The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

  Evington gave Ben a resigned glance. “Very well. Merely that I had a thought. This is a relatively minor wound, and yet it bled a great deal.”

  Ben fixed him with an intent stare. “Go on.”

  “Louis’s wound after the duel was not so great, as matters turned out. Perhaps the messy wound persuaded him to let certain people think he was hurt much worse than he was. The surgeon who attended him would have been easily bribed.”

  “For what purpose?” Ben demanded.

  “To force your hand. To make you leave the country or give yourself up. Any outcome would be to his advantage.”

  Paralyzed with horror, Dorothea listened.

  “Dueling is against the law, and you made the challenge,” Evington said, his words slower than usual. “Honor demanded that he meet it. But he provoked you to it. If you had been taken up, the authorities would have taken a dim view. And so would your father.”

  Ben growled. “Damn, you’re right of course. He recovered quickly, did he not?”

  Evington nodded. “As fast as I will. This hurts like the devil, but I saw the wound for myself. It will heal well, if properly treated. I should be up and about in a day or two. Louis lay sequestered in his lodgings for a week, until he was certain you were on the way out of the country and you were not coming back.”

  Someone wanted Ben out of the way, so had forced the duel? How could that be? Questions crowded into Dorothea’s mind. What was going on here?

  Getting to his feet, Ben pressed his friend’s hand. “We’ll leave you in peace. Sleep, and I’ll have a man put outside the room. Do not think of going to your own until you feel better.”

  “I would appreciate an hour or two.”

  “Gentlemanly behavior!” Dorothea snorted.

  Lord Evington turned an amused glance on her. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “You must be in agony.” Coming out from her place at the head of the bed, she forced Ben to step back. She shook out her skirts, now sadly crumpled and bloodstained, likely ruined. A small price to pay. “You should rest as long as you need.”

  With a sigh, Evington closed his eyes. Far too perceptive, those eyes. “I fear you are right. I’m exhausted. Send my man to me in an hour, if you please. I’ll repair to my own room and leave Rougier to make what he can of the mess.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Ben murmured. “I owe you more than I can say. Would you like to exchange rooms?”

  His eyes still shut, Evington answered him. “No. My chamber is much better appointed than this one.”

  Ben gave a rough laugh. “I had this room when I was a boy after I left the nursery. I spent years here. I never found it lacking.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. It’s time you gave some consideration to the appearance you cut in the world, dear boy.”

  Ben held out his hand in an imperious gesture. Without thinking, Dorothea crossed to him and put her own hand in his. It closed around her, locking her fast. “Come. We’ll repair to your room and have that talk.”

  “But sir!” Real shock made her tremble.

  “Come, you can hardly be missish now.” He towed her across the room, grabbing the stack of papers she hadn’t had time to examine before pulling her toward the door. “I’m sure you want to see these.”

  Chapter 8

  Ben took Dorothea to her door, and opened it wide. With a sigh, she walked inside and left the door ajar. Invited or not, he followed her inside and closed the door.

  The room was empty. Too empty. Only the most necessary furniture lay within. There was no rug on the floor to cushion her bare feet, nor elaborate drapes around the old-fashioned four-poster bed to keep out the drafts at night. The sight appalled him, especially when they could have put her somewhere else. The room he was now using, for example. “Why did they put you here?”

  She shrugged. “I’m hardly the most prestigious guest. But the covers are warm, and the room is quiet.”

  “There’s quiet, and then there’s spartan. We have plenty of well-appointed chambers.”

  “Please, don’t concern yourself.” Her voice was frosty.

  “Ah, but I do. I will see about this. You do not belong here.”

  Although the room was spacious and filled with light from windows on two sides, he couldn’t like it, and with a jolt he remembered why. “This used to belong to my tutor. I ran the poor man ragged. He was a tyrant.”

  “I see.” She kept her head turned away from him, ostensibly staring out the window to the gardens beyond. A pulse throbbed at the base of her neck, making him wonder what she tasted like there. What she tasted like everywhere. Good Lord, he hadn’t thought of a woman in those terms since Mary had died. Putting aside the sensuous life he had once reveled in had come easily to him, and since his wife’s death he had not had another woman. But now, here he was. His libido roared back to life. Most inconvenient.

  Except this time, only one woman occupied his thoughts.

  In the distance, heat shimmered over the fields beyond the formal gardens. When she turned back to him, her eyes were hard, a shell covering whatever lay beneath. He wanted to discover that secret part of her, and he vowed he would.

  He took a step toward her. She held her ground, so he took another, and another, until they were only inches apart. “What were you doing in my room?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and intimate.

  This close, she couldn’t hide her reactions from him. Her eyes darkened as her pupils widened. “Sir James wants absolute proof,” she answered.

  “Of my identity? Why do you care?”

  He narrowed his eyes, examining her wary expression, and the way her pulse throbbed in her throat like a little bird’s.

  “I wanted to help.” She swept the tip of her tongue across her lower lip. That little action wasn’t helping Ben control himself. “My room is close to yours, so I thought I’d just look—”

  “Did you indeed? Are you related to Sir James? Or is there another reason you want to know?” A suspicion crossed his mind. “Who has sent you?” Was she, after all, in league with his cousin? Had he allowed his groin to lead, rather than his head?

  He waited. Would he have to do the elaborate dance of denial and confession? That would take far too much time.

  She glanced at the papers in his free hand. “Because I—oh, Lord!” She tucked her fingers inside the front of her gown and pulled something out as he tossed the papers on a nearby table. A pin, about an inch and a half long, fashioned from silver. She held it up, so he could see the entwined letters.

  “SSL? Is that a relative?” What had a piece of jewelry to do with this?

  “No.” She pushed the pin through her gown once more, this time proudly on display. “It’s the Society for Single Ladies. A club I belong to. Miss Angela Childers set it up.”

  He knew that name. “The lady banker?”

  He recalled Angela Childers vividly. While the City held a few independent businesswomen, none were as important as Angela Childers. Brilliant, beautiful, and single.

  “Yes, Angela.” Dorothea lifted her chin. “She set up a club for single ladies, the overlooked and the less fortunate, widows and spinsters. Ostensibly we are a literary society. We read improving sermons and lectures.”

  “Truly?” He had not thought Dorothea Rowland the kind of woman to devote herself to sermons. She had a lively mind. A shame to waste it on dull-as-ditchwater tomes like that.

  She laughed, short and hard. “No. No doubt in time our mission will be known, but for now, it is much easier for us to move about unnoticed.”

  “You make yourselves sound like spies.”

  She shook her head vigorously, loosening her hairstyle. A ringlet of pale moonlight tumbled onto her shoulder, making her at once more desirable. He urgently wanted to see the rest of it. His body thrummed to life, and while he did his best to ignore the urge
, it remained, underlining their conversation.

  “Angela, in her capacity as head of the bank, sometimes needs to know more about a situation, but does not want to draw attention to herself. We, the members of the SSL, act as her agents.” She lifted her chin proudly. “Paid agents.”

  “Fascinating,” he drawled. He guessed where this was going, although he wouldn’t spare her the explanation. “Go on.” He’d use the extra time to place this information into his plans and assimilate what she’d just told him.

  “Your cousin has borrowed a great deal of money against the expectation of inheriting. You may not know that rumors were racing around London that Louis had done away with you. Or at the very least that you died of the wounds you sustained in the duel. Angela wished to ascertain the truth of these. She didn’t want to incur his displeasure, in case he did become the marquess, but she doesn’t want to lend him any more funds.”

  He frowned. “She sent you into danger?”

  She laughed harshly. “At a house party? I don’t think so. I have written to her to inform her that you are still alive, and it is a matter of time before you are declared the marquess. But Sir James wants documentary proof. The Chancellor insists on it.”

  He grunted. “Lord Hardwicke has always been a stickler for paperwork. He was Chancellor when I left, and I daresay he’ll be Chancellor until he dies.”

  He kept his eyes on hers. She was nervous, her lovely eyes wide, but not afraid. He liked that. “And so you came to my room this morning when you thought I would be at the hunt.” That was the part he didn’t like.

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “I should not have pried, I know, but the maid left the door open. It was the act of an instant to walk inside. And then you arrived.” She bit her lip. He focused his attention on it until she let it slide back into place. The plump, pink flesh tempted him far too much.

  “So I did.” He recalled the scene, and the help she’d rendered. Honoria would have fainted. Lovely as she was, his cousin’s wife did not have the presence of mind of this woman. Or the common sense. “Before the events of this morning, I had intended to wait awhile.”

  “To what purpose?” She raised a hand, then let it fall, rustling the silk of her gown. Ben found the sound strangely alluring. For once in his life, he was having difficulty concentrating on the point of discussion. “I see. To discern friend from foe.”

  Ah, she was sharp. “Precisely. To assess the lay of the land before I made my move. But I will not have my friends put in danger. If Louis is that desperate, then this must end.” Unfolding his arms, he lifted the papers in his hand. “These are the proof of my claim. You should have looked at this pile first.”

  “What are they?”

  “You will trust me to summarize for you?”

  She nodded.

  Gratification suffused him. It should not, but her approval meant more than he cared to admit. If Angela Childers was involved, that explained a lot. Miss Childers had a mind as sharp as a newly stropped razor, and she would have had her eye on the sums his cousin was borrowing. She’d want to secure her investment and ensure it could be repaid. If Louis was not the marquess, then she would cut his line of credit.

  “These are the letters Hal wrote to me while I was away, and he has lent me some of my replies to add to the stack. They have a continuity no claimant could achieve. And they have all the proofs of transport on the outside—the seals, the franks, the declarations, all that. I also have affidavits written by my representatives in London, and the lawyers connected with the estate.”

  He drew a sheet out. “And this...this is a letter from the King, assuring anyone interested that I am the true Marquess of Belstead.” He allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “I had time to attend court while I was in London arranging to come here. Fortunately, the King saw me with little delay, probably eager for the small gift I brought for him from the colonies.”

  “A gift?”

  “Snuff.” He shrugged. “A small token of my loyalty. He has a penchant for snuff made from tobacco harvested on a particular estate in Virginia. Over the last few years, I have made certain he got it. When I visited him at court last week, I brought his usual supply myself. He recognized me, although he evinced surprise that I was that Thorpe.”

  “He knew you were alive?”

  “Not until I presented myself before him,” he admitted. The company his father-in-law had owned had dealt with the British royal family for years. Ben had ensured the King got what he wanted and established a chain of supply personally. He’d even fought and killed a bear in its cause, knowing the favor would pay off one day. And it had, magnificently. “The King expressed his appreciation, as well as revealing his disappointment in Louis and his wasteful, immoral ways.” He grinned. “That helped him in his decision. And Louis’s adherence to and friendship with the Prince of Wales.”

  After a sharp laugh, she clapped her hand over her mouth, as the sound reverberated around the room. “Yes, he is, he does! I mean, he is forever at Carlton House dancing attendance on the prince. And the King hates the prince, does he not?”

  “Cordially. As his father hated him. A family tradition, you might say. His majesty never hesitates to do his son a bad turn. Putting paid to the ambitions of one of Frederick’s friends will do nicely.”

  A reluctant smile flickered over her lips. “That was clever.”

  He swept a brief bow. “Thank you.” Agitation still disturbed him, and the remnants of his fear and fury. Fear his best friend would die. Fury that anyone would attempt it. And now, attraction for this woman, far more than he’d felt before. Her new boldness delighted him, and she had grown into her looks. Whether she realized it or not, Dorothea was beautiful. Where she’d been coltish, grace and elegance had taken its place.

  “But the king’s letter will be enough.” He glanced at the documents. She could have stolen it, or anyone else for that matter. Leaving it in the open was criminally careless. Not something he could usually be accused of.

  He would not make such a mistake again.

  “And you... Of course they would.” He moved closer. She backed away, her hands clenched by her sides. “You are my ally, are you not?”

  Her back connected with the wall. He kept coming until he stood before her. He slapped his hands against the painted plaster on either side of her head and leaned in. Tipping her chin, she stared up at him. Beautiful eyes he could get lost in. The soft gray had a darker outline, defining her irises. As he watched, the pupils widened, letting more of her soul free.

  Taking a hand from the cold, unfeeling wall, he grazed the tip of her chin with his crooked forefinger. “Lovely,” he murmured.

  This time she did not gainsay him, only swallowed and blinked. Her mouth dropped open slightly. She had elegant lips, carefully shaped and full. Eminently kissable. And it had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman. Months. Maybe longer.

  The memories of others faded, became mere dreams as he gazed at the one before him, the heat of her body warming him. Lowering his head the fraction of an inch that it took, he brushed his lips over hers in the briefest of kisses. Instead of lifting away, as he’d meant to do, he hesitated, and returned for more.

  A blaze of instant fire took him, shocked him into deepening the kiss. What he’d meant as a mere tease, a demonstration of his power, turned into something else entirely. He pressed closer, heat searing him, his awareness of her body wrapping around him like a protective sheath.

  He wanted everything she would give him.

  * * * *

  Dorothea opened her mouth and let him in. She could do nothing else. His power, so carefully harnessed, swept through her and put her in his thrall. If he’d forced her, she’d have broken away immediately, but he didn’t.

  He persuaded, and that was worse. Offered her just enough to make her pursue him, to become an eager participant. Had a kiss ever proved
so seductive, so irresistible? She had kissed men before, but not like this. She recalled hard lips on hers, or young, eager ones, clumsy and unpracticed. Nothing like this. Never had she known the power of a mere kiss before.

  When he touched her lips with the tip of his tongue, she almost swooned from the intimacy. But she was no schoolroom miss. She was made of stronger stuff. Dorothea looped her arm around the back of his neck, the velvet of his hair ribbon grazing her skin. The enticing fabric of his shirt barely concealed the powerful muscles beneath. If he had not bent to her, she wouldn’t have been able to reach his arm, such was the width of his shoulders and his height. That alone fascinated her, that he had to bend to her instead of reaching up.

  He dipped his tongue into her mouth and she clutched at him, grabbing his waistcoat and pulling the top few buttons undone. He groaned into her mouth. Eagerly she swallowed the sound and came back for more. Her fichu loosened, whether from her frantic need or his hands she didn’t know. Nor did she care. He could rip it off her if he liked.

  Drawing away, he gasped, “I did not mean—” but she pulled him back, using her arm to haul him against her. So there were advantages in being tall, after all. A shorter woman wouldn’t have had the leverage. Triumph soared through her when he responded, dragging her even closer to press her breasts against the firm wall of his chest. It brought her some ease but not nearly enough. She needed more. She wanted skin.

  Working her hand between them, she found his waistcoat buttons and tugged them through the buttonholes. He did not stop her and, emboldened, she carried on, until she could flatten her hand on his chest. Now only his shirt lay between her and her desire. If she didn’t have him now, she’d never have the chance again. He was rough around the edges but still a gentleman, and he’d keep away from her. Voracious, unfulfilled, she pressed her lips to his, afraid that if he came to his senses and recalled who she was and what she looked like, he’d move away. If he did that, she would die. Or something inside her would. She’d never felt desire like this before, and she wanted more. Now.