Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess

by Renee Ann Miller

  “You know me better than that, Caroline. I’m no man’s toady, but I will not allow you to act foolish while he is in Paris.”

  “I have no idea what you refer to.”

  “Really? Then how is it someone saw you at Victoria Station disembarking a train returning from the country, unchaperoned?”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed. I was able to convince the man it wasn’t conducive to his health to repeat what he’d seen.”

  The silence in Caroline’s box grew heavy.

  “Thank you, Edward.”

  “You court the gossips’ barbed tongues. Worse, your father’s wrath. We will talk later, understand?” The door closed again.

  James peered at his grandmother, who softly snored, then stepped into the dim corridor.

  Red flocked wallpaper lined the passage’s narrow walls, making the confined space seem even tighter. He stealthily slipped into Caroline’s compartment and closed the door quietly behind him.

  His quarry sat facing the stage, one gloved hand on the rail. Her shimmering, golden brown hair was swept up into an intricate style with a strand of delicate pearls woven in the tresses, while several curling tendrils hung loose to touch the back of her graceful neck.

  The box was narrow in the front and wider toward the rear. He stayed close to the wall, where the draped curtain cast a shadow. No need to be public fodder for prying eyes. As he stepped up to Caroline’s chair, a floorboard creaked.

  She swiveled in her seat.

  “Are you surprised to see me, Caroline?”

  Her green eyes were wide spheres in her face. Clearly shocked, she uttered a gasp and stood.

  The movement was so fast, he feared she’d tumble backward over the railing. Heart pounding a quick tattoo, James grabbed her wrist and tugged her away from the edge.

  He propelled her behind the velvet curtain so they were both out of view.

  The possibility that Caroline could have toppled over the edge caused his heart to beat in double time. Unbidden, the image of Henrietta’s lifeless body lying at the bottom of the stairs flashed in his mind. Drawing in an uneven breath, he pulled Caroline’s warm body to his, as he forced his mind not to imagine what might have happened to her.

  “You startled me,” she mumbled into his chest.

  “Forgive me.” For a long minute, he just held her as he tried to calm his racing heart.

  She pulled back slightly and moistened her lips. “You’re in London.”

  “Yes,” he replied, unable to look away from her mouth. Whether it be lust or regret, James always kept a tight rein on his emotions, or at least erected a façade that masked them, but since meeting this woman, she’d shattered his resolve. As if needing to confirm life still coursed through her, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.

  She sucked in a startled breath. He couldn’t resist the opportunity. He deepened the kiss, touched his tongue to hers. For the duration of several heartbeats, she stood motionless, unresponsive. Then her delicate hands crept up the front of his coat to grab his lapels, and her mouth moved against his. Hungry. Demanding.

  She moaned.

  What the hell was he doing? This was not the place for such folly. Gaining his composure, he stepped back and tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves.

  Caroline stood panting, the tips of her fingers pressed against her kiss-swollen lips.

  For the remainder of the evening his body would regret that kiss, yet he knew during the night, he’d use its memory to help him slake his lust.

  “Forgive me, Caroline. I forgot myself.”

  She said nothing, just stared at him with those bewitching green eyes that made him think her a cross between a siren and a pixie. If he didn’t leave, he’d do something reckless. With a mumbled curse, he spun on his heel and left without a backward glance.

  Shoving his baser thoughts aside, he slipped back into his box. He tied the curtain panel back.

  The dowager cleared her throat.

  His gaze shot to hers.

  She stared at him with her pale gray eyes, a knowing smirk curving her lips.

  Damnation, she’d awoken. Had she overheard him and Caroline?

  She flicked her black lace fan open and batted it at her face as if the room were excessively warm.

  The lights in the auditorium grew dim. He sat.

  Grandmother snapped her fan closed and tapped it against his thigh. “Miss Caroline Lawrence is an attractive girl, James,” she whispered.

  His muscles tensed. “What?”

  “I presume that is the Caroline you were conversing with, since her father, Reginald Lawrence, holds the subscription to the adjacent box.”

  Reginald Lawrence? Hell and fire. He suddenly realized why she’d not wished to reveal her identity. Lawrence held on to the status quo like a newborn kitten to its mother’s teat. He’d have a seizure if he knew Caroline had gone to listen to Beatrice Walker’s speech. Worse, the old man would have dropped dead if he’d seen James with his tongue thrust in his daughter’s mouth.

  * * *

  As Caroline walked down the theater’s winding stairs to the entry hall, she scanned the crowd milling about. Where was Lord Huntington? Had he left already?

  She hoped so. Her body’s reaction to the man disconcerted her. She pressed her fingers to her lips. She’d touched them a dozen times since his kiss. They wouldn’t stop tingling. Worse, the minty taste of his mouth lingered on her palate.

  Since she’d returned from Helmsford, she’d tried not to think about the man. She’d failed miserably, and now he was here.

  When she’d seen him standing behind her, she’d believed him an illusion. But the second he’d touched her, pressed his lips to hers, the heat coursing through her veins burned away the thought that he was nothing more than an apparition. She’d tried not to react, until overwhelmed by her own treacherous body.

  The hum of voices in the lobby escalated, and several gazes swung to the stairs. Had someone seen them? Were the gossipmongers already spreading the tale far and wide?

  “Oh my,” Anne whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “Did you notice who’s in attendance?”

  Caroline peeked behind her. Lord Huntington stood several treads farther up, descending the stairs with a gray-haired matron on his arm. Did Anne refer to the elderly woman who accompanied Lord Huntington, or the man himself? “Who is she?” Caroline asked sotto voce.

  Conspiratorially, Anne leaned closer. “She is the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington, but it is the gentleman escorting her who draws everyone’s regard. Her grandson, the Marquess of Huntington.”

  An unsettling sensation fluttered in her belly. “Why?”

  “Dearest, don’t you know? Oh, that’s right; you would have been at Harrogate with your mother. Surely, I wrote you about the scandal.”

  So it was Anne who had mentioned him. “Ah, yes, I’m quite sure you did, but refresh my memory.”

  “Not sure how you could forget, but your mama was so sick, I guess it’s understandable. He murdered his wife. Threw her down the stairs during a fit of anger. Of course, the House of Lords discussed the matter and proclaimed him innocent, but everyone knows he’s guilty.”

  Mouth gaping, Caroline stared at her cousin as they took the final step into the crush of patrons lingering longer than normal. It couldn’t be true. Men who abused their wives were the worst creatures on Earth. Demon spawns. She glanced back at his lordship.

  He watched her carefully with those dark eyes of his, as if he knew what her cousin whispered, then he arched a brow.

  She quickly looked away.

  Oh God, what have I done? No wonder he’d said his name like she should recognize it. “Anne, I’m not feeling well. My head is pounding. I do not wish to linger.”

  Her cousin’s face reflected disappointment. “But I wish to stay and hear what is whispered. What has caused him to return to Town?”

  “I must insist we leave.” Caroline pressed her palm to her stomach.


  “You are looking rather pale. Are you going to become ill?”

  Feigning nausea would be the only way to get her cousin to move faster. Caroline pressed her fingers to her mouth and nodded.

  Anne’s gaze darted about. “I shall die of embarrassment if you cast up your accounts in such a public place.” Anne’s slow-as-a-snail pace picked up momentum. She turned to Charles. “Husband, we must make haste. Don’t dawdle or we shall all suffer the crowd’s regard. And no sensible man shall want Caro’s hand if she retches in public.”

  Chapter Eleven

  During breakfast, James noted the scowl on Grandmother’s face as she peered across the dining room table at Georgie.

  The child straightened his back and ate in record speed.

  After they’d arrived in London, Grandmother had been incensed when the youngest Trent had joined them at the table. “Children are to dine with their nanny in the nursery,” she’d informed Georgie.

  His brother had stared, wide-eyed, at the matriarch as if she were an evil witch right out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. James had interceded, letting Grandmother know that Georgie was quite welcome to dine with the rest of the family. She’d appeared ready to argue until he’d said, “You wanted to spend time with your grandchildren, didn’t you? If not, we shall depart immediately.”

  “Might I be excused?” Georgie asked, pulling James from his thoughts.

  “Of course.” James could understand the child’s hurry. One of Grandmother’s scowls could sour one’s appetite, if not the food already ingested.

  Georgie wiped his mouth and scampered from the room, leaving James and Grandmother.

  Wisely, neither Nina nor Anthony had joined them for breakfast.

  Grandmother set her cup down. “Huntington, I wish you to accompany me on several calls today.”

  He knew what she wanted—to parade him around London as she had at the theater last night. “I beg your forgiveness, madam, but I have other plans.”

  Her mouth pinched into a straight line.

  “I’m to visit my banker on Bishopsgate, then I intend to stop at one of my clubs.”

  Her thin lips turned upward, and she nodded her approval.

  “And you, Grandmother, are to be attended by Dr. Trimble. He shall call on you this afternoon.”

  “What?” She slammed her palm on the table, rattling her cup and saucer.

  “This afternoon, madam. There is to be no argument with regard to the matter. Be forewarned, if you are not here when he calls, or you refuse to see him, I will drag you down to his Harley Street residence first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She appeared to be contemplating throwing her fork at him. “Your sister is correct. You’ve become very domineering.”

  “Amazing all the things one can inherit.”

  * * *

  At the Reform Club on Pall Mall, the porter held the door open and inclined his head as James entered. His grandfather, a Tory through and through, had been a member of the Carlton Club next door. The old man would have tried to disinherit James and willed everything not entailed to his favorite hound, if he’d foreseen that the current heir would one day harbor progressive views.

  After walking through the grand vestibule, he made his way to the library. Several members lounged in chairs, reading. James picked up a freshly pressed copy of the London Reformer and sat at one of the round tables. Hushed voices floated toward him. He didn’t have to glance up to know he garnered the other members’ attention. He’d expected it.

  His gaze skimmed the paper, stopping at an article by C. M. Smith. Today the man’s column called for an amendment to the Married Women’s Property Act, saying the law that gave women the right to retain money earned had not gone far enough. He agreed, fearing Nina might marry a man like their father—a man with no financial sense who’d foolishly squander Nina’s sizable dowry.

  A shadow cut across the newspaper. He peered up. His good friend and business partner Lord Simon Adler stood beside his chair. At one time, Adler had lived by his own rules, with a devil-may-care attitude that heaped gossip upon him, but since his marriage, the viscount had curtailed his scandalous behavior.

  “Well, by Jove, Huntington, what a surprise!” Adler set a hand on James’s shoulder and motioned to a chair. “Good to see you, old fellow. Might I join you?”

  “If you’re not worried about sullying your reputation, I’d be pleased.”

  “My reputation?” Adler grinned. “You’re trying to be a wit, aren’t you? My days of worrying over approval are long gone. Least of all where the old stodgy gents are concerned.”

  “How is your wife?” James asked.

  A smile spread across Adler’s face, relaying his contentment. “Emma is well.”

  “Good, and your new daughter?”

  “A joy. You should call on us.” Adler reached for something in his pocket, then gave a self-deprecating expression. “At the request of my wife, I’ve given up smoking. I’m having a devil of a time. Old habits are hard to put aside.”

  Did he mean just the cigarettes, or his womanizing?

  As if he’d spoken the question aloud, Adler said, “I am more content than I have ever been. I have a family that I cherish.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Yet, even as he said the words, James experienced a twinge of envy over the man’s newly born daughter. His mind shifted back to the child his wife had carried. He shoved the thought away before it turned his mood dark.

  “Are you in London for the season?”

  Did his longtime friend think he was in Town for the marriage mart? Though he’d been given the moniker The Murdering Marquess, and lost the veneration of many, there were still some mamas who’d push their daughters at him, like lambs to the slaughter, hoping he’d beget their family a future member of the House of Lords.

  “I’m visiting my grandmother for a few weeks.”

  Adler cringed. Grandmother’s reputation for being a shrew capable of making grown men weep was well-known. His friend ran a hand over his jaw. “Ah, I believe you’re in need of rescuing or at least a diversion. Julian Caruthers is going to Lady Randall’s ball tonight to play cards. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

  James cocked a brow. “You’re not going?”

  “No. I wish to be home with my wife and daughter.”

  The man had changed.

  “You still sharp with a deck of cards?” Adler asked.

  James wasn’t quite sure, having been reduced to playing Old Maid with Georgie. “Perhaps not, but it sounds entertaining.”

  “I need to be shoving off. I will tell my wife to send you an invitation to dine with us.” Adler stood. “Does Leticia know you’re in Town?”

  “No, I’ve not seen her yet.”

  His longtime friend grinned. “She will be quite pleased.”

  As Adler walked away, James tried to conjure up a vision of Lady Leticia Randall, a past lover; however, the only face he saw had green, bewitching eyes and a lush mouth.

  * * *

  At first light, Caroline had begun a new article for the London Reformer. Now with it completed and the noon hour approaching, she signed her alias and set down the pen. She rubbed her tired eyes. Sleep had been elusive. She’d spent most of the small hours in deep thought over Lord Huntington.

  On the way home from the theater, Anne had waxed on endlessly about Lady Huntington’s death and how a powerful man’s sins were erased because of his influence.

  The hot press of tears threatened. Last month, Caroline had visited the Whitechapel Mission with Lady Prescott, a patroness of the organization. Caroline had seen women with blackened eyes. What options did these poor souls have when they found themselves abused by the one who was supposed to cherish them? Few. The injustice formed a knot in her stomach. Mama had possessed little power in her marriage, but at least Father had never struck her.

  Hard to believe Huntington was such a monster. She trailed her fingers over the column of her throat, recalling his gentle touch
in his summerhouse and his passionate kiss at the theater. Had he lured his wife in with such prowess? Heightened her lust, then shown depravity after their marriage? Some men did. A near tangible anger rose like bile within her. For the first time in her life, she felt drawn to a man. And he was a brute who’d gotten away with the unthinkable.

  She studied the lambent sun outside her bedchamber window, then returned her attention to her article. The column addressed the horrid truth about wife-beating and physical violence in all classes of society, including the privileged. It discussed how some women paid the ultimate price—their lives. Everyone would presume she referred to Huntington when they read words like “even the nobility” and “left free to roam London’s streets with nothing more than a whispered word in one’s wake.” Would the editor tone down her language, consider it rhetoric? Would Hinklesmith fear his lordship’s wrath? No, she’d taken great care not to libel Huntington. Yet, her column did everything but call him a beast by name.

  Caroline fought the urge to ball the paper up and throw it onto the glowing coals in the fireplace grate. Had she been unjust? She’d penned it in anger. Anger at him. And herself. She still had the article on the marriage mart that she’d written a few days ago. Anne’s arrival had forestalled her posting it. She could mail that instead.

  A soft knock sounded against her bedchamber door. She folded the parchment, shoved it into one of the cubicles in her secretary, and closed the desk. “Yes, come in.”

  Her lady’s maid entered the room.

  “Maggie, I need to post a letter. Will you walk with me this morning?”

  A smile spread across the woman’s full face. “Of course, miss.”

  Caroline nodded. Her article wasn’t due until next week, but if she didn’t mail it with haste, she might lose her resolve. Not only that, if she waited any longer, Anne would be up, and her cousin’s curiosity might bring about too many questions with regard to why Caroline wished to post her letter personally.

  “Miss, have you decided which gown you want pressed for tonight?” Maggie’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  Goodness, she’d forgotten Anne wished to attend Lady Randall’s ball this evening. Caroline sighed. It would be overcrowded with everyone packed together like pilchards in a stargazy pie.