How to Marry a Marquis

Chapter 10

James arrived at the front gate at a quarter past four, knowing he was ridiculously early, but somehow unable to stop his feet from carrying him to the appointed meeting site. He had felt restless all afternoon, constantly drumming his fingers on tables and pacing across rooms. He had tried to sit down and write out the lesson plan he had bragged about, but the words would not come.

He had no experience in training a young lady for society. The only young lady he really knew was the wife of his best friend, Blake Ravenscroft. And Caroline hadn't precisely been trained for society herself. As for all of his other female acquaintances-they were just the sort Mrs. Seeton was trying to mold Elizabeth into. Just the sort that had prompted his overwhelming relief at leaving London.

What was it he wanted in a woman? His quest to help Elizabeth seemed to beg the question. What was it he wanted in a wife? He had to marry; there was no arguing fate in that respect. But it had been so damned hard to imagine spending the rest of his life with a shy flower who was afraid to express an opinion.

Or worse, a shy flower who didn't even possess an opinion.

And the final twist of the bayonet was that those opinionless young ladies invariably came with extremely opinionated mothers.

He wasn't being fair, he forced himself to concede. He'd met a few young ladies who were interesting. Not many, but a few. One or two of them he even could have married without fearing that he was ruining his life. It wouldn't have been a love match, and there would have been no grand passion, but he could have been passably content.

So what was it these ladies-the ones who had fleetingly caught his attention-had possessed? It was a certain joie de vivre, a love for life, a smile that seemed real, a light in the eyes. James was fairly certain he wasn't the only man who had seen these things-all of the young ladies in question had been quickly snapped up into marriage, usually by men whom he liked and respected.

Love for life. Maybe that was what this was all about. He'd spent the morning reading HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS, and with each edict, he'd pictured a little bit more of that incomparable sapphire light melting away from Elizabeth's eyes.

He didn't want her molded into some predetermined ideal of young English womanhood. He didn't want her walking with her eyes downcast, trying to be mysterious and demure. He just wanted her to be herself.

Elizabeth shut the door to Danbury House behind her and set off down the main drive. Her heart was racing, her hands were clammy, and while she didn't feel precisely embarrassed that James had discovered her desperate secret, she was as nervous as could be.

She had spent all afternoon berating herself for accepting his offer. Hadn't she spent the previous night sobbing herself to sleep, all because she thought she could love him-a man she could never marry? And now she was purposely putting herself in his company, allowing him to tease her, to flirt with her, and-

Good God, what if he wanted to kiss her again? He said he was going to train her to attract other men. Did that entail kissing? And if it did, should she let him do it?

She groaned. As if she'd be able to stop him. Every time they were in the same room together, her eyes wandered to his mouth, and she remembered what it felt like to have those lips on hers. And God help her, she wanted that again.

A final glimpse of bliss. Maybe that was what this was all about. She was going to have to marry someone she didn't love, maybe even someone she didn't much like. Was it so wrong to want a few last days of laughter, of secret glances, of that heady tingle of newborn desire?

As she walked toward the front gate she suspected that she was courting heartbreak by agreeing to meet James, but her heart wouldn't let her do anything else. She'd read enough Shakespeare to trust the Bard, and if he said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all-she believed him.

He was waiting for her, just out of sight of Danbury House, and his eyes lit up when he saw her.

"Elizabeth," he called out, striding toward her.

She paused, content to just watch him approach, the light breeze ruffling his dark hair. She'd never met anyone who seemed more comfortable in his skin as James Siddons. He had such an easy stride, a smooth gait. She thought about the innumerable times she'd tripped over a rug or swung her hand into a wall and sighed in envy.

He reached her side and said simply, "You're here."

"Didn't you think I would be?"

"I had thought you might have second thoughts."

“Of course I have second thoughts. This is quite the most irregular thing I've ever done."

"How admirable of you," he murmured.

"But it wouldn't matter if I'd had second, third, or even fourth thoughts." She smiled helplessly. "I have to walk right by here to get home, so I couldn't avoid you if I tried."

"How fortunate for me."

"I have a feeling that fortune often smiles upon you."

He cocked his head. "Now, why would you say that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. You just seem the sort who always lands on his feet."

"I suspect you are a survivor, too."

"In a certain sense, I suppose. I could have given up on my family years ago, you know. Relatives did offer to take in Lucas."

"But not the rest of you?"

She smiled wryly. "The rest of us aren't in possession of titles."

"I see." He took her arm and motioned to the south. "Is it this way?"

She nodded. "Yes, about a mile down the road, then about a quarter of a mile down the side lane."

They walked for a few paces, and then he turned to her and said, "You said you were a survivor 'in a certain sense.' What did you mean by that?"

"It's easier for a man to be a survivor than a woman."

"That makes no sense."

She gave him a faintly pitying look. He would never understand what she had to say, but she supposed she owed it to him to try to explain nonetheless. "When a man falls on hard times," she said, "there are quite a number of things he may do, options he may pursue, to reverse his situation. He may join the army, or sign on to a pirate ship. He may look for work, as you have done.

He may use his charm and looks"-she shook her head and smiled reluctantly-"as I imagine you have also done."

"And a woman may not do these things?"

"A woman looking for work does not have many options if she does not wish to leave her home. A governess post might pay marginally better than a lady's companion, but I doubt many employers would look too kindly upon my bringing Susan, Jane, and Lucas with me to live in the servants' wing."

"Touché," he said with an understanding nod.

“And as for charm and looks, well, a woman can use those for three things. She can go into the theater, she can become a man's mistress, or she can marry. As for me, I have no inclination or talent for acting and no wish to shame my family by entering into an illicit relationship." She looked up at him and shrugged. "My only choice is marriage. That, I suppose, is what it means for a woman to be a survivor."

She paused, and the corners of her mouth quivered as if they didn't know whether to attempt a smile or a frown. "Rather distasteful, don't you think?"

James didn't answer her for several moments. He liked to think of himself as a broad-minded individual but he had never once taken the time to imagine what it must be like in the tight, pinching shoes of a woman. He had taken his life, with its myriad choices, for granted.

She tilted her head. "Why are you looking at me so intently?"

"Respect."

She drew back in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"I admired you before. You seemed an uncommonly intelligent and amusing young woman. But now I realize that you deserve my respect as well as my admiration."

"Oh. I-I-" She blushed, clearly at a loss for words.

He shook his head. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," she replied, the squeak in her voice proving her a liar.

"Yes, I did, and I certainly didn't mean for this to be such a serious afternoon. We have work to do, but there is no reason it shouldn't be entertaining."

She cleared her throat. “What did you have in mind?''

"We haven't much time, so we are forced to prioritize," he said. "We must focus upon only the very most important skills."

"Which are?"

"Kissing and boxing."

Elizabeth dropped her satchel.

"You seem surprised."

"I couldn't possibly imagine which of those two surprises me more."

He swooped down and picked up her bag for her. "It makes perfect sense when you think on it. A gentleman is going to want to kiss a lady before he tenders an offer of marriage."

"Not if he respects her," she pointed out. "I have it on the best authority that men don't kiss unmarried women whom they respect."

"I kissed you."

"Well… that was… different."

"And I believe we have made it clear that I respect you. But enough of that." He waved her protests away. "You must trust me when I tell you that no gentleman with an ounce of sense in his head is going to marry a woman without testing the waters first."

"Put that way," she muttered, "it's positively poetic."

"However, that can put you in an awkward position."

"Oh, you realize that?" she asked sarcastically.

He shot her a look, clearly irritated by her constant interruption. "Some gentlemen lack basic common sense and judgment, and might not break off the kiss at an appropriate time. That is why we must teach you to box."

"And you're going to do all of this in one afternoon?"

He pulled out his pocket watch and nipped it open, his face a perfect picture of nonchalance. "No, I had thought just the kissing for this afternoon. We can see to the boxing tomorrow."

"And you are trained in the sport of pugilism?"

"Of course."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Aren't lessons terribly expensive? I had heard that there were only a handful of instructors in London who are considered of superior quality."

"There are always ways to obtain what one needs," he said. He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. “I believe you said I am the sort who always lands on his feet."

"I suppose now you are going to tell me you are the sort who lands on his feet with his arms primed and ready to box?"

He laughed and made a few jabs in the air. "There is nothing like it to keep the blood flowing."

She frowned dubiously. "It doesn't look a very feminine pursuit."

"I thought we had decided we weren't going to subscribe to Mrs. Seeton's view of femininity."

"We're not," she retorted, "but we are trying to find me a husband."

"Ah, yes, your husband," he said darkly.

"I cannot imagine there is a man in England who wants to marry a lady pugilist."

“You don't need to be a pugilist. You just need to be able to punch well enough to show that you cannot be taken advantage of."

She shrugged and made a fist. “Like this?''

"God, no. Don't tuck your thumb in. You're sure to break it."

Elizabeth moved her thumb to the outside of her fist. "Like this?"

He nodded approvingly. "Exactly. But we were going to study kissing today."

"No, let's save that." She thrust her arm forward a few times. "I'm rather enjoying myself."

James groaned, not quite sure what was bothering him more-that he had to put off kissing her another day or that she had the weakest punch he'd ever seen. "No, no, not like that," he said, positioning himself behind her. He let her bag fall to the ground as he put his hand on her elbow and readjusted the angle of her shoulder. "You punch like a girl."

"I am & girl."

"Well, that much I've always found obvious, but you don't have to punch like one."

"And how," she asked, mocking a deep male voice, "does a man punch?"

"Girls, I've learned, punch like this." He made a fist and moved his arm forward and back, his elbow never straying far from his side. “Men, on the other hand, put a little swing into it."

"Do please demonstrate."

"Very well. Back off, then. I shouldn't like to injure you."

Elizabeth offered him a dry smile and took a few steps back. "Is that enough room for a man?"

"Don't mock. Just watch." He drew his arm back. "I shall have to show you this at half the usual speed since I'm not actually punching anything but air. The momentum is likely to take me with the punch."

"By all means, then," she said with a magnanimous wave of her hand. "Half speed."

"Pay attention. You're watching a master."

"Of that," she said dryly, "I have no doubt."

He moved his entire arm forward, the motion beginning at the center of his back and surging through his shoulder to his fist. If he had been moving at full speed, and if there were someone standing in front of him, James rather thought he might have knocked him out. "What do you think?" he asked, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Do it again."

He raised his brows but complied, putting even more swing into it this time. He looked up to her face; she had her eyes narrowed and was studying him as if he were a prized piece of livestock.

Looking up briefly, she asked, "One more time?"

“Are you paying attention or just trying to make me look like an idiot?"

"Oh, I'm definitely paying attention. If you look like an idiot it has nothing to do with me."

James pulled his arm back one last time. "To recap," he said, "a woman punches forward from the shoulder, without using the muscles of her middle back."

Elizabeth imitated his female punch. "Like this."

"Precisely. A man, on the other hand, utilizes the strength of his back as well as his arm."

"These muscles here?" She lifted up her right arm and used her left hand to motion to the muscles wrapping around her right rib cage.

His mouth went dry. Her dress was tightening around her in most unusual places.

"Here, James?" she demanded, poking her back. "Or here?" This time she poked his back, except that she missed, and got him more in the side, rather close to his waist.

"Right the first time," he said, darting away from her finger. If she missed his back by another inch or two in the southerly direction, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

"So it's a little like this." She threw a half-speed punch, moving only marginally faster than he had while doing it.

“Yes. But you need a little bit more lateral movement. Watch me one more time." He threw another punch. "See?"

“I think so. Would you like me to give it a go?''

"Yes." He crossed his arms. "Punch me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't."

"No, I want you to."

"I couldn't possibly. I've never intentionally hurt another person before."

"Elizabeth, the entire purpose of this lesson is so you can injure another person if the need arises. If you cannot bring yourself to punch a human being, this has been a total waste of time."

She looked doubtful. "If you insist."

"I do."

"Very well." With barely a moment for either of them to prepare, she drew back and let fly. Before James had any idea what was happening, he was sprawled on the ground, and his right eye socket was throbbing.

Elizabeth, rather than displaying any sort of worry or concern over his health, was jumping up and down, squealing with glee. "I did it! I really did it! Did you see it? Did you see it?"

"No," he muttered, "but I felt it."

She planted her hands on her hips and beamed, looking as if she had just been crowned queen of the world. “Oh, that was brilliant! Let's do it again."

"Let's not," he grumbled.

She stopped grinning and leaned down. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Not at all," he lied.

"I didn't?" She sounded disappointed.

"Well, maybe just a little bit."

“Oh, good, I-" She choked back whatever it was she was planning to say. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I swear. I don't want you to be injured, but I did put all of my strength into that punch, and-''

"I shall be showing the effects tomorrow, have no fear."

She gasped with gleeful horror. "I gave you a black eye?"

"I thought you didn't want me to be injured."

"I don't," she said quickly, "but I must confess I've never done anything remotely like this before, and it's rather satisfying to have done it right."

James didn't think his eye was going to sport quite as splendid a bruise as she obviously hoped, but he was rather irritated with himself nonetheless for so seriously underestimating her. She was such a tiny thing; he'd never dreamed she'd get it right on the first punch. And even then, he'd figured she couldn't possibly possess enough strength to do more than stun her opponent. All he'd really been hoping for was to teach her enough to temporarily disarm a man while she made her escape.

But, he thought ruefully, giving his eye a gingerly pat, it appeared that her punches were anything but temporary. He looked up at her; she looked so damned proud of herself he had to smile and say, “I have created a monster."

"Do you think?" Her face lit up even more, which James hadn't thought possible. It was as if the very sun were pouring from her eyes.

Elizabeth started jabbing her fists in the air. "Perhaps you could teach me some advanced techniques."

"You're quite advanced enough, thank you."

She stopped jumping about, her face sobering. "Should we put something on that eye? It might not swell and bruise if we put something cooling on it."

James almost refused. His eye truly wasn't that bad off-it had been surprise more than anything that had knocked him to the ground. But Elizabeth had just invited him into her home, and this was an opportunity not to be missed. "Something cooling would be just the thing," he murmured.

"Follow me, then. Do you need a hand?"

James regarded her outstretched hand with a bit of chagrin. How feeble-bodied did she think he was? "You punched me in the eye," he said in a dry voice. "The rest of me works quite well, thank you."

She pulled her hand back. "I had merely thought- You did hit the ground rather hard, after all."

Damn. Another opportunity lost. His pride was getting deuced annoying. He could have leaned on her the entire way home. "Why don't I try it on my own and we'll see how it goes?" he suggested. Maybe he could sprain an ankle in twenty yards or so.

“That sounds a good idea. But be careful not to overtax yourself."

James took a few careful steps, trying to remember which side it was that had hit the ground. It wouldn't do to limp on the wrong side.

“Are you sure you're not in pain?

He had to be a complete cad to take advantage of the concern in her eyes, but clearly his conscience had departed for destinations unknown, because James sighed and said, "I think it's my hip."

She glanced down at his hip, which caused other, nearby regions to feel a bit of pain. “Is it bruised?''

"That is all I can think," he replied. "I'm sure it's nothing but-''

"But it hurts to walk," she said with a maternal nod. "You'll probably feel better by morning, but it does seem silly to overexert yourself." She scrunched her brow in thought. "Perhaps it would be best if you simply returned to Danbury House. If you walk to my cottage, you'd have to walk back, and-"

"Oh, I'm sure it's not as bad as that," he said quickly. "And I did say I would walk you home."

"James, I do walk home by myself every day."

"Nonetheless, I must keep my promises."

“I'm happy to release you from this one. After all, you could hardly have expected to be knocked to the ground."

"Truly, it's not that painful. I just cannot walk with my usual speed."

She looked uncertain.

"Besides," he added, thinking that he needed to reinforce his position, "we still have much to discuss concerning Lady Danbury's garden party on Saturday."

"Very well," she said reluctantly. "But you must promise to tell me if the pain becomes overwhelming."

A promise easily kept, since he wasn't in any pain at all. Well, not of the sort to which she referred.

They'd taken only a few steps before Elizabeth turned to him and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Perfectly," he assured her. "But now that you have mastered the art of self-defense, I do think we should move on to other aspects of your education."

She blushed. "You mean…"

"Precisely."

"Don't you think it would be wise to begin with flirting?"

"Elizabeth, I don't think you have anything to worry about on that score."

"But I haven't the slightest clue how to go about it!"

"I can only say that you are a natural."

"No!" she said forcefully. "I'm not. I haven't the faintest idea what to say to men."

"You seemed to know what to say to me. That is," he amended, "when you weren't trying to adhere to Mrs. Seeton's edicts."

"You don't count."

He coughed. "And why not?"

"I don't know," she said with a little shake of her head, "you just don't. You're different."

He coughed again. "Not so very different from the other members of my gender."

"If you must know, you're much easier to talk to."

James considered that. Prior to meeting Elizabeth, he'd prided himself on being able to render sniveling debutantes and their grasping mamas utterly speechless with one well-placed stare. It had always been a most effective tool-one of the only truly useful things he had ever learned from his father.

Out of curiosity, he fixed his most supercilious, I-am-the-Marquis-of-Riverdale stare on her-the one that routinely sent grown men scurrying into corners-and said, "What if I looked upon you like this?"

She burst out laughing. "Oh, stop! Stop! You look ridiculous."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stop, James. Oh, you must. You look like a little boy pretending to be a duke. I know, because my younger brother tries the same stunt on me all the time."

Pride stung, he said, “And how old is your brother?''

"He's eight, but-" Whatever she had meant to say was lost in her laughter.

James couldn't remember the last time someone had laughed at him, and he didn't particularly enjoy being compared to an eight-year-old boy. "I can assure you," he said, his voice pure ice, "that-"

"Don't say any more," she said, laughing. "Really, James, one shouldn't strut like an aristocrat if one cannot carry it off."

Never, in his entire career as an agent for the War Office, had he been more tempted to reveal his identity. He was itching to grab her and shake her and yell, "I'm a damned marquis, you little fool! I can be a perfectly good snob when I've a mind for it."

But on the other hand, there was something rather charming about her artless laughter. And when she turned to him and said, "Oh, please don't be insulted, James. It's a compliment, really. You're far too nice a person to be an aristocrat," he decided that this might actually be the most enchanting moment of his life.

His gaze was fixed upon an unremarkable patch of dirt, so she had to duck to move herself to his line of vision. "Forgive me?" she teased.

"I might find it in my heart…"

"If you don't forgive me, then I might have to practice my pugilism again."

He winced. "In that case, I definitely forgive you."

"I thought you might. Let's go home."

And he wondered why, when she said the word ''home," he actually thought it might apply to him as well.