She nodded, plumes bobbing.
He started to lean forward, to kiss her.
The carriage stopped.
He glanced out of the window and sat back hastily. “Drat. We’ve arrived at your house already—and speaking of crazy people, there’s a trail of black feathers to the door.”
Zoe knew there were girls in books who declined financially advantageous offers on noble principles. She knew there were fictional girls who threw everything away for love. She certainly knew that only a short time ago she’d decided that Marchmont would not make a good husband.
She still believed that.
He was the kind of man who was quickly bored. He’d soon grow bored with his wife. He’d stray, and no matter how discreet he was, she’d know, and it would hurt her.
All the same, she knew what she had done and she knew that sort of thing led to babies and she knew that having relinquished her virginity, the correct thing to do was to marry the man she’d relinquished it to. If she didn’t, she’d not only shame her parents and—if a baby did result—be ostracized from the world she’d worked so hard to get into, but she’d be throwing away the chance to be one of the premier ladies of the realm.
She’d brought this on herself. She would have an unfaithful husband, as other women did, and she would simply have to live with it, as other women did.
It wasn’t as though there weren’t any compensations. Marchmont was extremely handsome and extremely rich, and she had greatly enjoyed losing her virginity to him—except for the moment when it actually went.
Only a crazy woman would decline his offer. Zoe was uncivilized, and she hadn’t got her inhibitions back yet, but she was not insane.
She could leave madness to Lady Sophronia, while basking in the knowledge that she’d soon be a duchess and she and Marchmont could do more of what they’d done in the carriage. And no one could object then, at all.
Zoe and Marchmont found everyone gathered in the large drawing room. Everyone included, along with Lady Sophronia and Lady Emma, Zoe’s parents, sisters, brothers, and the assorted spouses.
Mama must have told them of Zoe’s success, because there was a chorus of “Well done” and “I knew you could” and such when she and Marchmont entered.
Lady Sophronia soon reclaimed the audience’s attention and launched into a detailed description of what the attendees had worn to the Birthday Drawing Room. It was the usual family hubbub until her ladyship’s gaze lit upon Marchmont.
“You, sir,” she said. She had the same kind of commanding voice Marchmont had. The noise in the room abated.
He looked up from his conversation with Samuel. “Me, Auntie?”
She beckoned with one diamond-covered hand. Marchmont left Samuel and approached the corner where she presided, with Emma Sinclair nearby, looking worn out.
“You,” said Lady Sophronia.
“Yes, it is I,” he said. “Your nephew Marchmont.”
“I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the one who played tricks on me.”
“Did I, Auntie?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me. You deliberately encouraged me to get into the wrong carriage. I never was so surprised in all my life as when I found myself at Lexham House instead of on my way to Kensington.”
“How shocking,” he said.
“You tricked me,” she said.
He made a show of thinking hard. “Hmmm,” he said. “Ah, yes, it comes back to me. I had something I wanted to say to Zoe Octavia. In private.”
He glanced at Zoe, and the devil glinted in his green eyes. That look put straight into her mind vivid images of what they’d done in the carriage. Her skin became very hot.
“I cannot believe it,” said Augusta. “That was most improper. Indeed, Zoe, you ought to blush. To drive unchaperoned with a gentleman immediately after Mama presented you to the Queen. I vow, it is as though you deliberately—”
“Her Majesty took particular note of Zoe Octavia,” Lady Sophronia said in her commanding voice. “Everyone there remarked it. The Princess Sophia—or was it the Princess Elizabeth? Never mind. One of them drew her aside for a word. The Regent spoke to her. I recall nothing of the kind occurring at your presentation, Augusta Jane.”
Augusta subsided in confusion.
“We shall not ask what you had to say to Zoe Octavia, Lucien,” Lady Sophronia continued. “These are private matters best understood by the young people involved. I myself was young until Friday of last week.” She turned away from Marchmont to address Mama. “We were not so prim in the old days, were we, my dear? A dull king and a court that drove us witless with boredom. But we were not dull. I always say there is nothing like a man in knee breeches. A man, that is, possessed of a good leg. Lucien, you see, has his father’s legs, my late brother. My legs, too, have been remarked upon in their time. My ankles, as you know, have inspired odes.”
It was going to be interesting, indeed, being the Duchess of Marchmont, Zoe thought. Among other things, she was going to acquire some colorful relatives.
While his aunt held her audience spellbound—or dumbstruck or vertiginous, as the case might be—Marchmont casually strolled to Lord Lexham’s side and said in a low voice, “I should like a word with you, sir.”
Lexham’s eyebrows went up.
Marchmont’s conscience became very shrill, painting lewd pictures of what he had done with this gentleman’s youngest daughter. “About Zoe,” he said.
Lexham glanced toward Zoe. She was watching his aunt, and wearing, instead of the customary look of embarrassment and/or confusion and/or horror, a small smile.
He wanted to kiss the corners of her mouth where it turned up that very little bit.
“My study,” Lexham said, and led the way there.
Marchmont closed the door behind him when he entered. “I want to marry Zoe,” he said.
“Do you, indeed?” said Lexham. He stepped behind his desk, which was heaped with papers, as usual. “What’s done it? The hoops? The plumes?” He picked up a piece of paper, frowned at it, and set it down again.
“I’m not joking,” said Marchmont.
“I didn’t think you were. But you know, she did make you a most handsome offer some weeks ago, as I recall, and you turned it down.”
“As I recollect, I said at the time that I was tempted but accepting would be taking unfair advantage,” said Marchmont. “She believed then that she had no alternative.”
She didn’t have one now, either.
“I thought she wanted to meet other men,” Lexham said. “I thought that would mean more than two fellows she hadn’t clapped eyes on before.”
“I find that I prefer she meet other men after we’re married,” said Marchmont. “I’m possessive, you see.”
“Are you, indeed?”
“Zoe explained it to me,” Marchmont said.
“In the carriage,” said Lexham. “When you were quite private.”
Guilt ate at Marchmont like acid.
“Where I proposed,” he said. “Contrary to my aunt’s assertions—”
Lexham put up his hand. “My lady told me what happened. Lady Sophronia has her own distinctive view of the world. The rest of us must bear our doubts and uncertainties, but she is always certain. We all know how difficult it is to persuade the lady out of a misapprehension. You could hardly make the rest of the company wait while you embarked upon that Herculean labor. You’d make quicker work of cleaning the Augean Stables.”
“I owe her thanks for this particular hallucination,” Marchmont said. “When I found myself alone with Zoe…Well, I believe it’s enough to say that I realized I didn’t want her to marry anybody but me. She said she’d have me. All we want is your consent.”
There was a long pause. Lexham left the place behind his desk and walked to the fire. He stood there, looking into the grate, as he so often did when cogitating.
After a time he looked at Marchmont. “I notice that you don’t say you’re over head and ears in
love with Zoe.”
Marchmont found himself at a loss how to answer, a rare experience for him, though not surprising in the circumstances. When he’d set out this day, the last thing he’d expected was to be standing here, asking Lexham for his daughter’s hand—and all the other delicious parts of her.
He was over head and ears in lust, beyond a doubt. He had no idea what anyone meant by love in these cases. He’d always assumed it was a euphemism for a strong attraction.
“You don’t say, either, that without her your life would be a desert,” Lexham added after a moment. “But that isn’t the sort of thing you’d say.” He shrugged. “And it isn’t the sort of thing I could easily stomach. No, I suppose I don’t expect it, though I’m not altogether surprised at this turn of events. You’ve always had the knack of dealing with her, and I’ll feel less anxious trusting her to you than to anyone else I can think of.”