A Marquess Is Forever

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  "Making certain they are not gossiping about you, eh?"

  Lachlan looked up to see Nicholas Rosemont, the Duke of Candlewood looking down with a rather sardonic grin on his face. Then again, Lachlan thought to himself as he offered the duke a seat, when did Candlewood not appear thus? He always had an air of jaded cynicism about him these days. It had not been that way when they were both younger and Lachlan briefly wondered what had transpired to change the man, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  "If they were, it would not be the first time, as you well know," Lachlan replied as Nicholas motioned to a passing waiter to bring another cup and a fresh pot of coffee. "Be it here or in Edinburgh."

  "Still smarting from that set down the Edinburgh Times delivered to you after you left the delightful Widow McDougal in the middle of that ball with her skirts about her knees? Or perhaps it was the time the Aberdeen Morning Post accused you of cuckolding the town's mayor?" Candlewood seemed to take great delight in pointing out many of Lachlan's previously bad behaviors.

  Taking a sip of coffee, Lachlan studied his old friend. Unlike some of the others who claimed to be the duke's friend, Lachlan truly was, one of the few granted such an honor. "I have well gotten over those incidents, thank you. And I am not that man any longer." Candlewood's appearance here was not mere coincidence. The duke had taught Lachlan long ago that there was rarely any such thing as a coincidence.

  "No. You are not, are you." It was a statement and not a question. In that moment, Candlewood looked sad, as if Lachlan was the last of a dying breed. "There are not so many of us rakes left to sow our wild oats, are there? Radcliffe wed my sister, God help the man, even though I love her dearly. Enwright, Weatherby, Ardenton, Covington... Hell, last fall even Breckenright finally managed to wed the chit he has been infatuated with his entire life. You and I are two of the last true rogues, and now it seems that you are falling into the parson's mousetrap as well." The duke raised an eyebrow. "Stealing the delightful Miss Saintwood out from under Hathaway's nose? That is bloody brilliant if I do say so myself. Not that he ever deserved her to begin with, mind you."

  Lachlan knew his friend was only baiting him. "I didn't steal her, Nick. And she came very willingly, I assure you." He took another sip of coffee. "And besides, from what I can tell, Hathaway has his own problems. Something in the form of a social climbing country girl from Ipswich, if I am not mistaken?" He glanced pointedly at the paper he had just tossed down, daring the duke to contradict him. If there was one person in London who knew more of the ton's secrets than the gossip rags, it was Candlewood. The man was uncanny in his knowledge. Always had been, even when they were younger.

  "No, for once this season, the gossip rags are correct. He is in a bind, but then I tried to warn him. He would not listen so this is fully upon him and no other. The idiot rambled on with some nonsense about her making him feel alive. Bloody daft fool. There is no such thing as love. Not for men like us anyway. And he of all people should know better." There was derision in Candlewood's voice and immediately, Lachlan remembered, the din of White's momentarily slipping away and memories of another time filtering through his mind.

  For as long as anyone could remember, Nicholas Rosemont had been infatuated - and some would have even said in love - with the beautiful Eleanor Reynolds, a distant cousin of the current Duke of Hathaway. However, Ellie's family had been little more than poor relations, a second son of a second son that held only a modest barony in desperate need of money. Despite the fact that Nicholas would one day be a duke, not to mention filthy rich, Ellie's father had decided the immediate need for an infusion of funds more important than his daughter's happiness. He had married Ellie off to the much older Marquess of Berkshire who had offered a tidy sum in exchange for the dowry-less young woman.

  Ellie had rebelled and spent one night of heaven in Nicholas' arms before the marquess had threatened to have the new young duke killed - quickly and quietly. That had essentially ended the affair between Candlewood and Ellie, but it had not ended the love that lingered between them. Then the marquess had died most embarrassingly at Seldon Park, Nicholas' country estate. The man had been in bed with a chambermaid when he passed, though only a select few people knew that last salacious bit. Finally free of her husband, everyone had assumed that once Ellie was out of mourning, she would marry Nicholas. The man she had long professed to love.

  However that had not happened. In fact, Ellie would not even speak to Candlewood, which only served to darken the man's already sour mood. The previous season, Nicholas had been nothing short of a bear, or so Lachlan had been told from those who had witnessed the man's often cruelly vicious displays of temper. To be fair, the duke wasn't much better this season, either, Lachlan silently allowed.

  Then in January, Ellie had died as well after falling down a flight of stairs at her country home, leaving Nicholas well and truly alone. The only woman he had ever loved was gone, and even though he had not possessed her in a good many years, Lachlan could still see the traces of pain on his friend's face.

  "For what it is worth, my friend, I am sorry." Lachlan's burr deepened as it often did when he was uncertain what to say at times, the only outward sign of his unease. "She was," he chose his next words carefully, "a complicated woman, but a fine one as well."

  At first, Lachlan thought that Candlewood might snap at him, but instead, the other man simply held Lachlan's gaze with his own nearly black one. Then he offered a single, succinct nod. "She was the only woman I ever loved." It was as much of an admission over the depth of his loss as the reticent duke was ever likely to make. "But men like us carry on, do we not?"

  "Indeed." Lachlan was glad for a change of subject.

  "But back to the delightful Miss Saintwood..." Candlewood was clearly not about to let the subject rest. "Am I to understand that your interest in her is genuine?"

  Lachlan wanted to either say no or to tell the duke to mind his own bloody business, but something about the set of the man's jaw stopped him. This was not just a casual conversation. Nothing the duke did these days was casual, after all. "It is." Lachlan took another sip of his coffee, hoping to perfect that same air of nonchalance that Candlewood achieved so easily. "At first, it was..." He stopped for a moment to consider his words. "I am not certain what it was, other than that I felt as if I had been hit by a carriage, for lack of a better description."

  "And now?" Candlewood prodded, his eyes still dark and unreadable. "That has changed?"

  "Now, I find that I cannot stop thinking about her," Lachlan admitted. "As I have said, I am not the man I was before. The man I was in Edinburgh no longer exists."

  "Yet you are attempting to settle your father's debts and restore your family's good name while not committing to taking up permanent residence in town," the duke persisted, seemingly unwilling to let the topic rest. "That implies that you will return to Scotland eventually.

  Lachlan shook his head. "I am uncertain about my future plans. For now, the Hallstone town home suits me, and I plan to remain there for the duration of the season. That said, if I find a woman in London whom I desire and find pleasing? Who would suit as both a wife and marchioness? Then I am willing to court her to see if we would truly suit. And I would live here permanently as Hallstone. I would pass many of the duties of the laird to my cousin Alistair. He is already doing much of the work in my stead while I am in London. Even before that, actually." He looked at Candlewood askance. "Ask your brother-in-law if you do not believe me. I have already had this conversation with him to much the same end."

  Instead of being offended or pleased, Candlewood looked worried. "Then I fear the news I came to impart might disrupt your plans."

  Ah, and there it was. The real reason the duke was here, helping himself to large amounts of Lachlan's breakfast as they spoke. "What news is this?" He hated the tinge of worry in his voice. After all, Scots did not show fear, at least according to his father. Then again, Lachlan was only half-Scottish and possessed
of a family tree better suited for Bedlam than Highland society.

  "Your father is holding his own." Candlewood raised his hand when Lachlan would have spoken. "However, Claire very much wishes to see him dead, as you might imagine. You know her reasons well enough I imagine."

  Lachlan did indeed. Had he still been the man he once was, he would have decamped immediately for Scotland to find a suitable way to deal with his stepmother. Even if that way was an accident. But that was not his way any longer. When he had discovered the depth of his father's debts and treachery over the years, Lachlan had made a vow to curb his Scottish roots and instead concentrate on being the proper English gentleman - the way his mother always desired. It took all of his inner strength not to turn his back on that vow at the moment, however.

  "She is also on her way to London as we speak."

  That declaration nearly made Lachlan choke. "She is coming here? To what end?"

  Candlewood shrugged and helped himself to the last piece of bacon on the table. "That is what I am endeavoring to find out. As you know, you are important to the Crown. A bridge between England and Scotland and far more reasonable than many who lay claim to the title laird. You hold an English title and eventually, a Scottish one as well, something that is no trifling matter." The duke waved his hand in the air. "But I have to believe, as do others, that Claire is coming to make certain you do not wed while you are in London. Returning to the Highlands with a bride, particularly an English one from a well-regarded family, would mean disaster for her plans, and it is no secret that you are amenable to marriage at the moment. You also know that the Crown would not look favorably upon a woman of such ill repute, and a Scot no less, capturing a very old and distinguished title for herself. Were she to become the Marchioness of Hallstone, she would not hold that title for long, I fear."

  Lachlan took in Candlewoods words as quickly as he could. His friend was right - on all counts. He also realized that his old friend likely was a spy or at least someone working for the Home Office, not that it particularly mattered to the marquess. The duke was still Nicholas Rosemont - and Lachlan's old friend - at heart, despite the cloak of icy indifference he wore like a mask.

  "Thank you for the warning," Lachlan finally offered. "When might I expect my charming stepmother's presence in town? And where? She is not welcome at Hallstone House, something my staff knows well, and my father gave up his rented town home some years ago."

  "I am not certain. Yet." Lachlan knew that was as close as Candlewood would come to admitting defeat. "But I will discover the truth soon enough. And when I do, I shall inform you of course." Then he rose, swiping the last piece of buttered toast - in fact the last bit of Lachlan's breakfast that remained on the table - as he went. "In the meantime, if you are serious about Lady Diana, might I suggest that you pay her a visit in the near future to warn her? It is only fair. Or at least ascertain where she will be this evening so that you can speak with some degree of privacy. The current Viscount Redwing is hosting a ball this evening, I think. You might find a bit of privacy there."

  Nicholas munched on the toast, his cool ennui firmly back in place. "I do like Lady Diana, and I would hate to see her suffer. Hathaway has done enough damage to the poor girl over the years." Then he was gone, sweeping out of White's among a clank of dishes and the smell of fresh coffee as if he had only been paying a polite social call.

  Tossing his napkin on the table, Lachlan rose as well, his early good humor dimmed slightly by the duke's news. If Claire was indeed on her way to town, they all needed to be prepared. That included Diana. He also needed to pay another call on Lord Covington. He had yet to connect with the man over the payment for his wife. However at the moment, Diana's well being - and his potential future with her, for after last night he could see no other outcome for the two of them - took precedence over everything else. Including settling his father's debuts.

  "Thank you for the chocolates, my lord. They are a most delightful gift. However I am afraid that I cannot possibly accompany you to the Turnbridge's musicale this evening. I already have a previous engagement scheduled, and I'm afraid that I cannot cancel at this late date."

  Diana sat on one of the high-backed chairs that dotted the Saintwood family drawing room, careful not to lean too far forward unless she wanted Lord William Wright, heir to the Viscount Southington, to attempt to peer down the front of her day dress again. Which she most decidedly did not want.

  In fact, she would be more than pleased if the odious man would remove himself from the drawing room completely. Wright had appeared well over a quarter hour ago bearing the afore mentioned chocolates and seeking permission to take her for a drive in the park, something both she and her father had objected to rather strenuously. Her mother had not uttered a single word on the subject, as one Ursula Saintwood was still abed at two in the afternoon, having suffered a serious blow the previous evening when the last of her fantasies about Diana wedding Lord Hathaway had come crashing down as quickly as Miss Phoebe Banbrook had been able to work her way into the duke's carriage.

  Even if Diana hadn't known about the dire financial straights the Southington viscountcy was in, her father did. So while he was not outright rude to Wright, he refused to grant his permission for the outing and had dropped several not so subtle hints that Diana had other suitors, including a very serious one in the Marquess of Hallstone. That had, unfortunately, not deterred Wright in the least, and the man still sat on the chair opposite Diana, refusing to leave. He had also been a bit miffed when she had refused his invitation to sit on the settee instead where they might converse more freely. His words. Not hers.

  Now Diana was desperate to find a way to be rid of him. She was, quite honestly, running out of patience with the gaggle of men now swarming about her every day when calling hours arrived. Earlier she had faked a megrim when the notoriously poor Lord Hunt had appeared. He might have been a nice man, but she hadn't the patience to deal with someone who desired her solely for her fortune. Hunt had been followed in short order by no less than three other wholly unsuitable men - known rakes and wastrels who were obviously only calling upon Diana for either her dowry or her reportedly loose morals. Neither one of those things had made her father very happy, and when Joseph Saintwood was unhappy, those around him knew it. The last poor sod to darken their doorstep was lucky to escape with his hat still firmly planted on his head.

  At present her father was in his secondary study, the one he used mainly for social correspondence, glowering from across the hallway and through the open door at Lord Wright even as Marie occupied the room's primary settee eating lemon tarts and glaring at the young lord as if she would enjoy running him through with the pair of sewing scissors beside her.

  "But I think you would enjoy my company, my lady," Wright nearly whined, the smell of his fetid, whiskey-soaked breath wafting through the air to assault Diana's nose. She did her best not to blanch at the stench. Marie, on the other hand, did not hold back and made her displeasure with the smell known, making sour faces and even going so far as to pinch her nose in distaste. Diana should have reprimanded the maid but could not find the will to do so - mostly because she wished she could do the same. "I am certain I would enjoy yours." He said that last bit so salaciously that Diana was surprised her father did not burst into the room and toss the man out on his arse. The man deserved nothing less.

  "Again, my lord, I am afraid I must decline." Diana was growing weary of these gentlemen as they were slowly stealing away much of her buoyant spirits and good mood from the night before, a night she had spent - at least partially - in Lachlan's arms. "As I said, I have another engagement and I will not break it."

  "Where?" Wright all but demanded, his breath now so rotten that Diana had no idea how much longer she could keep from casting up her accounts. That would most certainly annoy her mother, even more so than the loss of the duke. "I can change my plans just as easily so that we might meet. I would be ever so happy to escort you..."

 
"She will be with me. And you will not be present. Ever."

  A tall, dark shadow had fallen across the thick carpet and Diana looked up to see the towering - and decidedly angry - form of Lachlan McKenna glowering at Lord Wright as if the marquess might like to murder the other man where he sat. Other than the mess it might create, Diana was inclined to allow Lachlan to do as he wished to her unwelcome guest.

  "Lord... Lord..." Wright seemed unable to get past that singular word, so deep was his terror at the moment.

  "Lord Lachlan McKenna, the Marquess of Hallstone, to see you, my lady," Philbert announced in his typically dry manner, and it was all Diana could do not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Instead she bit her knuckle and prayed that no one noticed. She did however have the presence of mind to wave the butler away after a moment.

  "Lord Hallstone," Wright managed to finally squeak out, beads of sweat beginning to pop out on his forehead, "What are you doing here?"

  Diana watched in amazement as Lachlan's face changed and suddenly he became a different man. A harder one. This was the man who had stalked the drawing rooms of Edinburgh she decided, a bit rough around the edges and more Scottish than English in that moment. "I am calling upon Lady Diana like a proper gentleman. In case you had not already been informed, Wright, we are courting." There was a snarling edge to the marquess' voice, as if he was not quite as civilized as he pretended to be. She had heard that same tone the night they had first met and it made her shiver even now. "Or was the lady unclear on that point?"

  "N...N...No," Wright finally managed to blurt out. "However it was my understanding that she was amenable, shall we say, to other callers as well?" His voice rose so much at the end of the sentence, he sounded a bit like a mouse in danger of being pounced upon by a very hungry cat.