The Marquess In Her Bed (Steamy Historical Regency)
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The Marquess in Her Bed
A Steamy Regency Romance
Olivia Bennet
Edited by
Maggie Berry
Contents
A Thank You Gift
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Lusting for the Broken Earl
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Olivia Bennet
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Daring Fantasies of a Noble Lady. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
With love and appreciation,
Olivia Bennet
About the Book
He knows life is worth living...because he is ready to die for her.
Cecilia Baxter, daughter of a well-known carpenter, spends her days assisting her father in his workshop. Never particularly interested in marriage, her life takes an exciting turn the moment a new client sets foot in the shop.
Nicholas Lymington, Marquess of Clive, is every lady’s dream: young, handsome and...eligible. Complying with his mother’s request to help her choose furniture for their mansion, he finds himself hopeless at the sight of the carpenter's beautiful daughter.
Drawn to each other, the fiery attraction between them grows by the minute…
Ηowever, not everyone is on their side and even old debts must be paid. When Cecilia gets kidnapped, Nicholas has just a few hours to save not only the woman he loves but also himself, from an enemy that seems almost intangible...and ready to crush them both.
Chapter 1
Cecilia picked up the sanded wooden beam that would become the final leg of the dining table and placed it in the lathe by the window, where the light was best. The warm afternoon sun glowed golden through the panes, and she felt that the wood was coming to life in her hands. She made sure that the object was tightly secured and adjusted the lathe precisely to ensure a perfect match between this table leg and its three companions, before beginning to work the treadle with her foot.
Slowly, the design she had envisioned began to emerge from the wood. This was the moment that Cecilia loved best of all, turning a simple piece of wood into something that was both beautiful and useful. She imagined the Brewer family, for whom she was building the table and chairs. They would not be just a table and chairs; they would tell the history of the family.
Perhaps in a few years, grandchildren will join them around the table. Someday their son and daughter-in-law will have this table in their kitchen.
Although she had done this a thousand times in her father’s small woodshop, Cecilia never allowed herself to work while her mind wandered. She knew from experience that even a tiny moment of distraction could result in an uncorrectable flaw in the wood, or a bloody fingertip, or perhaps even worse. She turned away from thoughts of the family around the table, and focused on the piece right in front of her.
It was an unspoken rule in Emmanuel Baxter’s shop, that no one should be interrupted when working, no matter what. So it was that Cecilia failed to notice her father and Archie Mowbray entering the workshop in silence. After a few minutes, her work on the table leg was completed to her satisfaction, and she removed it from the lathe and added it to the pile with the others.
Cecilia’s father was a stocky man of about fifty, with the calloused hands and sun-weathered skin of a man who had worked hard every day of his life. He had never been called handsome, but as Cecilia looked up at his kind face, topped with thinning gray hair, she felt a surge of affection for the man who had raised her. Most fathers would refuse to let their daughters learn woodworking or any occupation besides maintaining a home, but Emmanuel Baxter recognized Cecilia’s curiosity and helped her develop a talent for woodworking. I’m quite lucky that he let me join him in the shop.
Her mother had died ten years earlier while delivering a stillborn son. Cecilia and her father had clung to one another in their grief. Her father returned to work after his wife’s funeral, and twelve-year-old Cecilia had joined him every day, building on the skills she had previously learned. In a very short time, she was able to carve wood precisely and join the pieces she carved in perfect right angles.
Around the same time, Cecilia’s father had taken on fifteen-year-old Archie Mowbray as an apprentice, and he and Cecilia had learned the mysteries of geometry, and the skills of woodworking, both a science and an art, side by side. Cecilia had learned to read from her mother, and she had taught Archie, who was able to write only his own name. Now, Archie was a journeyman carpenter and was soon able to read and write simple sentences, but he continued to work for the Baxter family instead of opening his own shop.
“Your work looks perfect, Cecilia, shall I help you join the legs to the tabletop?” Archie slid next to her and smiled.
“I can do the joining, if you’ll help me move the tabletop over to the workbench,” she replied.
“I can help Archie with that, my dear,” her father insisted, “it’s quite heavy, you know.”
“I do.” Cecilia gave him a smile. “I did make it myself, after all.”
Her father laughed. “Yes, you did, and you made it perfectly as always. Still, it is quite heavy.” Then he added, more to himself than to either of his companions, “I just wish I had taught you how to lay a table for dinner in addition to building one.”
They had had this conversation many times before, and as always, Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Well, we haven’t starved yet, have we?”
“Of course, you’re right!”
Everyone present was well aware that the money they had made selling Cecilia’s beautiful furniture had more than paid for the services of Mrs. Williams. Emmanuel Baxter had hired the cook and housekeeper shortly after his wife died, when it became apparent that his daughter would not be taking over the responsibilities of running his household.
Over the years, Mrs. Williams had tried to take Cecilia on as a sort of apprentice in the kitchen, insisting that she must learn to cook and maintain a clean home if she ever hoped to find a suitable husband. Cecilia had no interest in the prospect of finding a husband, suitable or otherwise, and told Mrs. Williams so in no uncertain terms.
When Cecilia was thirteen, Mrs. Williams had smiled and said that surely Cecilia would change her mind in time, all the while exchanging a mysterious look with Papa. However, when she continued to say the same thing at seventeen, and then at twenty,
and now at the ripe old age of two and twenty, Mrs. Williams scoffed to hear such an unnatural proclamation.
Still, she was a kind old woman missing the company of her own grown daughters who had married and moved away. Cecilia understood that she had her best interest in mind, so she tried always to think kindly of Mrs. Williams.
Once her father and Archie had moved the heavy tabletop onto the workbench, Cecilia set to work joining the table legs to the four corners, fitting posts into the precisely-sized holes she had carved the day before. She measured each leg carefully to confirm what she already knew—that they were all exactly the same height—before setting them in place with glue. She placed heavy stones on the foot of each upturned leg to hold it in place while the glue dried. Tomorrow, when the glue was dry, she would reinforce the joints with wooden braces and nails.
As Cecilia finished joining the legs to the table, Mrs. Williams entered the shop and announced that supper would be served shortly. Cecilia removed her leather gloves and placed them in a pocket of her apron, which she removed and hung from a peg next to the workshop door.
I shall have to finish my work tomorrow; it will be too dark to continue after supper, and candlelight will be insufficient for such precise work.
She proceeded into the main house with her father and Archie. They all sat at the simple wooden table that her father had made when he first built this house and workshop and brought his young bride home. Mrs. Williams served them a delicious stew of beef, onions, carrots, and potatoes, with freshly-baked bread to soak up the rich gravy.
As they ate, Archie asked Cecilia what book she was reading. He knew reading was one of her favorite pastimes when not working in the shop.
“Right now, I’m reading Reflections on the Revolution in France, by Edmund Burke. It’s quite fascinating, actually.”
“It sounds it,” said Archie.
“What a thing for a young lady to read!” Mrs. Williams looked scandalized, “The study of politics and war is best left to your future husband, to be sure, Miss Baxter.”
“If Miss Baxter’s husband enjoys the study of politics and war, surely he should enjoy having a wife who is capable on discussing those topics with him.” Archie said with a mischievous grin that made even Mrs. Williams walk away with a slight laugh.
“Well, perhaps you shall have more time to read tomorrow, Cece,” her father said, reverting to her childhood nickname in a way that put Cecilia on her guard.
“Why is that?” she asked, skeptically.
Not meeting his daughter’s eye, he replied, “The Duchess of Huxley will be coming to the shop, and she is very proper, and wouldn’t like to see a young woman working at tasks more suited to a young man.”
Cecilia looked crestfallen, and her father continued quickly, “I hate to ask it of you, but the Duchess is refurnishing much of the Huxley estate, and could provide us with enough work to last for many months. We can’t risk offending her, even if we don’t like her ideas.”
Cecilia found this attitude extremely frustrating, though she would never say this to her father. Of course, it was hardly surprising. She knew that members of the aristocracy held particularly rigid views about the appropriate roles of young women, and those did not include carpentry.
But really, why should the Duchess care what I do to occupy my days? I am no relation of hers, not even an acquaintance. Cecilia was tempted to confirm the Duchess’ worst suspicions of her, but she knew this was a huge opportunity for her father. It would serve no purpose to antagonize the Duchess. Besides, one day away from my work can hardly hurt me, after all.
And so, Cecilia agreed to stay out of the shop the next day and allow Archie to finish her table in her absence.
* * *
The remainder of supper was a subdued affair, with Cecilia remaining quiet, while her father and Archie discussed which pieces they would show the Duchess during her visit the next day. After supper, Cecilia helped Mrs. Williams to clear the table. After saying goodnight to her father and bidding Archie farewell as he left to return to his parents’ house, she then took a candle upstairs to her bedroom.
Upon entering her chamber, Cecilia placed the candle on her writing desk and changed out of her simple work dress and into her night clothes. She let her dark hair fall in waves down her back and picked up an antique silver-backed brush. As she brushed the snarls out of her hair, she remembered sitting on her bed as a young girl while Mama brushed her hair. She picked up the matching looking glass and stared at her reflection.
She supposed she might be pretty, for she looked very much like she remembered her mother looking, and her mother had been the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. But Cecilia felt she lacked the grace her mother possessed. Her clothes were always dirty from the workshop, and her hands were rough and calloused. Freckles were scattered across her face that had never been present on her mother’s.
After a moment’s reflection, she returned to her writing desk and removed paper, quill, and ink bottle. For ten years now, she had been in the habit of writing letters to her mother. She would share observations about her life, ask for advice, and imagine what her mother would have said, had she been alive to answer her daughter’s questions. Tonight, Cecilia started her letter right where she had left off the night before
Dear Mama,
I nearly finished the table today. All that remains is to brace the legs, and then to stain the wood, but Archie will have to take on that job tomorrow, since I won’t be able to work in the shop. The Duchess of Huxley is coming to the shop and Papa is worried that she won’t approve of my being there. I’m quite sure that he’s right about this, actually, but I can’t seem to stop myself feeling angry.
Oh, Mama, what should I do? Am I some sort of unnatural creature, to prefer the woodshop to the kitchen? Am I truly a woman if marriage holds no appeal in my heart nor my mind? I cannot accept that, and yet, it seems that I must, for I am the only woman I have ever met who feels this way, unless there are others who feel this way, and succeed in hiding it from the world. And if that is the case, how do they manage to hide their true nature so well? Mama, did you ever feel the way that I do?
I love Papa, and I know that he loves me and supports me in everything, but I can hardly ask him about this. Mrs. Williams wants the best for me, but I could never ask her either, she would never understand.
Sometimes, in the evenings, when I write you these letters, I imagine how you might respond. I want to believe that you would tell me ‘it’s fine, child, I’ve felt this way too,’ or perhaps you would say, ‘everything will change when you meet the right man,’ or, ‘marriage does not make you a woman, you make yourself a woman.’ I do believe those things, but I should like to hear them from you, if only I could.
I love you, Mama, and I miss you.
Your loving daughter,
Cece
Chapter 2
As was his habit, Nicholas Lymington, the Marquess of Clive, came downstairs to breakfast late the next morning. As was her habit, his mother pursed her lips and said nothing.
Matilda Lymington was the Duchess of Huxley. She had been raised to observe the strictest of courtesies, and she expected nothing less of her own children. Nicholas might be nearing thirty, but he was still very much a boy in her eyes. In many ways, he seemed younger to her than her seventeen-year-old daughter, Lady Isobel. Nicholas pretended not to notice his mother’s pursed lips and greeted his family with a casual smile.
Dining over eggs and sausages, Matilda told her family that she would be visiting a new carpenter later that day to see about some furniture for the ballroom, drawing room, study, and dining room. Perhaps she would order some pieces for her own bedchamber as well.
Nicholas could not help rolling his eyes and hoped his mother would not notice. More than likely she would, he supposed, but she would never say anything about it. And really, how is one supposed to respond when she speaks of buying furniture as though this might be the most important information any of u
s will hear all day?
“I want to be sure that the house is in perfect order for Isobel’s debut,” she sounded exasperated by her family’s lack of interest in this obvious necessity, “and we only have a few months to prepare!”
Her husband, Richard, the Duke of Huxley, looked up briefly from his newspaper. “Yes, of course, dear, that sounds quite all right.” He promptly returned to his newspaper and did not speak for the remainder of the meal.