The Marquess Meets His Match

by Maggi Andersen

  The Marquess Meets His Match

  By

  Maggi Andersen

  Copyright © 2018 by Maggi Andersen

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  By Maggi Andersen

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  Kilty Pleasures

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Books from Dragonblade Publishing

  Publisher’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Publisher’s Note

  A Marquess Meets His Match was previously published, as a smaller novella, under the title The Reluctant Marquess. The story has been altered and augmented with new material.

  Prologue

  Katharina Bancroft looked around the home she’d lived in all her life for the last time. Memories of a happy childhood lingered as she shut the front door and led her old governess down the path to the waiting yellow chaise.

  “My dear Kate. What will become of you?” Nanny sniffed into her handkerchief. “Your father would never have wished such a fate to befall you. But then he did not expect to shuffle off this mortal coil so soon, and your dear mother, too.”

  Nanny was fond of Shakespeare and employed the language from the bard’s plays in everyday speech as Kate’s father had done. It just served to make her think sadly of her parents now resting below ground. She stiffened as tears welled up in her eyes again. She really must get some backbone. But when she thought of the ordeal ahead, she struggled to tamp down her fears. She had no idea what awaited her in Cornwall. She drew in a shuddering breath and escorted the elderly lady through the gate to the hired chaise which would take her to her sister’s home in York.

  Kate assisted Nanny inside the carriage and the coachman shut the door. “You are not to worry about me, Nanny,” she said through the carriage window. “You must enjoy your new life with your sister. I shall be perfectly all right.” She glanced behind her at the grand coach with the St. Malin crest emblazoned on the doors where a liveried footman was loading her trunk and bandboxes. “After all, my godfather has sent his coach to collect me.”

  “Indeed, my dear. Now don’t forget to write to me. You are an excellent correspondent. I believe I have taught you well and shall greatly look forward to your letters.” Nanny’s handkerchief fluttered from the window as the coachman moved the horses on.

  Kate waved until the chaise was out of sight, a heavy ache in her heart. She turned and walked over to the coach and the waiting footman. Cornwall seemed like the end of the earth, and why the Marquess of St. Malin requested her presence remained a mystery.

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, 1786

  The carriage rocked as it traveled the road along the cliff. Kate grabbed the window frame with one hand and the edge of her seat with the other, to hold herself steady. She was nervous in a vehicle at the best of times, made worse after her father’s carriage careened off a bridge in Oxford.

  Kate reminded herself that this coach her godfather had sent was a fine one. She was exhausted after being thoroughly jolted about for three days. It had been impossible to sleep in the inns where the coach stopped for the night. They were most dreadfully noisy, and the looks men gave her when she ate in the dining room caused her to lie awake with her gaze fixed on the chamber door, despite having locked it and placed a chair against it. She stiffened when the coachman’s curse was followed by a crack of the whip. The rugged coastline was different from anything she’d ever seen. Through the misty rain, she glimpsed the dark gray sea swirling around the blackened rocks. The lack of discernable color in the landscape reminded her of the drab-colored mourning clothes she’d worn, and the rhythmic boom, boom, boom of the waves filled her with the same dread she’d experienced when a tolling church bell signaled a village disaster like the fire which had spooked her father’s horses and ended her parents’ lives.

  In an effort to overcome the fear of tumbling to her
death, Kate pulled her cloak closer, and directed her thoughts to what might await her at St. Malin Castle. Unfortunately, this produced anxieties of a different sort. The last time she’d seen her godfather, the Marquess of St. Malin, was when she was fifteen. She remembered him as tall with a long thin nose which made him appear haughty. Her father had saved St Malin’s life when he fell overboard during a boat race on the River Cam in Cambridge, and despite their different stations in life, they’d continued to correspond regularly.

  Now, at twenty years of age, her fate lay in this marquess’ hands, for apparently, he said as much to her father years ago. Papa made mention of it in his will. And a letter addressed to her with the waxed St Malin seal came shortly after her father’s funeral. Then the coach had arrived. The marquess seemed keen to keep his promise. Whatever that entailed. Kate was grateful for his kindness, of course, but would much have preferred to remain with Nanny in Oxfordshire. That was impossible, for her father left very little money. Poets were not good at business, and he’d lost a considerable amount of money on the ’Change. Subsequently, her childhood home had been sold to pay off the debts.

  The coach reached a bend in the road, and the sheer stone walls of the castle loomed ahead, the outline of its battlements imposing against the darkening sky. At the sight of the massive structure, a prickling sensation rose up her spine. Kate half expected to see knights in armor riding toward her. Lights from the braziers along the walls fell upon lawns which must once have been a moat. The coach rattled across a bridge and entered the arched gatehouse. The horses came to a stop in a courtyard. Moments later, a servant rushed out. He put down the steps on the coach and opened the door.

  Kate’s sense of relief faded when she stepped down onto mossy cobbles, and stood, disorientated, in the swirling sea mist.

  A door was flung open, spilling candlelight into the gloom like a welcoming hand. She hurried toward it and entered a lofty hall. Heavy Tudor beams and ornate timber paneling spoke of its ancient origins.

  A tall liveried footman stood waiting. “I’ll take ye to the master, Miss. He’s in the library.”

  Kate’s heart beat unnaturally fast as she followed him up a stone stairway. Along the walls of the wide corridor, candles flickered in their sconces, throwing light on huge tapestries depicting bloody battles. As the moment approached when they would meet, Kate tried to rake up some clear memories of the marquess. But he’d been of little interest to her back then, beyond his eccentric manner. He’d smiled with warmth upon her father, she remembered. But that wasn’t surprising; a cultured man who quoted Shakespeare at the drop of a hat, Papa was possessed of enormous charm. Now she was in this man’s debt. Would he be kind to her?

  The footman knocked on a solid oak door.

  “Come.”

  Apprehensive, she stepped into the room and was embraced by a welcoming surge of warmth. A fire crackled and spat in the baronial fireplace where a liver-spotted spaniel lifted its head from the rug to study her. After a thump of a tail, its head sank onto its paws again, lulled back to sleep by the heat. Above the fireplace, the painting of a hunting scene featured several dogs. Two china spaniels flanked the fireplace mantel. The walls were covered floor-to-ceiling in bookshelves, which made the room seem cozy.

  Kate looked around for the source of the voice, and when she saw no one in the room, she crouched on the Oriental rug and gave the dog a pat. “You’re a nice fellow, aren’t you?” Her stiff, cold muscles loosened, and the icy pit in her stomach began to thaw. Maybe she could be happy here. She loved dogs.

  “Welcome to St. Malin Castle, Miss Katharina.”

  Startled, Kate looked around. She hadn’t noticed the man who rose from behind a pile of papers and books on the massive mahogany desk. He crossed the room to greet her. He was not her godfather. The young man not yet thirty, was tall, his black hair drawn back in a queue.

  She scrambled to her feet. “I’m here to see the marquess.”

  “I am the Marquess of St. Malin. My uncle passed away a short time ago.”

  Kate was so shocked she could think of nothing to say. There was something of the marquess’ haughty demeanor about his handsome face.

  With a sense of foreboding, she curtsied on unsteady legs. She could only stare at his attire, her gaze locked on his exquisite gold embroidered silk waistcoat as he bowed before her. Black crepe graced the sleeve of his emerald-green coat.

  “I am sorry.” Dead. She had an urgent need to sit, and glanced at the damask sofa facing the fireplace.

  She must have looked unsteady, for he reacted immediately, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit by the fire. You must be cold and exhausted.” He turned to the footman. “Bring a hot toddy for Miss Bancroft.”

  Kate sank down gratefully, her modest panniers settling around her.

  “You shall feel better presently,” he said. “I find a hot toddy can cure many ills.”

  “Why did you send your coach for me?” She leaned back against the soft cushions. “I wouldn’t have come had I known your uncle passed away.”

  “I thought it best to sort the matter out here and now.” He rested an elbow on a corner of the fireplace mantel and stirred the dog with a foot. “Shame on you, Felix. You might accord Miss Bancroft a warmer welcome.” He looked at her. “My uncle’s dog. He’s mourning his master.” He raised his dark brows. “Notice of my uncle’s passing appeared in The Daily Universal Register.”

  “We don’t get that newspaper in my village. What matter do we need to sort out?”

  “I’ll come to that. To be honest, I wasn’t aware of your existence until the reading of the will. Then I learned of your parents’ untimely death from my solicitor. Please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you. How long ago did your uncle…?”

  “He fell ill some months ago. He rallied and then it happened very quickly at the end.” The new marquess sighed and stared into the fire.

  “You must have been very fond of him,” Kate said in the quiet pause that followed. Though, if she were honest, she was surprised the cool man she remembered could have provoked that level of affection.

  He raised his eyes to meet hers and gave a bleak smile. “Yes, I was. He always had my interests at heart, you see.”

  The marquess sat in the oxblood leather chair opposite and rested his hands on his knees. “I am his acknowledged heir, and the legalities have been processed. So naturally, I’ve inherited the title, plus the entailed properties. But the rest of his fortune will pass to another family member should I fail to conform to the edicts of his will.”

  “His will?” Kate held her hands tightly in her lap, she found it difficult to follow him. Her mind whirled, filled with desperate thoughts. With her godfather dead, where would she go from here? She tensed as she envisioned riding off along the dark cliffs to join a theatre troupe or become a tavern wench.

  “This must be difficult for you to take in, and I regret having to tell you tonight before you’ve rested. But I’m compelled to move quickly as you have come without a chaperone and have traveled here alone…”

  She lifted her chin. “There was no one to accompany me.” She would not allow him to make her feel like a poor relation even though she was quite definitely poor. And alone. She hated that more than anything. What might her godfather have left her? She hoped it would allow her some measure of independence and wasn’t just a vase or a family portrait.

  The footman entered carrying a tray with a cup of steaming liquid. Kate took the drink and gratefully held it in both hands enjoying its warmth. She put it to her lips and took a sip. It tasted of a spicy spirit. “What is in this drink?”

  “A few spices, sugar, nutmeg, and a dash of liquor,” Robert said. “More of a restorative.”

  “I don’t drink liquor, usually.” She was finding it even harder to concentrate on his words as her mind retreated into a fog. Her gaze wandered around the room. She finished the last of the delicious beverage and licked her lips. Her head lolled back against the
squab as she studied her host. He would be handsome if he smiled. But this was a serious business. Whatever it was. And she was awfully tired. The fire made her drowsy. What was he saying?

  “It’s the best thing for both of us. Don’t you agree?”

  She shook her head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that last bit.”

  He frowned. “The will. It states we must marry. As soon as it’s possible to arrange it.”

  “I’m afraid I’m most dreadfully tired. I’ve misunderstood you. Please forgive me. I thought you mentioned marriage.”

  “Yes, that’s precisely what I said. We must marry.”

  Kate placed her cup on the table and struggled to her feet, fighting fatigue and the effects of whatever it was she’d just drunk, which was a good deal stronger than he’d lead her to believe. She smoothed her skirts and edged toward the door through which she intended to depart at any moment. “I have no intention…”

  “I know it’s perplexing. I didn’t intend to wed for some years. I would have preferred to choose the person I married as no doubt would you.” He shrugged. “Best we make the most of it, don’t you think?”

  Her jaw dropped. What kind of man was this? She had been raised to believe that marriage was a sacred institution. He made it sound so…trivial. Like going for a Sunday ride. She stared at him. “Why would your uncle’s will stipulate something so outlandish?”

  “That’s exactly what is written.” With a rustle of silk taffeta, he moved closer to the fire. She wondered if he might be as nervous as she was. “Unless I’m prepared to allow my uncle’s unentailed fortune go to a distant relative,” he continued. “Which I am not. As I have said.” His careful tone suggested he thought her a simpleton. Under his unsympathetic gaze, she sank back down onto the sofa.

  “You are perfectly within your rights to refuse, but I see very few options open to you. As my wife, you will live in comfort. You may go to London to enjoy the Season. I shall give you a generous allowance for gowns and hats, and things a lady must have.” His gaze wandered over her cream muslin gown, and she placed a hand on the lace that disguised the small darned patch near her knee that she’d torn on a briar. “What do you say?”