IT’S RELEASE DAY FOR THE MARRIAGE TRAP!
Buy or download your copy here! https://readerlinks.com/l/5186464
The Marriage Trap has officially arrived! 🎉
If you love forced marriages, sharp-tongued banter, he-falls-first, slow burn romance with a lot of laughs but a serious emotional spine, then I think you’ll love this story.
I had so much fun writing this romantic comedy and I’m incredibly excited to finally share it with you!
The Marriage Trap is available now, and I hope it makes you laugh, swoon, and stay up far too late turning pages.
Happy reading!
Melanie
Excerpt
Elizabeth Bennet had not come to Ramsgate to die, whatever her mother’s most recent letter might suggest.
She had come to breathe, properly breathe, without the rattling wheeze that had plagued her since June. It was the last week of August now, and she could finally stroll along the seafront without always requiring a steadying arm. If she were very fortunate, she would soon be able to pass an entire day without someone telling her she ought to be resting.
Just now, she was pleasantly cool, sitting on a bench overlooking the harbour with a wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a second shawl draped across her lap. The wind off the water carried the smell of salt, and Elizabeth took deep, greedy lungfuls of it simply because she could.
“You are smiling,” Mrs. Morgan observed from her position at the opposite end of the bench. “I am not certain I trust it.”
“I am merely enjoying the view.”
Mrs. Morgan looked out at the horizon. “The view is grey.”
“Gloriously grey,” Elizabeth agreed. “Grey sky, grey sea, grey stones. After weeks of staring at my bedroom ceiling, I find I have developed an appreciation for grey.”
Mrs. Morgan made a sound that might have been agreement. It might, however, have meant any number of things, as Elizabeth had not yet learned to decipher them all.
Mrs. Morgan was an unsentimental woman of about forty with dark hair and a sceptical expression, who was currently serving as Elizabeth’s companion. She was not truly a companion but a distant cousin of Aunt Gardiner, an officer’s widow who conveniently lived near the sea in Ramsgate.
“The physician said fresh air,” Mrs. Morgan continued, as though reading Elizabeth’s thoughts. “He did not say sitting on a damp bench in weather that would discourage a seal.”
“Seals thrive in this weather. I have read about it.”
“You have read about everything. It is one of your less endearing qualities.” Mrs. Morgan lifted her brows, but Elizabeth could hear the teasing in her words.
She laughed, a brief but proper laugh. The sound—and the fact that it did not end in coughing—surprised her.
“There,” she said, when the laugh had subsided. “You see? I am much better. The sea air and saltwater baths are healing my lungs.”
“The sea air is making your nose red. Your mother will blame me.”
Elizabeth pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, though in truth she was not cold. The wind was bracing but not cutting, and after so many days confined to sickrooms and sitting rooms, she found it delightful. “My mother is three counties away. She cannot see my nose.”
“She will hear of it. Mothers always hear of these things.”
Elizabeth had contrived to hide her own illness from not only her mother but her entire family—someone had to nurse the others, and who else was there? Eventually her body had exacted its price, and she had collapsed before them all like a meringue.
“You are thinking again,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I can see it in your face.”
“I am thinking about pride,” Elizabeth said.
“A worthy subject for contemplation. Most people should think more carefully about their pride.”
“Including you?”
This was met with a tiny smile. “I have no pride. Only standards.”
Mrs. Morgan rose from the bench with a decisive movement. “Though I will say this: pride is a luxury for those who can afford it. A woman without fortune would do better to trade it for something more practical.”
Elizabeth suspected the answer was a husband, and she did not feel recovered enough to argue about husbands this early in the day.
“Come,” Mrs. Morgan said. “We shall walk to the end of the promenade and back. The physician said exercise is beneficial.”
The end of the promenade was at least a mile away, and Elizabeth was not certain she could make the entire distance without rest. “The physician said gentle exercise. He specifically emphasised the word ‘gentle.’”
“Walking is gentle. I am not proposing we scale the cliffs.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be helped to her feet, suppressing the automatic protest that she did not need assistance. Although she was vastly improved, the galling truth was that she did still need it.
“Are you out of breath?” Mrs. Morgan asked, as they began their slow progress along the promenade.
She was not; it was a hopeful sign. “I am only thinking about how tired I am of being tired.”
“That is at least a productive thought. The more you walk, the less tired you shall become.”
But not today, Elizabeth thought. Today walking would make her very tired indeed.
They strolled in comfortable silence for several minutes, past the tall lodging houses that faced the water and the bathing machines that stood ready for hardier souls than Elizabeth. A few figures dotted the Parade even at this early hour. An elderly gentleman was taking his constitutional, a pair of sailors turned their collars up against the wind, a maidservant hurried in the opposite direction with a covered basket, and a nurse held the hands of two sleepy children as they walked past.
Crowds required energy and conversation required wit, neither of which Elizabeth could reliably summon just now. But here, in this grey and quiet morning, she could breathe, walk, and watch the waves without anyone expecting anything more from her.
It was, she reflected, both wonderful and a little dull.
The houses further along the seafront were quite grand, tall, pale structures with iron railings and wide windows designed to capture the sea light. Some were clearly let lodgings for the summer, houses for people with means to escape the heat and smells of London. Papa had incurred significant expense to send Elizabeth here to recover and to engage Mrs. Morgan. He had not even complained about it, which she knew indicated the depth of his concern.
“You are quiet,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Are you still musing upon your pride?”
“I did not say it was my pride, and no. I am thinking about money. It is a vulgar subject, but illness makes one practical.”
“Illness makes one honest.” Mrs. Morgan walked several paces in silence, her gaze fixed on some point far out to sea, and Elizabeth had the distinct impression she was deciding how much of herself to give away. “My husband came home from the war with a cough that never left him, and we had one year before he died. We spoke of money, among other things, for he wished to see me provided for. It was, in an odd way, a good year. I would not trade it, for we fell in love all over again.” She paused.
When she resumed, her voice had lost its usual tartness.
“Life as an officer’s wife was difficult, but we were happy, and that is more than most wives of my acquaintance can claim.” She adjusted her bonnet with a brisk tug.
Elizabeth recalled the easy way in which Uncle Gardiner handed her aunt into a carriage, the private smiles or glances they often exchanged. That was the kind of marriage she wanted, if she married at all. She would rather remain a spinster aunt to her eldest sister Jane’s future children than sell her freedom for the sake of a comfortable settlement.
One house at the far end of the terrace stood slightly apart from its neighbours, set back from the Parade behind a low stone wall—likely leased for the summer at an expense Elizabeth could not comfortably imagine. Its blinds were down, giving it a shuttered, secretive look. Elizabeth might have thought no more of it had her attention not been caught by her companion.
“There,” Mrs. Morgan said, nodding towards a figure ahead of them on the promenade. “That girl again.”
Elizabeth followed Mrs. Morgan’s gaze. A young woman stood near the railing, looking out at the sea. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, fair-haired and slight, dressed in a pale blue pelisse that was too thin for the windy weather. Even at this distance, Elizabeth could see that she was shivering.
“She was here yesterday as well,” Mrs. Morgan continued. “Staring at the water, and not in a peaceful way.”
They drew closer, and Elizabeth studied the girl. There was something in her taut posture that was more than simple contemplation. She appeared to be searching for an answer to some perplexing question, though what that might be, Elizabeth could not say.
“We should not stare,” Mrs. Morgan murmured.
“You pointed her out.”
“I did not point. I merely made an observation.”
The girl must have sensed their attention, because she turned suddenly, her eyes meeting Elizabeth’s across the distance. For a moment, something like surprise or perhaps alarm flickered in her expression. Then her features smoothed into a careful blankness.
She was a pretty girl, Elizabeth noted.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth said, because it seemed wrong to simply walk past.
The girl dipped into a curtsey that was correct but somehow mechanical. “Good morning.”
Her voice was soft and cultivated, bearing the unmistakable polish of an expensive education. A gentleman’s daughter, then, or higher. But there was no maid in attendance, no companion hovering nearby, only this solitary figure, shivering in the early morning wind.
“Forgive my impertinence,” Elizabeth continued, ignoring Mrs. Morgan’s warning look, “but you appear to be cold. There is a tea shop just there.” She gestured at the place several shops ahead of them. “It has an excellent chocolate. Might we persuade you to join us?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “I—that is very kind, but I could not possibly. My companion would not like it.”
Elizabeth could not help but glance about. “Your companion?”
“Mrs. Younge.” The girl made a slight gesture at the house behind them, the one at the end of the terrace. “She does not approve of my speaking to strangers.”
“Well then.” Elizabeth smiled, hoping to coax an answering expression from that young, anxious countenance. “I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire, and this is Mrs. Morgan, of Ramsgate. There. Now we are not strangers.”
Mrs. Morgan gave a slight curtsey that somehow conveyed both proper respect and complete disapproval.
The girl stared at them for a long moment. Then, slowly, something that might have been the ghost of a smile touched her lips.
“Miss Darcy,” she said. “Of Pemberley.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. She had never heard of Pemberley, but from the manner in which Miss Darcy spoke the name, she suspected many people did.
“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss Darcy of Pemberley. And I am doubly honoured that you have condescended to stand in a Ramsgate gale to speak with me.”
Mrs. Morgan hesitated, then said what had evidently been on her mind. “You ought to be wearing a warmer pelisse. That scrap of blue silk is fit only for sitting near a drawing room fire. Surely you have something more suitable?”
Miss Darcy did not speak. A flush crept up her neck.
“Will you not fetch Mrs. Younge and join us at the tea shop, Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “I promise we shall not talk of anything more improper than novels and seals.”
For one unguarded instant, yearning flickered nakedly across Miss Darcy’s face. “I should like that, but I ought not,” she said. “Mrs. Younge expects me back at the house. She does not approve of my lingering.”
“Mrs. Younge sounds like a woman who has never been thoroughly converted to chocolate,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot help but regard that as a moral failing.”
That earned a breath of a laugh. “She says chocolate is an unnecessary indulgence.”
“Then she has been drinking the wrong sort,” Mrs. Morgan remarked. “Good chocolate makes one steady. Bad chocolate makes one sick. Like husbands.”
“Mrs. Morgan,” Elizabeth protested, though she could not entirely suppress her own amusement.
“I shall tell my brother I met you,” Miss Darcy said, seizing upon a safer topic. “He is to arrive soon.” Her gloved hands twisted together. “He is the best brother in the whole of England, and he will be pleased to know that I have made an acquaintance.”
Elizabeth suspected that pleased might not be all that Mr. Darcy would feel when he heard his sister had struck up an acquaintance with a stranger on a public promenade. She wondered what sort of man could command such devotion from so gentle a creature, whether he was the excellent brother Miss Darcy claimed, or merely the sort who confused provision with attention.
“I hope you are correct,” she said. “And if he is not pleased, you may tell him that Miss Bennet is quite determined to steal some of his sister’s morning hours, with or without his approbation.”
Miss Darcy’s eyes shone. “You are very good.”
“I am selfish,” Elizabeth corrected. “I have been given a prescription for sea air and exercise and am greedy enough to wish for company as well. It is a tedious thing, being so virtuous alone.”
“You are not alone,” Mrs. Morgan said.
Elizabeth smiled. “Do you see the reach of my avarice, Miss Darcy? I already have the company of Mrs. Morgan, and yet still I desire more.”
“Then I shall do my best to accommodate,” Miss Darcy replied, a bit of playfulness lightening her countenance. “For I too would wish for more company.”
A sharp rap sounded against the glass of the nearest window. All three ladies turned. A woman stood inside the house, her features distorted by the pane but her displeasure unmistakable. Elizabeth could see the rigid line of Mrs. Younge’s mouth, and the imperious tilt of her head as she tossed a shawl around her shoulders and turned away.
The door to the house opened. Miss Darcy flinched, and the small, involuntary movement sent a prickle down Elizabeth’s spine.
Mrs. Younge stepped out. “Miss Darcy.” The woman’s voice was perfectly pleasant and carried beautifully in the sea air. “You will catch your death out here. Come inside at once if you please.” The words were all solicitude, but Miss Darcy seemed to hear in them something . . . less amiable.
“I must go,” she whispered. “It was very wrong of me to linger. Mrs. Younge will be . . . She does not like that I come out alone to view the sea.”
“Then we must not make you wretched on our account,” Mrs. Morgan said briskly. “Go along with you, child. We shall manage to drink chocolate without you, though it will taste the poorer for the want of your company.”
Miss Darcy hesitated. Then, with evident effort, she dipped another curtsy. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. Mrs. Morgan.”
“Tomorrow,” Elizabeth said quietly. “We stroll each morning before breakfast.”
Mrs. Morgan’s eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing to contradict Elizabeth’s statement.
Miss Darcy almost smiled. “Tomorrow,” she echoed, so softly that Elizabeth could only just hear it.
They watched her hurry back towards the house. Mrs. Younge stepped aside to allow her entrance and closed the door behind them.
“That,” Mrs. Morgan said, “is a girl in a cage.”
“Her brother has given her a summer by the sea and a companion to escort her,” Elizabeth said slowly. “He would likely be offended to hear his arrangements described as a cage.”
“Men rarely recognise cages so long as they are the ones who ordered them built.” Mrs. Morgan set off towards the town with a determined step. “Come. If we do not arrive at the tea shop soon, you will be obliged to lean upon me the whole way home, and my knees cannot bear the strain. And you will have tea, not chocolate. I do not wish to aggravate your cough.”
Elizabeth fell into step beside Mrs. Morgan. Her legs had begun to ache, and the familiar heaviness was settling into her chest. Yet for the first time in months, her mind was occupied with something other than her own recovery.
Elizabeth looked back, not to the promenade, but to the house. One of the upper blinds moved, as if a hand had released it too quickly.
Tomorrow, she thought. She would come again tomorrow.
The Marriage Trap is available in KU! https://readerlinks.com/l/5186464
Recent Comments