pain of the marquess
THE VALIANT LOVE
REGENCY ROMANCE
a historical romance book
deborah wilson
Copyright and About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Wilson
All Rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this book in any form or by any electronic means without written permission from the author. Recording of this book is strictly prohibited. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Table of Contents
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Prologue
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prologue
* * *
October 1821
London, England
Lady Irene Hiller opened her eyes but saw nothing. The darkness seemed endless, making her room feel as though it went on forever. She gripped the sheets, slowed her breathing, and listened.
Footsteps. They were slow but pronounced as someone moved about her room. What was the hour? Perhaps she was wrong to think it night. She’d had her maid close the drapes before she’d gone to bed. She’d wanted the darkness. Since her father’s death two weeks ago, she’d struggled to find sleep any other way.
The house was so large, and she was alone except for the staff she’d kept on. She hadn’t released a single soul from her service, not even her father’s valet or driver. Their faces gave her comfort and made her feel less alone when she strolled through the house.
The footsteps came to a stop, and she heard breathing close to her bed. She thought it too heavy to belong to Abigail, her lady’s maid, who usually brought a lamp to shine a soft glow in order to find her way around Irene’s room.
The fear that had been pounding through her blood clawed its nails into her throat. She sucked in a breath right before a hand landed on her nose and mouth.
She screamed, but the sound was muffled. When she tried to pull in air again, none came. She fought, and her fists landed on the mighty arm suffocating her, but he didn’t release her.
Tears slipped down her heated cheeks as her assailant pressed her farther into the bed.
“If you swear not to scream, I will lift my hand.”
When she didn’t stop fighting, he shook her, shoved her harder against the mattress, and repeated himself.
Desperation turned her sobs to a whimper. Her lungs burned.
When he released her, and the air came, it was bliss. She gasped, sucked, and dragged in all the air she could find.
“Scream and I’ll kill you before anyone can find us.”
She closed her mouth and swallowed. The man, and she was certain it was a man, was doing something to disguise his voice, making it harsh and unnaturally deep.
“I wonder how many people would miss you if you died, Lady Irene. Not many will miss your father.”
She tried to stop the pain that slashed through her chest at the words. She’d been busy trying to come up with a means of escape when he’d said what he had. She’d loved her father. Lord Van Dero had been a man who enjoyed having his way, but never had he lifted a hand to her. His funeral had been well attended. She’d received hundreds of condolences. This man clearly knew nothing about her or her father.
“Do you know what sort of man your father was?”
Irene said nothing.
“I asked you a question,” the man from the darkness said.
She swallowed. “I have a purse on the vanity. You can have—”
“Answer my question.”
Yes. My f-father was a good man, and he will be g-greatly missed.”
He grunted. “I figured he’d been good to you. Otherwise, you’d have married the first man not offended by your face.”
His comment didn’t hurt. Irene had grown up with her face. She saw it every day. She knew she was no great beauty, no matter what her father had said or how many artists came from the Continent to paint her.
She didn’t look like other women. She never had, and she never would. She accepted that, and if her attacker thought her hideous, there was hope that he didn’t desire to rape her.
“Your father was a wicked man, my lady. Did you know that?” the shadowed man asked.
“What do you want?” If he was planning to attack her, she wanted him to do it now.
“I want the book.”
“What book?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I want the book. Where is it? Is it in this room?” She felt his hand brush the sheets, and she jumped toward the other side.
He caught her and spun her around. His breath was terrible as he pinned her.
“Please!”
“Shut your mouth,” he hissed. “If you wake anyone, I’ll slit your throat.” He hadn’t covered his natural voice when he’d said it. She heard an aristocrat note to it. The man was a member of the ton or an upstairs servant, not anyone that she knew though.
Irene tried to slow her breathing so she could concentrate on his words.
“I want the Book of Affairs.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She turned her head and pulled in a breath. “I have never heard
of such a book.”
“Your father kept it close, and you were close to your father. You cared for him until the end.” He adjusted himself to be on top of her, and Irene had to hold herself back from whimpering.
He caressed her cheek with his hard fingers. “Looking at you, one would never guess at the softness you hide underneath all the rigidness. Tell me where the book is, or I’ll turn unfriendly.”
“I don’t have it! Who wrote it? I will buy it for you. I swear. Just leave. Please.” Irene had always prided herself for not giving into hysterics, but she couldn’t control herself now. Tears streamed down her face.
The man rolled off her and stood. “Your father has a book, a book he wrote himself. I’ll keep visiting until it is in my possession. For now, you might want to look into the Tillerman factory.” She owned the factory and other businesses, thanks to her father.
She heard the crashing of feet as they pounded into the floor. He flung her drapes back and then he was gone.
A maid came in. She held up a lamp, but that didn’t stop Irene from screaming.
“Are you all right, my lady?” the terrified servant asked.
Irene couldn’t answer. She didn’t know what to do. All she could do was weep.
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* * *
March 1822
London, England
“Stand up.”
Irene’s young pupils obeyed in unison. The fifteen-year-old twin girls unfolded themselves from their chairs with an elegance that would make one believe them far more mature than their ages.
They didn’t let their hoop skirts and heavily adorned curls impede their motion.
Irene smiled when she noticed that their chins were lifted just so. She’d taught them that, shown them the way. She’d taught her two birds to fly and today they would enter the world of womanhood. They’d be presented at court, and they’d have the world eating from the palms of their hands within the week.
They’d taken their lessons seriously. She was certain they’d have few troubles. They’d be wed in a few years, and they’d look back on this time and know they had Irene to thank.
But now was the time for their final lesson. “As you take your first steps into the London Season, I must make one thing very clear. Never, under any circumstance, settle. Not with husbands. Not with friends or family. Never settle for anything less than respect. Once you allow someone to walk all over you, you become a rug, and rugs are beaten.”
They jumped at the last bit. She might have been more emphatic than necessary, but she had to make sure they understood. “There is no going back from being a rug; therefore, be sure to always demand what you are owed, and that is the courtesy of any man or woman who wishes to address you.”
Rachel, the one on the right, lifted her chin an inch farther.
Irene had to hold back a smile. She looked away and began to pace. Her strides were elegant and profound. “To have respect does not mean you will have everyone’s favor. There are those who will be offended that you demand thoughtfulness in their tone and tongue, but never give in.” She stopped and met the other girl’s eyes. Winifred was more willing to bend to make peace. With luck, she’d marry someone who adored her. It was truly her only hope. “As women, we are given few choices. Many things are asked of us, but never bargain your respect.”
Their mother, Lady Cecilia Hiller, stood and clapped. “Thank you, Irene. Girls, thank your aunt.”
“Thank you, Aunt Irene,” they said in unison.
Irene was not truly their aunt; it was simply that Irene and Cecilia had been acquainted since the womb. Their mothers had been friends. They’d tried for a baby at the same time. They’d often sat close while with child and claimed Irene and Cecilia had reached out to one another in the womb.
They were friends before their birth, sisters in a way that was more meaningful than blood.
Irene’s nieces broke from their refined postures and rushed to hug her and shower her with their gratitude and excitement.
Irene smiled as they retreated from the room. Their ladies’ maids would make the final finishes to their attire and then everyone would start for the palace. There would be a parade and one ball right after the other. She’d see more people tonight than any other. Naturally, she’d spend most of the evening with Cecilia and the girls. An aunt’s work was never done.
“Do you think they’ll marry well?” Cecilia asked as she and Irene sat on the ornate couch. Cecilia’s girls looked just like her with vibrant red hair and sunspots that Irene thought irresistible, though all three hated them. They had bright hazel eyes and soft simple features that beckoned people to stare in admiration of their beauty.
“They will marry well,” Irene said, having no doubt.
Cecilia sighed extravagantly and touched her flushed cheek. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done these last few years without you. These last few months have been especially wonderful. With Harry on the Continent, I’ve felt terribly alone in our apartments. It was nice that the girls and I had the chance to stay here and spend time with you.”
“I’ve enjoyed having you here,” Irene assured her.
“You know I’ve never been good at these things, all the rules and etiquette. If left to me, my darling girls would have fit better in a cage at a menagerie.”
Cecilia had one another daughter, Mary. She was ten and visiting her grandmother for the day. Cecilia’s only son was at Eton. He often acted like wild beast, but he was a boy and Society would accept that as an excuse up to a certain point. Thankfully, Harry Jr. was away at school.
Cecilia shook her head. “You’re truly the most wonderful person I know.”
Irene rolled her eyes dramatically, yet inside, her stomach tumbled with distress. “Cecilia, please. We both know you were doing me the favor.” Irene’s nightly visitor hadn’t stopped coming.
He’d come once when Cecilia had gone to visit her mother and another time when Cecilia had taken the children to visit their uncle. He never came when someone else was in the house.
She’d posted a footman in her room for the first week while she’d dug into Tillerman’s factory.
On the surface, she’d found nothing that gave her pause about the paint factory, but then she’d noticed that many of the painting jobs were not only carried out by men, but little girls as well. After pulling the girls to a safe place, Irene had asked them if they did anything else but paint at the homes they visited in the city.
Their confessions had almost made her faint. Owning most of the business, Irene had removed Tillerman from his own factory and put another man in charge, one of the few the girls had said they trusted.
She’d been disgusted by what she’d found, but with more digging, she found no evidence that her father had known. None of the money Tillerman had been making off selling the girls’ bodies was on the books.
So, Irene had taken a risk and sent the footman away the next night and the night after that.
Her visitor hadn’t come again until a month later. Again, he’d asked for the book and again, she’d had no clue what he was speaking about. She’d asked her father’s man of business, Mr. Crow, about it, but he was at a loss as well.
The visitor had given her the name of another one of her father’s businesses to look into and naturally, Irene had done just that, only to find more corruption.
Since that second visit, her assailant had come twice more. He remained by the window as they spoke. She offered to let him come to her during the day and she would help him find the book, but he refused. He didn’t wish to share his identity but was glad to see Irene was not like her father.
It was still a matter she disagreed upon. Her father had not been a villain. Most businesses had their faults, Mr. Crow had told her, and with her father being so weak, it had been easy for men like Tillerman to take advantage of him.
Her visitor told her that there were other men who wished to come after her. He was not the only m
an in London searching for the book, but to this day, he’d been the only one to bother her about it.
But there were times when Irene felt as though someone were watching her. Even in a crowd, she could feel eyes burning her, dark eyes that wished to hurt her.
“That is not true.” Cecilia took her hand, shaking her from her thoughts. “It is you who have done me a service. You’re the most giving person in London. Look what you’ve done for my girls and the girls at the factory and all the while, you’ve been dealing with your own grief. Your brother has been gone for ten months. Your father for eight. You’ve dedicated your whole life to everyone else. Now that the girls are entering the Season, you should do something for yourself.”
“Helping you pleases me.”
“You should marry,” Cecilia said, as she always did. Then she followed with what usually came next. “Harry has returned, just as he promised he would. He’ll be present at court to see the girls bow to the queen. We’ll be leaving you tonight, but I fear leaving you alone. The man who comes through your window might decide to turn violent again since I am not in the room next door. Oh, I wish you’d simply report him.”
“I can’t,” Irene said. “He knows so much about my father’s business. He could start gossip. I must clear my father’s name.”
“Then find that book.”
“I’ve searched. We’ve both searched.” They’d taken the house apart in hopes of finding it, but they’d found nothing. She thought to look at some of her father’s other properties, but the attacker had said there was no need. Her father would have kept the book close.
The Book of Affairs. What was inside? She wondered if it truly existed.
“Marry, Irene,” Cecilia said. “You’re beautiful. Any man worth his salt would have you.”
Heat, created from embarrassment and anger, pushed Irene to her feet. “I believe I’ve told you that I do not wish to discuss this.”
Cecilia tilted her head. Her posture was terrible, but it didn’t matter. She’d married well— twice—and had given both husbands their heir. She was a woman who Society would make few demands on. “We’ve seen thirty summers, you and I.”
Irene groaned. “Are we truly thirty-years-olds? So soon?” The effort she put into it was only partly exaggerated. She hated being thirty. Where had the time gone?
Pain of The Marquess: (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book) Page 1
