The Resolute Runaway Read online

  Glengarry nodded. “But how can I ever offer for Miss Donnithorne when I am unable even to say good afternoon to her without stammering? Or to dance with her without stumbling over my own feet?”

  To Nicholas it seemed as if the sun had suddenly come out. The whole day was somehow brighter, and the Scotsman was with those few words magically transformed from a surly lout into a truly admirable chap.

  “Well,” Nicholas said quite cheerfully, clapping Lord Glengarry on the back, “you may count on my wholehearted support. But I feel it only honorable to warn you that Dorie will make you a wretched wife. She is good with children, but in all other ways she is quite an unnatural female. If you have any ideas that she will sit complacently at home by the fire and allow you to go off hunting or fishing, then I must rid you now of those false notions.”

  For a moment the other man’s step faltered, but then he resumed walking. “It doesn’t matter. I am willing to give up any of my activities to marry Miss Donnithorne.”

  “Give up? I said nothing about giving up hunting and fishing. What I was trying to say is that Dorie will insist that you take her with you. In fact, she will more than likely be leading the way. Her current stated ambition is to sail around the world, and knowing my cousin, I rather think you will be hard pressed to keep up with her.”

  “At last you give me hope that I may succeed,” Glengarry said, his face also brightening.

  “Your biggest problem, I am afraid, is that Dorie has long ago decided that men, with very few exceptions, are boring. But take heart. You have only to persuade her that if she marries you she will be escaping London drawing rooms forever, and she will likely fall into your lap like a ripe plum.”

  * * * *

  “I want a word with you, Nick!”

  Nicholas moaned and tried to bury his head under his pillow. “It is not at all proper for a young lady to be in a man’s bedroom, Dorie, not even when the man is her cousin.”

  “A pox on propriety!”

  His cousin’s words stabbed through his head like a knife, causing Nicholas to regret every drop of the truly superb brandy he had imbibed the night before, when he and Glengarry had futilely attempted to drown their frustrations. He should, he knew, remonstrate with Dorie for using such vulgar language, but it was too early in the morning for him to summon the necessary energy to pursue what he knew was a hopeless cause.

  “I am sick to death of your constantly throwing that wretched Scotsman in my path. He is the last man on earth I would ever consider marrying, so you might as well give it up and tell him to leave me alone.”

  Dorie apparently thought it was necessary to speak especially loudly so that he would be able to hear her over the pounding inside his skull—she was now virtually shrieking.

  “I am hereby serving notice that if you continue to inform him of all my plans in advance so that he can ‘happen’ to meet us when we are shopping or walking in the park or going to the theater, then I shall be forced to do something drastic!”

  As if screaming in his ear would not be considered already drastic enough! “You have never even gotten to know the real baron. ‘Tis not Glengarry’s fault that every time he gets anywhere near you he becomes tongue-tied and clumsy and—”

  “Bah! Do you honestly think I would marry someone who is afraid of me? Who cringes and cowers abjectly at my feet?”

  No matter what the condition of his head, Nicholas could not allow such slander of the long-suffering and much-put-upon man who had become his best friend in London. Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his cousin’s arm and shook her. “Glengarry is not a coward, and he is not the least bit intimidated by you. The poor man is in love with you, you wretched girl, which is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy.”

  Surveying him up and down, Dorie remarked, “I always wondered what men wore in bed.”

  With horror, Nicholas realized that his legs were exposed from the knees to his bare toes, and he quickly dropped Dorie’s arm and retreated to the bed, where he pulled the covers up to his neck, properly, albeit belatedly, concealing every inch of his nightshirt.

  “You are an abominable brat.”

  “And you are turning into a more persistent and peskier matchmaker than ... than even Lady Letitia!”

  Just when Nicholas thought things could not get any worse, someone tapped on the half-opened door and Joanna stepped timidly into his room. It was too much for a man to face the morning after, and Nicholas promptly slid farther down, pulling the blankets all the way up over his head.

  Someone—Dorie, more than likely, because at least Joanna had a healthy sense of proper decorum—tugged at the covers and tried to wrest them away from his face, but Nicholas was stronger than she was. That was about all he could be thankful for.

  Then Joanna spoke in dulcet tones, which soothed rather than aggravated his jangled nerves. “Dorie, I think it would be best to come away now. Nicholas is not looking quite well, and it would be kinder to save your quarrel with him until he is feeling more the thing.”

  Just the sound of her voice eased his pain—how much more comforting it would be in his present wretched condition to feel her hand stroking his forehead! He groaned at the thought, and Joanna immediately intensified her efforts to remove Dorie from his room, finally succeeding only by invoking the name of Miss Hepden.

  What an angel Joanna was! What a paragon of all the feminine virtues! She deserved someone finer than himself—someone with no faults or flaws—someone who never indulged in brandy to excess ... someone who never bickered childishly with a girl cousin ... someone who could be civil even before breakfast ...

  And if such a pattern card of respectability came along, Nicholas admitted to himself, he would not hesitate to call the man out or start scurrilous rumors about him or in some way besmirch his reputation—whatever it took to destroy the man in Joanna’s eyes.

  Generosity of spirit was another virtue he, Nicholas, seemed to be lacking, because there was no way he intended to do the honorable thing and stand aside to allow Joanna to wed another. One way or another, he would make her fall in love with him.

  Fortunately, she was not yet showing signs of partiality for any other man.

  Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, to date she still looked upon him as a brother.

  * * * *

  Almack’s—the holiest of all holies—the ultimate goal of all the matchmaking mothers determined to marry off their silly, flighty daughters. And without doubt the most boring place in London, Dorie concluded, staring around glumly. No matter how much the other young ladies were thrilled to be here, she herself, given the choice, would much prefer to be back in the stables throwing dice with Billy and eating hot meat pies purchased from a street vendor. Unfortunately, her relatives refused to give her a choice.

  Here in these assembly rooms, she was not only forced to subsist on stale cakes and weak lemonade, but she was positively hemmed in by propriety, her every action cribbed by the patronesses’ archaic rules. As if that were not bad enough, Nicholas had planted himself firmly on the chair beside her to ensure that she did not take it into her head to enliven the evening by breaking one of those selfsame stuffy rules.

  It was enough to drive even the most patient person to violence, and she herself had never been known for her forbearance, which was about to be put to an additional test, because bearing down on them was Sally Jersey, and tagging along behind her was Lord Glengarry, who could always be counted upon to make the most boring situation deteriorate from vexatious to intolerable.

  “Miss Donnithorne, I notice you are not dancing,” Lady Jersey said coyly.

  Of course not, you twit, Dorie thought to herself. Because you and your cronies have a stupid rule that forbids young ladies to waltz without first gaining your permission. Mutinously—and quite rudely—Dorie kept her mouth shut.

  After waiting only a few seconds for the response that should have been forthcoming, but which was not, Lady Jersey continued, “May I present to you Lord
Glengarry, who I am sure will make you an admirable partner for this waltz?”

  Dorie scowled, and it was obvious from Lady Jersey’s supercilious smirk that she already knew full well Dorie had no desire whatsoever to dance with Lord Glengarry-of-the-two-left-feet. Well, Nicholas might be able to keep her from waltzing without permission, but he was about to discover that it was not in his power to make her waltz if she had her mind set against it, which she did.

  “We thank you for your interest, Lady Jersey,” Nicholas said quite properly, “and I am sure my cousin will be delighted to waltz with Lord Glengarry.” Then without warning Nicholas jabbed his thumb into a particularly sensitive spot on Dorie’s back, which caused her to yelp and leap to her feet. “See how eager she is?”

  Mentally vowing to get revenge on her despicable cousin, Dorie mutely allowed herself to be led out onto the dance floor.

  * * * *

  The gods, who had been so generous with him at birth, giving him far more than his share of good looks, charm, wit, strength, intelligence, and courage, without, Alexander realized full well, burdening him with a single flaw or blemish that might somehow hamper his carefree progress through life, now seemed to regret their openhanded generosity. Of a certainty, some higher power must have loaded the dice against him, perhaps in an effort to teach him humility, or merely to toy with his heart before breaking it?

  To be sure, his hand was now resting on the delightfully trim waist of his beloved, and she was waltzing gracefully in his arms, but he could not in all honesty say that either of them was deriving any enjoyment from the dance. Would that he could cast aside all considerations of propriety and pull her the rest of the way into his arms and kiss her thoroughly. Maybe that was exactly what he needed to do in order to regain his confidence and poise?

  Since that course of action was forbidden him as a gentleman, however, he frantically tried to remember the suggestions Miss Pettigrew had offered him as suitable topics of conversation, but his mind was blank as a slate, wiped clean by one glance into the enchanting blue eyes of his ladylove, eyes that were no less enticing even though at this moment they were icy with disdain. In desperation he finally blurted out, “That is a lovely gown you are wearing, Miss Donnithorne.”

  As a conversational gambit, it lacked style, wit, and originality, but it still might have achieved a modest level of success had he not at that precise moment trodden on the hem of the aforementioned gown. The horrible sound of a flounce being ripped was like the death knell to all his hopes.

  Completely forgetting that he was still holding her waist, he tried to back away from her with the object of preventing further accidents, but he succeeded only in bumping into the couple behind him, whereupon an inadvertent elbow in his back thrust him forward again, causing him to crash against Miss Donnithorne. By now completely off-balance, he was in danger not only of falling to the floor but also of dragging her—or even worse, her gown—down with him.

  Somehow, no thanks to his clumsy efforts to help, she managed to keep them both on their feet and to prevent any further damage to her dress. She proved herself to be, in fact, surprisingly strong and agile for a female.

  “Let go of me, you great lumbering beast,” she hissed once he was steady on his feet, and no sooner did he release her than with one last disdainful look she turned and stalked from the floor, of necessity holding her skirts up slightly so that she would not trip on the dangling flounce.

  There was a titter nearby, and Alexander was well aware that he was the cynosure of all the other dancers—an object of ridicule, ignominiously abandoned by his partner. None of it mattered one whit to him, however. The only one whose opinion he cared about was Miss Donnithorne, and once again he had failed to attain even a small measure of her regard.

  Thoroughly disconsolate, he retreated to the sidelines with the intention of seeking out Miss Pettigrew, who never failed to find a word of encouragement for him in his pursuit of her friend and companion—a pursuit that with every passing day only seemed all the more hopeless.

  * * * *

  Joanna was not unaware of the fiasco recently enacted on another part of the dance floor. Indeed, it would be amazing if anyone in the entire room had missed observing it. When her partner returned her to her aunt’s side, she was therefore not at all surprised to discover Lord Glengarry waiting for her. He looked quite sheepish, and reminded her forcibly of little Lord Edward after he had accidentally spilled his milk.

  Unfortunately, this time she could not think of a single thing to say to Lord Glengarry to lift his spirits.

  “That bad, is it?” he asked.

  “She will forgive ... might forget ... could possibly ...” The false words of encouragement stuck in Joanna’s throat. “Yes, I am afraid I must agree that everything seems to be getting worse rather than better,” she finally admitted.

  “Would that I could drown my troubles in brandy, but not only is there nothing here to drink except weak orgeat, which I would have to drink by the gallon, but also Nicholas and I tried that last night, and all I got for my effort was a thick head. I suppose Nicholas was likewise feeling the worse for wear this morning,” he stated more than asked.

  “Nicholas was trying to drown his troubles last night? What troubles?”

  Looking excruciatingly guilty and obviously aware that he had revealed more than he should have, Lord Glengarry became almost as tongue-tied as he was when he was around Dorie. After stammering a bit, he quickly and without actually answering Joanna’s question excused himself to claim his partner for the next dance.

  It did not matter that he refused to divulge the truth. Joanna knew very well what the problem was that was driving Nicholas to drink. Dorie was half of it, and she herself was the other half. Nicholas would not be able to return to his beloved home in Somerset until she and Dorie were safely married off.

  Her partner for the next dance appeared and led her out to join a set that was forming, but Joanna went through her steps automatically, not making any effort to converse with the boy, a young, rather stout lad from Dorset who looked as if he would be more at home behind a plow than at a London assembly.

  Nicholas’s problem, she realized with a twinge of guilt, was that although Dorie had at least one viable candidate for her hand, Joanna had deliberately and firmly resisted singling out any one of her suitors for special attention, lest she nurture false hopes in some innocent man’s breast.

  She had thought, of course, that she could somehow kindle the warmer emotions in Nicholas—that she could cause him to fall in love with her. Never had she even for a moment considered how this might make Nicholas feel. “Trapped” was the only word for it, she now conceded. If she did not find a husband by the end of the Season, how could she expect him not to feel honor-bound to offer for her yet again?

  This conclusion was now so obvious to her, she was appalled by her earlier naiveté. No, not by naiveté, but by her wishful thinking, which had blinded her to reality. She had sworn never to marry anyone except Nicholas, without realizing that because of her position—lacking money and family as she did—she was essentially forcing Nicholas to marry her.

  By the time the dance was over, her mind was made up. She would put aside her futile dreams and marry whomever Nicholas recommended to her. Given his vehement reaction to her aunt and uncle, she could at least rely on Nicholas to pick out a husband who would be kind to her—someone she could respect even if she could not love him.

  She checked her dance card and saw that Nicholas was down for the next dance, a waltz, and she was grateful that she could follow through on her new resolution at once, without having time for cowardly second thoughts.

  With deep pain in her heart she watched him make his way across the crowded floor to where she was sitting. He was, to her way of thinking, quite the most handsome man in the room. But not the right man for her, no matter how she might wish it.

  Bowing, he extended his hand, and laying her own on his, she allowed him to lead her
out. The music started, Nicholas placed his hand firmly on her waist, and she almost burst into tears.

  By biting the inside of her cheek, she managed not to disgrace herself beyond redemption, but it was a few moments before she could trust herself enough to speak.

  “I have been wishing to discuss my suitors with you,” she said. At her words, a fleeting expression crossed his face, but it was gone so fast, she could not identify it. Was it guilt? Or relief? “I am hoping you can advise me.”

  He smiled down at her, but his smile was patently false and covered up ... what?

  “Whom are you considering seriously?”

  “Perhaps Lord Guybon?”

  “Out of the question,” Nicholas replied quickly. “He will never marry where there is not a fortune, no matter how serious he appears to be.”

  “Well, Mr. Lomax-Ogden is certainly not in need of a wife to fatten his coffers.”

  Again Nicholas shook his head. “He has stated quite openly in the clubs that he will settle for nothing less than an earl’s daughter.”

  “I see. Well, then would Sir Rivington be acceptable?”

  “Only if you wish to observe for yourself how quickly a man can gamble away every shilling that comes into his hands. All the Rivingtons are afflicted with that curse.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Cantrell, then? He seems to be a moderate man. I have never seen him gamble, nor heard him talk of any wagers he has made.”

  “He spends all his ready on ...” Nicholas paused, then continued bluntly, “on his mistress.”

  “Oh,” Joanna said, hoping she would not disgrace herself by blushing. She cast around in her mind for another possible suitor, but the only one she could think of was the Reverend Mr. Fitzwalter, whose only flaw was that he was a prosy bore. Well, a lifetime of listening to long-winded, tedious sermons was a small price to pay for Nicholas’s happiness. “Then I suppose it will have to be the Reverend Mr. Fitzwalter.”