His Convenient Marchioness
Autore
Elizabeth Rolls
Letto da
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Capitoli
21
Chapter One
Late October, 1803
The Fifth Marquess of Huntercombe perused the list in his hand with something akin to panic. He gulped. No, not merely akin, it was the thing itself: sheer, unadulterated panic. His hands were damp and a thin line of perspiration—damn it to hell—trickled down his spine. In his own library. All because of a list his elder sister had handed him. And he’d only read the first few names. That was quite enough.
He cleared his throat. ‘Letty, this is not—’
‘Huntercombe,’ Letitia, Lady Fortescue, silenced him with an unnerving stare as well as his title. ‘You acknowledge that you must marry again.’
She always called him Huntercombe in just that tone when she wished to remind him of his duty. As if he needed reminding. The Marquess of Huntercombe always did his duty. To the family, his estates and Parliament.
‘And that it is a matter of some urgency. With which,’ Letty added, ‘I wholeheartedly concur. Gerald’s death was a disaster.’
Hunt’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, quite. But—’
‘Caroline and I have listed all the eligible girls currently on the market.’
Market was definitely the right word. And girls. He accorded the list another glance—it reminded him of nothing so much as a Tattersall’s sales catalogue of well-bred fillies, with said fillies paraded, albeit in absentia, for his consideration. Letty and their sister Caroline had included each filly’s sire and dam, notable connections, looks, accomplishments including languages spoken, and fortune. Staying power wasn’t included, although he sincerely doubted his sisters had heard of, let alone seen, Harris’s infamous list of Covent Garden Impures. He looked again at the list, forced himself to read all the names...
‘For God’s sake, Letty!’
By the fire, his spaniel, Fergus, raised his head and cocked his ears.
‘What?’
‘Chloë Highfield?’ He signalled for Fergus to stay put and the dog sank back with a sigh.
Letty looked affronted. ‘Well, of course. She’s—’
‘My goddaughter!’ Hunt could imagine the reaction if he attempted to pay his addresses to Chloë. His imagination didn’t merely quail; it turned tail and fled. Although not before he had an all-too-likely vision of his good friend Viscount Rillington’s approaching fist.
‘Oh.’ Letty had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I’d forgotten. How very awkward. Cross Chloë off, then. It can’t be helped.’
Cross Chloë—With a strangled curse, Hunt strode to the fireplace and consigned the entire list to the flames.
‘Giles! Hours of work went into that!’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said through gritted teeth. If only a similar amount of thought had gone into it. ‘Letty, you wrote to me last month wishing me a happy birthday. Do you recall how old I am?’
Letty scowled. ‘Since I turned fifty-six in March, it was your fiftieth birthday. Although what that has to say to anything I’m sure I don’t know!’
Hunt stared at her in disbelief. What the hell did she think a man of fifty was going to do with an eighteen-year-old virgin?
Giving up on tea, Hunt walked over to his desk and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter there. The mere thought of taking to wife—and bed—a chit only a couple of years older than his own daughter would have been if she’d lived left him vaguely nauseated. Oh, it happened. All the time. But it wasn’t going to happen with him. The very idea made him feel like an elderly satyr. An incestuous one to boot when he considered Chloë. For God’s sake! He’d taken the child to Astley’s Amphitheatre for her tenth birthday and still took her to Gunter’s for an ice whenever they were both in London. He would be one of Chloë’s guardians if that was ever required. He took a swallow of brandy, felt it burn its way down. If Chloë was old enough to appear on anyone’s list of eligible damsels, he’d probably bought their last ice cream. It made him feel positively elderly.
Letty leaned forward. ‘Giles, marriageable ladies do not languish on the shelf for years on the chance that a middle-aged widower will exercise a modicum of common sense.’ She scowled. ‘If a woman remains unwed at thirty there is a very good reason for it! I acknowledge the difficulty, but—’
‘A widow.’
‘What?’
Hunt set the brandy down. ‘Letty, a widow would be far more appropriate. A woman of some maturity would be a far better match for me.’ A widow would be less demanding of his time, his attention...his affections. She would know how to go on and not require his guidance. And he wouldn’t feel like a satyr.
Letty scowled. ‘Well, I suppose so, but you need a woman young enough to bear children!’
‘Thirties,’ Hunt said. ‘That’s still young enough.’
It was rational. It was sensible. An older woman would not have stars in her eyes or romantic fancies he could not fulfil.
Letty pushed her tea away. ‘You may pour me some brandy.’
He reached over and did so, passing it to her.
She took a healthy swig. ‘No money with a widow, most likely. She may even have children.’
‘No matter.’ A widow’s dowry usually went to her first husband’s estate, or was settled on her children. Any jointure, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, ceased upon remarriage. And if she had children, at least he would know she was fertile. Any sons other than infants would be safely at school and very likely their paternal relatives would have guardianship. That was how it was done. As for daughters, they would be their mother’s business. He frowned. Now he considered it, it seemed a cold way of doing things...
‘Very well.’ Letty swigged more brandy. ‘Another list.’
Hunt cleared his throat. ‘I think I can just about manage to find my own bride, Letty.’
She tossed off the rest of the brandy. ‘I doubt it. Many widows do not move much in society. There’s no need for them really.’
That sounded cold, too. But—‘All right. But for God’s sake, be discreet.’
She fixed him with a look that would have sunk a battleship. ‘Why don’t we pretend you didn’t say that?’
He grinned, despite his vexation. ‘I beg your pardon.’
She gave him a blank look. ‘My pardon? For what?’
‘For—never mind. Don’t know what I was thinking.’
Returning to his library after seeing Letty to her carriage, Hunt poured another brandy and sat down at his desk, clicking his fingers at Fergus, who came to him, tail wagging. This room, full of books, with lamplight glowing on the bindings, warm with the rich fragrance of leather, was his sanctuary. Here he could be private and as content as it was possible for him to be. The dog’s head rested against his knee and he fondled the silky, drooping ears.
By the inkwell, where he saw them every time he dipped a quill, was the miniature of his first wife, Anne, and their children, Simon, Lionel, and his Marianne, and Gerald, his young half-brother. Now, instead of letting him slip back into the past, their silent gazes prodded him forward. He took a careful breath, reached out and picked up Anne and the children. Very gently he laid them in the drawer where he kept paper. What bride would want her predecessor on her husband’s desk? The portrait of Gerald at nineteen remained, a reminder of his terrible failure.
* * *
‘But we could buy a proper kite instead of paying the subscription, Mama,’ Harry explained in a wheedling tone for what Emma calculated was the fiftieth time. ‘It doesn’t have to be just my kite. I promise I’ll share with Georgie and you can use it and we’ll—’
‘No, Harry.’ Lady Emma Lacy, a box of subscription books under one arm, released her daughter Georgie’s hand and pushed open the door of Hatchard’s Bookshop on Piccadilly. She gestured Harry inside. ‘The weather for flying kites is over.’ October was nearly gone and the weather had turned cool. At least at this time of year the likelihood of running into anyone she knew on Piccadilly was low. London had emptied of the ton after the Season ended. Some would return briefly for the autumn sitting of Parliament, but right now town was empty. Except for—she cast an edgy glance over her shoulder—the man who had walked behind them all the way from Chelsea. He was nowhere to be seen and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was being foolish. Other people lived in Chelsea. Perfectly respectable people for the most part and she had walked into town along the King’s Road, the most direct route. It was hardly surprising that someone else should do so. She had seen this particular man rather often in the past weeks. But she knew most of her neighbours and she had never seen this man before, nor did he ever seem to do anything except simply be there—where she was. It was foolish, but she could not shake off the feeling that she was being watched.
‘Please, Mama?’
She dragged her attention back to Harry, summoning patience. ‘We can set money aside for a kite at the next quarter day. For Christmas.’ Assuming no unexpected bills dropped into her lap. As it was, she had considered letting the Hatchard’s Circulating Library subscription go back at Michaelmas, but the children had to be given their lessons and she needed the weekly selection of books to help with that. It simply meant that she could not save as much this quarter towards the day when she must send Harry to school.
‘I hate quarter day.’ Harry dragged his feet over the doorstep, his face sulky.
Emma opened her mouth to tell him not to scuff his new shoes, that they had to last until the next quarter day—and changed her mind. She hated quarter day, too. Hated the having to sit down and budget for the next three months, because there never seemed to be enough for new shoes and a simple treat like a kite for a ten-year-old boy. Hated having to worry about the cost when one of the children became ill and most of all she hated that Harry even knew what quarter day was. Even little Georgie had an inkling of the import of quarter day.
The struggle to make ends meet had not been so bad when Peter was alive. There had been more money and the children had been smaller, too. Georgie, now six, was still content with Emma’s attempts at doll-making. Her effort at kite-making had fallen well short of the mark. Quite literally. The makeshift kite had ended up in the Serpentine.
‘Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ Georgie, holding Emma’s hand again, looked up with complete assurance in her tawny eyes. Peter’s eyes.
Harry looked back and scowled. ‘Oh, shut up, Georgie. You’re just a baby. You don’t even remember Papa.’
Georgie stuck her tongue out. ‘Do, too! And he would have!’
‘Harry.’ Emma frowned at her son. ‘Don’t be rude to your sister. Georgie, no lady ever sticks her tongue out.’
Georgie looked mutinous. ‘It’s only Harry.’
‘Even so. And, yes, Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ And how to help their rapidly growing son become a man.
Harry looked crosser than ever. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’ He sulked ahead of his mother and sister, still scuffing his shoes.
Emma followed, Georgie’s hand tucked into hers. Harry needed to be with boys his own age, but at the moment school was beyond her means. More, he needed a man’s influence. Not, as her father had put it four years ago, to lick him into shape, but just to be there for him. Somehow she had to see to his education and—
‘What book shall I choose, Mama?’
She smiled down at Georgie. ‘Let’s see what’s there, shall we?’
* * *
Hunt told Fergus to stay and left the spaniel sitting beside Hatchard’s doorstep. Fergus’s plumed tail beat an enthusiastic tattoo on the pavement and, confident the dog would be there when he came out, Hunt strolled into the shop and breathed in the delight of leather bindings, ink and paper. One of the few things he missed about London when he was in the country was her bookshops, this one in particular. John Hatchard had only opened his business a few years earlier, but it had quickly become one of Hunt’s favourites.
The dark-haired young man came forward to greet him. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He executed a slight bow. ‘Welcome back to London. You found us, then.’
Hunt smiled. ‘Good morning, Hatchard. Yes.’ He glanced around the shop. When he’d left London at the end of the spring sitting of Parliament, Hatchard had been further along Piccadilly. ‘Your new premises are satisfactory?’
The bookseller smiled back. ‘Oh, yes. I venture to say we’ll be here for a while, my lord. May I help you with something in particular?’
‘No, no. I’ll just wander through to the subscription room and make my selection. Unless you’ve anything special for me look at?’ Hatchard knew his collection almost as well as he did.
Hatchard’s smile deepened. ‘As it happens, sir, I do have a 1674 edition of Milton. I was going to write to you.’
Hunt hoped his expression didn’t betray him. ‘Paradise Lost? That sounds interesting.’ An understatement if ever there was one. Hatchard knew perfectly well that he didn’t have the first edition of Paradise Lost.
‘I’ll fetch it for you. The subscription room is through there.’ Hatchard pointed.
Hunt tried not to look as though Christmas had arrived early. ‘Thank you, Hatchard. No rush. Call me when you’re ready.’
Hunt strolled on through the shop, pausing to look at this book and that, making his way towards the subscription room. He didn’t know any of the other customers; late October was a little soon for most of the ton to return to London. He planned to head out to his house near Isleworth in a few days himself, rather than stay in town the whole time, but there were matters to discuss with his man of business and solicitors if he were to marry again.
He couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Paradise Lost was far more enticing than marrying merely because male branches on his family tree were in distressingly short supply.
He stopped on the threshold of the subscription room and quelled his unreasonable annoyance at finding it occupied. A grey-clad woman and two children had claimed a large leather chair, the small girl snuggled in the woman’s lap and the older boy—was he ten, eleven?—perched on one arm, kicking at the side of the chair. A governess and her charges, he supposed. The boy glanced up at Hunt, subjecting him to an unabashed stare from dark blue eyes.
Slightly taken aback, Hunt inclined his head gravely. ‘Good morning.’ A pang went through him. Simon had had just that direct, confident gaze.
The lad’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. Um, good morning, sir.’
The woman looked up sharply from the book she and the little girl were examining and Hunt forgot the boy. Deep blue eyes, very like the boy’s, met his. His breath caught and he tensed, staring, startled by the unexpected and unwelcome heat in his veins. Her lips parted and for a moment he thought she would speak, but with the merest nod she returned her attention to the book and settled the little girl closer, speaking too quietly to hear anything beyond the question in her voice. The child nodded and the book was set aside.
Hunt forced himself to turn to the shelves. All he saw was a pair of midnight eyes in a still, pale face. He gritted his teeth, willing away the shocking heat. For God’s sake! He was fifty. Not a green boy to be rattled by an unexpected attraction. And he didn’t prey on governesses, damn it! Although...no. The resemblance to the boy was clear. Not the governess. Their mother and that meant she was married. Respectably married judging by her gown and the fact that she took her children about with her, rather than leaving it to a governess. Memory stirred. She had nearly spoken to him and he had seen those eyes before. It was not just that unwelcome flare of attraction. Did he know her? He started to turn back, but stopped. She had neither smiled, nor given any hint of encouragement. When a lady made it clear she did not wish to acknowledge an acquaintance, then a gentleman acquiesced. The Marquess of Huntercombe did not accost strange females in bookshops.
‘Harry?’ The woman spoke firmly. ‘Will you have Mr Swift this week?’
At the musical, slightly husky voice, Hunt’s memory stirred again.
‘I don’t mind.’
Perusing the bookshelves, Hunt thought that sounded remarkably like I don’t care. He grinned. Understandable that the boy would far rather be out with friends playing cricket, than choosing books with his mother and sister. His own boys had been the same.
‘Georgie, you had that stupid book last month!’
‘Harry.’ The mother’s voice remained quiet, but it held steel enough to wilt a grown man, let alone a young boy.
‘Well, she did, Mama.’ Brotherly contempt oozed. ‘Why can’t she choose a proper book if we have to come here? Fairy tales are only for babies.’
‘I’m not a—!’
‘Georgie. I haven’t noticed you choosing any book at all, Harry.’
Mama’s clipped tones silenced the little girl and had Hunt wincing. The boy was dicing with death here.
‘I chose Mr... Mr Swift!’
‘No. I suggested it and you didn’t mind. That’s hardly choosing.’
A moment’s sulky silence. ‘Well, I’d rather have a kite. Not a stupid library subscription.’
‘Harry—’
‘I know! Because she was sick and had the silly doctor and a lot of medicine, I can’t have a kite.’
‘It wasn’t my fault! You gave me the beastly cold!’
‘Yes, but I didn’t have the doctor, because I’m not a stupid girl! Ow!’
‘Georgie! Don’t hit your brother. You know he can’t hit back.’
‘Don’t care! He did give me the cold and I’m not stupid!’
‘Right.’
At the sound of upheaval, Hunt turned to see the woman rise from the chair, setting the little girl down gently, despite her obvious ire. Her face scarlet as she met his amused and, he hoped, sympathetic smile, she gathered up several books and stalked to the shelves. His gaze focused on the slender figure, caught by the unconscious grace in her walk.
‘Mama?’
‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’
That jolted Hunt from a particularly improper fantasy about how the lady might move in another context. If she knew he was a lord, then he hadn’t been mistaken. He did know her and he certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about her.
‘I can’t have my fairy tales?’
It was almost a wail from the little girl, but the boy turned to him, his face crimson, and nudged his sister.
‘What? It’s all your—oh.’ She shut up and looked at Hunt.
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ She retained the merest lisp, utterly enchanting. Bright brown eyes, still with the glint of angry tears, gazed up at him out of a face framed with tawny curls and for a shattering moment he saw another small girl furious with an older brother.
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The boy was stiff with embarrassment.
Hunt regarded the flushed pair and nodded. ‘Accepted. But—’ holding the boy’s gaze and keeping his face stern, he pointed to their mother’s rigid back as she replaced the books ‘—no gentleman behaves badly to his mother.’
The boy bit his lip, but set his shoulders and went to his mother.
‘Mama? I’m sorry I was so rude. Please let Georgie have the fairy tales at least. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have teased her.’
The mother turned and Hunt saw bone-deep weariness in her face. And something else he recognised: love, unshakeable love for the child. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’
‘I... I can go without pudding, too.’
Her smile looked like it might turn upside down and Hunt was sharply aware of a longing to do something about that, to lift whatever burdens weighed her down. ‘I do have to fill you up with something. I’d rather you chose a book for yourself and promised to read it.’
‘Yes, Mama. I really am sorry.’
She ruffled his hair, and gave a smile that made Hunt’s heart ache. ‘I know. Go on. Choose your book.’
‘Perhaps I might help there?’ The offer was out before Hunt even knew it was there.
The mother stiffened. He saw it in the set of her slender shoulders, in the firm line of her mouth and his memory nudged harder, trying to get out.
‘That’s very kind, sir, but quite unnecessary.’
Hunt gave up racking his brains. ‘This is most embarrassing, but I cannot recall your name, ma’am. We have met, have we not? I’m Huntercombe, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m surprised you remember me, sir. It was years ago. Thank you for accepting their apology.’
He smiled. ‘I think you were more bothered by them than I. Don’t give it another thought.’ So he did know her. Although from her clothes it was clear she did not move in society, nor was she eager to recall herself to him. She had avoided giving her name. Perhaps she had once been a governess. He would not have noticed a governess, but she might have remembered him if her charges had known his own children. He should not pry, but something about those expressive dark eyes held him, despite her obvious reluctance.
The little girl, Georgie, came and slid her hand into her mother’s. ‘Were you a friend of Papa’s, sir?’
He smiled at her. ‘We are not quite sure. Your mama and I were—’
‘He was Lord Peter Lacy,’ the child said. ‘I’m Georgiana Mary and that’s Harry.’
‘Georgie, sweetheart.’ Her mother took down the fairy tales again and handed them to her. ‘Take your book and sit down with it.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Lord Peter Lacy. He was a younger son of the Duke of Keswick. Hunt wasn’t quite sure which younger son; Keswick and his Duchess had been nothing if not prolific, although a couple of their sons had recently died. But Lord Peter had married in the teeth of his father’s disapproval and dropped out of society. He remembered hearing something, but he had been mired in grief at the time and hadn’t taken much notice. Just who had he married...? His memory finally obliged.
‘Lady Emma Lacy,’ he said. ‘Of course. Dersingham’s daughter.’ It vaguely came back. Lady Emma Brandon-Smythe she had been. Dersingham had been furious, too. Granted, the match had not been a brilliant one for either party, but perfectly respectable. Keswick and the Earl of Dersingham had only objected due to their mutual loathing of each other. There had been whispers of star-crossed lovers.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s well? I’ve not seen him since the spring sitting.’ Not that he’d tried. He didn’t like the Earl above half.
‘I believe so, sir.’ The polite smile did not so much as touch the weariness in her eyes. ‘If you will excuse me, I must finish choosing our books.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Hunt stepped back with a bow. The child, Georgie, had referred to her father in the past tense and, given that Lady Emma was garbed in grey, it followed that... He took a deep breath and took a wild leap into the unknown.
‘I was very sorry to hear of Lord Peter’s death, Lady Emma.’ Lord Peter had been at least ten years younger than himself and he’d dropped out of society completely after his marriage. Hunt hadn’t even heard that he’d died, but he’d been a decent sort, with little of Keswick’s arrogance.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The unmistakeable shadow in her eyes was familiar. He’d seen it in his own mirror for long enough.
‘Mama?’
Hunt glanced down at the boy.
He brandished three volumes. ‘I’ve got this.’
Hunt nearly choked at the sight of this. ‘Hmm. Rather dull, I thought it,’ he said, dismissing all the wild extravagances of The Monk. Matt Lewis might cut him dead if it got back to him, but then again, he doubted even Lewis would consider his tale, in which a monk unwittingly raped and murdered his own sister, appropriate for a ten-year-old.
‘Dull?’ Harry’s face fell.
‘Yes. Beyond tedious.’ Gently he removed the volumes from the boy’s grasp. ‘But I can recommend Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Very exciting. You’ll like the talking horses.’
‘Talking horses? Thank you, sir.’ He looked at his mother. ‘I’ll get that then.’
‘You do that.’ Lady Emma’s voice sounded a trifle strained. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she added very quietly, laughter quivering beneath the surface, as the boy headed back to the shelves. ‘I wouldn’t have let him read it, but—’
‘Perhaps it was more palatable coming from me?’ he suggested. Lord, she was pretty when her eyes danced like that. Like the sea near his Cornish home. A man could drown in eyes like that...
Her mouth twitched. ‘Probably. Not that I would have been fool enough to tell him he wasn’t allowed to read it, but I’ve no idea how I would have wriggled out of that.’
He cleared his throat, uneasy at the sudden camaraderie between them. ‘Well,’ he said stiffly, ‘it cannot be easy for a woman to control a headstrong boy. Ought he not to be at school? Surely Keswick has something to say in that?’
The drowning blue froze to solid ice. ‘That, sir, is none—’
‘Excuse me, my lord?’ Hatchard stood in the doorway. ‘I have the Milton ready for you. Oh, good morning, Lady Emma.’
‘Good morning, Mr Hatchard.’ Along with her eyes, Lady Emma’s voice had iced over, the dancing amusement winked out as though it had never been.
A reserved, sober matron faced Hunt, nose in the air. ‘I won’t keep you, sir.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’
It was a dismissal worthy of a duchess. ‘Ma’am.’ He took her gloved hand. It fitted perfectly within his and, standing this close, he was teased by the warm fragrance of woman, despite the fury seething in her eyes. No scent, just soap and something that was Lady Emma.
‘Au revoir.’ Goodbye was a great deal too final. The French said it much better.
