Tempting A Marquess for Christmas: A Steamy Regency Romance Book 5

by Georgette Brown

  “Shall I take your hat and gloves, sir?”

  “No, but please inform her that her cousin is here.”

  The maid nodded and went upstairs. He paced the vestibule while he waited. If Millie was asleep, he would wait until she wakened.

  But what he had feared was true.

  “She is not in her room,” the maid said when she had returned.

  Alarm gripped him. “Where are the other servants? Have they seen her?”

  “I am the only one. There is a laundry maid who comes once a week, but as it is Christmas, she will come tomorrow.”

  Wanting to confirm for himself, he took the stairs three steps at a time and went into the room with the open door.

  It was empty. She had left. With Winston.

  Alastair was stunned. Had Winston played him for a fool and only pretended to accept the offer of the annuity? Had he underestimated what partiality the man may have had for Millie? Or perhaps Millie had convinced him that the better course still lay in elopement. Millie was surprisingly persuasive. He ought not have underestimated her.

  “Have you searched the rest of the house?” he asked the maid as she came up behind him.

  “I have not. Should I? I don’t understand. Miss Abbott was too ill to leave her bed.”

  “Where does she keep her coat?”

  “Her coat, sir?”

  Alastair opened the doors of an armoire.

  “Oh!” the maid gasped in surprise. “It is not there.”

  “Are all her bonnets and shoes accounted for?”

  The maid examined the rest of the armoire’s contents. “How strange! Perhaps the laundry maid had come early this week?”

  Alastair needed no further evidence. Millie was gone.

  As disbelief faded, a sense of loss took its place. If she succeeded in marrying Winston, she was gone for him.

  It was what he wanted, Alastair reminded himself. He had doubled her dowry so that she could easily find a husband and he would be done with her, but she had been right. Her dowry had attracted too many suitors, including undesirable ones.

  He could not let her marry Winston. If he should find her before they married, he vowed he would make finding the best man he could for Millie his utmost priority. Or he could—

  An object upon the floor caught his eye. The maid had missed the note that had perhaps fallen off the bed. Bending down, he picked up the note and unfolded it.

  My Dearest Parents,

  Please know first and foremost that I hold you in much regard and love. My present actions may appear to contradict this assertion, and perhaps it is my selfishness, and not a lack of esteem or love for you, that wins the day. I wish I could be a better daughter. I wish I could envision myself married to Mr. Carleton or any of the other men you would deem in my interest to marry. Alas, I cannot. I expect my greatest chance for matrimonial happiness lies with Mr. Winston. He is a good man whose disposition matches my own. I hope you will one day come to forgive the actions I feel compelled to take. I do so with a heavy heart at the pain this must cause you.

  I will send word when Mr. Winston and I are married. He assures me that his situation is more than capable of sustaining a modest living. I have never wanted much more. Thus, you need not worry of providing for me. I hope that you will consider welcoming us into your house as Mr. and Mrs. Winston.

  With love,

  Mildred

  Pocketing the note, he asked, “Mr. Harris. He is a friend of the Grenvilles. Do you know where he might live?”

  “I know not, but the Grenvilles live at Cavendish Square.”

  He cursed, for he would have preferred to go straight to Mr. Harris’. After telling the maid that there was naught to worry and that he knew where Millie was—it was only a temporary fib, as he fully intended to find Millie—he hurried back to his carriage and made for Cavendish Square.

  He found the Grenville residence, and, to his fortune and immense relief, Mr. Harris and Mr. Winston. Upon setting eyes on the latter, he found it hard not to stride over and deck the man.

  “Lord Alastair—” Mr. Grenville began.

  “I will have a private word with Mr. Winston,” he growled.

  Mr. Grenville showed them into the library. As soon as the doors were closed, Alastair shoved Winston to the wall, closing his hand about the man’s throat.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Winston gripped his arm, attempting to keep it from crushing his neck to the wall. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Millie. Where did she go after you spoke with her?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Alastair felt the veins at this temple throb. “What? You did not speak with her?”

  “I did not wish to make a scene.”

  “If you did not speak with her, then she still thought you were to elope?”

  “I sent a note to her.”

  Millie must not have received it. “Where? When?”

  “At the Boar’s Head Inn off the main posting road to Gretna Green.”

  “Gretna Green! Why the devil would you travel that far? You are both of age. Why not marry at Hyde Park Corner or even Fleet?”

  “It was her idea! Their sex thrives on romanticism!”

  Alastair tightened his grip before throwing Winston to the ground in disgust. If he had the luxury of time, he would throttle the man. But he wanted to get to Millie.

  “You will not speak of this to anyone, save that you and I had a disagreement to settle. If you wish to demand satisfaction, name your seconds,” he said to Winston, who remained on hands and knees.

  When Winston only stared at him as if he were mad, Alastair threw open the doors and stalked past the surprised host. When in his carriage, Alastair let out an oath that even startled his driver. He could not believe that Winston had not spoken or, at the least, written a letter to Millie at her home. Instead, he had allowed her to travel to a posting inn on her own.

  The damned bleeder.

  The carriage could not arrive at the posting inn fast enough. As few people traveled on Christmas, the innkeeper was properly astonished to see Alastair.

  “I seek a young woman,” he informed the elderly keeper when he did not see Millie.

  “I had a young woman here earlier. She was alone and sat for several hours, till a letter arrived by messenger for her.”

  “Do you have the letter?”

  “It is with her. I saw her place it in her reticule.”

  “What happened then?”

  “After readings its contents, she asked if there would be a coach today. I said not likely, as it was Christmas. My son was visiting and had himself a wagon. I offered that he could take her where she wished to go for the right price.”

  “And where did she wish to go?”

  The man furrowed his brow. “Can’t remember, as I never heard the name before.”

  Alastair drew in a breath to calm his patience. He was ready to wring the innkeeper if it would do any good.

  “They took the road that leads to Surrey.”

  Surrey. Why would Millie head in that direction? Alastair understood that she no longer needed to head north to Gretna Green if the letter the innkeeper referenced was the one that Winston had written, but what lay to the southeast?

  He stiffened as the answer came to him.

  Château Follet.

  Chapter 29

  “YOU ARE NO IMPOSITION, ma cherí. Of course you must stay,” Madame Follet said, greeting Mildred in the salon. As always, the hostess appeared radiant in her white draped muslin, a vibrantly hued Turkish shawl, and golden jewelry. She carried herself with the vivacity of a young woman of twenty, despite being twice that in years.

  “I could think of nowhere else to go,” Mildred said, abashed.

  “I am flattered you would choose to spend Noel at Château Follet. I have a number of guests here, and they would more than welcome an addition.”

  “A place to spend the night is more than sufficient.”

 
“Nonsense! You cannot come here and not take part in the revelry. I have even prepared a special midnight feast, a Le Reveillon if you will, but of a much more wicked nature.”

  Gratitude filled Mildred. Madame Follet had not even inquired into why Mildred should have traveled here on her own.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Madame Follet.”

  “I will have a room prepared for you, and mind the kissing boughs.”

  “Kissing boughs?”

  Madame Follet pointed at the ivy with white berries that hung above the threshold. “It is a quaint practice, from the peasantry I believe. If you wish for more than kisses, do not hesitate to inform me if you are desirous of a partner. I would be happy to provide you one.”

  Mildred blushed. She had not considered participating and doubted she could be in the proper mood. Once settled in her own room—the very same she had stayed in her first time at Château Follet—she drew out the letter from Mr. Winston.

  Dear Miss Abbott,

  I regret that you shall be reading this, but I could not forgive myself if our marriage earned you the disdain of your family and, in particular, your cousin, the Marquess of Alastair. I would Lord Alastair had not threatened to take away your dowry, but you are deserving of a man who can both make you happy and keep your dowry.

  G.W.

  She sighed at the brevity of the letter and how it had made no mention of his affections. Yet, the letter had not caught her completely by surprise. The look in his eyes when she had informed him that Alastair intended to revoke her dowry, and his hesitant reception of her idea to marry regardless of Alastair’s approval, had been evidence of his true intentions, but she had failed to give them their due. Did he truly decide not to marry because he thought she would be better without him? Or had she misjudged his partiality for her?

  Tearing the letter in twain, she cast it into the hearth.

  Since Christmas service this morning, she had vacillated between heartache and anticipation. Perhaps she could have made it back to London before her parents had returned from Christmas dinner with Lady Katherine, but, at the time, she had had no desire to return home in defeat. She realized now that she was given to impulsiveness, and perhaps, as with accepting Haversham’s proposal, she had been rash. She had wanted to be the good daughter, but in the end, she had not the fortitude to see it through. Disgrace and shame certainly awaited her now.

  And she had thought she could not commit a worse mistake than accepting Haversham’s proposal.

  Looking about, she found comfort in the familiarity of her surroundings. She had liked this room during her first visit, though she had not spent a great deal of time in it. The same pastoral paintings with but hints of lasciviousness graced its walls of rose-colored silk. She remembered how cheerfully the afternoon sun shone into the room, brightening the mahogany furnishings.

  Bhadra, the comely Indian maid who had served her last time, appeared to assist her from her traveling clothes. When selecting a gown for the evening, Mildred hesitated at the ivory muslin she had thought she might wear when she wed Mr. Winston.

  “You’ll look lovely in this gown,” Bhadra said, running her hand through the delicate top layer with burgundy embroidery at the hem. “You must wear it, miss.”

  “I suppose it is festive in appearance,” Mildred contemplated.

  To the gown, Bhadra added the pearls she had unpacked from the valise and did Mildred’s hair in a loose coiffure. “Oh, miss, you do look lovely.”

  Mildred gave her reflection in the vanity looking glass a half smile. She could not look much better than she did.

  “Will you be joining Madame downstairs? She said she would save you a seat beside hers.”

  Straightening, Mildred replied, “I think I shall.”

  She had no desire to nurse her sorrow alone in her chambers. As she was here at the Château Debauchery, why not benefit from some of its aspects?

  Madame Follet was in a drawing room downstairs sitting on a sofa against the wall. With tapestries of gold, red, and turquoise, and pillows and rugs of equally vivid coloring, Mildred was reminded of a painting she had seen here at the château of a Turkish harem. In the center of the room, lounging upon the pillows, were a couple. The woman wore only pantaloons of the sheerest fabric. The man had on nothing. He languidly caressed the full breasts of the woman while a half dozen other occupants looked on.

  “How wonderful that you could join us,” Madame greeted Mildred. “And how ravishing you look!”

  Mildred blushed, trying to appear nonchalant despite the brazen scene. “It is Christmas.”

  “Sit with me a while. Would you like a ratafia or negus?”

  Mildred opted for the latter, which had a strong taste of cinnamon and nutmeg. She sat and glanced to see the woman in the pantaloons pull upon the man’s erection.

  “Have you had the pairing already?” Mildred asked of the ritual in which the guests who had come alone would seek their partners.

  “Are you interested?”

  “No, no,” Mildred quickly replied.

  “Because Francois, one of my footmen, would be more than happy to have the company of a lady tonight. Or Laroutte, my brother, said he would make himself available.”

  “Monsieur Laroutte?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I thought him partial—well, I mean, I...”

  “Thought him partial to men? He is. But on occasion he enjoys the fair sex. He remembers you.”

  Mildred flushed deeper. “You are a gracious hostess, but I am content to sit a while.”

  She watched as the man stroked the woman through her pantaloons and was reminded of how Alastair had fondled her through her shift. Finding the area beneath her waist stirring with sensation, Mildred tried to put the memory out her mind. But every caress the man made, every groan the woman made, returned her to Edenmoor

  A young man with a woman on his arm approached, providing a welcome interruption. “Madame Follet, my wife and I wish to thank you for your hospitality. Christmas is not a holiday we observe with great festivity, but thanks to Château Follet, it is now our favorite holiday.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, Mr. Cornell. I wondered that you would attend this year, given how busy you have been with Parliament. May I congratulate you on your election.”

  He bowed.

  “He is a newly elected MP from Middlesex,” Madame explained after the couple had left, “and a proud—what do you term them—Foxite?”

  “He does not worry that he will be discovered here?”

  “He could not be more notorious than Fox himself was.”

  Mildred could not imagine any man with a career in the public realm would dare consider the debauchery of Château Follet. Nonetheless, she was intrigued, but as Mr. and Mrs. Cornell had left the room, Mildred returned to watching the couple, their lips locked to one another as hands roamed over, under, and in between There was no denying the warmth that spread through Mildred.

  Madame Follet leaned toward her. “Are you quite certain you would not wish to pass the evening in the company of Francois or Monsieur Laroutte?”

  Mildred felt her pulse quicken. “I suppose...if Monsieur Laroutte is amenable...”

  AS SHE WAITED FOR LAROUTTE, Mildred scanned the chamber and found it elegant, not as provocative as the chamber she and Alastair had once made love in, but the four post bed was inviting with its velvet curtains, plush pillows, and fine bedclothes. After spending over half an hour observing the couple fondle each other lust had warmed her own body. She was pleased with her decision to partake of the activities at the château. It would relieve her mind of Winston...and memories of Alastair.

  Hearing someone enter, she turned around—and nearly died. She would have preferred to die. For upon the threshold, closing the door behind him, stood not Laroutte but Alastair.

  Her mind reeled. How could such a coincidence occur twice? She ought not be surprised that he would spend Christmas at Château Follet—it was a more p
robable destination than any other—but she still could not refrain from disbelief.

  They regarded each other in silence for what felt like an eternity before she managed to swallow her trepidation and ask him, “What do you do here?”

  He crossed his arms before his chest, his stare unrelenting. “I could ask the same of you?”

  “Why—You are not at Christmas dinner with Lady Katherine?” she stalled. Her mind searched for a plausible answer, for she knew that he would not allow his question to go unanswered for long, but came up wanting.

  “Why are you not?”

  Of course he would ask the same of her. There was nothing left but to confess.

  “You may be pleased to know that we need not concern ourselves any longer with Mr. Winston. You are correct. I think he wanted only my dowry.”

  Fearing that her voice would crack, she said no more.

  His expression softened. “I would rather have been wrong.”

  She nodded, comforted a little by his remark, though she could not recall a more dreadful moment than this: facing her cousin after a failed elopement with a man he had advised against. If he gave her a set down for her silliness, or triumphed that he had been the wiser of the two, she would not fault him. She supposed she should have known that Alastair would be right, that he would have an intuition for these sorts of things, especially as he claimed to be a cad himself.

  “I will not disturb your visit here,” she assured him, hoping he would leave soon to tend to his own pursuits for the evening. When he did not move, she added, “As I am no longer a novice here, you need not concern yourself with me and may forget my presence entirely to enjoy the revelry.”

  “I did not come to Château Follet for the revelry.”

  She blinked several times. Had her family, upon discovering her note, sent him to fetch her?

  “I came for you,” he confirmed.

  He sounded displeased. This would not do. She had no wish to return. Not now. Not until she had nursed her wounds by indulging in a night of debauchery.

  “How did you know to find me here?”