How to Manage a Marquess

by Sally MacKenzie

  Miss Davenport, however—

  No. Don’t think about her.

  Fortunately George wasn’t attuned to emotional undercurrents. He wrestled a chair over to join their little group and started talking before his arse hit the seat.

  “I say, I was hoping I might run into you fellows. I’m in a bit of a pickle. Told my brother I’d go to his infernal house party, but now I’ve discovered there’s a capital mill in Brighton—Tom Hayes against Bob ‘the Bruiser’ McCloud— at the same time. Well, I can’t be in both places at once, can I? But Banningly will cut up rusty—” George snorted. “Hell, he’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t show up at the Manor day after tomorrow.”

  He smiled brightly at them. “So, any of you fancy some time in the country?”

  “I don’t see how that will solve your problem,” Nate said, “if your brother is expecting you.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t need me. He just needs a suitable male to keep the numbers even.”

  “’Fraid I’m committed to taking my mother to the theater.” Alex was the first to dodge the invitation.

  “Can’t you put her off?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve done that already—too many times. Her patience is at an end, likely because she’s trying to throw her current candidate for a wife at my head.”

  “All the better reason to take my place at the house party.”

  Alex laughed. “No, actually not. I’ve discovered over the years that my dear mama will let me wiggle free of her a total of five times. If I try for a sixth, she’ll track me down and, in the nicest way possible, manage to make me feel like a worm.”

  “Ah, well.” George looked hopefully at Marcus. “What about you, old boy?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I need to stay in Town.” He gave no explanation, but his expression said clearly he could not be persuaded to change his mind.

  What are you waiting for the post to bring, Marcus?

  George turned to him. “That leaves you, Nate. Be the best of good fellows and say you’ll do it.”

  He needed to keep an eye on Marcus.

  But Alex says my watchfulness is driving Marcus mad.

  “I don’t think—”

  “There’s splendid fishing at Banningly,” George said. “And Eleanor and the boys will be there, of course. Stephen and Edward are always asking about their ‘Uncle Nate.’”

  “Well . . .”

  “Go on, Nate,” Marcus said. “You haven’t been to the Manor in a long time.”

  Nate looked at Marcus. His cousin’s expression was carefully blank.

  “So will you, Nate? I’ll grovel if I have to.” George was looking hopeful now.

  No, it was ridiculous. He had to stay in London to keep an eye on Marcus. “Why can’t one of Banningly’s sons take your place? They must be grown now.”

  “Those two?” George snorted. “Still in their salad days. Charles, the elder, is not quite twenty. They’re off with their friends, celebrating end of term or something.”

  But then again, Marcus doesn’t want me here. And it has been a long time since I’ve seen the boys.

  “Eleanor’s brats really do miss you, you know,” George said. “Always asking about you. Quite boring, I must say.”

  Nate looked at Marcus once more, but Marcus was busy straightening his coat sleeve as if it were a delicate operation requiring his complete attention.

  “Very well,” Nate said. “I’ll do it.”

  On the road to Banningly Manor

  Anne stared out the window of the traveling coach as they plodded toward Banningly Manor and Mrs. Eaton.

  The day was as gray and gloomy as she felt. She’d tried to get out of this house party, but Papa wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

  At least there weren’t any storm clouds in sight. Ever since Mama died, she’d been nervous when bad weather threatened.

  “For God’s sake, Anne, stop sulking.”

  She turned to look at Papa. “I’m not sulking.”

  His mouth tightened, his brows arching down. He was going to lose his temper.

  Something coiled deep inside her, eager for an argument.

  I’m being unreasonable. Petulant. Peevish.

  She knew it, but she was powerless to stop. She hadn’t felt this churning stew of pain and anger and desperation since Mama died.

  Papa, however, did have control. His nostrils flared—and then he nodded and turned back to look out his window.

  She tasted disappointment. She wanted to say something to provoke him, but she swallowed the words. She wasn’t seventeen any longer.

  But she would really like a fight. It might release the storm building inside her.

  She rested her forehead against the window. She and Jane had had such hopes after Mary’s wedding, when Cat and the duke had both disappeared, but nothing had come of it. The duke and his friends—she firmly shoved Lord Hellwood out of her thoughts—had left for London over a week ago, and Cat had seemed perfectly content in the Spinster House.

  Well, perhaps not perfectly content. Something was bothering her, but Cat wouldn’t tell them what it was, even though they’d given her ample opportunity to unburden herself.

  Oh, Lord. I’m not only losing Papa to Mrs. Eaton, I’m losing Cat—and likely Jane—to the Spinster House.

  Loneliness akin to what she’d felt when her mother died seeped into her heart.

  I’m twenty-six now. A grown woman. I don’t need anyone else.

  “I saw you talking to Lord Haywood after Mary’s wedding,” Papa said.

  Fortunately the coach hit a rut just then, sending her flying a few inches off her seat, so perhaps Papa thought her gasp was caused by that rather than his mention of Lord Hellwood.

  “Oh?” She was sometimes a nervous talker, getting herself into trouble by babbling. Papa had only made an observation. He hadn’t asked a question. “I spoke to many people.”

  “Not so intently and for so long. You and he were off in that corner for quite a while.”

  She looked out the window to avoid meeting his eye. “I complimented him on his musical talent.”

  “For almost an hour?”

  “He’s very talented.” All right, that sounded stupid. “I suppose we might have discussed a few other topics.” She glanced back at Papa. “I don’t remember all my conversations in detail.”

  Papa studied her, but she forced herself not to look away again.

  “I wrote to a few of my friends in London. They all speak highly of him.”

  Good Lord! “Didn’t your friends think it odd you were asking about Lord Haywood?”

  He didn’t answer the question—well, not directly. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d met the marquess in the village that evening, Anne?”

  She had to be very, very careful. Papa had sharp eyes, and he was no one’s fool. “You mean the afternoon. I met him in the afternoon at Cupid’s Inn the day after he arrived. He told you that.”

  “Yes. And you met him again the evening you came home minus a few hairpins and with leaves in your hair.”

  It must have been Mrs. Greeley who’d told Mrs. Bigley, who’d told Mr. Bigley, who’d told Papa. But Mrs. Greeley hadn’t seen them at the Spinster House.

  “The evening you told me you’d been ‘rolling around in the bushes, passionately kissing a man.’ Was it Lord Haywood?”

  Don’t admit anything.

  “I said that to annoy you.” Which was true, though the description of what had occurred wasn’t far off the mark. “But if you thought I’d been misbehaving with Lord Haywood, Papa, why didn’t you seek him out and demand he offer for me? I know how eager you are to get rid of me.”

  Papa’s jaw hardened. She’d made him angry again. “I’m not eager to ‘get rid of you,’ as you say. You’re twenty-six, Anne. It’s time you considered your future.”

  “So I won’t be an impediment to yours.”

  His nostrils flared. “You are acting like a child.”

 
; Perhaps she was. She certainly felt like a child sometimes, a little girl abandoned by her mother and now by her father as well. She knew that was silly, but knowing it didn’t make her feelings go away. “And you’re acting like a randy young buck.”

  His eyes widened as if she’d slapped him.

  She was sorry for her words as soon as she’d said them, but she wouldn’t apologize. They were true. “I do not want a mother who’s a year younger than I am.”

  “Eleanor has no thought of being your mother, Anne. Her sons keep her busy enough.”

  “And any children you might have together.”

  Papa nodded. “God willing.”

  Her heart clenched. So Papa was going to offer for the woman. She’d known it, but she’d been hoping against hope she was mistaken.

  Her feelings must have shown on her face, because Papa frowned and shifted in his seat. “Must I mourn your mother for the rest of my life, Anne? Is that what you want?”

  “Do you mourn her?” Dear Lord, her tongue had a mind of its own today.

  Papa’s face softened. Now he looked more sad than angry. “Of course I do. But I’ve found that I have room in my heart for more love. I wish you could find room, too, if not for love then for understanding.” He turned away.

  Anne studied his profile for a moment before she looked out her window again, though the landscape slid by without her seeing it.

  She didn’t like the idea of any woman taking Mama’s place, but surely it would be easier to accept someone who was closer to Papa’s age. Marrying a woman young enough to be your daughter—younger than your daughter—was embarrassing. Papa was making himself a laughingstock. And for what? He might love Mrs. Eaton, but surely she could not love him.

  The carriage turned off the main road and rumbled down the drive to Banningly Manor. Had the viscount invited the same guests as last time? Ugh. They’d been boring enough then—she didn’t need to see them again so soon. Truthfully, she didn’t need to see them again ever, though it appeared she’d be seeing a lot of Mrs. Eaton.

  She sat a little straighter. Wait a minute. This might be the perfect opportunity to put a spoke in the woman’s wheel. Papa apparently imagined himself in love, but surely Mrs. Eaton was just looking for security. She couldn’t really love a man twice her age. All Anne had to do was find a way to get her to reveal her true motivations.

  Though perhaps Papa wouldn’t care. Mrs. Eaton was rather beautiful, and she could give him more children. She could give him an heir.

  They rounded a curve in the drive, and Anne caught sight of the house, a curricle pulled up in front. A groom held the horses’ heads as a gentleman spoke to him. From the back, the fellow looked quite a bit like Lord Hellwood. He had the same broad shoulders and brown hair.

  Silly! That described half the male members of the ton.

  Well, not half. Most men were shorter and not quite so muscular.

  And then their coach turned again, and she could no longer see the fellow without opening the window and leaning out.

  “We’re almost there,” Papa said.

  “Yes.”

  “It will be good to get out of this carriage.”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart was beating rather quickly.

  It can’t be Lord Hellwood. There’s no reason for him to be at Lord Banningly’s house party, and even if there was, he wouldn’t be here without the Duke of Hart.

  Their coach rocked to a stop, and one of the viscount’s servants opened the door to let down the steps.

  And then someone else appeared, extending his hand.

  “Miss Davenport, how nice to see you again.”

  She looked up into Lord Hellwood’s handsome face.

  Chapter Seven

  Banningly Manor

  “You!” Miss Davenport said.

  Nate thought he saw a flash of welcome in her eyes before her brows slammed down into a scowl, quashing the ridiculous swell of pleasure he’d had upon seeing her.

  And it wasn’t just his cock that was happy.

  “Who’s there?” Lord Davenport leaned forward to peer around Miss Davenport. “Oh, Haywood.” He frowned at his daughter. “Let the marquess help you down, will you, Anne? If you’re not ready to get out of this carriage, I certainly am.”

  Miss Davenport grudgingly allowed Nate to assist her, but she snatched her hand back the moment her feet touched the ground. “What are you doing here?” she hissed under her breath as her father emerged from the coach.

  That was an excellent question. He’d had misgivings when George had first mentioned this house party, but now he realized how completely he’d been played for a fool.

  “Believe me, madam,” he murmured, careful that her father not hear. “Had I’d known you’d be in attendance, I would not have come.”

  Her mouth tightened, but she held her tongue—

  No, no tongues. Definitely no tongues.

  She kept mum as her father joined them.

  There could be no thinking about tongues or lips or mouths or any of Miss Davenport’s other body parts.

  Except fists. He could see her fingers had curled into two tight ones.

  “Have you just arrived as well, Haywood?” Davenport asked.

  “Yes, sir. You must have been following me after the village road met up with the route from London.”

  Davenport nodded. “Likely so. I say, would you be so kind as to escort Anne into the house while I see to our luggage?”

  Oh, Lord, this just got worse and worse. He hoped Davenport wasn’t trying to match him with his daughter, but no other explanation for his request came to mind. The baron’s coachman was quite capable of attending to the baggage by himself, as was evidenced by the man’s look of surprise at the baron’s words.

  “I can find my own way, Papa,” Miss Davenport said waspishly. “I’m quite capable of walking up the stairs and through the front door without Lord Hell—” She coughed. “Without Lord Haywood’s help.”

  She’d done that before—started to call him Lord Hell-something.

  Now her father was scowling. “Please excuse my daughter’s manners, Haywood. She’s not usually so rude. Apologize to the marquess, Anne.”

  For a moment, Nate thought Miss Davenport’s head would explode with suppressed anger. She pressed her lips together so tightly, white lines formed at the corners of her mouth. Then she jerked her head in his direction, though her eyes didn’t meet his.

  “Forgive me, Lord Haywood. I’m afraid traveling in such confined quarters with my father”—she darted her sire a sharply pointed look—“was more of a strain than I realized. I would be delighted if you would lend me your support in ascending the stairs.”

  And with that, she took off.

  The baron’s expression darkened. “I assure you, Haywood, Anne used to be much better behaved. I can’t imagine what has got into her. . . .” He sighed. “Well, yes, I can.”

  Nate was certain Miss Davenport would not like him discussing her with her father. “Yes, well, but you must excuse me, Davenport, if I’m going to catch up to your daughter without looking like I’m chasing her.”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t let me detain you.”

  Nate didn’t.

  Miss Davenport was fast, but he was faster. He reached her a few feet from the first step. “Please take my arm, madam.”

  She didn’t spare him a glance. “I am not decrepit, my lord. I don’t need your help.”

  “Of course you don’t, though you did say you’d be delighted to have it.”

  That got her attention. She frowned at him. “When did I say that?”

  “Just now, as part of your heartfelt apology, the one your father scolded you into.”

  She laughed. “Oh, very well.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “And I do ask your forgiveness for taking my spleen out on you. My father was right. It was not well done of me.”

  He knew better than to agree with her. Unfortunately, he was rather too eager to accept this sma
ll olive branch. “Traveling can be wearing.”

  “Yes.” She sighed as they reached the top of the stairs. “I did try to get out of coming, but Papa insisted.”

  Banningly’s butler met them at the door. “Welcome to the Manor, Miss Davenport. Lord Haywood.”

  “Good afternoon, Burton. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Burton smiled as widely as a proper butler could, which meant his lips barely turned up at the corners. “Please follow me.”

  “How do you know the viscount’s butler?” Miss Davenport whispered as they trailed behind the man. “I was here just a short while ago, but you weren’t at that gathering.”

  “Banningly’s father and mine were friends, so I visited frequently as a boy.”

  Burton deposited them in the red drawing room, where five men were drinking brandy, teacups sitting abandoned on a tray. They rose as soon as they saw Miss Davenport, and one of them, Lord Banningly, came over to greet them.

  “Miss Davenport—with Haywood. Well, well, this is a surprise,” Banningly said, smiling broadly. “The ladies will be down shortly—they’re up in the nursery at present—but I know they’ll be eager to greet you.”

  Oh, hell. Nate did not like the viscount’s expression at all, and as he glanced round the room, he liked it even less. Damn George. Even without the women present, he could tell this wasn’t a normal house party. The men were all married and in their forties or fifties. Worse still, all but the vicar, Mr. Huntley, were related in one way or another.

  This was a family gathering, likely to celebrate a special announcement—an announcement he’d wager Miss Davenport had no idea was coming or at least coming so soon. And the way Banningly was beaming at them, he must think there were going to be two announcements.

  Or perhaps the viscount was merely surprised at Nate’s presence. “I do hope George sent word I was coming in his stead?”

  Banningly looked momentarily confused. Blast. His first guess had been correct, though why the man imagined there was a romantic connection between him and Miss Davenport was a mystery.