Mr. Marsden was not at all repentant. “For having the wisdom and foresight to marry you, Mrs. Franklin? I hardly think so.”
Lizzy had thought that face-to-face with Henry and Sweet Young Thing she’d be paralyzed in stiff awkwardness. Instead she was entirely caught up in Mr. Marsden’s flirtation—he must have attended a great number of symphonic concerts indeed, to achieve this degree of deftness with the ladies. Sweet Young Thing was aglow with pleasure. Henry, on the other hand, looked as if he’d caught a whiff of some pease porridge, nine days old.
“Have you met Miss Bessler?” asked Mr. Marsden of Sweet Young Thing. “Allow me to present the lovely Miss Bessler. Miss Bessler, Mrs. Franklin. Miss Bessler, you already know Henry, I believe.”
“Mr. Franklin and I have met on several occasions,” Lizzy said.
“Oh, Henry, you never told me,” said Mrs. Franklin innocently. “And I was just admiring Miss Bessler’s figure on the dance floor.”
“My oversight, my dear,” said Henry.
“I dare say you would cut quite a dashing figure on the dance floor yourself, Mrs. Franklin,” said Mr. Marsden easily. “I hear a polonaise starting. Shall we have a merry stomp?”
He really was a superb dancer. It was easy for a man to look frantic in a polonaise, all arms and legs and tripping feet, trying to catch up to the relentlessly swift rhythm. But he managed to look as smooth as if he were in the middle of a quadrille, while flying across the room, spinning himself and Sweet Young Thing three hundred and sixty degrees every two seconds.
“Congratulations on your upcoming marriage,” said Henry.
Lizzy turned her head. She’d forgotten Henry again, this time with him standing right next to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” she said.
“A word of caution from an old friend,” said Henry. He glanced about them—most of the young people had joined in the polonaise, leaving only a few chaperones engaged in rapt conversation. “I know you have strong needs, but you must be wary of men like Marsden.”
Lizzy raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Marsden is my fiancé’s secretary.”
“How convenient,” said Henry. “But Marsden is not to be trusted. He will use you and discard you.”
She didn’t think she’d ever come across a finer example of the pot calling the kettle black. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I’ll be most cautious.”
“Now that I know what it is like to be in love, I don’t wish your heart broken again,” said Henry, in an earnestness that was more unconscious pomposity than sincerity.
Lizzy wanted to roll her eyes. Henry in love was still the same self-centered oaf. How blind and stupid she’d been. “How good of you, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I’m suffering from a tremendous thirst.”
She was stopped on her way to the punch bowl several times by remote acquaintances offering felicitations on her engagement. By the time she reached the refreshments table, the polonaise had finished and Mr. Marsden was already there, helping himself to a piece of iced cake.
“Would you care for a little turn on the gallery, Miss Bessler?” he asked, once she had a glass of punch in hand.
It was exactly what she wanted. The gallery overlooked the ballroom, where a minuet de la cour had started. The ladies’ flared skirts in shades of pale sun and pastel skies twirled and swished in time to the music.
Lizzy sipped her punch. “How did you survive being cast out by your family?”
Mr. Marsden shot her a glance. She did not look back at him, knowing that she’d asked a far more personal question than their acquaintance granted.
“I’d like to say with élan and insouciance,” he said. “But that would probably not be an accurate answer.”
“What did you do, precisely?”
“Matthew painted portraits for tourists on the Pont Neuf. I learned shorthand and found work as a secretary.”
“Who is Matthew?” His lover?
“My brother. We were together in Paris. He’s still there.”
She didn’t know there had been two banished Marsden brothers. “And you generated enough funds by painting portraits and taking dictations?”
“Enough to keep a roof over our heads and buy bread, but not enough for anything else.” He turned his back to the railing. “I went to a great many symphonic concerts with the rich ladies of Paris in those early years, to have a proper dinner and sleep in a room that wasn’t freezing.”
She was both horrified and intrigued. “You sold yourself cheap.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Beggars could not be choosers. Though I did my best to find women with whom I would go to symphonic concerts even without the inducement of wine and beefsteak.”
The heat in her returned. What did it mean that he’d sleep with women without the incentive of a warm bed and a full stomach?