More or Less a Marchioness

by Anna Bradley

  Derrick gave him a curious look. “You almost sound as if you’re worried for her.”

  Finn didn’t answer, but his jaw twitched with annoyance.

  “If Miss Somerset’s family believes she’s still betrothed to you, then Wrexley must think so too,” Lord Derrick went on. “If her own family doesn’t know she’s jilted you, then how can he know it?”

  “She hasn’t told her grandmother, but it may be she’s confided in her sister and Lady Honora. If she has, then Lady Honora will have told her cousin of it. In any case, we already know a small thing like a betrothal to another man won’t stop Wrexley.”

  “You must write at once to Miss Somerset’s brother-in-law, Captain West, to warn him about Wrexley.”

  “I can’t do that, Derrick. I don’t know Captain West, and when he discovers Miss Somerset’s jilted me, he won’t trust what I have to say about her other suitor. In any case, all we have against Wrexley is gossip.”

  Finn didn’t expect an argument, since Lord Derrick was perhaps the only gentleman in London who never engaged in gossip, but to his surprise, his friend hesitated, then shook his head. “Unless you tell Captain West about Miss Hughes. That’s not gossip.”

  “No,” Finn said, his tone flat. “Not unless there’s no other way.”

  Even after Wrexley’s perfidy, Finn had still wanted to marry Diana, but she’d refused him. She’d claimed to be too ashamed, and insisted only the most spotless of ladies deserved to become his marchioness. But Finn knew the truth. Diana was wise enough to know a marriage to Wrexley would only lead to further heartbreak, but even after Wrexley ruined her and destroyed all her happiness, she’d loved him still.

  She wouldn’t marry Finn, but she’d begged him to help her leave London, and he’d done as she asked. Diana Hughes was now safely married to a former Oxford classmate of Finn’s. She lived up north near Newcastle, far beyond the reach of the ton’s vicious gossip, but she had two much younger sisters, both of whom were still unmarried, and who would remain so if that scandal should ever come to light.

  “Very well. To Hampshire, then. To Lady Hadley’s house party, to woo back your former betrothed.”

  Finn scowled at the word woo. He couldn’t think of anything more tedious than a second courtship, especially for a lady who’d jilted him once. “I doubt she’ll be happy to find me there, but I don’t see any other way.”

  Derrick nodded, and by mutual consent they guided their horses around the west end of the Serpentine and continued east toward Finn’s house in Grosvenor Square, a heavy silence between them as they each fell into their own thoughts.

  “You’ll need to go gently with her, Huntington,” Derrick said, once they’d turned onto King’s Road. “Your fortune and title won’t be enough to coax Miss Somerset back. She’s already shown she won’t be swayed by them.” Derrick paused to consider this, then. “Unusual lady, isn’t she?”

  “Unusual?” Finn snorted. “To say the least, yes. What sort of lady jilts a marquess? I haven’t the faintest idea how to proceed with her.”

  “You know, you never said why she jilted you, Huntington.”

  Because I wouldn’t kiss her.

  Finn didn’t say it aloud, in part because Derrick would fall off his horse in a fit of hysterical laughter, but also because it sounded ludicrous. A kiss, for God’s sake. There had to be more to it than that, and as soon as he got to Hampshire, he intended to find out what it was. “It’s complicated.”

  Derrick chuckled. “I have no doubt, but as far as proceeding with her, you’ll go on as any suitor would. She may be unusual, but she is a lady still. Be gallant and agreeable, speak softly and sweetly to her—none of your usual detachment and bad-tempered commands, if you please—and you’ll have the business settled before you leave the house party.”

  Finn raked a hand through his hair. Christ, if this thing depended on his agreeableness, there wasn’t a chance of success, especially against Wrexley, who donned his false charm as easily as he did his perfectly-tailored Weston coats. He didn’t have Wrexley’s easy smiles, or his glib sophistication. Finn’s words would sound right in his head, but somehow when he spoke them they would be all wrong, and he’d seem cold and detached, or too stiff and proper.

  He always did.

  “Don’t look so glum, Huntington. When we’re not taking Wrexley to account, perhaps we’ll have a chance to shoot some birds while we’re in Hampshire.”

  Finn didn’t reply.

  Hunting was all very well, as long as Lord Wrexley missed his shot.

  Chapter Six

  “I know very well you’re not asleep, Iris. You may twitch and mutter all you like, but you’re not fooling me, and you look quite ridiculous.”

  Iris raised one eyelid just far enough to peek through the tiny slit hidden under her eyelashes. Lady Honora was tucked into one corner of the carriage, her brow furrowed with worry. Violet was next to her, and her sister looked as if she were about to leap across the carriage and shake Iris until her eyes closed for good.

  Oh, dear. Her sister didn’t look pleased, and when Violet wasn’t pleased, she could be—

  “We’ve been trapped in this coach for hours, and in that time you haven’t said more than a dozen words to either of us.” Violet stuck out her foot and prodded Iris none-too-gently with her toe. “Well, I won’t speak for Honora, but I’ve had enough of it. You will speak to us, and tell us what’s made you so cross, or I vow I’ll spend the rest of the ride to Hampshire singing as loudly as I can.”

  Singing? Dear God, not that. Violet was infamous in their family for her lack of musical ability. She could even make a pianoforte sound tone deaf.

  Iris sighed, and opened her eyes. There was no use carrying on with the ruse. Even if she’d truly been asleep, Violet’s shouting would have woken her, and someone had to save Honora before she burst into tears.

  “What nonsense, Violet. Why should I be cross?”

  Iris forced the corners of her lips to curl upwards, but Violet, who wasn’t fooled in the least by the anemic smile, rolled her eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I thought you wanted us all to go to Charlotte’s house party.”

  “No. I didn’t object when Grandmother ordered us to go, but that’s not at all the same thing as wanting to go, is it?”

  “Well, why shouldn’t you want to go, for pity’s sake? It wasn’t as if you were doing anything in London this past week but sulking and muttering darkly to yourself.”

  “You haven’t been out of the house in days, Iris,” Lady Honora added. “You refuse to walk or ride in the park, or make calls, or go shopping. One would almost think you’re hiding.”

  Iris opened her mouth to deny it, but then closed it again. There was no point in trying to fool them, especially Violet, who seemed to know her thoughts even before she had a chance to think them.

  Had it only been a week since she’d sent Lord Huntington on his way? It felt like years since he’d sat across from her in the drawing room, his hazel eyes growing darker and darker with every word out of her mouth. By the time he took his leave they’d gone such a deep green she might almost have imagined his heart was affected, if she hadn’t known better.

  That was provided he had a heart. She’d never seen any definitive proof of its existence.

  That alone was reason enough to jilt him, and she didn’t regret doing it. No, of course she didn’t. It was more a matter of, well…what should she do now? She’d begun to suspect—oh, it was just a niggling doubt, mind you, not even a worry yet, and certainly not a panic—it might have been wise to plan her next steps before she’d jilted Lord Huntington.

  Not for her own sake, of course, but for everyone else’s.

  Perhaps you should start by telling your grandmother what you’ve done.

  Iris bit her lip, her stomach twisting into nervous knots that pulled tighter with every day she
continued her deception. She’d half-expected Lord Huntington to complain of his treatment to Lady Chase. He hadn’t, not even when Iris refused to receive his calls, but her grandmother would have to know eventually, and she wasn’t going to be pleased when she discovered Iris had jilted the Marquess of Huntington.

  Dash it, why couldn’t he have been some inconsequential viscount, instead? She might have been able to reconcile her grandmother to that.

  But it was done. She’d sent Lord Huntington away, and there was nothing left for it but to confess the truth. Well, most of the truth. Oh, very well, as little of the truth as possible. It would be preferable, for example, if the word blindfold didn’t make it into the discussion.

  Iris stared down at hands, her cheeks reddening with shame. She’d been so busy congratulating herself for her high principles in refusing to wed a hypocritical marquess, she hadn’t spared a thought for how her actions might impact her sisters’ prospects, or considered how disappointed her grandmother would be.

  It was all Lord Huntington’s fault, of course. He’d been so sure she was docile and predictable, he’d driven her to rebellion and recklessness, blast him.

  Jilting him should have been the first in a series of thoughtful, judicious steps to secure her future happiness. Instead it was the only step, and now she’d taken it, she hadn’t the faintest inkling what to do next. It was quite possible no other suitor would offer for her. One couldn’t refuse a marquess without consequences, and especially not the Marquess of Huntington, who all of London revered as a perfect gentleman.

  Iris’s lips tightened. Perfect, yes, if one overlooked his lordship’s fondness for blindfolds, and his appalling taste in mistresses. But then she was just as guilty as every other young lady this season who’d clamored for his attention. As recently as a few weeks ago she’d thought him as perfect as anyone else did, which just proved the entire lot of them were about as discerning as a flock of sheep.

  I may never receive another offer, once word gets out—

  “You’re muttering even now, Iris, and you have that wrinkle between your brows again.” Violet tapped her own forehead, right between her eyes. “Right here. If you keep scowling like that, it’s going to become permanent, and I can assure you, it isn’t attractive.”

  Iris gave her skirts an irritated jerk. For goodness’ sake, she should have kept up the pretense of sleep. “I’m not muttering, or scowling—”

  “Is this about Lord Huntington?”

  “No!” Blast it, how did Violet always know everything? “I’m simply worried about Hyacinth, that’s all.” Their youngest sister, Hyacinth, had left for Brighton with their grandmother several days ago, a few days after Iris had jilted Lord Huntington. “Perhaps we should have gone to Brighton with them.”

  “There’s nothing at all to worry about. The doctor says Hyacinth suffers from a depression of spirits as much as anything else.” Violet gave her a shrewd look. “But it’s not worry for Hyacinth that’s troubling you.”

  Perhaps not, but Iris thought it was as good an excuse as any for her low spirits. “How can you say that, Violet? I’m a most attentive sister.”

  “So am I. That’s how I know you’re lying. So, back to Lord Huntington—”

  “It’s awful, that business with Lord Harley!” Iris blurted, cutting her sister off before Violet could worm the truth out of her. She’d have to tell them everything and find out what they thought it best to do, but she needed a moment to think of the proper way to put it so as not to enrage Violet, or send Honora into hysterics. “My goodness, Honora. Can you imagine Lord Harley’s cheating at cards?”

  “He’s a perfect scoundrel.” Lady Honora smoothed her skirts, a tiny smirk on her face. She never had an unkind word to say about anyone, but she couldn’t quite hide her satisfaction at having escaped a marriage to Lord Harley.

  “They say he fleeced Lord Akers, and now he’s fled to the Continent to avoid a duel,” Violet said. “You must call on Lord Akers and thank him, Honora, for offering to put a ball in Lord Harley’s forehead. He’s saved you from what was sure to be a miserable marriage.”

  They all laughed at this, but a bitter lump lodged in Iris’s throat at the thought of Honora’s narrow escape. There wasn’t a sweeter-tempered lady in all of London, or one more deserving of a worthy suitor, and yet she would have been sacrificed to Lord Harley without a second thought.

  Cheating, mistresses, scandalous dark desires…was there a gentleman left in London who wasn’t a blackguard? And if there was, how was an inexperienced lady meant to distinguish him from the horde of cheats and debauchers? It wasn’t as if knowing how to flutter a fan and dance a quadrille would be much help.

  “I never liked Lord Harley. At one point I thought he would offer for you, Iris.” Violet gave a little shudder of distaste. “Thank goodness he didn’t. Both of you deserve far superior gentlemen.”

  Lady Honora would likely get a superior gentleman, too. Now Iris had jilted Lord Huntington, it was only a matter of time before he offered for Honora. He’d wanted her all along, and there was no question she’d make a lovely marchioness. As for Lord Huntington’s, ah…proclivities, Iris doubted Lady Honora would ever find out about them. She was much too ladylike to lurk in the bushes and eavesdrop on her betrothed, and even if she did find it out, it wouldn’t make any difference. Lady Honora was a conventional sort of lady, and would consider the title fair compensation for any, well…irregularities.

  Iris sighed. If only she were also a conventional sort of lady. It would be so much easier that way, but she’d been raised in Surrey, by parents who believed a splendid match was one where the parties were in love with each other. It had led to all kinds of ridiculous notions on the part of their five daughters.

  Iris could almost hear the gossips now. Love? My goodness, dear. How provincial!

  “Yes, well, I’m pleased you were able to join us at the house party after all, but let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we? What do you think, Honora? Lord Huntington has called on Iris every day without fail since he began courting her, and yet I haven’t seen the man once this past week.” Violet gave Iris an accusing look. “It’s as if he’s disappeared entirely.”

  “How dramatic you are, Violet.” Iris forced a laugh, but the knot in her stomach twisted tighter. Perhaps she’d wait to tell them after they arrived at Hadley House. Yes, that would be much better. One didn’t deliver distressing news while trapped in a small carriage with no chance of escape. “It’s no great mystery. He’s only gone off to his country seat in Buckinghamshire for some sport.”

  Yes, that would do. Gentlemen were always dashing off to the country on a whim, weren’t they?

  “Sport?” Violet folded her hands in her lap. “Well, that explains it, I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought Lord Huntington could bear to be separated from you for these last few weeks before your wedding, Iris.”

  Lady Honora said this with such sweet sincerity, Iris forced back her snort. Lord Huntington couldn’t bear to be separated from something, certainly, but it wasn’t her. Still it wasn’t her place to shatter Honora’s illusions. “Yes, yes—his devotion to me is truly unparalleled.”

  All these lies were also Lord Huntington’s fault, of course. She’d never had to lie about a thing before she met him.

  I don’t have to lie now, either.

  That was true enough, but it was too late to take it back, so she’d have to embellish on the lie instead, to make it believable. “He’s gone off to Huntington Lodge, to shoot…”

  Birds? Was it birds in August, or fox-hunting?

  “Pheasants?” Violet offered helpfully.

  “No, not—” Lady Honora began, but Violet silenced her with a look.

  “Yes! Yes, of course. Pheasants. Just so.” Iris settled back against the squabs. There, that should do.

  Violet leaned forwar
d, her eyes narrowed. “Pheasant season doesn’t start until November.”

  Iris glared at her sister. Violet was as wily as the wiliest fox. “Well, as to that—”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No. He really did go to Buckinghamshire, to…to…” Dash it, what could Lord Huntington be doing in Buckinghamshire that made the least bit of sense?

  Lady Honora gave a delicate cough of disagreement. “I saw him in Bond Street yesterday, Iris.”

  Iris froze for a moment, then deflated, slumping back against the squabs. Why could the truth never wait for the most convenient timing?

  “Are you quite finished telling tales?” Violet asked.

  It appears so. “Yes.”

  “Well, then? What’s happened? Did he jilt you? Because the ton won’t have it if he did. The Marquess of Huntington might be able to get away with quite a lot, but even he can’t—”

  “He didn’t jilt me. He, ah…well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “If he didn’t jilt you, then why hasn’t he called on you? It doesn’t make any…” Violet hesitated, and then her eyes went wide. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you—”

  Iris squeezed her eyes closed. “I jilted him.”

  “You jilted the Marquess of Huntington?” Lady Honora let out an odd squeak, and collapsed against the squabs in a heap of pink silk skirts, quite overcome.

  “I jilted him,” Iris repeated. No, it still didn’t seem real, even when she said it aloud. It would soon enough, however, once the ton swept in to persecute her with their vicious gossip.

  “But why? I mean, the ton would have made things uncomfortable for him if he’d jilted you, but for you to jilt the Marquess of Huntington? Why, they’ll have your head on a platter! My goodness, Iris. What have you done?”

  Violet looked so horrified Iris’s own heart gave an anxious lurch in her chest. “I—I—he doesn’t care for me. Not at all.”

  There was more, of course, so much more, and part of Iris wanted to blurt it all out, then lay her head on the carriage cushion and weep. If she told them everything—about Lord Huntington’s wager, and Lady Beaumont, and the cravats and insatiable appetites and desires—they would understand. Lady Honora would soothe her, and Violet would fall into a rage on her behalf, then they’d both stroke her hair and tell her she’d done the right thing, and she’d feel so much better.