Marry in haste, repent at leisure was a phrase he had not fully understood until he and Amelia had been wed. She had transformed from a sweet, agreeable woman into a spoilt, vain, temperamental shrew the moment she could claim the title Marchioness. Alex, who had never been overly fond of the society that his new bride was obsessed by, had retreated to Montagu House, uncaring of the rumours that soon began to circulate of the new Marchioness's penchant for affairs with anyone from stable hands to members of his club.
He had made a huge mistake in marrying her; he knew this. There had never been any love between them, indeed Amelia had often looked at him with eyes full of scorn, but even with that, when she had died after a freak carriage accident in which one of her paramours was driving, he had been filled with guilt. This guilt had pushed him further into his studies of the ancient languages, to the point that it had bordered on obsession. The single-minded resolve to solve the mystery of what was written on the ancient Egyptian steele that he and Dubois were studying had consumed his every waking thought for years --until he had found Miss Belinda Bowstock, tied by a bonnet string to a Greek urn. His every waking thought was now dedicated to her, not to mention his dreams, when he did sleep, which featured her regularly. It was ridiculous, he was a man of four and thirty, he should know better than to be distracted by a pair of big, blue eyes.
"Has it been years?" he finally questioned, deliberately making his tone light. "Goodness, how quickly they pass. I suppose I have hidden myself away for quite some time, though I intend to change that."
He saw Caroline's eyebrows knit together speculatively and resisted smiling at her reaction. He knew she was wondering if he was insinuating that he wished to find a bride, but he quickly changed the topic of conversation, happy to keep her speculating, for he was not too certain of the answer himself. Yes, he knew he needed to wed, but the only woman who held his interest was wholly unsuited to being a Marchioness. It would shock society if he were to announce his intentions toward Miss Bowstock but then, he thought with a smirk, when had he ever cared about what society thought?
The afternoon activities consisted of a walk in the grounds of Hawkfield Manor, followed by a picnic by the lake. Alex had thought that perhaps, circumstances permitting, he might fall into step with Miss Bowstock and manage a few stolen words with her. Circumstances did not permit, however, because Miss Bowstock seemed determined to avoid him.
"Goodness, Belinda is full of energy," Lady Caroline noted, as Jane's companion hurtled ahead of the group. Henry, who Alex was growing rather fond of, kept pausing to look back at him, as though he wanted the Marquess to chase after him. They were nearing the lake and Alex could see that laid out under a copse of nearby trees was a large picnic for the guests. He evidently wasn't the only one to spot it, for Miss Bowstock emitted a wail of annoyance as Henry tore off in the direction of the luncheon.
"Oh, dear, she'll lose her bonnet," Jane gasped, as the group watched Belinda race after the mischievous Cavalier.
"That would hardly be a tragedy," Alex drawled, for the bonnet in question was the same hideous one from Montagu House. The group watched in awe as Jane's prediction came true and Belinda's bonnet was torn from her head by a gust of wind and carried toward the lake. She paused and turned in the direction that her hat had flown, then turned back to look at Henry who was still making his way, on his short legs, toward the picnic. Miss Bowstock obviously decided that lunch was more important than the hat for, after a pause, she continued chasing the dog. Alex heaved a sigh and made for the lake. Chivalry demanded that he rescue the hat from ruin, but he really wished Miss Bowstock had a nicer hat to rescue. The bonnet had landed in the reeds, by the lakes edge. He only had to wade in a few steps to retrieve it, but the bottom of the lake was muddy and even those few steps rendered his own boots quite ruined.
Miss Bowstock stood as he returned, her expression nervous as she took in the state of his muddied boots and breeches.
"Oh, dear," she whispered, as he neared her. "You should not have ruined your clothing for my bonnet. It is just a silly, old thing --not worth rescuing."
"Of course it was," he countered, handing her the slightly muddied hat. She took it with a curtsy and a word of thanks, then ushered him over to where the blankets were laid out, quite obviously eager to be rid of his company.
"Oh, there you are Jane," Miss Bowstock said with relief, throwing herself down on the blanket, so close to Miss Deveraux that she was almost seated in her lap. Alex glowered; he was not used to women throwing themselves away from him --quite the opposite, in fact.
He took a seat on the same blanket, beside Lord Payne, who was engaging the two women in easy, amusing conversation. Never before had Alex felt so jealous of Payne's casual charm, and when the young Lord offered to fetch a plate for Miss Bowstock, Alex nearly belted him.
"I will fetch Miss Bowstock a plate," he said stiffly, rising easily and padding across the grass to where the luncheon buffet was laid out. He took a plate, piled it high with cold meats, strawberries and radishes, and returned to where the object of his affections sat. The only problem was, that she did not wear a look of affection on her own face, in fact she looked rather like she was about to cast up her accounts.
"Eat up," he instructed, sounding much sterner than he had intended. Miss Bowstock nervously picked up a strawberry and obediently popped it into her mouth and began chewing with a pained expression. Alex had deliberately placed himself so that the bulk of his body blocked Lord Payne and Miss Deveraux from view, he was determined that he would have his few stolen moments with Miss Bowstock.
"I did not see you at breakfast," he stated simply. At his words Belinda's eyes left her plate and locked with his for the first time, leaving him almost winded with desire.
"I slept late," she offered, picking nervously at the food he had given her. "I'm usually early to rise, but last night I found it difficult to fall back asleep, after--"
Her face flamed red as she mentioned their midnight meeting. A thrill of satisfaction coursed through Alex; at least he had not been alone in finding sleep difficult after their brief encounter. Belinda's head turned as Henry padded over to them, his tail wagging as he sniffed the meat upon his mistress's plate. He rested his head on Belinda's lap, his eyes wide and innocent, as he gazed up at her, begging.
"He's not very well behaved," Alex observed, as Miss Bowstock discreetly fed the dog a small piece of ham.
"No, he's not," she agreed with a chuckle, flashing him a mischievous smile. "But I adore him, despite his obvious character flaws - he reminds me of home."
"And where is home?" Alex asked, leaning forward to hear her answer. Miss Bowstock was a complete mystery to him; he knew nothing of her lineage or her past; it was as though she had simply appeared out of thin air.
"Cornwall."
"Cornwall is rather large," Alex said, wondering if she was being deliberately vague, her answer was so curt. Did she have something to hide?
"It is," eagerly Miss Bowstock nodded her head in agreement. "Very big. Have you ever been, my Lord?"
Goodness; he would have laughed at the obviousness of her tactics had he not been so intrigued by her evasiveness.
"I have just returned from Truro," he volunteered, casually leaning over to scratch Henry's ears. The dog glanced at him dismissively, he would not pay attention to mere ear scratching, when there was food to beg for.
"What were you doing in Truro?"
Alex knew he wasn't imagining the slightly defensive note to Miss Bowstock's question and his eyes narrowed in thought. This was a woman with something to hide, and he was determined to find out what exactly it was. His inquisition was put on hold as Lord Payne let out a call for a game of cricket. Alex rose to his feet, with a short nod to Belinda, ignoring the look of relief on her face. He would have answers from her, he decided, but he would not scare her into revealing her past...he would woo her instead.
Chapter Seven
That evening the fable of the boy
who cried wolf sprung to Hestia's mind as she suffered through dinner. Why had she pretended to have a migraine on her first night at Hawkfield Manor, when this evening the lie would have served a far greater purpose. Namely, it would have allowed her to avoid the Marquess of Falconbridge, who seemed determined to find out everything he could about her past.
He was suspicious of her, she knew, though she also knew that he could have no reason to connect her to the scandalous life and death of David Stockbow, unless she gave him one.
"We were speaking of Truro," Lord Delaney said, as he sidled up to her in the drawing room, after dinner. Tea was being served in delicate china cups, allowing Hestia a minute's relief as she pretended to be distracted by adding lumps of sugar to her drink. "And you were just about to tell me where it was that you had lived in Cornwall."
"Was that what we were speaking of, my Lord?" she finally asked gaily, hoping that Falconbridge could not hear her heart, which was beating a loud, nervous tattoo in her breast. "Oh, yes, just before you left to play cricket. Tell me, where did you learn to play so well?"
She opened her eyes in what she hoped was a wide and innocent way, crossing her fingers that the Marquess, like every other man, would jump at the opportunity to speak of his accomplishments.
"At Eton," he answered smoothly, sitting down, uninvited, on the overstuffed sofa beside her. The china cup that he held looked ridiculously small in his hand and the sheer size of him left her feeling even more nervous. All his questions would be so much easier to bear if he wasn't so intimidating looking, she thought with annoyance. It wasn't just his size that daunted her, but his face as well --he was sinfully handsome. His cheekbones were high, his mouth generous and his eyes hypnotising in their intensity --he truly was a tempting specimen of a man. A lock of Falconbridge's dark hair had fallen out of place and for a moment Hestia felt the urge to brush it away with her hand.
Goodness, she started, where had that thought come from?
"Of course," she parroted stupidly to his reply, hoping that if she kept up a constant stream of babble that he would not get the chance to ask her any more questions. "Why, cricket must be a very popular sport there. What other sports do you engage in, my Lord? Do tell, I'd be most fascinated to hear."
"Sadly, I'm not in the slightest bit fascinated by the thought of listing them off for you," Lord Delaney drawled, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Tell me, Miss Bowstock, are you always this evasive, or is it just with me?"
His direct line of questioning shocked her into silence. Her acting skills were obviously not what she thought them to be, for the Marquess was looking at her with the eyes of a man who knew that she had a secret.
"Other people never give me cause to be evasive," she finally answered, plucking at the skirts of her dress with nervous fingers. "For there are few who would take interest in a Lady's Companion, my Lord. Excepting you, of course."
"So, you admit that you are reluctant to speak of your past?" there was no triumph in his tone and his eyes, when they met Hestia's, were kind.
"If my circumstances had been slightly better, my Lord," Hestia replied, heavily weighting her words so that they were honest and yet revealed little. "Then I would not be a Lady's Companion, I would be someone's wife. A solicitor's maybe, or perhaps a small merchant's."
"I am glad you are nobody's wife."
Goodness, Hestia glanced at the Marquess with utter alarm, was he insinuating that he would like her as his bride? Surely not; perhaps he was going to offer her a position as his mistress, for she knew that wealthy men often did things like that.
"I'm afraid--"
What she was afraid of remained unsaid, for Jane called out for her to play a song on the pianoforte and she readily agreed. Her mother had taught her how to play during the long winters that her father was away at sea and she knew she was as accomplished as any young debutant. Hestia knew all of the proper songs that a young lady ought to know, as well as sadder, more melodic tunes that were native to Cornwall. She was nearing the end of a sweet, poignant song about a sailor lost at sea, when the Marquess came to stand beside her and she lost her place.
"Oh, silly me," she smiled, pushing back her chair without looking at Lord Delaney and going to stand near Jane.
"My dear you have such a sweet voice," the Duchess of Hawkfield cried, "Who taught you how to sing?"
"My mother."
An overwhelming sensation of grief coursed through her and she glanced at Jane, hoping that she might see her distress. Jane, however, was distracted by the ridiculous Mr Jackson, and the only eyes that seemed to witness her grief were those of Lord Delaney, whose sympathetic gaze found hers.
The others were arguing about what activity to play next, with Lady Caroline's suggestion of a board game quickly shot down by her brother.
"How about a game of hide and seek?" Lord Payne asked.
Goodness, Hestia couldn't think of anything worse, but to her surprise the whole group --bar the Duchess, who was going to her chambers--agreed. Giles, Caroline's husband, was chosen as the seeker, and in high-spirits the guests ran from the drawing room, scattering in a dozen different directions.
Hestia, who was not much bothered by winning, scurried toward the library, where she thought she might have a chance to peruse the Duke's book collection while she waited for Giles to find her. The library was situated just off the drawing room, it was a dark, masculine space, lined with mahogany bookshelves that were stuffed with leather bound volumes. She ran an idle finger down the spine of a collection of Lord Byron's works, before plucking it from the shelf and settling down on an over-stuffed Queen Anne by the fireplace. The servants had obviously been busy, as there was a fire dancing happily in the grate, lending the room a cosy air. Imagine having so much wealth that you kept a full fire going in an empty room, just in case you might use it, Hestia thought. There had been one fireplace in the small cottage she had grown up in, and keeping it filled with wood during the winter months had been a constant worry.
Lord Byron's poems were not the most restive of reading materials and after attempting to wade her way through one of his longer sonnets, Hestia stood and padded over to the window. The deep, bay window of the library looked out onto a rose garden, which was in darkness. The sky above was clear with a scattering of stars, that twinkled cheerfully. In Cornwall, the night sky had always seemed endless and magical, stretching to the horizon until it blurred with the sea; but here the sky held no magic for Hestia.
"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Bowstock."
Hestia went rigid with shock at the sound of Falconbridge's voice from behind her. When had he come in? He either moved in complete silence, or she had been so lost in thought that she had not heard him.
"I don't think they're worth even that," she responded, afraid to turn to look at him. Why was he here? Why could he not just leave her alone, like everybody else? Her status as a servant was supposed to inure her from interest, but it had not deterred the determined Marquess.
"Oh, I don't know," Lord Delaney spoke in a light, teasing tone. "A woman clutching a book of Byron's poems whilst gazing dreamily at the night sky, must surely be thinking something deep and poetic."
"I was thinking of sewing," Hestia responded tartly, offering the dullest topic she could think of. She did not wish to engage in any kind of teasing with Lord Delaney, no matter that his voice left goose pimples on her bare arms.
"Ah, of course you were," he chuckled, a deep, melodic sound that filled the room with warmth. "Were you thinking that the sky is like a beautiful tapestry sewn from glittering silks?"
"No," Hestia replied mulishly, as he came to stand beside her, his arm grazing hers. "I was thinking of my bonnet, which will need a new ribbon sewn onto it."
"Are you always this stubborn?" the Marquess sighed at her answer, looking down at her with eyes that were a mixture of amusement and frustration.
"No," Hestia replied, rather stubbornly, even she had to admit.
"Only with me, the
n I take it?"
"Well, you insist on following me everywhere," she sighed, her eyes refusing to meet his, "And asking me probing questions that I quite obviously do not wish to answer."
"I am sorry," Falconbridge sounded sincere, his hand reaching for hers, "It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. I am fascinated by you Miss Bowstock and, as an academic, when I am fascinated by a subject, I am filled with a need to know everything that I can possibly know about it."
"There is little to know, my Lord," Hestia's mind was reeling from this startling confession from a man of such a high rank. Her body was responding to his closeness in unfamiliar ways and the feel of his hand holding hers had turned her knees to jelly and her brain to mush. "You know it all, already, my Lord. I fear that I am possibly the dullest creature to have ever walked the earth --I pray, tell me more about you."
"I find it impossible to believe that a woman with such expressive eyes, could ever be dull," Lord Delaney held her gaze. "Though if you would prefer to wait until after we are wed, to reveal yourself completely to me, then so be it."
"Wed?" Hestia balked; goodness this had escalated quickly. "Are you quite well, my Lord? You can't marry me, I am just a servant."
A servant with a criminal father and a history so scandalous that even the Falconbridge's lofty title could not help but be tainted by it.
"Yes, wed," Lord Delaney's eyes danced; he seemed terribly amused by her reaction. "We shall have to for two reasons, the first being that I am attracted to you in a way that I have never felt before."
"And the second?" Hestia asked, wondering if it was she who had gone mad and was hallucinating this absurd conversation.
"Why, because offering for a woman after you have kissed her thoroughly, whilst alone in a dark room, is the honourable thing to do --and I always do the honourable thing. Well, except perhaps for this..."
The Marquess of Temptation Page 5
