself suddenly consumed with an inexplicable sense of dread.