Page 6 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Six

M arianne had been in the garden attempting to negotiate a peace treaty between Beelzebub and her prize roses when the grand carriage appeared.

The sight of the familiar coat of arms made her stomach sink with dread, while Beelzebub, apparently sensing her distress, promptly ate the rose she'd been trying to save.

"Oh, wonderful," she muttered, brushing dirt from her hands as the carriage drew to an imposing halt. "Just when I was having such a peaceful morning."

The first figure to emerge was exactly who she'd expected—Charles's elder brother, Lord Edmund Linfield, looking every inch the disapproving patriarch in his perfectly tailored mourning attire.

Edmund had never approved of Charles's marriage to a "mere" baron's daughter, and he'd made his feelings about her unconventional widowhood abundantly clear.

But the second figure made her heart sink further.

A young man stepped down from the carriage with theatrical precision, pausing to adjust his elaborately tied cravat and smooth his ornate burgundy coat.

Everything about him screamed expensive affectation, from his jeweled stickpin to his boots that gleamed with fresh polish despite the country roads.

Clarence, perched majestically atop the garden gate, took one look at the newcomer and released a shriek of what could only be described as professional offense. Clearly, the peacock recognized a rival in the art of ostentatious display.

"Marianne," Edmund called in his customary tone of barely controlled patience. "We need to speak with you immediately."

"Edmund," she replied with forced pleasantness, mentally calculating how quickly she could escape if necessary. "What a... surprise. I wasn't expecting visitors."

"Clearly," he said with a pointed glance at her dirt-stained hands and practical morning dress. "May I present Mr. Algernon Fitzwilliam-Smythe, recently returned from his Grand Tour and eager to make your acquaintance."

Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe swept into an elaborate bow that would have been impressive if it hadn't been quite so theatrical.

"Lady Marianne," he declared in a voice pitched to carry across a ballroom, "your beauty exceeds even the glowing reports I received in Paris.

I am absolutely enchanted to find myself in the presence of such exquisite femininity. "

Wellington chose that moment to trot around the corner of the cottage, took one look at the stranger, and immediately began his peculiar snorting-wheezing laugh that he reserved for people he found particularly ridiculous.

"How... charming," Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe said weakly, eyeing the pug with obvious alarm. "Is it... quite safe?"

"Perfectly," Marianne assured him, though she made no move to call Wellington away. "He's just expressing his opinion. He's an excellent judge of character."

Edmund's jaw tightened. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation inside? Away from..." he gestured vaguely at the menagerie, "the distractions."

Marianne had no choice but to lead them into the cottage, though she noticed with satisfaction that Clarence followed their progress with the sort of focused attention usually reserved for potential prey.

In the sitting room, Edmund wasted no time on pleasantries. "Marianne, this situation has gone on quite long enough. Charles has been dead for eight months, your official mourning period is soon to be over, and it's time you made preparations to return to civilized society."

"I am in civilized society," Marianne replied mildly, settling into her chair while trying to ignore the way Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe was examining her furnishings with barely concealed calculation. "Somerset society is quite refined, I assure you."

"Somerset society?" Edmund's voice rose incredulously. "You're living in a cottage, Marianne. A cottage! When you have a perfectly good estate in Hertfordshire that's sitting empty while you play at being a country rustic."

"I'm not playing at anything. I'm living the life I choose to live."

Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe cleared his throat meaningfully. "Perhaps, dear lady, you've simply been too overwhelmed by grief to make proper decisions? It's perfectly understandable. The delicate feminine constitution isn't designed to bear such burdens alone."

From the kitchen came the sound of Gerald's morning crow, followed by what sounded suspiciously like pottery breaking. Again.

"Excuse me," Marianne said, rising. "I should check on?—"

"Sit down," Edmund commanded. "Your servants can handle whatever domestic crisis is occurring. We have more important matters to discuss."

Marianne remained standing. "Such as?"

"Your future," Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe declared, rising as well and striking what he apparently believed was a romantic pose. "Lady Marianne, I have come here today to offer you the protection of my name and the devotion of my heart."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I am prepared," he continued, warming to his theme, "to take on the burden of your late husband's estates, to restore your proper position in society, and to provide you with the strong masculine guidance you so obviously require."

Wellington had somehow made his way into the sitting room and was now sitting directly in front of Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe, staring at him with the sort of fascinated attention one might give to a particularly interesting species of insect.

"How... generous," Marianne managed. "But I'm afraid I'm not seeking either masculine guidance or protection."

"Nonsense," Edmund interjected. "You clearly need both. Look at this place!" He gestured around the comfortable sitting room with its mismatched furniture and cheerful clutter. "You're living like a..." He stopped, apparently unable to find words adequate to express his horror.

"Like a woman who's happy?" Marianne suggested.

Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe laughed—a sound like crystal breaking. "My dear creature, happiness is a luxury that comes after security and proper social positioning. Once we're married, you'll see how much more satisfying it is to live as befits your station."

"Which marriage would that be?" Marianne asked sweetly. "Because I don't recall being proposed to, much less accepting."

"I'm proposing now," he declared, dropping to one knee with theatrical flourish. "Lady Marianne, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

At that precise moment, three things happened simultaneously: Gerald burst through the sitting room door in apparent pursuit of Napoleon the parrot, Wellington began barking with excitement at the chaos, and Beelzebub somehow materialized in the room as if summoned by the scent of pompous foolishness.

Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe, still on one knee, found himself at eye level with an irritated rooster, a hysterical parrot, and a goat who seemed to take personal offense at his presence.

"Goodness!" he yelped, scrambling backward and colliding with the tea table. "What manner of household is this?"

"A happy one," Marianne said firmly, making no effort to control the chaos. "Gerald, leave the poor man alone. Napoleon, mind your language. Beelzebub, stop looking at him like that."

But the animals seemed to have reached a collective decision about Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe.

Gerald strutted closer, fluffing his feathers menacingly.

Napoleon perched on the back of Edmund's chair and began reciting what sounded like a particularly colorful sea chanty.

And Beelzebub fixed the would-be suitor with a stare that clearly questioned both his intelligence and his worthiness to breathe the same air as superior beings.

"Marianne!" Edmund shouted over the din. "Control these creatures immediately!"

"I could," she said thoughtfully, "but they seem to be making excellent points. Gerald is questioning Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe's sincerity, Napoleon is providing commentary on his character, and Beelzebub appears to be wondering why we're wasting time on someone so obviously inferior."

Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe had managed to get back to his feet, but his elaborate cravat was now askew and there was a suspicious stain on his burgundy coat that suggested an encounter with something unpleasant.

"This is intolerable," he declared. "A proper wife would never allow such... such..."

"Such what?" Marianne inquired politely.

"Such chaos! Such disorder! Such complete disregard for civilized behavior!"

"You're absolutely right," Marianne agreed. "I would never allow such things. I actively encourage them."

Gerald chose that moment to crow triumphantly, as if declaring victory in whatever battle he'd been fighting.

The sound was so loud and sudden that Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe jumped backward again, this time directly into Beelzebub, who expressed his displeasure by nibbling delicately on the gentleman's coat tails.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe shrieked, dancing about in a manner that bore uncomfortable resemblance to Clarence's more dramatic displays.

"Beelzebub, release the nice gentleman," Marianne said without urgency. "His coat is probably not good for your digestion."

By the time order was restored—relatively speaking—Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe looked as if he'd survived a natural disaster. His hair had escaped its careful styling, his coat bore several mysterious stains, and his jeweled stickpin was missing entirely.

Edmund's face had turned an alarming shade of purple. "Marianne, this exhibition has gone quite far enough. You will accept Mr. Fitzwilliam-Smythe's proposal, return to proper society, and put an end to this... this... barnyard masquerade."

"No," Marianne said simply.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No. I won't accept his proposal, I won't return to what you consider proper society, and I certainly won't abandon my life here to satisfy your notion of appropriate widowhood."