His strong jaw flexed as he gave her an assessing look. His interest was written all over his face. As if she’d needed more proof that he was a rake. She’d learn to spot the type anywhere, and now that she knew them, she vowed to stay far, far away.
But she supposed some measure of gratitude was in order. Trying to keep her disdain out of her voice, she mumbled, “Thank you for helping us, sir.” She gave a small curtsey and then started shaking out her skirt in an attempt to remove some of the mud before climbing back into the carriage. Fortunately, their exchange was nearly over.
“Ye’re welcome,” he answered in a deep rich brogue before stepping closer.
Without another word he reached for her skirt and she straightened, stiffening from shock. He wasn’t going to...he wouldn’t dare...but he did. He knelt down beside her and grabbed her skirt, and holding it out, began deftly removing the mud. “Sir,” she gasped.
“It’s Ewan. Ewan McDougal. Now turn.” His gruff words weren’t frightening. But her breathing was coming out in short gasps. The heat from his body had her own growing warmer. He started working on a new section of gown.
She stared at him unable to believe this was actually happening. As he spun her again, her foot hit a rut in the road and she bobbled, just a little. His hand shot out to her hip to steady her. An ache deep inside her throbbed at his touch. She gasped, her hands coming to his shoulders to right the now-tilting world. But that only made it worse. They were broad and muscular and for moment, she had the feeling they could shield her from the world. “Please stop,” she begged.
“It’s raining, ye ken?” He looked up at her as though she were dull in the mind.
“I am aware.” She tried to straighten her shoulders but the rain was worsening and they hunched back down without permission, curled closer to him and the warmth he exuded.
“Then turn around so that I can git the back.” He gave her skirt a little tug to turn her.
Huffing, she turned, his brisk words bringing her to her senses. Agnes stared at her openmouthed as he worked off the mud. Fortunately, no one else was here to see this, though she hardly had any reputation left to preserve, so it wouldn’t really have mattered.
Looking down, she had to admit he had done an admirable job of removing the muck. She would be warmer for it on this last leg of the journey. “Thank you,” she murmured over her shoulder. Only a rake would touch her so but at least she would be more comfortable for his efforts.
He stood and nodded. “Get yerself in that carriage now before ye catch yer death. Scotland is a lot colder than ye’re likely used to.”
How did he make that sound like an insult? Not that it mattered, it didn’t a wit. She’d likely never see him again, and good riddance. “How could you possibly know what I am used to?”
Without another word, she climbed into the carriage and snapped the door shut.
“Who was that?” Agnes bounced a little on her seat. Agnes was her cousin from her father’s side and her travelling companion on this journey along with Agnes’s mother, Mrs. Judith Faulkenberry. Her parents would have accompanied her but she hadn’t wanted them to. Closing her eyes, she pushed angry thoughts of them away. She’d be with her Scottish relatives soon, and Agnes and Aunt Judith were the best possible company.
Her father’s sister was a proper English lady from her perfectly coiffed grey hair to her never-wrinkled gown. Agnes’ enthusiasm wore her out. Though her cousin was about to turn eighteen, she flitted like a butterfly everywhere she went.
Aunt Judith had used the time while they were fixing the wheel and not bouncing about, to take a short rest. But Agnes’s enthusiasm had roused the woman. “Do stop, dear,” she mumbled to Agnes.
Clarissa rolled her eyes, trying to exude a casualness she didn’t feel. “I don’t know, some Scot.” She didn’t want them to know that the man’s touch had sent her world tilting wildly.
“You should have seen him brushing off her skirts, Mother. And his name was Ewan,” she imitated his deep voice. “Ewan McDougal.” Then she tapped her chin. “Say, you don’t think he’s related to your mother, do you?”
“Probably. Some distant cousin. But there are likely a thousand of them.” She waved her hand, brushing the unpleasant thought away that she might have to see him again. Because she never wanted to see those broad shoulders and green eyes as long as she lived.
“He brushed your skirts?” her aunt repeated, sitting straighter in her seat.
“He was being a gentleman, Mother. Helping with the mud.” Agnes nodded.
Clarissa didn’t respond but she thought it was unlikely to have been an act of chivalry. More probably he was just exercising his rakish ways touching her like that.
She shook her skirts out around her to aid in their drying. “We’re likely never to see him again so let us not dwell on it. He did manage to fix the wheel so we’ll be out of this carriage—”
“And into a drafty old castle—” Aunt Judith huffed.
“In no time.” Clarissa finished.
“Do you think it’s haunted?” Agnes clapped looking excited. They’d spent most of their time in the country so Agnes was constantly seeking adventure.
“Why would you even ask that?” Aunt Judith sniffed. She straightened her already smooth skirt.
But Clarissa held back a grin. Agnes’s enthusiasm and zest had carried her through the past month and she loved her cousin for it. It wasn’t the ideal temperament for a lady of London, but as a friend, it was divine.
“We’ll ask Fiona, Emilia, and Ainsley.” Clarissa smiled. “I bet they’ll help us hunt.”
“Clarissa, don’t encourage her.” Aunt Judith crossed her arms.
“How fun.” Agnes gave her a winning grin that lit her face in the most beautiful way. Already an attractive girl, she radiated happiness.
Clarissa was looking forward to visiting her mother’s family too. But not for ghost hunts. This place had always been her safe haven, her cousins were people with whom she could be herself. She needed that now.
Leaning her head against the frame of the carriage, she glanced through the shutters. The carriage lurched forward, finally moving again. She could see the brawny Scot, Ewan McDougal, riding alongside the other man, who had stayed on horseback. He looked devilishly good. Another reason to despise rakes. Their handsome charm masked a devious heart.
MORE ABOUT TAMMY
Tammy Andresen lives with her husband and three children just outside of Boston, Massachusetts. She grew up on the Seacoast of Maine, where she spent countless days dreaming up stories in blueberry fields and among the scrub pines that line the coast. Her mother loved to spin a yarn and Tammy filled many hours listening to her mother retell the classics. It was inevitable that at the age of 18, she headed off to Simmons College, where she studied English literature and education. She never left Massachusetts but some of her heart still resides in Maine and her family visits often.
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A M
arquis for Marianne
By Catherine Bilson
Chapter One
A PRIVATE BALL AT TEMPLE Grove Manor, near Cambridge
March, 1810
“Your most persistent suitor is back, Miss Abingdon.”
Marianne permitted only a slight smile to touch her lips as Amelia Temple spoke. The other girl’s tone held a decided hint of jealousy, as the tall young man approaching the pair was easily the handsomest in the room—especially in a lieutenant’s scarlet regimentals.
“I’ve been acquainted with Mr. Rotherhithe since we were both children, Miss Temple,” Marianne attempted to defray Amelia’s envy. “We are friends; that is all.” The lie almost scalded her tongue, but it would not do for whispers of her true attachment to Alexander Rotherhithe to reach her father’s ears. Or, God forbid, his father’s or grandfather’s ears.
“Miss Abingdon.” Alexander bowed very correctly, his dark brown eyes warm as he straightened to gaze upon her face. “Dare I hope you have a space remaining on your dance card for me?”
Without a word, Marianne slipped the ribbon holding the tiny booklet from about her wrist and offered it to him. His lips quirked minutely as he examined the card before lifting the equally tiny pencil attached and jotted his initials down in the single space remaining. She had saved that precious space by dint of avoiding as many potential dance partners as possible, no easy feat when you were lauded as the greatest beauty of the Season.
“I shall consider myself exceptionally fortunate, Miss Abingdon. Until our dance, then.” He bowed once again and left them alone.
Amelia sighed wistfully as she watched the lieutenant depart and muttered, “I wish he’d asked me to dance.”
“Since your card is full already, it would do you no good if he had,” Marianne pointed out dryly. “As the daughter of the house, your dances have all been reserved since the house party began!”
“True, but still, he could have asked,” Amelia sighed again before linking her arm through Marianne’s. “I hear the orchestra tuning up. We should go into the ballroom; the first set will begin shortly.”
Marianne did not care in the slightest for the first set, or any set other than the one she would dance with Alexander. Nevertheless, she painted a false smile on her lips and allowed herself to be led onto the floor.
HE HATED EVERY MAN who dared approach her.
She was his, had always been his. Ever since he’d laid eyes on her years ago, her auburn-haired perfection had drawn him like a moth to a flame. Every other girl paled into boring insignificance beside her spectacular, eye-catching beauty.
She was too young then, of course, but now she was a woman grown. Eighteen years old and ripe for the plucking, a peach just ready to drop into his waiting hand. Especially considering her father, who was even now gambling away the last of his late wife’s money at the gaming tables.
Taking a sip of his brandy, he watched with narrowed eyes as a tall young sprig in a scarlet coat claimed her hand for a dance. How dare that upstart touch what was his!
Soon, nobody would be allowed to dance with her but him.
Very soon.
“IT’S TERRIBLY WARM in here,” Marianne said as the musicians struck the first chords. “Would you mind terribly if we sat out the dance? I think perhaps I should get some air.”
“Of course,” Alexander said with a secret little smile, promptly escorting her from the floor. “I would not for a moment have you distress yourself for the sake of a mere dance, Miss Abingdon. Pray, retire to refresh yourself.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Lieutenant.” Marianne curtseyed gracefully before making her way out of the room.
Once out of the ballroom, she did not turn left to ascend the stairs to the retiring rooms. Instead, she turned to the right and opened a door mostly concealed behind a large potted plant, a door which led to the servants’ quarters. Lifting her skirts in her hands, she rushed along the narrow, poorly lit corridor as fast as she could in her dancing slippers, hoping desperately nobody was coming the other way. She was lucky, though, and reached her next destination without seeing another soul.
A second door let out below the terrace immediately outside the ballroom, and she stepped out onto the raked gravel, careful not to let her feet make a sound. Directly above her head she could hear voices, people talking and laughing, cigar smoke drifting upwards as some gentleman indulged in the cool night air.
A hand curled around her elbow, and she bit back a gasp. Relaxing at once, she followed the insistent tug of that strong hand, tiptoeing on the loud gravel until they were around the side of the house and walking on grass, moving further away from the lighted windows and the noise until everything became dark and quiet.
“Marianne,” he said her name gruffly once they were free to speak without fear of being overheard.
She sobbed his name in return, throwing herself against him. “Oh, Alexander! You came!”
“Nothing could have kept me away.” He caught her in strong arms, bending down to kiss her upturned lips.
“Not even your grandfather?” Marianne whispered when he broke the kiss.
“It turns out that joining the army has had a remarkably freeing effect. My commanding officer is a great deal less strict than dear Grandpapa.”
She could not see his wry smile in the darkness, but she could hear it in his voice. Smiling herself, she rested her head against his chest, heedless to the disarray of her curls. His warm hand came up to rest at the back of her neck and for a long moment they remained thus, in a close and loving embrace.
“I wish I could ask you to come away with me now,” Alexander murmured, “but my regiment is bound for Spain next week. Even if we were to marry, I have no safe haven to provide you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Marianne said fiercely. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Alex? Promise you’ll come back to me?”
THEY BOTH KNEW THERE were no guarantees in war. Both of them had lost family and friends to the war against the French: Marianne, her only brother; Alexander, two uncles and his best friend from his school days.
Still, Alexander promised her, and he meant every word. “If God grants that I survive, I will come back to you, Marianne. There is no force on earth which will stop me coming for you, if you will but wait for me.”
His words had the solemnity of a marriage vow, and in his mind they were exactly that. In that moment, he pledged himself to the girl who he had known all his life. The girl who had been his childhood companion in numerous escapades. The girl who had been his shoulder to cry on when his baby sister died of fever, just as he had returned the favour a year later when her mother drowned in a tragic accident. The girl who he loved above all others. And always would.
“I will wait for you,” Marianne pledged in return, reaching up to place her hands on his cheeks, and though he could not see her eyes, in his mind they glowed blue as the summer sky, bright with her love. “I will always wait for you.”
HE WATCHED THE YOUNG officer return to the ballroom from the terrace, his smile a great deal too self-satisfied for a man who’d lost out on dancing with the most beautiful girl at the ball. Moments later, Marianne walked back in through the main doors, smiling just as happily.
Two pairs of eyes met and secret glances were exchanged before both looked away, feigning gaiety while mingling with the other partygoers.
He downed the last of his brandy.
It was time to make his move.
Chapter Two
The townhouse of the Earl of Havers, London
November, 1818
“He’s dead.”
Marianne stared in disbelief.
“Lady Creighton?”
Behind her, the whispers began: “Poor thing.” “She’s in shock.” “So sudden.”
“Lady Creighton, I think you’d best sit down.”
A strong hand touched her elbow, guided her away from her husband’s body. Out of the room entirely, to a smaller, empty parlour and a
couch where she was pressed to sit down.
“Marianne,” her friend Ellen said taking a seat beside her, looking and sounding desperately concerned. “Are you all right? Please, say something. Should we fetch a doctor?”
“I think it’s rather too late for that,” Marianne said and then had to suppress a totally inappropriate giggle. “My husband is dead.”
“Thomas,” Ellen said, and her husband of less than a day immediately moved to her side. “A drink, do you think?”
“Brandy,” the Earl of Havers agreed. Within moments he knelt by the couch, pressing a glass into Marianne’s hand, which she only then realised was shaking. “Drink it, Lady Creighton. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “At your wedding party...”
“Don’t you dare apologise!” Ellen almost pushed the glass to her lips, forcing her to take a sip. The brandy burned all the way down her throat.
“Lady Creighton,” Thomas said, and she couldn’t stop her flinch. He paused and began again, “Forgive me for being familiar - Marianne. Will you allow me to handle things regarding the disposition of your husb- I mean, Lord Creighton’s body? I assume he should be returned to his estate?”
“Yes.”
She should say more, Marianne realised when the pair of them just stared at her. Thomas was an American, only lately come to England when he’d inherited his title. Though Ellen was possibly the only person she could truly call a friend, her friend was the daughter of a country parson, with no knowledge of society.
“It’s near Durham,” she managed to get out. “I - perhaps Lord Creighton’s valet would be able to give you some useful information.”
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