How to Manage a Marquess

by Sally MacKenzie

  He kissed me. She bit her lip. Who would have thought having a man’s tongue in your mouth would be so wonderful?

  Heat flooded her face—and other parts.

  Bah! Clearly the man was a practiced seducer.

  Did I really press myself against his . . . his . . . male bit?

  Violet stopped and glared at her.

  “Oh, Violet, I am sorry. I promise not to pull on the reins again.” She loosened her fingers and took a few deep, calming breaths as Violet started forward once more.

  She’d make a point of avoiding Lord Hellwood from now on—an especially good idea if word of what the duke and Cat had been up to in the bushes got round. The marquess was sure to blame her for any gossip.

  I didn’t actually promise to keep mum. . . .

  What on earth was the matter with her? She couldn’t gossip about Cat. Cat was like the sister she’d never had.

  Even sisters fought. And she needed to win the Spinster House.

  She let out a short, annoyed breath. Oh, fiddle. She wasn’t certain what she’d do.

  No, what she’d do is hope she was tying herself in knots for no reason. If the duke was an honorable man, he’d have offered Cat marriage and been accepted already. Maybe that was what had been going on in the bushes. Maybe all she need do was give Cat her best wishes.

  Well, whatever she did, she wouldn’t do it because she wished to do Lord Hellwood a favor.

  Violet tossed her head and threw in a little kick to be certain she had Anne’s attention.

  “Yes, you’re quite right. I’ll try very hard not to think of Lord Hellwood again until we are safely home.” They’d reached the drive to Davenport Hall, so perhaps she could keep her promise.

  Violet picked up her pace, probably hoping to reach the stable before Anne abused her mouth with her terrible handling of the ribbons once more. In a few minutes, the Hall came into view.

  Anne smiled and felt her shoulders relax. The house wasn’t much more than a red brick box set down in the countryside. Some ancestor, perhaps in an attempt to give it an air of importance, had added a portico. But it was home, and she thought it far more comfortable—and beautiful—than any of the country palaces she’d visited over the years for ton house parties.

  Except if Papa marries Mrs. Eaton, everything will change. I won’t run the house any longer—she will. And her two little brats will probably turn Davenport Hall into a noisy playground.

  Fortunately she’d finally reached the stables, so poor Violet was saved from having her mouth jerked again.

  “Yer papa’s looking for ye, Miss Anne,” Riley, the head groom, said as he took Violet’s reins.

  “Thank you, Riley.” Oh, drat. She didn’t want to see Papa. Her emotions were still too disordered—Violet’s sore mouth was proof of that. Perhaps she could sneak up the back stairs.

  She hurried up the slope to the house. She’d always been close to Papa, much closer to him than to Mama. She and Papa were more alike, both basically book-loving homebodies. And being an only child, she’d had his undivided attention. He’d read to her and played with her and taken her on long walks. He’d called her his magic child, perhaps with reason. Poor Mama had suffered countless miscarriages both before and after Anne was born.

  And later, when Mama died, they’d become even closer.

  But now I’m avoiding Papa. It’s all that damnable Mrs. Eaton’s fault.

  She reached the back door and pulled it open to find her father standing there.

  “Papa!” She stepped back and almost tripped on her hem. “What are you doing here?”

  He reached to catch her, but dropped his hands when he saw she’d recovered her balance on her own. “I saw you coming up from the stables.” He frowned, though she’d admit she saw more concern than annoyance in his eyes. “I missed you at supper. Where were you?”

  She stepped past him. “I went into the village.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I’m twenty-six, as you’ve pointed out countless times since my birthday. I’m a grown woman, and this is Loves Bridge. I don’t have to worry about some fellow r-raping me.”

  Papa flinched as if she’d hit him.

  Oh, God. She shouldn’t have said that. She was sorry for it, but she was also still very upset.

  However, that was no reason to take her spleen out on Papa.

  She sighed as she removed her bonnet. “Pardon me. I’m a trifle out of sorts.”

  Papa’s brows shot up. “You’ve got leaves in your hair,” he said sharply. “And you’re missing most of your hairpins.”

  Anger stabbed through her again. What did he care what she did? His interest was all for bloody Mrs. Eaton.

  “They fell out when I was rolling around in the bushes, passionately kissing a man. I suppose that’s where I picked up the leaves as well.”

  “Anne! Why do you say such things?” Papa ran both hands through his hair. He might even have pulled on it. “Are you teasing me or did some man actually take liberties with you?” His voice hardened. “If he did, you can be sure I’ll see that he pays for it.”

  “How? By forcing him to marry me?”

  Lud! For a moment, the thought of marrying Lord Hellwood was actually appealing.

  She must be losing her mind. The man was overbearing, imperious, and domineering—and determined not to wed for years, if rumor was to be believed. “That would be a punishment, though I believe I’d be the one to suffer.”

  Papa hadn’t really muttered, “Don’t be so certain,” had he?

  “You know I wouldn’t try to force a blackguard to marry you, Anne.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him squarely. “Is there a blackguard I need to have a word with?”

  She tried to look away, but he caught her chin and kept her still.

  “Anne . . .”

  “Of course not.” Lord Hellwood wasn’t a blackguard in the way Papa meant. And she was capable of dealing with him herself. She did not need or want Papa’s involvement. “I’d never put myself in a position where a man could misbehave.”

  She hadn’t put herself in the position, after all. Lord Hellwood had dragged her—or the overgrown ivy had tripped her—into it.

  “That’s what I thought.” Papa smiled. “Come sit with me in the study, will you? I feel as if we’ve not spent much time together recently.”

  They hadn’t, not since Mrs. Eaton had got her claws into him.

  “I’ll have a cold collation brought in.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll just take a tray in my room.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “As you pointed out, I’m not fit for company.”

  Papa’s brows slanted down again. “That is not what I said or what I meant, Anne, as well you know. And I’m not company. I’m your father.”

  Good, she’d annoyed him again. That was safer than . . . than any other emotion.

  And yet she didn’t really want to keep shoving him away.

  “Oh, very well.”

  Papa didn’t comment on her gracelessness. He smiled, but his eyes remained wary. He knew this wasn’t really a truce.

  “Would you be needing anything, my lord, Miss Anne?”

  They both started and looked over to see Bigley, the butler, standing by the door to the kitchen. Likely they’d been overheard by Mrs. Willet, the cook, who’d got Mrs. Bigley, the housekeeper, to fetch her husband in case a fight broke out.

  Things had been rather testy between her and her father of late.

  “Yes, Bigley. Miss Anne missed her supper. Could you have a cold collation brought to the study?”

  “Of course, my lord. I will see to it immediately.”

  Bigley shot her a worried look before bowing and disappearing into the kitchen. Papa gestured for her to precede him.

  “The vicar told me the Duke of Hart is in Loves Bridge,” he said as he followed her into the study.

  “Yes.” She used to love this room with its scent of leather and old books. It had been her
refuge. Here, she hadn’t had to think about fashion or needlework or deportment or marriage. She could kick off her slippers, curl up in one of the comfortable old chairs, and read, losing herself in stories of magic and adventure and romance while Papa worked on estate business. From time to time, Mama would poke her head in, worried Anne was straining her eyes or developing wrinkles from all that reading, but Papa had laughed and told Mama not to fret.

  Poor Mama. She and Papa had been as different as chalk and cheese. Anne hadn’t realized how clipped Mama’s wings were until she’d gone up to London for her first Season and seen how Mama glowed with excitement and happiness in Town.

  Anne had not glowed. She’d enjoyed some of it, yes, more than she’d expected to, but the constant noise and activity had worn her out also. And the rules! There were far too many. She couldn’t even leave the house without a footman following at her heels like a trained dog.

  She was more like Papa. Give her the country over noisy, smelly London any day. And a good book over a crowd of people. Meeting all those strangers, most of whom—especially those with titles—thought so very highly of themselves . . . ugh. She’d gone to bed each night—or in the early hours of the morning—empty, as if her soul had been drained dry. After a few days, she’d been longing for Loves Bridge.

  If I’d met the marquess there . . .

  No. Lord Hellwood was just as shallow and puffed up as the rest of the titled ninnies. Worse. Look how he’d behaved in the Spinster House garden—

  Best not to think of that.

  She sat stiffly on the edge of the settee as Papa settled into the wing chair across from her.

  “I knew the duke was here,” she said. “I met him at the inn the other day.”

  Papa frowned. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  His mouth flattened. For a moment, she thought she’d managed to provoke him again, but then the door opened and James, the footman, brought in her supper.

  “Thank you, James,” Papa said. “That will be all.”

  She braced herself when the door closed again. She’d been avoiding Papa, so they hadn’t talked about Miss Franklin and Mr. Wattles’s marriage five days ago and the discovery that they’d been living in the village under assumed identities—Miss Franklin for twenty years. Nor had they discussed what the empty Spinster House meant.

  I won’t tell Papa I’m hoping to win the house. There’s no point in talking about it until it’s decided.

  “I knew the duke’s father.” Papa shrugged. “Well, I knew of him. He was older than I. But I remember when he married the current duke’s mother. It was quite the village scandal.”

  “Oh?” She was intrigued in spite of herself.

  Papa nodded. “Clara O’Reilly was the village dressmaker’s poor Irish niece and new to Loves Bridge. A nice girl—everyone said she must have loved the duke—but she should never have married him. It was like a—a puppy going off to live with a wolf.”

  “But if he loved her—”

  Papa snorted. “He wanted her, and marriage was the only way he could have her. But love—” He shook his head. “No. No one needed the curse to play out to know it wasn’t his heart that had urged him to the altar.”

  She leaned forward. “Do you really believe in the curse, Papa? This is the nineteenth century, after all.” The Marquess of Hellwood appeared to think the curse real, but then the marquess was an annoying, infuriating blockhead.

  Papa shrugged. “I don’t know. I grant you it seems superstitious nonsense that belongs in the dark ages rather than our enlightened scientific times, but the fact remains that not one duke since Isabelle Dorring’s time has lived to see his heir.”

  He frowned. “The London wags call the present titleholder ‘the Heartless Duke,’ Anne. He doesn’t have as black a reputation as his father, but he’s not a man I’d consider a good match for you, even with his exalted title.”

  Anne’s jaw dropped. Where had that come from? “I am not interested in marrying the duke, Papa.”

  Papa went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “The rumor is he lured a young woman into the bushes, ruined her reputation, and then refused to marry her.”

  “I know. The Boltwoods mentioned it at the fair-planning meeting the other day.” And then there was Cat’s recent tour of the vegetation, though it hadn’t appeared the duke had done any luring there. And surely that trip to the foliage would result in a wedding—and one less candidate for the Spinster House.

  Papa sat back, frowning. “The vicar said he thought this duke an honorable man, but I can’t like you—”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! “Papa! I said I am not interested in the duke!”

  He scowled at her. “You don’t have to shout, Anne.” Then he drummed his fingers on his leg. “His friends, though . . . The Earl of Evans was recently jilted, but the Marquess of Haywood might be a possibility.”

  Papa could not mean what she thought he meant. “A possibility for what?”

  Papa heard the fury in her voice. His eyes widened and he sat all the way back in his chair. “Just, er, ah . . .” His chin hardened. “A possible husband for you, Anne. You’re twenty-six, you know—”

  She leapt to her feet. “I bloody well know how old I am.” How dare Papa consider Lord Hellwood as a—an anything for her?

  He stood, too. “You are putting yourself firmly on the shelf. Don’t you want your own home?”

  Yes—the Spinster House!

  “I would love to have my own home—it’s the husband I don’t want.” She clasped her hands, firmly pushing a certain marquess’s image from her thoughts. The supercilious, aggravating idiot. “I would far rather be on the shelf than chained to some man, at his beck and call, forced to share his be—” No, she couldn’t say it. “Forced to share my life with him and do his bidding until I die.”

  Papa looked as if he wished to say something—likely to point out the amount of time and money he’d spent dragging her to house parties in search of an acceptable husband—but fortunately he did not. “Most men aren’t such tyrants, Anne. I’m not, am I?”

  “No, but you aren’t a great advertisement for marriage either.”

  He flushed. “Your mother and I rubbed along well enough. Marriage isn’t the constant hearts and flowers the poets like to pretend it is.” He frowned. “Surely you don’t want to live at Davenport Hall forever? What will you do when I—” He stopped. Clearly his emotions had carried him further than he’d intended to go.

  “When you marry Mrs. Eaton?”

  “This is not about El—Mrs. Eaton.”

  But it was. Oh, God, she knew for certain now. Papa had looked away, a clear sign he was prevaricating.

  She grasped her hands together to keep from wrapping them around his neck. “Everything was fine until you met her. Ever since then, you’ve been desperate to get rid of me.” Blast, she was going to cry.

  “Anne.” Papa reached for her, but she stepped back quickly to avoid him. “I only want you to be happy. To find love.”

  “I am not marrying just to get out of Mrs. Eaton’s way.”

  Papa rubbed his face. “Anne.”

  “I’m going to my room.”

  “But you haven’t touched your supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  It might be juvenile, but slamming the study door behind her felt very, very good.

  * * *

  “What the hell were you thinking, Marcus?” Nate stepped into the castle’s study, where Marcus sat with Alex. He was tempted to slam the door behind him. He needed another way to rid himself of his anger besides wrapping his hands around Marcus’s throat.

  He settled for gripping his fingers tightly behind his back.

  “And good evening to you, too, Nate,” Alex said, raising his glass along with his brows. “Why don’t you help yourself to some brandy? A drink might settle your spleen.” Then he, too, looked at Marcus.

  Marcus was scowling. “Damna
tion, Nate, were you spying on me again?”

  At least he didn’t pretend not to know what Nate meant.

  “No. There was no need to spy. Anyone walking down the street could see you.”

  And anyone had.

  Surely Miss Davenport will hold her tong—that is, keep silent.

  He could not think about Miss Davenport’s tongue, about how sweet it had tasted, how shyly it had slipped over his and then, with his encouragement, grown bolder—

  Enough. As far as he could tell, the woman hated him.

  But she liked Miss Hutting. They were friends. Surely she wouldn’t do anything to tarnish her friend’s reputation.

  He just wished he felt more certain of that.

  “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake, Nate. My activities are none of your concern.”

  “The hell they aren’t.” If he grasped his fingers any tighter, he might break some. Perhaps a glass of brandy was a good idea.

  He strode over to the decanter and jerked out the stopper.

  Marcus sighed. “But they aren’t, Nate. I know your mother drummed it into your head that you are my keeper, but I absolve you of that duty.”

  “You can’t absolve me. I’ve watched out for you ever since we were boys. I’m not going to stop now when you’re in the greatest danger.” Nate splashed a little brandy into a glass and tossed it off in one gulp. It burned his throat and made his eyes water, but the discomfort felt good.

  “Would anyone care to tell me what you two are talking about?” Alex asked.

  “No. Nate is making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  Nate was in the process of pouring himself some more brandy and knocked the decanter against his glass, causing a few drops to spill. How could Marcus say that?

  “This molehill could be your death if word of your mad behavior gets out and you have to marry the girl.” Nate looked at Alex. “Marcus dragged the vicar’s daughter into the bushes, just as he did Miss Rathbone.”

  Marcus slammed his brandy glass down on the occasional table. “Bloody hell, Nate, I told you that incident in London was all Miss Rathbone’s doing.” He got up to pace, his steps taking him past the large portrait of the third duke, the man whose callous treatment of Isabelle Dorring had started the curse.