“And then?”
She grinned. “There aren’t many places here. You’ll notice it.”
Right.
Hugh thanked her and proceeded down the road. Trees were on either side of him, and Jasper rushed after him.
“It could be a trap,” Jasper said. “Thieves might be on either side. Perhaps highwaymen.”
“It’s a forest,” Hugh said patiently.
“I miss the logical version of you,” Jasper muttered.
Hugh entered the inn. Locals stared at him.
No doubt they were unaccustomed to having visitors.
And then his gaze moved to the landing and he saw a woman with golden hair. He willed the woman to move, so he might see her face.
She resembled Emma.
Her clothes differed from when he’d seen her. The gray afternoon dresses and unflattering evening gowns, had been replaced with a murky brown gown adorned, not with flounces or ribbons as most of the women at his house party had favored, but with an apron. She wore a cap on her head, even though she’d shown no preference for them before. Unlike other caps that came with all sorts of floral accoutrements, frills and ribbons, this cap was plain, as if solely for practicality.
The cap resembled the sort used by servants.
As did her apron.
As did her plain, dark dress.
His heart thudded.
Jasper tapped him on his arm. “Isn’t that–?”
Hugh looked at him.
Jasper frowned, no doubt assessing the possibility that Emma was actually wearing servants’ clothes. “I mean. That looks awfully like–” He frowned. “That could be her cousin,” he said finally.
“It’s her,” Hugh said.
He would recognize the slope of her tiny, upturned nose, the placement of her high cheekbones, and the shape of her brows.
“My lord?” Her eyes widened.
“It is her,” Jasper said happily. “Liebe!” he explained to the inn’s patrons, pointing at Hugh and Emma.
Jasper might have used more words. Hugh didn’t hear anything else. All he heard was the voice of Emma echo in his ear as he rushed toward her.
He was vaguely aware of a tray crashing, and when his attire became rather damper than before, he vaguely thought the tray may have been topped with ale.
It didn’t matter.
“I found you,” he said. “I traveled, and then I found you.”
“But h-how?” she stammered.
“Your brother,” Hugh said.
“He shouldn’t have told you,” Emma said.
“I’m happy about it,” Hugh said, and then he leaned to kiss her.
The next moment she widened her eyes, and the next moment after that she seemed farther away, as if she’d scrambled away from him.
He blinked. “Emma?”
“You have to go,” she said.
“I do not,” he said. “I’m here to fetch you.”
She paused. “That is very sweet.”
“I thought so,” he said.
“But you still have to leave,” she said sternly. “It will be harder to say goodbye later.”
“I’m not leaving,” Hugh said stubbornly. “And you’re coming with me.”
“I’m not going to be your mistress,” she said.
“I imagine even this village has a church.”
She widened her eyes, and then she shook her head.
Firmly.
“Lady Agnes told me what she’d told you.”
She swallowed hard, but then gave a firm nod. “Good. Now go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
“My brother is not a real baron,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’ve been pretending for years.”
“I know that too.”
“I’m not the least bit qualified to be a marchioness.”
“I disagree.”
“I saw your scoresheet,” she said. “I know what you value.”
He flushed. “You weren’t meant to see that.”
“And I did because I broke into your room. I was an abominable guest.”
“I don’t want you to be my guest,” Hugh said. “I want you to be my wife.”
“We can’t marry. I spent several years in Britain posing as someone I wasn’t. And my brother–” She swallowed hard and turned her head away. “He is not a nice man. You wouldn’t want him as a brother-in-law.”
“I can deal with him,” Hugh said confidently. He gazed about the room. “And if you have ten other siblings here of equal character, please be assured, I can deal with them too.”
She giggled. “I don’t.”
“Marry me.”
“It’s not proper.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s very proper that you left without saying goodbye.”
Her cheeks pinkened. “That was difficult. But you were supposed to hate me. You were supposed to marry someone else.”
“I only want to marry you,” he said.
“That is very sweet,” she said again. “But it doesn’t change anything.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already married someone else.” He glanced at the other men, some of whom who blinked at him, evidently confused by his barrage of English.
“I haven’t,” she said. “But I’m still unsuitable.”
“Unsuitable?”
“My brother pretended to be a baron,” she said. “And he’s done despicable things. He’s stolen and acted abominably. He would humiliate you. I can’t have that happen. You want so many wonderful things. You want to be respected and to take the role that your father had. I won’t do anything to prevent that.”
“Emma,” Hugh said sternly. “That is ridiculous.”
“It’s logical,” Emma said.
“So, you mean to bring these men tankards for the rest of your life?”
“And to clean,” Emma said. “There’s a variety in my tasks.”
“How very lovely. But despite that diversity of tasks, I still intend to marry you, if you’ll have me.”
“But I just explained why I cannot marry you,” Emma said, her expression befuddled.
“I am a marquess,” Hugh said. “I can handle a bit of scandal.”
“But–”
He held out his hand. “Do you love me?”
She hesitated, but then nodded.
“Good, because I absolutely love you. And we are going back to England and we are going to be very happy for a very long time.”
And this time, they did kiss.
And it was wonderful, and there may have been many, many cheers.
EPILOGUE
1828
Noise drifted in from the window of Hugh’s library.
Only the politest person would deem the noise to be at an appropriate level, and Hugh had long ago vowed to no longer strive for politeness.
The noise was deafening.
He grinned.
It was just the way he liked it.
William and George were playing ball outside again. Hugh wondered whether it was necessary for them to bounce the ball off the castle wall. He strode to the window. “Children!”
“Play with us!” George shouted, and his blond curls, the ones that matched his mother’s, gleamed in the sunlight.
Hugh didn’t hesitate. “Very well.”
William and George grinned at him. They both hadn’t yet made the transition from sailors’ suits, though William’s curls were cut rather shorter. Next year, he would go to school.
This year, he was home, and there was no way that Hugh wouldn’t join them.
The House of Lords was not in session, and though Hugh would pore over proposed legislation later this evening, taking an interest that many of the other members did not show, now was time for his family.
Perhaps his father had been wonderful, but that didn’t mean there weren’t ways in which Hugh could improve upon what his father had done.
“Sweetheart!” Emma looked up from her book.
&n
bsp; “It’s time to play,” George said solemnly. “Will you join us?”
Emma grinned. “What sort of question is that? Naturally, I will.”
She set her book aside and headed toward them.
Not for the first time, Hugh realized that his carefully created score sheet had attempted to assess all the wrong things. It didn’t matter how well Emma danced, how well she sang, and how well she created needlepoint.
He’d managed to choose the very best mother for his children, and the very best wife for himself.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Hugh said, pulling her aside.
“Sweetheart?” She gazed at him, and he was struck once more by her beauty.
“I love you,” he said.
She paused. “Was that it?”
He nodded.
“You’ve told me that before.”
“And I’ll never tire of telling you,” he vowed.
The next moments may have involved some kissing, and may have involved some squeals from their children, but it definitely involved much happiness.
THANK YOU FOR READING A Kiss for the Marquess. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Emma and Hugh. How to Capture a Duke starts the Matchmaking for Wallflowers series.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BORN IN TEXAS, BIANCA Blythe spent four years in England. She worked in a fifteenth-century castle, though sadly that didn’t actually involve spotting dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.
She credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. Thank goodness for blustery downpours.
Bianca now lives in California with her husband.
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MATCHMAKING FOR WALLFLOWERS
How to Capture a Duke
A Rogue to Avoid
Runaway Wallflower
Mad About the Baron
A Marquess for Convenience
The Wrong Heiress for Christmas
WEDDING TROUBLE
Don’t Tie the Knot
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings
The Earl’s Christmas Consultant
How to Train a Viscount
A Kiss for the Marquess
THE SLEUTHING STARLET
Murder at the Manor House
Danger on the Downs
The Body in Bloomsbury
A Continental Murder
EXCERPT – HOW TO CAPTURE A DUKE
ALL SHE HAD TO DO WAS find a fiancé. In four days. In the middle of nowhere.
One reclusive bluestocking...
Fiona Amberly is more intrigued by the Roman ruins near her manor house than she is by balls. When her dying Grandmother worries about Fiona’s future, Fiona stammers that she’s secretly engaged. Soon she finds herself promising that she will introduce her husband-to-be by Christmas.
One dutiful duke...
Percival Carmichael, new Duke of Alfriston, is in a hurry. He’s off to propose to London’s most eligible debutante. After nearly dying at Waterloo, he’s vowed to spend the rest of his life living up to the ton’s expectations.
One fallen tree...
When Fiona tries to warn a passing coach about a tree in the road, the driver mistakes her for a highwaywoman. Evidently he’s not used to seeing women attired in clothes only suitable for archaeology waving knives. After the driver flees, Fiona decides she may as well borrow the handsome passenger...
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EXCERPT.
Crisp jingles chimed through the cold air, merging with the rhythmic trot of horses, and Fiona Amberly had never been more convinced of her utter abhorrence of Christmas. She poked her head from the archaeological site, brushed a hand smudged with clay through her hair and peered in the direction of the sound.
A coach barreled down the slope, pulled by two pairs of prancing white horses, and her throat dried. Red and green plumes perched from the horses’ headgear, an unnecessary nod to the approaching holiday. The sun glowed over the glossy black surface of the coach, flickering over its vibrantly painted wheels and golden crest.
She tightened her fists around the slabs of timber she used to fortify the pit.
Only one person had threatened to visit her.
Madeline.
Fiona hauled herself up and rushed to the road, dragging her dress through more mud. The coach thundered toward her, and she waved both arms above her head. Now was not the time to muse on the ridiculousness of her appearance.
“Halt. Halt.”
The coach slowed, and she hastily brushed some dirt from her dress, managing to remove a few specks.
“What is it, Miss Amberly?” The driver was sufficiently trained not to openly gawk, but his gaze still darted to her ragged clothes and the pile of excavation materials.
Never mind that. Red-headed women with freckles were never destined to possess elegance.
“Is Lady Mulbourne inside?”
The driver nodded, and Fiona rushed to the door. The question was foolish: only her cousin would have asked for her coach to be decked out in such finery for a five-mile jaunt.
Madeline poked her head through the carriage window, and Fiona hastily brushed a few more specks of soil from her dress.
“Happy Christmas,” Madeline chirped.
“Er . . . yes.”
“You have a remarkable ability to never change.”
Fiona shifted her feet, and her boots crunched over dried leaves.
“So unconstrained by the pulls of even the most basic fashion rules.” Madeline’s eyes flickered over her, roaming over every button and pleat with the eagerness of a general scrutinizing a map of enemy territory. “And still in half-mourning, I see.”
Fiona stiffened and pulled her hands back. No need for her cousin to comment on the frayed hem of her sleeve as well as her gray dress.
“Would you like a ride? I’m on my way to see Grandmother.”
Fiona didn’t want a ride. She wanted to work more on the site. Winter was approaching, and if the farmers were right about their grumblings regarding the shade of the sky, the place would be covered in snow soon.
But ever since Fiona had blurted out to Grandmother that she was engaged to the most brilliant man in the world, it was vital that she not allow Grandmother to be left alone with Madeline.
The captain was everything a man should be: handsome and brave, smart and funny, and since the Napoleonic Wars had ended, finally living in England.
At least he would be if he existed.
Fiona groaned. Yes, Christmas was firmly relegated to the short list of things she despised. The holiday surpassed dress fittings, empty dance cards, and mushrooms in horribleness. Only Napoleon, carriage accidents, and somber-faced doctors ranked higher on her list of hated things.
How on earth had the emperor had the indecency to give up the war before Fiona had had the foresight to invent a death worthy of her dear, valiant, charming fiancé?
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A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 21
