How to Marry a Marble Marquis(10)
He was a scoundrel, a knave, an utter rapscallion, and she was shocked that uncle Efraim would’ve sent him to her door. Eleanor spent an entire afternoon seething over the implications of each blind item in the High Tea, once she learned the tells they used to signify it was, in fact, Lord Stride. As someone whose exploits have been regularly and thoroughly excoriated by the High Tea . . .
“Ugh! Such an awful man!“ she complained to her hairbrush that morning, remembering the words he himself had uttered regarding his frequent inclusion in the tattler.
She was furious that she was being forced into dealing with someone of such low moral character . . . until she realized that an utter rapscallion was precisely what she needed. After all, she had already been well-trained in the art of pleasant conversation and needlepoint, knew how to sit daintily, and had been instructed in no less than three different ways to sip her tea without slurping. She already excelled at the fairer art of performing the expected coy femininity displayed by young women seeking marriage, and she’d even received a fair education in protecting herself, certainly in protecting her heart.
Attending the conservatory had been a different sort of education. The world of the stage was a treacherous place, after all, full of rivals and rogues and no end to the ways gentlemen sought to find their way beneath a lady’s skirt. She had resisted them all in a vain effort to protect her reputation. Now, though, she needed to acquiesce, to give in to the same behaviors she’d trained herself so long to resist, and who better to instruct her than a scoundrel.
“It says here that the title of duke and duchess is often reserved for members of the royal family,” Lucy read from the book as Eleanor nodded in agreement.
“That’s correct, and ducal lands and extensions are often gifted by the crown.”
“A marquess is lesser than a duke but higher a title than an earl, count, or baron.” Lucy sighed again dramatically. “I don’t understand why you have to attend a silly ball at all, Eleanor. Why can’t you simply marry the marquis?!”
She didn’t bother offering a reply. The question has been asked and answered a dozen times an hour, or at least, that was how it felt. That she would sooner marry the horse seemed not an appropriate answer to give her impressionable sisters.
“Does the marquis know you lived in Paris, Eleanor? Perhaps you’ll be able to have a conversation in French since he uses the French designation of his title?” Lucy sighed again, each time a bit more high-pitched than the last. “How romantic that would be!”
“I’m quite certain his designation is from some ancient land treaty and has nothing to do with his own linguistic talent,” Eleanor muttered. “He has the same upper-class accent all of the other lords and ladies have; I’m sorry to disappoint.”
The girls returned to their studies, and Eleanor returned to focusing on her meal. Dismissing the longtime cook had been a terrible blow. She’d never needed to prepare her own meals before, and learning to do so now, at this stage in life, produced mixed results several times a week on the nights she was forced to do so.
Hettie had turned out to be goddess-sent. A no-nonsense matron from some tiny village in the South, she had filled in the gaps where the other servants were now missing. She picked up light housekeeping duties in addition to her main charge, Eleanor’s aged grandmother, and had tacitly given her the name of a part-time cook in another home she visited, a younger girl who would be willing to work for a few shillings several days a week. Between Hettie herself and keeping their carriage, a few shillings was all Eleanor could bring herself to spend, and so the girls had to suffer her lack of culinary skill the other days of the week.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate your assistance and discretion, Hettie,” Eleanor admitted to the nurse one morning, near tears at having let the fire go out overnight the same week the governess had departed. The older woman had the kindling box smoking in no time, placing the embers in a protective circle until they caught.
“The way I sees it, I’m protecting my interests, miss. It’s only a matter of time before you’re married off to some rich lordling. Then we’ll all be living in a grand house with beautiful scenery and an excellent cook, and I know your character, miss. You won’t forget the ones who helped you along the way. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m only ensuring my own retirement plan. If it eases your burden a bit at the same time, maybe it scrubs a bit of soot off my soul.”
It was Hettie who came bustling in then, practically dancing across the room to Eleanor, holding out a letter. “Just arrived, miss.”
The sight of the wax seal made her stomach flip. The seal bore a snarling gargoyle and was an unusual shade of blue, instantly reminding her of the flashing sapphire of his eyes. Her neck heated as she sliced open the missive. The Marquis of Basingstone requests the company of Miss Eleanor Eastwick for dinner at his home. Her eyes scanned the details of when and where, realizing he meant the following night. A carriage shall arrive to collect you with an appropriate chaperone for the evening.
Eleanor sagged, feeling dizzy with the emotions crowding her. She was elated that he was helping her and terrified at the prospect of having to endure his company for him to be able to do so. She was shocked that he was at all concerned about preserving her reputation and modesty and blessedly relieved that he was taking the precaution in the first place.