Page 85 of Heiress Gone Wild

Not that it was any of her business, a fact she had to repeat to herself several times before the end of the meal. Later, after the port, he paired up with one of those pretty dinner companions for bridge, along with Irene and Henry, and though Marjorie ought to have been grateful and relieved, she was neither, and she didn’t understand herself at all.

The following morning, Jonathan was already gone by the time she came down to breakfast, and later, when she went out with Clara to follow the shooting, the other woman confirmed that he would indeed be away for the entire day.

By the time the shoot was over and they came back to the house, he still hadn’t returned, nor was he back by dinner, and as she went up to get ready for the ball, she wondered indignantly how the blasted man expected to change her mind about marrying him when he didn’t seem inclined to spend any time in her vicinity. Standing before the cheval mirror as her maid slipped her orchid-pink ballgown of silk chiffon over her head, the first ballgown she’d ever worn in her life, Marjorie felt none of the excitement she’d experienced when she’d first chosen the fabrics and the trimmings and discussed the design with Vivienne.

“Oh, my,” breathed Semphill, her usually dour face breaking into a pleased smile. “You look like a princess.”

Did she? How fitting. After all, she was living a fairy tale, wasn’t she? And yet, as Marjorie looked in the mirror, all she could see were her own troubled eyes staring back at her. This was her night, her ball, her beginning, but she could not rid herself of a terrible, agonizing uncertainty—a feeling that had begun the night she’d refused Jonathan’s proposal and which had been growing stronger every day since.

Over and over, she questioned if she’d done the right thing in refusing him, but when she contemplated how she’d feel if she had said yes, Marjorie’s uncertainty and confusion only grew. She’d given up the notion that people could change for love when she’d given up on her father, and she just couldn’t see that Jonathan would be any different. He wouldn’t change for her, and why should he? Why should she expect him to be anything but the man that he was?

She felt trapped, caught between two impossible choices. On one side was the dream life she’d spent the past three years envisioning, and though it wasn’t quite the exciting life she’d imagined, it was safe and predictable. On the other side was the life Jonathan offered, one that filled her with fear because every time she imagined it, all she could see was herself in her mother’s shoes, crying over a man who was always leaving.

What is wrong with me?she wanted to shout at the mirror.What is wrong?

A knock on the door interrupted these agonizing contemplations, and then, the door opened, and Irene came in, smiling and excited, a rectangular box of robin’s egg blue in her hand. “I have something for you.”

Marjorie stared at the box, reminded of what had happened that afternoon aboard theNeptune, and the uncertainty she felt deepened even more. “Thank you, Irene,” she said and turned back to the mirror. “Put it on the dressing table, would you?”

If Irene was surprised by her lukewarm reaction, Marjorie didn’t know it, for she was occupied with pretending a sudden vast interest in the state of her hair.

“I will see you downstairs,” Irene said, walking back toward the door. “Henry is waiting outside. He will escort you down when you are ready.”

When the door closed, Marjorie walked to her dressing table and sat down. She stared at the box for a moment, then opened it, earning another astonished gasp from her maid.

She lifted the necklace from the box, but as she held it to her throat, she felt none of its former magic, and when Semphill moved to fasten the clasp, Marjorie stopped her. “I don’t think I want to wear it,” she said, pulling the necklace from her maid’s fingers and setting it back in the box.

“Not wear it?” Her maid stared at her in the mirror as if she’d just grown a second head. “But it’s so lovely. And it looks ever so fine with your dress.”

Fortunately, she was saved from replying by another knock on the door, and when it opened, Marjorie gave a sob of happy relief. “Baroness,” she cried, turning from the mirror, “you’ve arrived.”

“I come at last,” the other woman said, sailing in on a cloud of emerald silk charmeuse and expensive French perfume. Closing the door behind her, she started forward, hands outstretched.

“Better late than never, is it not so?” she asked, clasping Marjorie’s hands in hers. “I would have been here this afternoon, but I missed my train at Victoria, and had to take the—what do they call it?—the circle train to Waterloo Station, and once I arrived there, I—”

She stopped suddenly, frowning in concern. “But what is this?” she cried and let go of one of Marjorie’s hands to cup her chin. “What is this sad face I see, littlekiska? And on your birthday?”

“It’s not my birthday yet. Not until midnight.”

“Bah.” The Russian woman waved a hand dismissively in the air. “A few hours, that is all. The celebrations have already begun downstairs. What is the cause of all this unhappiness? Come,” she urged when Marjorie didn’t answer, guiding her into the chair before her dressing table and shooing the maid toward the door. “You shall tell me your trouble, and I will see what can be done.”

She pulled another chair forward, sat down, and patted Marjorie’s hand. “Now,” she said as the door closed behind the maid, “tell me all about it.”

“Talking about it isn’t going to help, I’m afraid.”

“Then I shall have to guess.” She tilted her head, studying Marjorie’s face. “I think perhaps,” she said after a moment, “you are in love?”

Marjorie’s heart gave a violent lurch of alarm. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, it is not money that worries you, that I know. And it cannot be your living arrangements. Or your friends. Or the life you live. These are things you have wanted, and they seem to suit you.”

With those words, Marjorie had an unaccountable desire to burst into tears.

“You are young and beautiful,” the baroness continued, “and all of life is before you. So, it must be love, for what else could trouble you? And...” she paused, slanting Marjorie a mischievous look. “I do not forget our conversation at Vivienne a fortnight ago, and your curiosity about a certain subject. So, who is the man?”

“I don’t see why I should tell you,” Marjorie countered at once. “Since you are so good at guessing.”

The baroness did not seem the least put out by this rebuke. “If you ask for a guess, then I say it is that long-legged English guardian of yours.”

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