CHAPTER ONE

Spring 1819

"Blast it all, I'm a marquess not a bloody governess." Thomas Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley and future Duke of Roxborough, drained the glass of brandy in his hand and promptly poured another.

Randall, Viscount Beaumont, studied him over the rim of his own glass. "You've mentioned that already this evening. Several times in fact."

"It bears repeating." Thomas sank into the wing chair matching the one his friend occupied, both angled toward the massive oak desk that had well served the previous eight Dukes of Roxborough.

For a moment he considered suggesting they move to the sofa facing the fireplace at the far end of the long Effington House library. In spite of the fine spring day, the evening was cool and the warmth of the fire would be welcome. Still, these chairs were closer to the cabinet that housed his father's supply of brandy and other spirits and their proximity was more important at the moment than mere creature comfort.

He drew a long, appreciative swallow. There was a great deal of warmth to be had right here. "I ask you, Rand, how can my family possibly expect me to find a bride, their idea mind you not mine, if I'm also expected to play nursemaid?"

"I'd scarce call it playing nursemaid. Or perhaps I've misunderstood. I can't imagine why." Rand glanced wryly at his drink. "It's entirely possible I've overlooked some of the finer details of your dilemma."

"It's quite simple." Thomas heaved a heartfelt sigh and launched into a recitation he thought he'd already given at least once tonight although, at the moment, he was not entirely certain. "Last year my sister, Gillian, married Richard, the Earl of Shelbrooke. You know him, don't you?"

"I know of him."

"He promised his three youngest sisters, they've been raised in the country, a season in London with all the stuff and nonsense such a thing entails to women. My mother--"

"Ah yes, the Duchess of Roxborough," Rand said, "and a woman not to be trifled with if rumor serves."

"None of the Effington women are to be trifled with. From my grandmother to my youngest cousins, they are stubborn and opinionated to the last." Thomas glared at the liquor in his glass. "My mother had planned to take Richard's sisters under her wing personally and had gone so far as to arrange for a come out ball for them. It seems my sister was something of a disappointment to her when she married her first husband after only one season. It was all my mother could do to keep from drooling at the very thought of steering not one but three young women through the rigors of a first season. And as an added bonus, I'd finally agreed to seriously look for a bride." He narrowed his eyes. "She was quite beside herself with glee at the thought of it all."

Rand snorted with ill-concealed amusement.

Thomas slumped deeper in his chair. "Unfortunately my parents are no longer in England and I've been forced into the temporary role of head of the family with all the accompanying headaches and responsibilities."

"Pity. Are you up to it?"

"When it comes to handling estate concerns or family business or my own financial affairs for that matter, I haven't a worry. Effington men may well spend their nights in questionable pursuits but we are remarkably competent when it comes to the maintenance and increase of the family fortune. Runs in the blood." He grinned and raised his glass in a salute. "Even my more disreputable ancestors didn't squander whatever wealth they'd stolen."

Rand laughed and lifted his glass. "To the Effington ancestors then. A shame the Beaumonts can't say the same." He took a sip. "Now, where have the duke and duchess gone?"

"America." Thomas grimaced. "Richard and Gillian inherited a great deal of property in that Godforsaken land and for some absurd reason wanted to see it in person. While there, Richard had the nerve to get her with child."

"Damned inconsiderate of him."

"I thought so. And he calls himself my friend."

Thomas pulled a long sip and considered the events of the last year. He'd been delighted when his dearest friend had fallen in love with his sister. And no one could have been more pleased than Thomas when the couple had been the beneficiary of a substantial inheritance. Now, however, he did wish Richard's timing had been better. "When my mother learned of Gillian's state, not more than a month ago, she insisted on going to be with her rather than having Gillian risk the voyage home. First grandchild and all that."

"And the duke went with her?"

Thomas nodded. "He's never been to America and apparently has a much more adventurous streak than I'd ever credited him with."

"Bad piece of luck there. Still, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought England was riddled with Effingtons. Surely there's some other relation who can shepherd these girls around for the season?"

"One would think but this year they all seem to have scattered to the four corners of the earth. One branch of the family is hanging about old ruins somewhere, Greece I believe. Richard's oldest sister and her husband are in Paris and everyone else in the family is too taken up with their own affairs to lend any assistance whatsoever. In short, old man, I'm trapped. Saddled with the responsibility of launching three girls onto the choppy seas of society." Thomas blew a long breath. "As well as a promise to find a bride of my own this season."

"What on earth possessed you?"

"Oh, the usual reasons," Thomas said grimly. "I'm three and thirty and my father, my mother and even my sister delight in pointing out to me the need to provide an heir."

"Any prospects?"

"Not as of yet but I do know what I want in a wife." He rested his head against the back of the chair and gazed toward the ceiling. "I want a woman who will be biddable and soft spoken. A woman to whom I will be the moon and the stars. Who will acquiesce to my desires and not challenge my decisions."
Rand laughed. "In short, you want the complete opposite of the Effington women."

"Exactly."

"And how will you find such a paragon?"

"I don't know at the moment but it shouldn't be too difficult. Effington women are the exception not the rule. Still," he drained his brandy and got to his feet. "It's going to be bloody difficult to pursue anyone at all if I have to spend all my time watching over Richard's sisters." He stepped to the cabinet, grabbed the liquor decanter and returned to his seat. "In all good conscience, I have no choice. I received a letter from Richard last week in which he expressed every confidence that I would safeguard his sisters as he would. He said he was relieved they would be in my capable hands. And he thanked me for my efforts."

"You're right. You are trapped." Rand held out his glass and Thomas obligingly refilled it. "When do they arrive?"

"Oh, they've been here for a fortnight now." He filled his own glass, placed the decanter within easy reach on the table between them and took a healthy swallow.

"Really?" Rand raised a brow. "Yet I've seen you every night for at least that long at Whites or some other establishment. They don't seem to be much of a hindrance thus far."

"I've simply become quite adept at avoiding them. It hasn't been all that difficult during the day. They've been exceeding busy with fittings and shopping and dancing lessons and God knows what else. They came complete with an iron willed curmudgeon of an aunt. An extremely unpleasant dragon like creature who glares at me as if I were a well known seducer of innocent young women." He shuddered. "That alone is reason enough to stay out of their paths.

"However, the ball my mother arranged is in three days time. After that, my constant presence will be required for the myriad of social activities that comprise the season. She even procured vouchers for Almacks for them."

Rand winced. "My sympathies. Still, if you are to pursue a bride of your own wouldn't you be attending anyway?"

"No doubt but at least I would be unfettered. Actually." Thomas studied him for a moment, wondering if Rand had consumed enough liquor to be amenable to his proposal or if Thomas should add another dollop of brandy to his glass. "I have come up with a plan of sorts."

"Oh?"

"It occurs to me that the true purpose of any season is to find a good match. Richard has provided his sisters with impressive dowries and it shouldn't be all that difficult to find acceptable husbands for them. Quickly and with a minimum of fuss."

"Perhaps." Rand took a thoughtful sip and considered him carefully. "Unless of course, they're as ugly as toads."

"Oh, they're not. Not at all," Thomas said quickly. "I have met them, although admittedly briefly, but all three are quite lovely.

"The oldest, her name is Merry-something I believe, is a bit of a bluestocking but still very attractive even if she is nearly two and twenty. Rather unruly blonde hair and I think her eyes are blue, or maybe brown, behind her spectacles. I understand she's quite intelligent."

"No problem marrying off that one. There's quite a demand on the marriage mart for aging, intelligent bluestockings," Rand said wryly.

Thomas ignored him. "The next one, I don't recall her name either, is the prettiest of the lot and bound to be considered a diamond of the first water. The youngest is lovely as well. An excellent rider I hear. Very fond of horses and the country. And Rand," he forced a note of enthusiasm to his voice, "she has a dog. A great furry beast of an animal any man would be proud to own. She brought him with her."

"Good for her." Rand's brow furrowed in suspicion.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I was thinking, they haven't been introduced to society yet and at this point," Thomas leaned forward, "you could have your pick of any of them."

"My pick?" Rand said slowly.

"Yes, your choice."

"Are you mad? What would I want with any of them?"

"Come now, Rand," Thomas said in a placating tone.

"Isn't it time you found yourself a wife? We are of a similar age and you too have the responsibility to provide an heir."

"I don't want a wife right now, thank you all the same." Mild amusement sounded in Rand's voice.

"Well, none of us really want a wife, now do we?" Thomas reached for the decanter to top off Rand's glass but his friend waved him off. Pity. The man definitely needed more to drink. "But the time comes when we must live up to our responsibilities."

"Your time perhaps but not mine." Rand downed the rest of his drink, placed his glass beside the decanter and got to his feet. "However it is past time for me to take my leave."
Thomas stood. "You disappoint me, Rand. I thought we were friends."

"We're not that close." Rand started for the door.

"I'd do it for you," Thomas said staunchly and followed him, goblet still in hand.
Rand laughed. "Even you don't believe that."

"I knew I wouldn't be able to convince you. Still I thought it was worth a try." Thomas heaved a sigh of resignation. "The very least you can do is help me find matches for them."

"As much as I would be willing to assist you, or at a minimum, watch what will surely be a most entertaining endeavor, that too I must decline." Rand reached the door and pulled it open. "I'm afraid I've been called away and probably won't be back in London for some time. I could well miss the season altogether. You, old chap, are on your own."

"Are you certain you wouldn't at least like to meet them?" The marquess' hopeful voice echoed in the room.

Marianne Shelton stared at his distorted reflection in the brass andirons flanking the fireplace and choked back yet another of no less than a dozen scathing comments she'd thought of in the last few minutes.
Helmsley and his friend, she never did get a good look at him, left the room and the door closed firmly in their wake.

She breathed a long sigh of relief and stretched. Her cramped position on the sofa hadn't been uncomfortable when she'd reclined here to page through a book. She'd only come to the library at this late hour in the first place to find something interesting to read and had had no intention of staying but she'd dozed off, only to awaken when Helmsley and his friend had come in. When she'd realized they had no idea of her presence, and further discovered exactly what they were discussing, she'd taken care not to move so much as a single muscle. She sat up, slid her glasses back to the bridge of her nose and rubbed the nape of her neck.

What an insufferable creature this marquess was. Speaking of her and her sisters as if they were nothing more than inconveniences to be disposed of as quickly as possible. It certainly wasn't their idea to inflict themselves on him for the season. No, the original arrangement was for Marianne, Jocelyn, Becky and Aunt Louella to reside with Richard and Gillian. Marianne was no more thrilled with the change in plans than Helmsley was and had to admit she agreed with him on one point: Richard did indeed have remarkably bad timing.

She got to her feet and stretched her arms high over her head. Well, Helmsley needn't worry himself about her. She had no intention of looking for a husband this season or any other.

Her parents' marriage was not a shining example of wedded bliss from what she could recall. While Marianne had been told her father had married her mother for love, she certainly never saw any evidence of it. At least not on his part. Her mother had died when Marianne was six years old and she remembered her as kind and loving but weak in both body and spirit.

After her death, Marianne's father had had little to do with his children. Instead, he'd spent the remaining years of his life gambling and drinking and squandering the family fortune. It had been left to Richard to recover the family's resources and good name. It was still difficult to get used to the idea that after years of making do with little they were once again financially sound.

Marianne reached her hands out to warm them before the fire and stared thoughtfully at the low-banked embers. What little she'd seen of marriage did not entice her in the least. The world held the prospect of far too many adventures to limit herself to the less than exciting idea of marriage. From Shakespeare to Miss Austen the stories she'd read since she was old enough to turn a page were of grand adventures, peopled with courageous heroines and noble heroes. She wanted nothing less than to be such a heroine.

As for heroes, she shrugged, they had no more substance than the words that created them. Heroes were only to be found in books or dreams. And, except in very rare instances, so was love.

She picked up her book and stepped toward the door. Oh she fully intended to enjoy all the season and London itself had to offer, but her plans went well beyond that. After all, if she wasn't going to pursue marriage she should pursue something. Something that would lead her to the independence she needed to pursue adventure. Something that paid.

Marianne already had a definite notion of exactly what that something could be. She had no idea if she could manage it but the more she thought about it, the more intriguing it became.

The door swung open and she froze.

Lord Helmsley strode into the room with a swagger in his step that spoke as much of an evening of carousing as any confidence of character. He headed to the desk and settled into the chair behind it, never so much as glancing in her direction, then placed a sheet of paper before him, dipped a pen into ink and scribbled as if possessed.

Marianne took the opportunity to study him. He was not an unattractive sort if one liked tall, dark haired, broad-shouldered men with regular features. She'd had barely more than a passing introduction to him in spite of having lived under his roof for the last two weeks and had wondered if he was actively avoiding his guests. Tonight was the first time she'd heard him say more than a polite greeting even if his words were not intended for her ears.

He paused and glanced up, his brow furrowed in thought. He stared directly at her yet didn't appear to see her. Was he that involved in whatever he was writing? Or was he simply to inebriated to focus? Of course, the long library was well lit only at either end and she stood in the shadowed midsection of the room. Whatever the reason she didn't dare to so much as breathe.

An endless moment later his gaze returned to his work. Well, she had no intention of standing here like a statue all night. She drew a deep breath and started for the door.

"By God, you're real!" Helmsley rose to his feet.
Marianne halted in mid-step. It was far too much to hope that she could escape undetected. She braced herself and turned toward him. "Of course, I'm real. What did you think?"

"I thought I'd made you up." He shook his head as if to clear it.

"Made me up?" The man created his own people? Like . . . God? Good Lord, was he insane? She'd heard some members of the Effington family were considered a bit eccentric and a touch of madness would not be completely farfetched. She inched toward the door. "Do you often see people you make up?"

"No, not often." He circled the desk and moved closer. "Never before in fact. Who are you anyway?"

"Who am I?" she said slowly. She'd be insulted that he didn't remember their meeting, brief as it was, if she wasn't more concerned about his state of mind. Somewhere she'd read one should make allowances for those afflicted with insanity and treat them as carefully as one would a small child. "Who do you think I am?"

"I thought perhaps you were a vision conjured out of my imagination. Or an angel to escort me to heaven. Or perhaps a muse to help my feeble efforts." He grinned and she realized his features were more than regular. He was really rather handsome. For a madman.

"I can assure you I am neither angel nor muse." She resisted the impulse to lunge for the door. It might be best not to startle him. Still, she wondered if anyone in the huge house was awake at this hour if the need arose to scream for assistance.

"But you are indeed a vision." His gaze flickered over her in an assessing and intimate manner and she wished she had on something more substantial than her nightgown and wrapper. "Even if now I can see now you are most definitely flesh and blood."
His madness may well be in question but his rudeness was not. Nor was the gleam in his eye. She'd never seen desire before but surely that was the look of it. Abruptly she realized madness was not his affliction at all. "And you, my lord, are most definitely drunk."

"Drunk?" He raised his chin in an annoyingly haughty manner and stared down his nose at her. "I most certainly am not drunk. I do not get drunk. I occasionally imbibe a bit more than is always wise in my effort to live life to its fullest--"

"Its fullest tankard no doubt."

"Hah. I know your type." He pointed an accusing finger at her. "You're one of those women who believe men should be respectable and responsible at all times and never have a bit of good fun."

"I am not." She laughed in spite of herself. "I was right all along. You are a lunatic. Worse, a tipsy lunatic."

"I am hardly a lunatic, tipsy or any other kind. Admittedly, I have had a great deal to drink tonight but not substantially more than usual."

"I wouldn't boast about it if I were you."

"I am not you and I am not boasting. I am simply stating a fact. I am not in my cups and I am more than capable of doing whatever requires doing. Or whatever I wish to do for that matter."

"Really? I doubt that. A moment ago you weren't certain whether I was real or something you'd conjured out of thin air and shadow. Just what do you wish to do?"

"Nothing in particular at the moment." He stared at her and she noted that interesting gleam had returned to his eye. "Or rather, I might wish to make certain the vision who has intruded on my solitude is indeed real and not an apparition conjured by an inebriated mind."

"How would you determine that?"

"A kiss should suffice for proof." He stepped toward her. "To verify she is indeed flesh and blood."

"I can assure you--"

Before she could say another word, he strode to her and took her in his arms.

Her book slipped from her hand and she stared up at him, at once struck by how very much this was like a scene from one of her books. A scene in which the dashing hero embraces the courageous heroine and kisses her senseless. She should probably be afraid but, at the moment, she did feel rather courageous and if nothing else he was more than a little dashing. Excitement raced up her spine. She'd never had the opportunity to be kissed senseless before. Or kissed at all. Marianne stared into his eyes and smiled. "Very well."

"Very well?" He frowned down at her and his puzzled expression changed to one of horror. "Bloody hell." Without warning he released her and stepped back. "You're that Merry person!"

"Well, I hardly feel at all merry right now although I was beginning to feel somewhat giddy." She tilted her head and grinned. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"No! Absolutely not! Never!" His eyes widened and he backed away from her as if she were plague ridden.

"Never?" She drew her brows together and planted her hands on her hips. "How very impolite of you. Whyever not?"

"Because you're Merry. . . Merry--"

"I told you, I'm not at all merry but I am getting a bit annoyed."

"No, blast it all, that's not what I meant." He blew a frustrated breath. "Your name is Merry. Merry something or other. What is your name anyway?"

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. It was obviously too much to expect that a man who scarcely remembered her face would remember her name. "It's Marianne."

"You're Richard's sister." Helmsley groaned. "Good God, I almost ravished Richard's sister."

"You were going to ravish me?" Delight surged through her.

"How exciting. I've never been ravished before."

"And you shall not be ravished now." He turned on his heel and stalked to a table bearing a decanter of brandy. He glanced around in obvious frustration.

"If you're looking for your glass I believe you took it with you when you said goodbye to your friend."

"Then I shall get another." He headed toward the cabinet but she reached it before him and blocked his way.

"Don't you think you've had quite enough?"

"My dear young woman, I have not had nearly enough."

She shrugged. "As you wish." She selected a glass and handed it to him, then took another for herself and followed him to the table.

He filled his glass and she held out hers. He glanced at it and his brows pulled together in disapproval. "I scarcely think--"

"Oh for heavens sakes, my lord. I am not a child." She snatched the decanter from his hand and poured a moderate amount into her glass. "I am well used to brandy and other spirits." It was a lie of course. She'd had little more acquaintance with brandy than she had with kissing. She cast him a confident smile, raised the glass to her lips and drew a long swallow.

The intense flavor flooded her senses, the liquor burned in her throat and for an instant she wondered if she'd die horribly right here in front of him. She stifled the need to gasp and clamped her jaws tight but she couldn't stop her eyes from watering.

"How is it?" he said innocently but a laugh lurked in his eyes.

"Excellent," she lied.

"I think so." He swirled the brandy in his glass and tried to hide a smirk. "I quite like a brandy before bed."

"Or two or three no doubt," she murmured and sank into a chair. She took another, much smaller sip and her glasses slid down her nose. Actually, it wasn't bad. A pleasant warmth spread through her. She smiled up at him and waved at the other chair. "Would you care to have a seat?"

"I believe I'd prefer to stay right here." He perched on the edge of the desk and considered her thoughtfully. "So you're Marianne."

"I believe we've established that." She sipped again. No, this wasn't bad at all. She pushed her glasses back into place and gazed up at him. "I'm the aging, intelligent bluestocking."

He winced. "You heard me?"

"I couldn't help it. I was on the sofa." She gestured at the far end of the room. She hadn't planned on letting him know she had overheard his conversation but at the moment she couldn't resist confronting him. "You are rather rude, you know."

"I never would have said a word if I had known--"

"Piffle." She waved away his objection. "Regardless of what you say it's still what you think. However," she took another swallow, "you are right."

"I am?" he said cautiously.

"Um-hmm." She nodded. "I am an aging intelligent bluestocking. And I quite like it."

"Do you, my Lady Marianne?"

"I do indeed, my Lord Helmsley."

"Why?"

"When one is viewed in such terms, one's behavior is far less confined. People are not nearly as shocked when you do the unexpected, when you break the rules others abide by."

He raised a brow. "And do you break a great many rules?"

"Not yet but I fully intend to." She raised her glass to him. "And I shall begin by calling you Thomas. It seems appropriate. After all, you did nearly ravish me."

"Don't remind me. I didn't realize who you were. Obviously the result of an overactive imagination coupled with a poorly lit room and, admittedly, the influence of a great deal to drink. Although," he narrowed his eyes, "I am not drunk. Still, I would never take such liberties with the sister of my dearest friend."

"Why not? He's taken such liberties with your sister."

"That's entirely different. My sister was a widow when they met. You are an innocent young woman straight from the country and under my protection as well. Kissing you or anything else is not acceptable."

"What a shame," she murmured. "Thomas, would you care to know what else you were right about?"

"I'm not sure," he said cautiously.

She leaned toward him, her glasses again skidding down her nose. "I am quite attractive."

He laughed. "Indeed you are."

"But there is something you were wrong about." She rose to her feet, stepped close to him and pulled off her spectacles. "My eyes are brown. Not a deep brown, mind you, but a not unpleasant shade of medium brown. What do you think?" She fluttered her lashes. "Are my eyes pleasant?"

"Exceedingly pleasant." The corners of his lips quirked upwards. His eyes were a dark blue and rather pleasant as well.

"I thought so." She grinned and replaced her spectacles then turned, grabbed the decanter and refilled her glass. "And the color of my eyes isn't the only thing you don't know."

"Don't you think you've had enough?" he said mildly.

"Oh no, my lord, you're the one who's had enough." She shook the decanter at him. "You are drunk." She replaced the decanter and shook her head. "Or mad. I haven't quite decided." She drew a healthy swallow and wondered why she hadn't experienced the wonder of brandy years ago.

She glanced around curiously. "This is really a wonderful room. I could happily spend my life in such a place." The side walls of the long library were covered with shelves of books reaching from the floor to the ceiling. She crossed the room and walked slowly past the rows of volumes, scanning the titles. "There are entire worlds here just waiting to be discovered. Have you read any of these?"

"A few. I'm not a complete dolt. But I admit I am no scholar." He paused. "You said there were things beyond the color of your eyes that I didn't know."

"I'm certain there are all manner of things you don't know," she said loftily.

"Probably, but I believe this may have been about you."

"Well," she took a thoughtful sip. "To start with your plan won't work."

"My plan?"

"Your plan to marry us all off as quickly as possible." She leaned back against a bookshelf and smirked.

"Is there anything I said tonight that you didn't hear?" he said wryly.

"I don't believe so. I heard your assessment of my sisters and myself. And Aunt Louella of course." She laughed. "Rather accurate actually. Oh and then there was the offer you made to your friend to let him have his pick of us. Exceedingly generous of you."

"Damnation." Thomas had the grace to look properly chagrined.

"I do apologize."

"As well you should." She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug.

"This is a very large room but voices do seem to carry well from one end to the other."

"I shall make a note of it for future reference. And remember to check the sofa for hidden visions as well." He drew his brows together. "Why won't my plan work?"

"Because, Thomas, I have no intention of marrying." She sipped at her brandy. "Marriage isn't the least bit adventurous or exciting and I have no desire for it whatsoever."

He snorted. "Nonsense. Every woman wants to marry."

"Not me." She stepped away from the shelves and waved in an expansive gesture toward the rows of volumes. "Look at these, Thomas. They're filled with quests and dangers and excitements. I wish to experience some of them for myself. I want to experience life itself. There's an entire world of things I've yet to do. I want to meet interesting people and have grand adventures and travel to exciting places like Venice and Cairo and, well, live what I have only read about. And I can't accomplish any of that if I shackle myself to a husband."

"Come now, Marianne," he said in an altogether too condescending manner. "You cannot possibly--"

"Hah! I know your kind." She pointed her glass at him. "You're one of those men who believe women should be boring and proper at all times and never have a bit of fun."

"Not at all." He grinned in a decidedly wicked manner. "I am not opposed to women enjoying themselves. A certain kind of woman that is. However," a firm note sounded in his voice, "I do not extend that particular freedom to young women under my protection."

"You shall simply have to reconsider." She drained the last of her brandy and headed toward the decanter. "Since I neither want nor need your protection."

"Nonetheless, at the moment, thanks to your brother and my mother, that is my responsibility and I will not shirk it." He straightened and reached the decanter one step before her, removing it before she could grab it. "And also, at the moment, I'd say that's enough brandy for one night."

"I don't see why. It's really quite tasty." She stared at her empty glass. "Isn't it curious the way the more I drink, the less drunk you appear?"

"It often works that way." He took the glass from her hand and put it on the desk. "You, my dear lady, are foxed."

She lifted her chin and glared at him with all the indignation she could muster. "I most certainly am not. If anything I'm merely a bit," she giggled, "merry."

"So I see. Well, merry or not," he grasped her shoulders and turned her to face the door, "it's past time you retired for the night."

He gave her a gentle push and she started for the door. Then she swiveled and stepped back to him. "I'll tell you something else you don't know. I'd never really had brandy before."

"No?" His eyes widened in feigned surprise. "Yet you handled it so well."

"I did didn't I?" she said smugly.

"Good evening, Marianne." His tone was firm but his eyes twinkled.

"Good evening, Thomas." Once again she started toward the door and once again she returned to him.

He heaved a sigh. "What is it now?"

"I've never been kissed either." She gazed up at him expectantly.

"And you're not going to be kissed now."

She waved toward the bookshelves. "They have no doubt been kissed."

"They who?" He studied her as if she was one who's sanity was in question. "The books?"

"Don't be absurd. Heroines. In the books." She nodded emphatically. "Many of them have been kissed. And more than once."

"Perhaps. But this is not a story and you are not about to be kissed."

"As you wish." She sighed dramatically. "However, if you don't kiss me I shall be forced to fling myself at every man I meet in hopes one will take pity on an aging, intelligent bluestocking and I should think, given your attitude toward your responsibilities, that it would be most irresponsible--"

"Very well!" He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. Then released her so abruptly she was hard pressed not to lose her balance. "There."

"There?" She glared up at him. "Not precisely what I had in mind."

"It shall have to do," he said haughtily.

"I'm sure others could do better."

"I doubt that."

"I don't. However, you leave me no choice but to find out at the first opportunity." She grinned. "Actually, I rather like the idea of throwing myself on the mercy of one gentleman after another for however long it should take, although I can't imagine it should take any time at all because you did agree that I was attractive, quite attractive you said, until at last some kind soul is willing--"

"Blast it all, you are an annoying bit of baggage," Thomas snapped. Again he grabbed her, jerked her closer and planted his lips on hers in a kiss hard and firm.

For a moment, the shock of his touch held her still. His lips were nicely warmed and surprisingly soft and tasted deliciously of brandy. She tilted her head and the pressure of his mouth against hers relaxed.

One hand slipped from her shoulder to her back and pressed her tighter to him. She rested her hands against his chest. He slanted his mouth over hers and at once she wished this moment would last forever. Her breath met and mingled with his and she marveled at the intimate nature of what she'd always assumed was simple and not at all complicated.

He pulled away and stared down at her with an odd, cautious look in his eye.

"Oh my." She exhaled a long breath. "That was . . .that was . . .

He stepped back and cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I do hope that was satisfactory."

"Quite." A lovely warm glow washed through her. More than satisfactory. "Although, just to be certain you understand, I think you should try again."

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression puzzled as if he were trying to determine precisely what she meant.

"I think you should kiss me again," she said, with deliberate emphasis on each and every word. Perhaps the man was mad after all. Or simple minded. Or maybe he just didn't want to kiss her again.

He shook his head slowly. "I think not."

"Why not?"

"Because you've had too much to drink, I've had too much to drink. You're Richard's sister. You're under my protection." He ran his hand through his hair and glowered. "How many more reasons do you need?"

"Those will serve." She grinned. "For the moment."

"Forever."

"We shall see, my lord," she said primly and headed to the door, resisting the urge to glance at him over her shoulder. "We shall see."

from The Marriage Lesson by Victoria Alexander
© May 2001 Victoria Alexander used by permission