Marianne retreated to her bedroom for the afternoon to finish her letters in privacy. She’d tried to write in the library, but the public rooms felt crowded with the confined huntsmen clumping around seeking distraction, not to mention the addition of five noisy young bloods.
Or perhaps she felt hemmed in because Tranter clung to her skirts like a burr. He’d made his interest embarrassingly overt, hardening her vague tolerance into irritation. She’d shuddered every time she raised her eyes to find him staring adoringly at her as if the act of moving a pen across a sheet of paper was a miracle of nature.
London’s ladies were mad for Lord Tranter and she should be flattered that he chose her. She wondered why she wasn’t. Oh, he mightn’t be the most scintillating company, but he was patently eligible—and twenty years younger than Desborough. Perhaps he made her ill at ease because from the start, she’d never penetrated beneath his flawless social polish. Whatever lurked in his heart, good or bad, remained a complete mystery.
This scheme to maneuver himself into the Hillbrooks’ house party was the most definite action she’d ever seen him take. She was sure he meant to keep any other dog from stealing his bone.
An old dog, Lord Desborough.
Marianne wondered how Tranter would feel to know that on this particular patch, he had another rival. Although if Elias had any sense, he’d surely go back to London after this morning’s distressing encounter. She felt a twinge of worry—if the flooding was as bad as Sidonie said, he could run into trouble.
Except she never in a thousand years thought he’d accept his dismissal. He’d come to Wiltshire to harry her and a few sharp words wouldn’t deter him.
It would be so much easier to forget Elias if he didn’t keep appearing to remind her that while he mightn’t be the sensible choice, he was the only man who stirred her pulse. Reconciling herself to Desborough became nearly impossible when she suffered this penchant for a man she couldn’t trust.
Since Tranter’s arrival, her father and Desborough hadn’t left her alone either. If ever she glanced beyond Tranter’s lovelorn stare, she met two frowns of disapproval.
Her bedroom offered sanctuary. But she’d just settled at the pretty mahogany desk under the window when she heard a knock on the door.
“Blast,” she muttered, setting her pen down so hard that ink splattered her letter to her old governess.
On unsteady legs, she rose to open the door. When she saw Genevieve, Lady Harmsworth, she realized she was henwitted to expect Tranter or Desborough. She felt so hunted, she abandoned common sense. Neither of her swains would risk scandal by coming to her bedroom. Her father had every right to see her, though. The prospect of another harangue was almost worse than more of Tranter’s sickly worship.
Genevieve laughed and her hand dropped to Sirius’s furry head. The dog stood beside his mistress and regarded Marianne with perceptive black eyes. “Peace, Marianne. You look ready to draw your saber.”
Feeling a fool, Marianne laughed, too, although it emerged with a forced air. “I’m sorry, Genevieve. I expected—”
“Not one of your admirers, surely. That would be too wicked.”
Marianne gestured her friend inside and toward one of the elegant chairs near the blazing fire. The bedroom was huge and extravagant with expansive views over the soggy Wiltshire countryside.
“I’m glad it’s you,” Marianne said, although it wasn’t entirely true. The beautiful blonde was famous for her intellect—and inquiring mind.
Genevieve sat and after studying Marianne with discomfitingly clever eyes, smiled. “You’re terrified that I mean to quiz you on Tranter and Desborough.”
Marianne took the other chair and folded her hands in her lap, trying to appear untroubled. “I can’t blame you for curiosity.”
“It’s my besetting sin. Richard’s always complaining that I won’t leave well enough alone.” As Sirius settled at her feet, she subjected Marianne to another penetrating inspection. “Although I’m not sure this situation could be described as well enough.”
Marianne’s heart sank anew. She’d seen Genevieve Harmsworth on the track of answers. She was worse than a terrier after a rat. “Would it do me any good to say I don’t want to talk about this?”
Genevieve tried to look shocked. “I’m here to see how you are.”
“I’m very well, thank you.” And was pleased to witness her friend’s frustration.
“You don’t look well. You look beleaguered.”
“I wonder why,” Marianne responded drily.
Genevieve had the grace to look a little shamefaced. But just a little. “Even before I arrived to pester you.”
Stubbornly Marianne remained quiet. As a motherless and only—not to mention lonely—child, she’d learned to keep her own counsel.
Genevieve made a sound low in her throat, half laugh, half grumble. “You’d give the sphinx a run for her money.”
Despite wishing Genevieve far away, Marianne smiled. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”
“Because nobody answered the poor cat’s questions,” Genevieve retorted. “Are you going to marry Desborough?”