Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  She fluffed one of the thousands of ruffles on Anne’s gown. “Though Madame Broussard is touted by some as being one of the most elegant seamstresses in England, I have never seen it. Everything she designs is too plain. If one is to pay thirty guineas for a gown, wouldn’t one want a few embellishments?”

  Where was James?

  “And that affectation of only wearing black. Old Markham has been in the ground since before the flood, yet her ladyship insists on rigorous black.” Margaret jerked harder on one of the ruffles. “Such a toady, aping The Queen. Who does she think she is? I vow, if Lord Austin died, I should be so grieved to don widow’s weeds. Black does nothing for my complexion. I believe we are alike in that way. We need color.”

  Margaret shifted from foot to foot, her enormous skirts tolling like a bell. “Lady Devlin, you must excuse me. I have need of the—I must go to the ladies’ retiring room.”

  No! Her brain screamed. You cannot leave me. Instead she murmured something about being well enough on her own.

  She could not be more conspicuous if she had been center stage in full limelight. Or felt so utterly alone, a wallflower of the worst kind. Even the old duke, leaching his considerable derision, would have been preferable.

  Behind each fluttering fan and pristinely gloved hand, she swore her name was being whispered. The “belle of the ball” relegated to an object of scorn.

  For the hundredth time, she resisted the urge to adjust her enormous tiara. If only she could have another glass of champagne, just to take the edge off this interminable evening.

  But, no. She’d not had even one glass of champagne. Indeed, she’d never even tasted wine excepting the thimbleful she had taken at Ardsmoore every Sunday at Communion. And that had been so watered down it had barely retained a blush of its former color.

  She signaled to a passing footman. He immediately stopped with his tray.

  “Thank you,” she said, evoking her watchword of ‘Regal.’

  She put a hand to her tiara, took a gulp and almost choked, unprepared for the fizzing bubbles that tickled her nose and rushed her cheeks.

  So this was champagne. She liked it. The glass was soon empty, and she signaled the footman—now her friend—to bring another.

  Fortified, she looked about her. She suspected she made a rather haughty picture in her ridiculous confection of a gown with her nose up in the air. Heavens, she bit her lip to stop the laughter gathering behind her teeth.

  Not so frightening, this group of over-indulged folk. They probably had their lot of troubles just as Lady Tippit and Mr. Beauchamp.

  As she turned to survey the other side of the room, she saw that dreadful man again, the one James had chased off. He approached her now.

  Drat, where was Margaret? Or her husband, for that matter?

  “Lady Devlin, my humble apologies for any discourtesy I may have shown. Will you prove your good will and stand up with me?” He extended his hand to her.

  Perhaps it was the champagne talking, or her new-found regality, or the fact that her husband seemed to have deserted her, but she found herself saying, “Yes.” She held out the empty glass to her footman friend and then took Sir Charles’s arm.

  At least it was another waltz. She thought she had the gist of it now after spending a half hour or so dancing the steps with James.

  But as Sir Charles took her in his arms, she knew she’d made a dreadful mistake.

  This man did not feel remotely like her husband. Cloying cologne swamped her senses. Anne focused on his cravat, which looked like it had recently been put through a cider press and then yanked back into place. Only slightly taller than she, she was in the direct path of his breath. A gag rose in her throat. The stench put her in mind of a chicken yard.

  He lurched into the first steps—his stride too long for her to keep pace. She managed to recover her footing when he took her into a turn. Not the wonderfully effortless gliding her husband had demonstrated, where she seemed to float rather than dance, this man’s turn was more of a hard corner.

  Faces jerked by. So hard to maintain her regal demeanor when one felt like a sack of potatoes. And one’s stomach heaved. She was about to excuse herself when a face stood out among tittering crowd.

  A face she would know anywhere.

  A face that stopped her dead.

  The inevitable happened. She finally lost her battle with the Hatten tiara.

  Still, she rose onto her tip toes in an effort to see beyond her husband who was charging toward them.

  “By God, you have gone too far, Brocket,” James ground out. Sir Charles’ smug smile froze as James’s fist smashed into it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dev fled the ball and hied away to his refuge.

  The garret was proving a good investment. Not so much for painting, but as a haven.

  From this vantage point, so high above, he felt removed, almost god-like. Each time he climbed these stairs, the world fell away. The sounds of the city still punctuated the air, but they were far below and somehow manageable.

  He tapped his pencil against his empty sketchbook and looked out over the Thames. The “mud larks” had come and gone, trolling for bits of treasure revealed as the high tide ebbed away.

  Now sailors and stevedores scurried like dung-beetles, slaves to the water and winds. Ships groaned like arthritic old dowagers, their sails snapping in answer as bells clanged over the din.

  Already noon time? He felt like a blown dandelion. Time to sleep.

  Gingerly he unfolded himself from his perch and tentatively stretched his aching jaw. Charles Brocket had got one good blow in before Dev had laid waste to him.

  Humph. In the past he would have counted this as a victory. Something to brag about with the younger blades. But now the whole thing left him sick.

  And Anne, in that ridiculous atrocity Margaret had concocted, everything else around her in a riot, including her magnificent hair which had thankfully burst its cage of contrived twists and crimps to fall heavy about her shoulders, stood as tall as you please—all five feet of her—a quiet look of composure on her face.

  God, she had been magnificent; a perfect foil to his complete bestiality.

  Austin and several other fellows had yanked him off the cur, Brocket, who then extricated himself from the enormous floral arrangement which had toppled during their scuffle. He spit a tooth at the mangled greenery and crushed roses now littering his feet.

  Anne had calmly looked them both over, nodded and said, “I believe I shall retire now, my lord. It seems the principal entertainment has concluded, and I fear anything else we might provide will pale in comparison.” And she had sailed across the floor like Cleopatra upon her barge—her enormous ruffled skirts seeming to bear her up as she disappeared into a sea of shifting humanity.

  He could not go to her bed. The shame of his behavior had him skulking off to lick his wounds here in his garret. He did not deserve his lovely and wise Owl.

  The cot against the wall beckoned him.

  The bed had been installed when he’d taken the place. Along with a shower bath, a water tower to catch the rain, and a heater. Admittedly a luxury, but after Ballencrieff and those freezing pools, he never wanted to endure a cold bath again.

  His landlord, Cheswell, had the cheek to actually waggle his eyebrows and mutter something about a love nest, but Dev paid no mind. The cot was proving as good an investment as the shower. Thus far, other than a few hours in his wife’s bed—and he usually endeavored to use that time more wisely than for mere sleeping—it was the only place he could manage a bit of rest.

  The cot groaned its familiar groan. His feet hung off the end. He told himself this bed was nothing like his old cot at Ballencrieff, but of course it was a lie. He reminded himself he could leave this room at any time and be fine down there in the real world. Another falsehood.

  He raised his arms toward the iron headboard, waiting for the snap of—

  No. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled
into himself, pressing his still sensitive wrists together between his thighs.

  Rest. He must rest, and then he would paint. Or better still, go home and face his wife. He only needed sleep.

  The soft slap of boots on the stair brought him bolt upright.

  Not a new model. He had not engaged one for this day. And not Cheswell. The landlord knew which side of the bread was buttered. Dev paid him well for tight lips and no questions. Enough money and no one gave a shite what devilment you might be up to. Besides, the footfalls were too light to be his obsequious landlord.

  He swiped his hand beneath the straw mattress and pulled out his knife. Situating himself slightly behind the door, he waited.

  A key scrabbled in the lock. Fucking Cheswell. He would let the man have it when next he saw him. Poised and ready to attack, the voice behind the door stopped him cold.

  “You would have to take yourself up to the top of the blasted city.”

  The locked snicked and the door swung open.

  Nora.

  If possible she had grown more beautiful.

  He started toward her. Then stopped. He’d gone to her out of habit, he supposed.

  She waved him off with one hand, the other on her belly. “Ninety-three.”

  “What?”

  “The number of steps one must climb to get to you. Do you fancy yourself as some sort of Rapunzel?” She straightened and took a deep breath. “Well, it is not entirely your fault. I did have Struthers lace me particularly tightly today. Somehow the notion of encountering you made me think I needed the extra fortification.”

  Her little speech over, they stood as if ready to duel but had no weapons or desire. The last time he had seen her she was covered in Lily’s blood and Austin was hauling her out of Greene Street.

  “Rather Spartan for you, Dev. Oh, but I see you have not skimped on the things that count.” She picked up his half-empty bottle of Camus Frères.

  “How did you get the key?” It was not polite, but his manners had fled when she had pushed in and denigrated his lair. Now she was at his brandy. His mouth watered in agreement.

  “Is that how you treat me after I came all this way?”

  Guilt flooded him. He had hardly thought of Nora since—well, since Anne…

  She tossed her veiled bonnet onto the bed, revealing burnished copper curls. “Really, need you ask? I found your dear landlord, Mr. Cheswell, at the Rose and Thistle next door. Took one look at me and I had the key in a nonce.”

  Touché. Nora Havermere was a veritable juggernaut when it came to the male sex. She could lay siege to an army of salivating mortals with just a bat of her lashes. God help the man upon whom she turned her full arsenal. He had been one of those poor sots.

  He swiped his hands over a rasp of beard. He needed a drink. “And…you are well?”

  This new relationship was vexing. Time was when he would have not given her a moment before taking her into his arms, hiking her skirts, and pressing his cock into her.

  What now? What were they now?

  She waved his question away. “Shouldn’t you be home facing your wife?”

  The thought of Anne sent him to rescue his bottle. “You must have seen the papers. I’m sure they had a field day with my antics of last evening.” He took the bottle and poured out a measure.

  “Didn’t need to. I passed Lady Brinley in the street. She gave me an earful. And then, on the way over here, we had to stop for an impromptu street show near Pall Mall. Some swells were acting the whole thing out. They certainly did you and Brocket justice, but the blade playing your lady wife did not have nearly her savoir faire. One must give the proper credit to a lady who survives losing her crown just as her husband is losing his head. Though I’m not sure the papers will frame it that way. Quite a trio you were. However, to my mind she came out the distinct winner of all the combatants.” Nora looked out the window and sniffed.

  “And I suppose you would have simply stood there and let that cretin Brocket make a fool of her?”

  Nora raised a beautifully arched eyebrow. “And do you imagine you did her any good by adding to the spectacle? If you’d restrained yourself, Brocket would have looked the fool and the Hatten tiara could have been retrieved without half the ton scampering about beneath ladies crinolines hoping to find a missing ruby.”

  He dumped himself on his cot, nearly crushing her bonnet, his glass cradled against his pitiful heart.

  She made an unladylike humphing noise which he chose to ignore.

  “Charles Brocket has always been an ass. Why did you expect he should suddenly change his spots?”

  Blast her, she was right. Just played right into the arsehole’s hands by clocking him.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if Havermere didn’t put Brocket up to it. My husband and Sir Charles are very thick, you know.” She rescued her hat and took his glass from him, inhaled the liquor’s perfume, and took a healthy swig. “The bit I am curious about is if the papers had the gumption to call you mad.”

  That neck. So lovely. The old Dev would have either tupped her right then and there, or taken up his brushes and painted her. But now, he only thought of Anne in her poorly mended night rail, one shoulder slipping to expose a creamy white shoulder—

  Wait. “What?”

  “The papers. I wonder if they’ve linked your name with madness again.” She crossed to the window and looked out.

  “They wouldn’t dare.” The cot echoed his indignation with its own protest. But his words rang hollow.

  Those rags would like nothing better than to resurrect The Mad Marquess. It would be near impossible to live that moniker down a second time. Had such a ring to it. The appellation would likely be on his gravestone. Here lies the famous Mad Marquess and his Overwhelmed Owl. He winced.

  “Until some other fool makes a bigger scene, you and your bride will be the unfortunate darlings of the press for the foreseeable future. Ever since Lord Randle gave up wearing dresses, society is hungry for fresh meat. I fear you are the tartare of the moment.” She shrugged and twitched at her gown, a sure sign she was hiding something.

  He retrieved his glass. “All right, out with it. Give me the worst.”

  She attempted to hold onto the brandy, but lost the fight.

  He crossed to the table to refill their glass.

  “You are not the only idiot in this room,” she said plucking at the lace on her sleeve.

  “Ah, I am relieved to hear it. What have you done to merit the title?”

  “I could not stay away.”

  His hand froze in the middle of pouring. “No.” This was awkward. He was not the same man who had sheltered her in his arms over a year ago. She deserved someone who loved her. He was not that man. “Nora I—that is we—”

  Her derisive snort brought him to a halt as she wheeled away from him. “No, I don’t mean now. Today. I am a fool, not a sadist.” She gripped the sill of the window, her profile now beautifully framed. “I mean last night. I know I should have stayed away, but I couldn’t. I had to see her. I escaped my husband for a few hours to see who had supplanted me in your heart.”

  “Nora—”

  “Let me finish, if you please. Confession is not easy for me, Devlin.” Nora turned to face him. “She saw me, you see.”

  “What?”

  “Your Anne, she saw me as she was dancing with that troll, Brocket. Honestly, I did not think she would know me, but she clearly did. She jerked with the recognition, and I don’t know if I can claim all the credit. Perhaps Brocket took the opportunity to miss-step or possibly you charging in to save the day… At any rate, that was when she stumbled and her tiara went flying.”

  He sank to the bed. “My poor Owl.”

  A ship’s bell sounded in the distance and a fishmonger called out, “Three for a pence.”

  “Owl? Really, Dev? Is that your pet name for her?” Nora seemed to have shored herself up, taking refuge in sarcasm. “I cannot think such an appellation sweeps her off her feet.”<
br />
  “Would that were the least of my problems.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you have failed to have her eating out of your hand. Your Owl.”

  Maybe Nora had changed more than he thought. “Bitterness does not become you, Nor.”

  “Bitter? Ha! You imagine I am bitter?” She flicked at a bit of non-existent dust on her bodice front. “No, not bitter. Perhaps finished? Dead? This last year, since the—well, you know—the earl keeps me on a very tight leash. Has his toadies watching his—investment. Yes, I am a commodity that has no value except as something that others may look at, covet, but never touch. Except that you did. God help us if he ever finds out.”

  She laughed once. A hard sound. “You are correct. You have always been able to see through me. Perhaps I am bitter.” She fingered the bottle of brandy and licked her lips. “Good God, and maudlin too.” She laughed truly now.

  Something of the old Nora.

  “He can’t live much longer. He must be four score and more,” he offered.

  “Eighty-five. Six in December. But who is counting?” She picked at a bit of flaking paint on the window casement. “He put a stop to all my little pet projects. ‘Dabbling in the underbelly of society is beneath the Countess of Havermere.’ Especially sullying myself with prostitutes who were stupid enough to get themselves with child.”

  “Nora.” He rose. “I am so sorry about Lily—”

  “Don’t. Please, don’t speak of—and don’t be sorry. You must never be sorry.” She sniffed and looked away.

  Suddenly his head throbbed. He couldn’t get his breath.

  “Devlin? Are you well?” She rose from her seat at the window. “Do you wish me to leave?”

  “No, I am sorry. I sometimes go back…” That terrible white face would always have a name now. He could face it now. He could.

  She nodded as if she knew all too well. “You are not taking any opium now?”

  “No.” The ball still rested next to his heart. A constant reminder he had a choice. “Drinking. Too much.” He held up the half-empty glass. “But no drugs.”