The Marriage Lesson by Victoria Alexander Page A

she said primly.
    He leaned back in his chair and considered her thoughtfully. “I should tell you, Miss Smythe, that while I have a handful of people who write for me on occasion and a number of others who provide me with information, I do most of the writing for the Messenger myself. I also set the type, run the press and sell advertising.”
    “Do go on.” She held her breath. Was this his way of letting her down? Rejecting her?
    “I’m telling you this so that you understand, while I will compensate for your work, I cannot pay you well.”
    “I didn’t expect—”
    “However, the Messenger continues to grow in circulation every week and if this does as well as I think it will”—he tapped a finger on her story—“you will profit.”
    “I can ask for nothing more.” She struggled to keep her voice businesslike and tried not to grin with the sheer euphoria of knowing he would print her stories.
They chatted for a few minutes more about payment—not a great deal, as he had warned, but it was something, at any rate. And something she earned herself. There was a lovely warm feeling about knowing she had taken her first real step toward independence.
    “If that’s all, then”—he got to his feet—“I shall get this in tomorrow’s issue.”
    “So soon?” She stood and stared up at him.
    “Absolutely. I want the readers of London to start following the adventures of a country miss—the true adventures of a country miss—without delay.”
    “Excellent.” She extended her hand and he took it. “Now, I have a carriage waiting and I—”
    “Wesley,” he said abruptly.
    “Wesley?”
    “Yes. Lord Wesley. He’s rather a fine figure of a man. Is he your Lord W?”
    “No, he most certainly is not.” She tried to pull her hand back, but he held it fast.
    “Wymore, then?” He nodded. “He’s known to be melancholy.”
    “No.”
    “Windham?”
    “No!” She laughed. “And I daresay I would not tell you if it was. It quite defeats the entire purpose of anonymity.”
    “I suppose. Although, as your publisher . . . ” A teasing light shone in his eye.
    “Mr. Cadwallender.” Marianne firmly pulled her hand from his. “I must be on my way.”
    “I foresee a long and profitable relationship, Miss Smythe. May I see you out?”
“I can find my way, thank you.” She stepped to the door and pulled it open, then turned back to him. “I was wondering . . . ”
    “Yes?”
    “Have you ever explored a jungle in Africa, Mr. Cadwallender?”
    “No.” He grinned. “But then, the opportunity has never presented itself.”
    “Pity.” She flashed him a smile. “Good day, Mr. Cadwallender.”
     
    “Blast, blast, blast!” Thomas glared at himself in the cheval mirror in his chambers. “Banks!”
    The valet appeared behind him. “Yes, my lord.”
    “Would you do something with this bloody thing.” Thomas thrust the now-limp cravat at the servant.
    “Of course, my lord.” Banks dropped the offending neckpiece onto a nearby chair. A freshly starched cravat was draped over his arm.
    Thomas turned to face him. Why he continued to frustrate himself over something as silly as tying a cravat was beyond him. His valet had even had tiny gold Roxborough crests embroidered in the middle of the bottom edge of the neckcloths to help Thomas position them correctly. It made absolutely no difference.
    Banks managed the chore with a minimum of effort and a barely concealed smile. It was a constant source of amusement to the valet that His Lordship could not tie a cravat in the intricate folds dictated for formal wear.
    “Thank you, Banks.” Thomas turned back toward the mirror and Banks helped him on with his white brocade waistcoat and finally his coat, a blue so dark it was nearly black.
“What do you think, Banks?” Thomas surveyed himself in the mirror with a critical eye. “Will I do?”
    “The ladies will swoon and the gentlemen will choke with envy, my lord,” Banks said