Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “Yes, out. I think we’ll start with the British Museum. I have longed to see the Elgin Marbles. And then on to Hatchards book shop. And music. I think I shall study the piano forte.”

  The maid wilted just as quickly.

  Enough reading about this new world. It was high time she experienced it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Ah, here you are.” Dev had left Anne alone for five torturous days. And nights. He closed the door to the music room giving them privacy. He did not remember the walls being papered in puce flocked wallpaper. Margaret’s talents must not be confined to apparel.

  “I am easily found if one has ears. I don’t believe there is anyone else in the household who plays the piano.” His wife sat poker straight on the bench as if she were ready to do battle with the instrument.

  The Aubusson carpet might as well have been made of eggshells, he treaded so carefully toward her. “Well, I would counter by saying I don’t believe anyone in this house actually plays the piano.” He raised an eyebrow just to punctuate his silly joke.

  Her response was a painfully faltering set of arpeggio scales. He had been summarily dismissed.

  “Don’t tell me Greely has sent you in to do his dirty work?” she said over the din.

  “How do you mean?” He winced at a particularly resounding chord.

  Thankfully she stopped her torture and looked at him as if trying to see if he were part of some joke. Evidently he passed muster. “Greely finds any excuse he can to take me away from my practice. I have found the door locked on a number of occasions and the key mysteriously gone missing.” She held up a shiny key from her chatelaine. “That is no longer a worry. However, I believe the small fire set last week in order to disturb my play was the outside of enough.”

  Ha! Didn’t think old Greely had it in him for such subterfuge.

  “Is a fire, or the blatant disloyalty of a servant, reason for mirth, my lord?”

  Oh dear, had he been smiling? “I trust you are feeling better?”

  She nodded once.

  “Greely tells me you are exploring the library. Improving your mind?”

  “I believe, next to music, books are my passion.” She frowned and gave her head a little shake, likely embarrassed at the word she chose. “I have found a few that must have belonged to you.”

  “Really?”

  “Their pages are filled with scribblings. In ink.” She pursed her lips.

  “Yes, well, I was a boy full of ideas. But that was long ago.” Another tentative step toward her. “And you enjoy the garden as well?”

  “It is peaceful,” she said in a slightly defensive tone.

  “As long as you are not attempting to improve Mr. Hiro’s bushes.” She raised an eyebrow. “About the same time as I was defacing tomes, I had a notion that the topiary in the shape of an elephant would look infinitely better without its trunk. I believe I had hopes of turning him into a rhinoceros.” He took another step. “Did you happen to see any purple rhinoceroses in my books?”

  She shook her head.

  He was yammering. He knew it. She knew it. But he could not seem to stop. If he did, she might take up her scales once more, or worse, he might take her in his arms. He could think of many ways that shiny expanse of piano could be put to better use. What music they would make together.

  Sweet Jesu, get a hold of yourself, Devlin. You are here to woo your wife, not maul her.

  “I spent the next month being Mr. Hiro’s slave,” he continued. “We used to have some Pyracantha bushes—also known as Firethorn—in the far corner of the garden. I recall having to remove every dead branch and damaged leaf—twenty or so bushes in all. And that was just the beginning.”

  “I would not dare to interfere. Mr. Hiro is an artist like yourself.” Her hands drifted over the piano’s keys. He steeled himself, waiting for another onslaught, but she must have thought better of it and settled her hands in her lap. “He has given me a small bush-like tree called a Bonsai. I will likely kill it, but Mr. Hiro accounted it could be sacrificed to facilitate my education. I believe he could be a surgeon if he chose to change professions.”

  “Hiro gave you one of his precious shrubs?”

  “Yes.” She did not seem to consider this the minor miracle he knew it to be. “And Ivo has been given one as well. Though I should not have said. I think he means to surprise you this Christmas.”

  Unable to keep away, he sat next to her on the bench, his thigh a hairs-breadth from hers.

  She took this gesture as a sign to commence her scales.

  Signore Brunelli must be hard of hearing. Or Dev paid the music teacher far too much. He shut his mouth—would that he could his ears as well—and waited. He was learning—albeit slowly—if he waited long enough, she would open to him.

  Sure enough, she paused in her banging. “The duke thinks we should go out.”

  “Does he? The tyrant.” When had she spoken with his sire? “Don’t let his agenda force you into anything you don’t want, Anne.”

  “No, what I meant to say is, I want to go out. I want to go out with you.” She turned on the bench to face him squarely on. “You are my husband, and I am your wife in truth now. As you yourself said, there is no going back.”

  He stood, unable to remain next to her and not take her in his arms. As added protection, he clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the window. “No, there is no going back.” Did she wish for that option? God, he felt like such a callow youth in the face of this calm woman.

  “I have been to the British Museum five times now. And though I could go another five hundred if only to gaze at the Rosetta Stone, or marvel at Lord Elgin’s marbles, I would like to do something new. I enjoy playing music—I mean to say that when Signore Brunelli plays, I am…transported.”

  “But not to the moon,” he quipped thinking of Beauchamp and his cheese.

  She ignored his stupid joke. “I would like to go to the opera. Signore says La Traviata is playing at Covent Garden Theatre.”

  “Signore says?” Drat the man. Dev had taken care to hire the rabbitiest-looking music teacher he could find. Norbert Brunelli would have no problem wedging a large olive between his upper front and bottom teeth and still have room for a bit of Beauchamp’s cheese. And if that weren’t enough, Brunelli blinked so, that much of the time he addressed a person with his eyes half-closed. It was unclear if he did so to spare himself or the person who had to watch his incessant flutterings. Still, jealousy stabbed at Dev’s gut.

  “Well, it seems he has anticipated me. I spoke at length with the Signore just last week after your lesson, and he assured me you would be thrilled by the prospect of hearing Miss Lind. I thought to surprise you for your birthday.”

  “Oh. But my birthday is tomorrow.”

  “I am aware of that fact. Ivo has badgered me with suggestions ever since I foolishly asked him what I might give you. You will be happy to know I did not purchase a zebra, or a ferret—his other suggestion. Though do not be surprised if he comes up with the ferret on his own. He was quite insistent it would be the perfect gift.”

  She smiled her funny half-smile. He smiled back and immediately her brow furrowed into that sweetly earnest frown. When would she give up attempting to cover the tiny gap in her front teeth? Didn’t she know her smile was the best gift he could ever receive?

  She looked up under her lashes. “The papers say it is sold out.”

  “I think we will manage. My family has a box.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Being a Marchioness has it burdens, Owl, but it also has its perks.”

  She nodded sagely.

  “Right. So, will you do me the great honor of attending the opera with me tomorrow evening? It is likely to be a crush.” A snare of panic looped deep in his belly. Could he handle the crowds and the gawking they were sure to endure? Excepting that disastrous ball, and his one foray to Coggin’s Raid, he had managed to steer clear of the throngs.

  “Tomorro
w will suit me just fine, my lord.” His wife looked like a well-satisfied feline who had just dispatched a nice fat mouse. “I thank you.”

  Good. That went rather well. Now perhaps he might try bedding his wife in the light of day. “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “To find my maid. We will need to spend much of what remains of the day and most of tomorrow removing yards of ruffles, bows, and lace.”

  ****

  The comforting weight of a flask against his chest, and the promise of the brandy’s warm rush only a moment away, kept his teeth from grinding—that and the ball of opium wrapped in a twist of paper, as yet untouched, but a reminder. It lay nestled next to the rope of perfectly-matched pearls.

  He had stopped taking so much of the drink, but the idea of the ton pressing in on him and possibly having to shield his wife from their talons made him rethink his resolve and carry some fortification.

  This time when his wife appeared at the top of the staircase, he could at least focus on her. Gone were the rows of ruffles, all the bows, and that hideous flossy stuff that had overtaken her bosom.

  He smiled. By God, let her wear a sack to the opera for all he cared. This was his wife. After the debacle of the ball, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what the toplofty thought. He only wanted Anne to be happy. If wearing ruffles and bows made her so, then he was well enough.

  “I have something to augment your beauty, sweet Owl. I believe they will go well with this gown.” Or no gown at all. Perhaps we can try that later in the evening?

  She frowned at him. “You have done too much already. I have never had such a day in my life.”

  He pulled the pearls out, just catching the ball of opium which must have snagged on the strand. He almost tossed it away but dropped it back in his pocket. Not yet.

  “You received my books?” It took quite a lot of resolve not to nuzzle her neck as he fastened the string around her throat. A large crate had arrived several days ago. He had ordered every book imaginable on healing and herbal properties as well as texts on anatomy, mesmerism, and several volumes on the art of Bonsai. Another smaller box contained fine fountain pens and various-sized bound journals in which she could write her stories.

  “Oh!” She touched the pearls and then brought them to her lips. Like a child caught out at some decadent pleasure, she dropped them. “You are too extravagant, my lord.”

  “Ah, but on this day, I am allowed to be extravagant. And what’s more, you cannot stop me from indulging myself.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Yes. By indulging you, I indulge myself, three-fold.”

  She pursed her lips and smoothed her blessedly unruffled skirts.

  ****

  The Malvern box hung in the first dress circle—her husband, splendidly turned-out in his black evening clothes and blinding white linen, was certainly an eyeful, a glimpse of the marquess of old, and a sparkling beacon in a firmament of lesser stars that sat in rings around him and Anne.

  He regaled her with the history of the theater as well as that of their nearest neighbors, pointing out this lord and that lady. The grizzled man with enormous side whiskers, Lord Suttan, who dozed from the opening of the massive velvet curtain to its closing. And in the next box, Lady Kendle and her ancient mother, the dowager Countess of Whittenborne, poised with ear horn in one hand and opera glasses in the other lest she miss one morsel of the entertainment.

  James was flirting with her. At first she had not been sure. He did like to tease and she was getting used to that, but this had a subtle undertone of…heat.

  She liked it.

  Yet there was a brittleness about him as well. He was too bright, too polished, as if balanced on a wire high above this glittering rabble and if he let down his guard one jot, he would fall and be consumed by them. His behavior so different from the man who came to her in the dark morning hours. Once stripped of his clothes, only then did he become totally open and free.

  When would these two men meld into one? Would they ever? And would she continue playing Madonna to his Courtier during the day, while at night they became Jezebel and Casanova?

  Half the theatre sat gaping at them—mostly women, she noted with not a little ire. Several even went so far as to peer at them through their opera glasses. Apparently these rings of boxes supplied as much entertainment as the stage performance.

  She sat up straighter in her chair, raised her beautiful, mother-of-pearl glasses to her eyes—yet another gift from her husband—and stared right back.

  “Ha! Brava, Anne. Give them as good as they get.”

  There was no reason why her husband’s compliment should please her so, but it did.

  If only she had Lizzy Gruber’s pea shooter. The one Mrs. Abbot had snapped in half when Lizzy had been caught pelting Hattie Fenton’s head at prayers. She would dearly love to hit that silly miss with the wreath of roses in her hair right between her prying eyes.

  Her husband settled and then wove his arm along the back of her chair. Her eyes might be engaged in a staring duel with an over-stuffed matron dripping in diamonds, but her body was wholly focused on the man next to her. The matron dropped her glasses and looked away. One down, fifty or more to go.

  A finger brushed the skin just above the fabric of her gown and then painted a small circle there. Her glasses wilted on their handle as her bottom inched its way closer toward those wandering fingers. Jealous standoffs evaporated as one finger dipped under the fabric to trace the ridges of her spine. Somehow James secretly touching her while on display for all to see excited her as much as if they were fully naked in her bedchamber.

  A hush fell over the theatre and she could well believe the company held their breath right along with her in anticipation of what James might do next. However, when the magnificent curtain rose to reveal a wonderland of magic, even her husband’s attentions were forgotten.

  ****

  “Anne, I will be happy to haul you out to the theater every night and brave this gawping rabble if only to watch your enjoyment.”

  He stood to stretch his legs for yet another intermission, while Anne sat, still riveted to the stage.

  “I cannot imagine why you would wish to squander your attention on me when you might be experiencing—words fail me.” She gestured toward the now closed curtain. “How can one small body produce such a sound? This must be God at work.”

  “Sweet Owl, I think we need to adjust your glasses. Miss Lind is hardly small.” But I suppose, when one compares the voice to the body, her voice must claim the greater size.”

  “I am constantly overwhelmed—by Mr. Verdi’s opera, by this theater, by the White Tower, the dome at St. Paul’s…” She riffled in her reticule. “My heart is so full it has overflowed and leaked out my eyes.”

  He bent to whisper in her ear. “I can think of another thing that overwhelms you, little Owl.” Of course he had to insert himself and his blasted ever-thirsty ego into her musings. “I believe you likened it to a sneeze that first time, if I recall rightly?”

  She pursed her lips in that prudish way he loved. “Yes, you are quite right, my lord. Indeed, I believe if I were to compile a list, that particular—sneeze—would be very nearly at the top of things that are overwhelming.”

  “Very nearly? I shall take that as a challenge, my lady. I am all too happy to take you home this minute and commence work.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could. But I find I am becoming a glutton, sir. I would like both, Mr. Verdi and then my sneeze, if you please.” She sat back folding her handkerchief into a neat square.

  His cock twitched and then sat up like a good dog when it smells a juicy bone. He straightened again to make a bit of room for said bone while his wife sat as unruffled as a cat lazing in the sun. Drat her. He’d like nothing better than to bend her over the rail and—

  Havermere? What the devil was he doing out?

  He nearly reached for Anne’s opera glasses just to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him, but the glas
ses were unnecessary. Even if he had not known the earl, he knew with infinite detail the woman entering the box just behind Havermere. That’s what comes of drooling over one’s wife instead of paying attention to one’s surroundings.

  The old sot now stared daggers at the Malvern box, which happened to be directly opposite. Nora leaned into her husband when he spoke to her. Her gaze flicked over to him and Anne, she stiffened, and then abruptly left the box. A burly footman exited right behind her. Just as well. Anne did not need to be subjected to this drama.

  “Who is that man?” Sure enough, her glasses were trained on Havermere’s box.

  Drat. But had she seen Nora? Should he assure her the countess meant naught to him? Stupid. He had nothing to hide. Still, he had the urge to protect his bride. He took the glasses from her. “No one. Do not regard him, Owl. The earl is an old reprobate.”

  The lights dimmed as the curtain rose for the second act, and though his wife sat on the edge of her seat, handkerchief at the ready, he sensed some of the joy had gone.

  He sat down. However his focus was pulled once again to the earl’s box as someone new entered. He snapped the glasses up.

  Brocket? Now what? Was Sir Charles working for Havermere?

  By God, he would skewer the man if he had the temerity to consign this year’s entry to the rafters.

  Except there was no new entry. No masterpiece.

  Anne turned to him. He had risen in his anger. He sat back down and tried to concentrate on his wife’s creamy back, which stood out in the darkness. The ball of opium felt heavy as lead next to his hammering heart. Damn Charles Brocket.

  He removed the flask of brandy and took a pull. If only he knew he still had a great painting within him. But thus far he faced a dozen half-finished portraits. Every one a different woman. Every one flat and empty.

  Lind was beginning Sempre Libera. Determined to put his attention back on his beautiful wife, he took final look across the theater.

  The flask nearly slipped from his fingers when he spied his brother Austin entering Havermere’s box.