Never Marry a Marquess

by Regina Scott

  “We did it,” she whispered. “All of them settled and all of them happy. Even Julian and me.”

  Fortune’s tail swished back and forth as if she had never doubted the matter.

  Julian smiled as she lowered the cat to the ground and allowed her to run before them, secure on the leash. Then he turned to her, eyes intent, as if he wasn’t sure of her. What was this?

  “Meredith,” he said, “you have made me the happiest of men. I hope you will accept a wedding present from me.” He reached into the pocket of his dove grey wedding coat, pulled out a brass key, and held it out to her.

  Meredith frowned at it, memories tugging. But it couldn’t be. She glanced up to meet his gaze. “Is that…?” The name of her childhood home stuck in her throat, as if afraid it would be taken from her as well.

  “The key to Rose Hill,” he said, wrapping his hand around hers, pressing the heavy brass against her fingers. “It seems your cousin did not find it to his liking after all. He was persuaded to sell to me.”

  The beautiful garden grew misty as tears filled her eyes. “But I thought it had to go to a male heir.”

  “Your grandfather set up his will that way,” he allowed. “Your cousin Nigel had no such requirements. It was a legal matter that could be rectified in this case.” He wiggled his brows at her. “I am a solicitor, you know.”

  She clung to his hand, scarcely able to believe what he’d done for her. “Oh, Julian, you’ve given me back my home.”

  “Our home,” he corrected her, releasing her hand to wrap his arms about her. “I still remember how you proposed to me under the kissing bough that Christmas. I look forward to making many more memories there together.” He leaned back to grin at her. “Perhaps Lord Kendall’s baker can show your cook how to make brambleberry pie as good as your mother’s.”

  She kissed him then, heart so full she would not have been surprised if it overflowed the island to meet the Thames.

  “We are blessed,” she murmured, leaning back. “You are a rising favorite with the prince. Your work is respected by all.”

  “As is yours,” he assured her.

  Fortune’s tug on the leash reminded her they were supposed to be strolling. Yet the sunshine of her happiness dimmed just the slightest as they started out again. “Even if I appear to be finished. I haven’t located another lady requiring my aid in weeks.”

  “Perhaps you should expand beyond gentlewomen,” Julian suggested, turning her past the high castle wall. “They aren’t the only ones in need of respectable positions.”

  Meredith frowned. “To whom do you refer?”

  “What about the gentlemen?” he asked. “Second sons traditionally have a difficult time finding their place in the scheme of things. Widowers can be isolated. Those on the cusp of Society—solicitors, architects, engineers—need assistance from time to time. Think of Lord Kendall’s brother. Lord Weston will return from duty at some point. He’d likely rather find useful ways to fill his time than sit around and watch his brother and bride bill and coo.”

  Fortune scampered back to them and rubbed herself against Julian’s stockings as if endorsing the idea.

  “Gentlemen,” Meredith mused. “What an intriguing thought.”

  Julian stopped and put his arms about her. “Something to be considered in more depth another day. I’ve been waiting ten years to call us husband and wife. I’m sure Fortune would tell you it’s high time we thought of our own romance.”

  Fortune mewed as if she quite agreed. Then she turned her back to give them a moment of privacy and fixed her great copper eyes on the future.

  ~~~~~~

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for choosing Ivy and Kendall’s story. If this is the first book you’ve read in the Fortune’s Brides series, you may want to look for the others: Never Doubt a Duke, Never Borrow a Baronet, Never Envy an Earl, Never Vie for a Viscount, and Never Kneel to a Knight. If you have read all those, thank you for following Fortune and Meredith’s adventures as they helped gentlewomen down on their luck find homes. After all, only a matchmaking cat can hunt true love.

  If you enjoyed this book, there are several things you could do now:

  Sign up for a free e-mail alert so you’ll be the first to know when a new book is out or on sale. I offer exclusive free short stories to my subscribers from time to time. Don’t miss out.

  Connect with me on Facebook or Pinterest.

  Post a review on a bookseller site or Goodreads to help others find the book.

  Discover my many other books on my website.

  Turn the page for a peek of the first book in my Lady Emily Capers, Secrets and Sensibilities. When art teacher Hannah Alexander accompanies her students on a country house visit, she never dreams of entering into a dalliance with the handsome new owner David, Earl of Brentfield. But one moment in his company and she’s in danger of losing her heart, and soon her very life. Can Lady Emily and her friends solve the mystery and save their teacher and her love, before it’s too late?

  Blessings!

  Regina Scott

  Sneak Peek: Secrets and Sensibilities, Book 1 in the Lady Emily Capers by Regina Scott

  To Hannah Alexander, people existed to be painted. Every wise old crone with a youthful twinkle in her eye, every stout gentleman of military bearing, every wide-eyed child with an endearing smile was a moment to be captured, recreated, embellished until the essence of them shone from her canvas for all to see. When she looked at those around her, she saw them frozen in a moment of perfection that illuminated their souls.

  The farmer carrying a lamb home on his shoulders at sunset was the Good Shepherd. The girl flirting with the farmer’s son outside church on Sunday was Aphrodite Taunting Hephaestus. The other teachers at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies gossiping about their charges’ parents were The Three Witches from Macbeth. She thought she would be completely happy if only she could spend her days with her paint box and easel. And now, after years of dreaming, it had looked as if she might actually attain that happiness.

  If only Miss Martingale hadn’t insisted that she play chaperone first!

  She should have known something was wrong when she’d received a summons to the headmistress’s office. Miss Martingale rarely addressed her subordinates unless something dire had happened. She could only hope that she had received no complaints against her teaching. She was aware that often she held control of her students by the slimmest of threads. She had never mastered the technique that so many of the other teachers used, namely of intimidating her pupils with her authority. At five feet, four inches, she did not tower over any of them. To make matters worse, she was cursed with a clear-skinned, oval face; lustrous black hair; and large doe-like eyes that seemed to encourage condescending smiles rather than strict obedience. Her nose was short and pert, and her mouth tended far too often to smile. No, she had not been the most awe-inspiring of teachers, although her students did seem to learn their lessons, and more than one parent had complimented her on the girls’ knowledge of art.

  But it seemed that Miss Martingale had had other thoughts besides Hannah’s performance on her mind.

  “Priscilla Tate’s aunt, Lady Brentfield, has graciously invited her niece and three friends for Easter holiday,” she had proclaimed without roundaboutation before Hannah could so much as take a seat in the hard-backed chair in front of the desk that spanned the rear of the room. “I need you to chaperone.”

  Hannah had felt herself pale but had forced her dutiful smile to remain in place. She had always been able to reasonably discuss things with her employer. Surely Miss Martingale would not send her off simply to gratify the whims of four students.

  “But I know nothing about deportment, Miss Martingale,” she pointed out. “As you know, I was raised quietly in the country.”

  The large, dark-haired woman shrugged. “That is not important. Lady Brentfield can be counted on to enforce the social niceties. I need someone to chaperone them in the carriage on the ri
de to and from the estate, and Lady Brentfield has requested that we provide someone to assist her in monitoring the girls’ activities when she is unavailable. A woman as busy as Lady Brentfield cannot be expected to watch them every minute.”

  So, Hannah was just supposed to be a nebulous body, at the beck and call of the socially astute Lady Brentfield. If the assignment had had any appeal before, it had none now. Hannah had only met Lady Brentfield a few times when the woman had visited the school, usually when she was fetching or returning Priscilla from some event.

  But Hannah knew that her ladyship was a powerful influence. Miss Martingale gloated over any little kindness from the lady, and many of the teachers watched from the upper windows of the school to catch a glimpse of the latest styles her ladyship wore. Hannah could not imagine anything more mortifying than having to flutter about in the wake of this fashionable lady, her own lack of polish and ignorance of the upper class showing with each movement.

  “Lady Brentfield will surely want someone with whom the girls are comfortable,” she protested. “I barely know Priscilla and her friends.”

  “That is as it should be,” Miss Martingale said with a regal incline of her broad head. “You know my policy that students and teachers should not fraternize. I have observed that you keep a distance from your students, which I applaud. I have also observed that they tend to ignore your commands. This trip will give you an opportunity to practice your disciplinary skills.”

  Practicing her disciplinary skills was the last thing on Hannah’s mind, as was spending a week in close company with her students. The distance Miss Martingale had noted was there for a reason. She was trying to hide the fact that her students scared her not a little. The oldest was only three years her junior, after all. Her fear was easy to hide when she could focus on art, but she was sure they’d see right through her if she was forced to interact with them socially. Besides, spending a week at the Brentfield estate would delay her most recent commission.

  “But I’ve just agreed to paint Squire Pentercast and his family,” she explained to Miss Martingale, hoping the mention of the local landowner would inspire sufficient respect to allow her to remain at the school. “I’m sure one of the other teachers would love to go.”

  “Most have arranged to go home to their families,” Miss Martingale replied, her considerable bulk beginning to tremble, most likely in indignation that Hannah continued to question her judgment. “And I cannot spare Miss Pritchett; she is needed to finish the preparations for the graduation ceremony. Besides, Lady Brentfield was most emphatic about the type of teacher she wanted: quiet, unassuming, dutiful. I was certain you fit that description.”

  Nearly every teacher at the Barnsley School fit that description, but Hannah could see by the steel in Miss Martingale’s eyes that further argument was useless. She considered for a moment tendering her resignation right that moment, but she needed her final two weeks of salary and all of her commission money if she was to have enough to live in London.

  She had been planning the move for years, traveling to the metropolis to become a portrait painter. For so long it had seemed outside her grips. She had no formal training, after all. But just three months ago, the Earl of Prestwick had inquired whether the school’s art teacher would be willing to attempt a portrait of the dowager countess. It was well known about Barnsley and the surrounding villages that Lady Prestwick was a gentle, retiring soul, easily frightened by the world around her. She was seldom seen outside the gates of her fine estate. Hannah had been more than willing to paint the beautiful countess, who put her in mind of Elaine in the legends of King Arthur. Elaine had pined away for her love of Lancelot, and it seemed to Hannah Lady Prestwick’s sad smiles mirrored a similar melancholy. The resulting painting had been heralded by the earl and the local gentry alike as a fine work of art.

  Since then, Squire Pentercast’s lovely wife had requested that Hannah undertake a painting of their family. In addition, one of the more influential of the parents, the Duke of Emerson, whose daughter Lady Emily was one of Hannah’s favorite and most promising students, had suggested that she paint him on his return from Vienna. As the squire’s wife was well known in social circles, and the duke was a famous diplomat, Hannah was assured of at least the beginnings of a promising career. It was more than she had ever hoped for. She had planned to finish her painting of the Pentercasts by Easter and put in her notice to Miss Martingale shortly thereafter. With the money from her two commissions and what she had saved working at the school for the last three years, she would have enough to live frugally in London for a year, building her reputation and her clientele. For the first time in her life, her dreams were within her grasp.

  All she had to do was survive this trip to Brentfield.

  “I tell you it will be a week to end all weeks,” Priscilla Tate declared as they settled into the carriage her aunt had sent for them, a shiny black with silver accouterments. The silver and black emblem on the side had told Hannah that those must be the Brentfield colors. She had tried not to be concerned that the emblem on the Brentfield crest was a wild cat rending a stag in twain.

  Now Priscilla positively preened as the coach set off from the school. With the girl’s golden blond hair and emerald eyes, she was by far the loveliest of the graduating class. She was also one of the least popular, for all her considerable family connections. Priscilla had a way of lording her beauty and accomplishments over her classmates. Hannah had long ago begun to think of her as Hera Among the Lesser Goddesses.

  “Your aunt is beyond generous!” This from Daphne Courdebas, the most athletic of the graduates. Everything about Daphne was long and lean, from her limbs to her light brown hair. And all of it had a tendency to tangle unmercifully in her unbridled enthusiasm for life. Amazon in Training, Hannah thought.

  “And her still in mourning! How kind!” Ariadne Courdebas put in. At a year younger than her sister, Ariadne could easily have been from another family entirely. She was round and baby-faced, with lank brown hair, great vapid blue eyes, and a mind that latched onto every inch of printed material it could find, from plays to poetry and all types of facts. Recently it had been medical treatises, which had sent the girl to the nurse a dozen times over the last month over some imagined disease. It was amazing how truly distress could be mirrored on that round face, like Lot’s Wife on Looking Back at Sodom.

  “She’s no doubt destitute in sorrow from the loss of her husband and stepson,” put in Lady Emily Southwell. The Priestess of Delphi, Hannah thought, her artist’s mind painting the picture. Lady Emily would have made such a marvelous seer. Her deep-set brown eyes, black frizzy hair, sallow complexion, and pinched nose were perfectly matched to her dismal view of the world. She even wore the dark colors and austere tailoring, like the brown silk gown that was nearly as depressing as Hannah’s stiff black bombazine uniform. Nonetheless, Lady Emily was the only one of Hannah’s students who had shown the least promise as an artist at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies. Hannah was sure that it was her own recognition of Lady Emily’s promise, as well as Hannah’s talent, that had resulted in Lady Emily’s father, the Duke of Emerson, suggesting that Hannah paint him as well.

  “The new earl will prove compensation,” Priscilla predicted with an arched look.

  Lady Emily leaned closer. “Even after their mysterious deaths? I heard the rumors.”

  Surely this was unseemly conversation for four young ladies. “Girls,” Hannah started.

  They ignored her.

  “Rumors?” Ariadne asked, sitting up straighter where she was squished between her sister and Lady Emily. “What sorts of rumors?”

  Lady Emily’s look darkened. “The previous earl and his heir were killed in a coaching accident eight months ago. I heard Farmer Hale telling Cook when he brought the milk that he heard from one of the tenants of the estate that it was no accident. When the grooms investigated, they found the carriage had been tampered with. Charles Talent, Earl of Brentfield, and his s
on Nathan, Viscount Hawkins, were murdered.”

  “Girls,” Hannah said more forcefully, a tingle running through her.

  Ariadne gasped. “Were there no investigations? Did no one come forward with evidence?”

  Priscilla tossed her curls. “There was no need for evidence. It’s all a Banbury tale, I promise you. Lord Brentfield and his son were well liked, and there was no one in line to inherit. There wasn’t even another heir in England. When the solicitors traced the family lineage, the fellow they found to inherit was so far removed that he couldn’t possibly have planned a murder. He’s a Yank, of all things.”

  The other three girls looked so suitably amazed by this fact that Hannah was able to turn their conversation onto another tact.

  But as the short journey wore on, the girls grew more restive.

  “We shall all be crushed inside this carriage,” Lady Emily promised after they had bumped some distance from Barnsley. “He’ll roll it on the next curve, you wait and see.”

  “Lord Brentfield’s coachman seems quite competent,” Hannah assured her, only to bite her lip as the carriage hit another rut.

  “I think I shall be sick,” moaned Ariadne Courdebas beside Lady Emily. Her gloved hands hovered in front of her trembling lips, and Hannah felt her own stomach lurch just looking at the girl’s pale face. To her relief and the girl’s embarrassment, all that erupted was a ladylike hiccup. Ariadne’s face turned a healthy pink that matched her pink pelisse.

  “I think you’re simply excited,” Daphne exclaimed on the other side of her, bouncing so vigorously with each bump that she set the blue silk ribbons on her pelisse fluttering. She enthusiastically poked her sister in her well-padded ribs, sending Ariadne into Lady Emily and Lady Emily into the equally well-padded wall of the coach. Lady Emily glared, and Ariadne clutched her side as if she’d been kicked by a horse. Hannah sighed and uttered a prayer for patience.