The Marquess of Temptation

by Claudia Stone

  Phoebe, who was herself married to an Earl, had taken Hestia under her wing in a way that Alex could not dare have hoped for. Hestia had been deposited at Lord and Lady Thackery's home a week ago, after a long trip from Cornwall, to live under Phoebe's care until the necessary paper-work was in place for the wedding. Alex had been loathe to part with his intended just for proprieties' sake, though his rather bossy older-sister had shot down his declaration that he too would stay at Thackery Hall until the wedding.

  "For heaven's sake Alex," Phoebe had admonished, "Use that brain of yours, the one that everyone is always harping on about. Miss Stockbow has enough black marks against her name, without the rumour that you are living together in sin circulating. Besides, the sight of your grumpy face in the morning would put me off my breakfast."

  "Don't fear, Miss Stockbow," Alex had said, ignoring his sister's barbs, instead addressing Hestia; "You shan't be left here for long."

  "Actually, I think I'll rather enjoy my stay with your sister," Hestia had responded, evidently delighted to see someone speak down to him. At the time, Alex had rather regretted leaving Hestia under Phoebe's bad influence, but having seen her tonight, he had to concede that his sister had done a marvellous job with the young lady who would be his bride.

  Gone was the hideous bonnet and the dowdy dresses, replaced instead by an elegant chignon and a dress of sapphire blue, that clung to her every curve. For the first time in his life he wished that he knew more about women's fashion, so that he could commission a modiste to make a hundred dresses for Hestia, all in that same soft, puffy material.

  She was like a cloud come to earth for one night, he decided, not caring that this was a ridiculously sappy thing for a man who had been to war to think.

  The carriage trundled on, eventually arriving at the front steps of Hawkfield House, the imposing, three-story residence of the Duke and Duchess.

  "It would have taken us five minutes by foot," Alex grumbled again to his sister, as a footman opened the door, for his own home was just around the corner on the equally affluent Duke Street.

  Phoebe ignored him, instead tucking Hestia's arm under her own as she marched up the steps to the front door. Alex followed, reluctantly deciding that he had done enough grumbling for one night. Tonight was about Hestia, about making sure that she had the smoothest possible entry to society as was possible. It was not an opportunity for him to display his famous impatience.

  The ballroom of Hawkfield House was packed to bursting, which was an impressive feat, as it was one of the largest ballrooms in all of England. A slight hush fell over the crowd, as their arrival was announced, and Alex saw several people craning to get a better look at Hestia. His protective instincts kicked in, and he was filled with a need to shield her from view.

  Don't be ridiculous, he chastised himself, there's no point in taking her out, just to hide her away. Indeed, Hestia appeared to be handling the attention rather well. She walked a little before him, her shoulders back and her head held high. As they made their way past the crowds, Alex heard a few people exclaiming how pretty Miss Stockbow was.

  "I suppose it's true that men lose all their senses at the sight of a pretty face," a nasally voice whispered loudly as they passed, "For Falconbridge must have near lost his mind, if he intends to sully the line by marrying the girl."

  Alex whipped around, to see who had spoken, but all he saw were curious faces staring back at him. He hoped that Hestia had not heard, though judging by the stiffness of her shoulders, she had.

  "There you are Hestia, dearest."

  It was Jane, dressed in a dove grey gown, which complimented her creamy complexion and rosy cheeks. The future Duchess of Hawkfield bestowed two kisses on Hestia's cheeks and drew her towards her conspiratorially.

  "Everyone is so glad you could make it. Come, my Lord, my Lady, Lord Payne's parents and the Duke and Duchess of Everleigh are awaiting your arrival."

  Alex followed a step behind as Hestia was led toward the two Dukes and Duchesses. There were few among the ton who could claim an association with either family, to be so publicly welcomed by both was quite the coup d'état. Olive, Duchess of Ashford smiled warmly as Hestia was presented to her.

  "How wonderful to meet you again, Miss Stockbow," she said loudly, so that the shameless earwigs standing nearby would overhear. "I am so looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, now you are back in town."

  "And I yours, your Grace," Hestia mumbled, her cheeks pink.

  The Duke and Duchess of Hawkfield were no less gracious and, once the introductions were finished, instructed Hestia and Alex to enjoy the festivities.

  "I cannot allow Miss Stockbow leave, until she promises me a dance," the Duke of Everleigh called. "I am certain she will be much in demand for the night."

  "Yes," even though he knew that Everleigh was only trying to show kindness, Alex felt himself bristle with indignation; "She will be busy dancing with me."

  "Though of course, when my brother can be persuaded to leave Hestia's side, she will be delighted to dance with you, your Grace," Phoebe interjected swiftly, with a sharp elbow to Alex's ribs to silence him.

  He glowered, but kept his peace, for he knew that Phoebe was right to chastise him for his ill manners. He could not expect Hestia to have a successful launch into society if he did not allow her to speak to anyone bar him. After the wedding, he thought, they would have all the time in the world together. Perhaps he would take her away, down to the small estate he owned near Penzance, and they could spend some time alone together, away from prying eyes.

  His sister stole Hestia away soon after, leaving Alex to moodily stalk the periphery of the ballroom. He nodded at the many familiar faces he passed, though engaged none in conversation. A familiar fop of blonde hair, however, drew him from his reclusive state.

  "Pierre," he called, clapping his fellow academic heartily on the back, "This was the last place I was expecting to find you."

  "It is the last place I expected to be," the Frenchman replied with a weak smile, "However the Duke kindly invited me last week, when he paid a visit to Montagu House to check on our progress."

  Alex could not help but note the tone of disapproval in Dubois' voice as he spoke of their shared project. Since meeting Miss Stockbow, Alex had been rather neglecting his work on translating the Egyptian steele, and it was clear that the French man was annoyed.

  "I know I have not been very helpful," he offered an apology with a rueful grin, "But I inherited a ward, then found myself a bride and all thought of translation simply left my head. Once the wedding is over and done with, I'll be back to my old self."

  "Yes," Dubois lowered his voice to a whisper, so low that Alex had to lean in to hear him. "Do you think she knows where the missing piece of the stone is, this Stockbow girl? Is that why you're marrying her?"

  His question shocked Alex for two reasons; the first being that he had forgotten Dubois knew of David Stockbow's connection to the missing stone, the second being that he himself had been so overcome by feelings for Hestia that her connection to the missing piece of stone, hadn't even registered.

  "I have not yet asked her," he replied truthfully, which made Dubois sigh with irritation.

  "For goodness sake, just ask the girl. She must know where it is! What's the point of having her as your wife, if she doesn't lead you to the stone?"

  Alex felt slightly uncomfortable at Dubois's insinuation that he was only marrying Hestia in the hope that she might reveal where --or if--her father had hidden the steele. Dubois's words perfectly showed his focused determination to decipher the mysteries of Egyptian hieroglyphics, at any cost. In fact, Alex was certain, if Dubois had stumbled upon Hestia before he had, that the Frenchman would have married her instead of him.

  "Must dash, old fellow, my sister is beckoning for me," Alex offered apologetically, hoping that Dubois would not look over his shoulder and find that Phoebe was doing no such thing. Alex pushed his way through the throngs of people, to where h
is sister and his intended stood, deep in conversation with Lady Caroline, Lord Payne's sister.

  "There you are," Phoebe called brightly, as he arrived at her side. "You're just in time for the first dance of the night."

  Indeed, the orchestra, who had been warming up, struck up the first notes of a Quadrille just as Phoebe finished her sentence. Alex would rather have shared a more intimate waltz with Miss Stockbow, but he chivalrously took her hand and led her out onto the floor.

  "I have never danced in public, my Lord," she whispered, her petrified eyes darting to and fro, as though plotting an escape route.

  "But you know the steps?" Alex questioned.

  She nodded and he gave her an encouraging smile; "That's all that is required, I swear. Everyone will be too wrapped up in themselves to pay you any heed."

  This was, in fact, a bare-faced lie; Alex knew full well that the whole room was watching as he and Hestia joined three other couples, for the set dance, though he wasn't about to share that with her. The dance was a lively number, and soon Hestia's face was pink with exertion and excitement. As the music came to an end, Hestia's hand was holding Alex's and he silently marvelled at how perfectly they fit together.

  He led her from the ballroom floor, heading through the crowd toward his sister, who was chatting animatedly with friends by the bowls of ratafia. Alex had a sneaking suspicion that her animation was partly fuelled by the sweet alcohol, for she seemed even more exuberant than usual.

  Hestia, who had appeared relaxed after their energetic dance, suddenly stiffened beside him. Alex glanced at her with concern, following her frightened gaze to where a tall man of about forty, with a shock of floppy, blonde hair stood.

  Lord Bleakly, Viscount Havisham --Alex recognised him from White's, though he had not thought of the familial connection that the Viscount shared with his betrothed.

  The whole room seemed to have noticed Hestia's discomfort and were watching gleefully, to see what would unfold. Would the Viscount snub his niece? It would be the talk of the town for weeks, if he did.

  Havisham paled, as he sighted his niece. Alex witnessed a multitude of emotions flicker across the Viscount's face, until he finally settled on a look of resignation. He said a quiet word to the gentleman he had been conversing with and ambled over to the Marquess and Hestia.

  "Delaney," he called, in a voice slightly louder than was usual, which Alex assumed was for the benefit of the listening crowd. "My congratulations. I wish you and my niece every happiness for your shared future together."

  As the two men briefly clasped hands in an awkward handshake, Alex swore he could almost feel a rush of air, as the crowd sighed with disappointment: there would be no scandal to discuss the next morning. That Lord Bleakly did not actually talk to his niece, nor even glance at her, and instead directed his words at the Marquess, was neither here nor there. As the night drew to a close, Alex happily decided that Hestia's launch had been a resounding success, and that things could only get easier from here on in.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the past fortnight Hestia's life had changed so much, that sometimes she found herself pinching her arm, to ensure that she wasn't simply dreaming.

  She had gone from the position of lowly paid companion, to the honoured guest of an Earl and Countess, and with that had come a plethora of luxuries. Her bedroom was no longer a small, cramped servant's room on the top floor of the house, but an enormous suite of rooms on the first floor, complete with four poster bed and a feather mattress. The bed chamber alone was nearly the size of the entire cottage that she had grown up in and she found its proportions a little overwhelming.

  Henry, who had always had delusions of grandeur, had settled in rather well to his new accommodation, though Hestia still felt a little nervous at her grand surroundings, she had, however, grown very fond of her hostess.

  Phoebe, Lady Thackery was quite different to her brother. Where the Marquess was cool and aloof, his sister was warm and open. She treated Hestia like an equal, taking her with her on her morning calls, and accompanying her to a modiste, who was commissioned to make the future Marchioness of Falconbridge a dozen new dresses.

  "I can't allow you to spend so much money, my Lady," Hestia had stuttered, red-faced at the extravagance.

  "Oh, don't be silly dear. It's not my money, it's Alex's," Lady Thackery had responded happily. "He has given me carte blanche to spend what I like on your new wardrobe. And how many times must I tell you, call me Phoebe."

  Once Hestia's wardrobe was filled with six day dresses, a riding habit and several beautiful ball-gowns, a notice was put in the paper to find her a lady's maid. If somebody had told Hestia a year ago, that she would need someone to help her dress every morning, she would have said they were fit for Bedlam. Having witnessed the complicated strings, bows and laces attached to her stays and new dresses, Hestia soon relented that lady's maid was, in fact, a necessity for a lady.

  The girl who was hired, Catherine, had auburn hair and an unplacable accent.

  "My last mistress was married to an Irish Earl and I spent many years there, near Kerry," was all she offered, when Hestia questioned it one morning. Although the girl was reticent to offer details of her past employment, she was in general, good company for Hestia, who enjoyed listening to her melodic, lilting voice.

  Catherine accompanied her everywhere, and when she wasn't shadowed by her lady's maid, she was with Lady Thackery and frequently the Marquess, who called every day. That she and Lord Delaney were to be wed, still seemed like a faintly ridiculous notion to Hestia. Sometimes she was so overwhelmed at the idea of becoming his wife, that she felt she could bolt, but there was always someone present to prevent her escape.

  I just need a morning to myself, to think, she thought with despair after another round of house-calls with Lady Thackery. As it happened once they arrived home, Phoebe, who was usually brimming with energy, declared herself exhausted and repaired to her rooms for a nap. Catherine, who had joined Henry as Hestia's second shadow, looked at Hestia expectantly, waiting to be told what to do next.

  "Would you like to take the afternoon off, Catherine?" Hestia asked, trying to keep the hopeful note from her voice. "We've been so busy these past few days, I'm sure you are as exhausted as I."

  "I can help you get ready for bed, ma'am," Catherine offered.

  "Oh, thank you, but no," Hestia replied firmly, "I think I'll just stay in my room and read. Off you go, put your feet up. I'll call if I need you."

  Hestia waited until she was certain that the girl had gone up to her room, before grabbing Henry's leash from her bedroom, and slipping out the servant's door at the rear of the house.

  Freedom.

  She pulled her shawl tightly around her, to ward off the brisk Spring air, and hurried down Dover Street, toward Piccadilly. The footpaths were crowded with people from all walks of life, and too late Hestia thought of the hem of her dress, which was soon spattered with mud. Ladies did not walk places for a reason, she thought, as she surveyed her dress with dismay.

  At Piccadilly she crossed the road, weaving through carriages and carts, until she reached the far footpath and the entrance to Green Park. At last, she thought happily, slowing her pace as she began her stroll through the lush, green park-lands.

  Henry, who had been reluctant to leave the comfort of Thackery House, perked up at the familiar surroundings of Green Park. Hestia untied his leash and watched with satisfaction as he tore off across the fields, his tail wagging with excitement.

  If only life could always be like this, she thought, as she followed the path farther into the park, where it was less crowded. She did like London, she liked the hustle and bustle that came with living in a large city, but at heart she was just a country mouse. She was also just a plain, un-titled, young woman; unused to the demands of society. Every day for the past fortnight, she had been paraded before the madams of the ton and her cheeks ached from smiling politely, while her head ached from trying to remember the st
rict social protocols she was supposed to adhere to.

  It was all too much, she thought, and it was all distracting her from the pressing matter of finding out who it was that had murdered her father. Lord Delaney, who had danced attendance on her since their betrothal, had failed to mention the promise he had made to help her discover what had happened that fateful night in Cornwall. Any time she tried to raise the subject with him, he changed topic quickly, instead preferring to talk about their upcoming nuptials.

  She was so frustrated that she could scream, and she knew that if she screamed, her ire would be directed at the Marquess, who kept insisting she call him Alex.

  "Oh, Henry," she whispered to her small canine companion, who had returned from his explorations. "What am I to do?"

  If Henry had any wisdom to offer, he kept his silence, though he did nudge her hand with his cool, wet nose, demanding a pat. Hestia happily obliged him before continuing with her stroll. She had been walking for about half an hour, when she crossed paths with a blonde haired man, who did a double take when he saw her approaching.

  "Miss Stockbow," the man called, in accented English. "How 'appy I am to make your acquaintance."

  "I am sorry, Sir, I do not know your name."

  Hestia's thoughts instantly flew to the Marquess, and his words of warning that Green Park was not a safe place for a lady to walk alone. The man opposite her looked safe enough, he wore an elegant dark coat over breeches and boots, which looked as expensive as anything Falconbridge might wear.

  "Ah, of course, My apologies - I am Pierre Dubois. I am sure that Lord Delaney has told you all about me."

  "Ah," Hestia wracked her brain trying to remember if the Marquess had ever mentioned the French man to her.

  "I see he has not mentioned me at all," Dubois huffed, a flash of annoyance crossing his long, thin face. "I am not surprised; he seems to have completely forgotten me and our work, since meeting you."