His Convenient Marchioness

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Shock held Emma silent long enough to see Harry’s shining eyes. Both children loved dogs, as she did. Yet having one was simply impossible—a dog needed more meat than she could afford.

  ‘May we, Mama?’

  Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘Please, Mama?’

  Oh, devil take it! What harm could there be walking through the park with an acquaintance of her father’s for goodness sake? A few more smears on her reputation were neither here nor there. And she knew Huntercombe’s reputation. He was a gentleman and married to boot. He could view her as nothing more than an acquaintance’s impoverished daughter.

  She glanced up to see the man across the street walking away east along Piccadilly. Probably he had been put off by Huntercombe’s presence. Her tension eased.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Your company will be most welcome.’

  For a short while she would enjoy the company of someone from her own world who viewed her as neither an embarrassing acquaintance, nor a potentially convenient widow. What possible harm could it do?

  * * *

  By the time they reached the park Hunt had concluded that Lady Emma Lacy was a conundrum. He discovered that she read the newspapers and was well informed, but unlike most ladies she was uninterested in the doings of society. She deftly kept the conversation general, avoiding anything that verged on the personal. In short, she held him at bay.

  The moment they left the more populated areas of the park he took a well-chewed old cricket ball from his pocket—something his valet and tailor shuddered over—and hurled it. Fergus, ever reliable, had hurtled after it and brought it back to drop at his feet. Seeing Harry’s delighted face, Hunt at once suggested that he and his sister might share the task. Harry having promptly handed Hunt the box of books, the children raced off, the dog leaping about them.

  ‘How far do you wish to go before turning back?’ he asked eventually. Fergus would run all day given the chance.

  She frowned. ‘Turn back?’

  ‘Home.’ He gestured back towards Mayfair.

  ‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘I live in Chelsea. We walked in.’

  He wasn’t sure why that brought colour to her cheeks. Quite a number of well-to-do people lived in Chelsea. Far better for the children than living right in town. ‘Are you near the river?’

  ‘Not particularly. But nowhere in Chelsea is very far from the river.’ Her gaze followed the children and dog. ‘Thank you, sir. They are enjoying themselves very much.’

  ‘Every boy should have a dog,’ he said.

  Her brows lifted. ‘I can assure you that Georgie would object heartily to the limitations of that statement. She would love to have a dog.’

  He watched as Fergus, tongue hanging out, tail spinning, dropped the ball at the child’s feet. Georgie picked up the by now probably revolting ball between finger and thumb, managing to throw it about ten feet.

  ‘But you don’t have one?’

  ‘No.’ Her gaze followed Fergus’s pounce on the ball.

  ‘Why ever not?’ He could have bitten his tongue out as her mouth flattened and the colour rose in her cheeks again.

  ‘Because, my lord, I cannot afford to feed a dog.’

  ‘Cannot—?’ He broke off and several things registered properly. She was neatly dressed, but not in anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Furthermore, now he looked properly, beyond those tired blue eyes, he noticed that her pelisse was worn and rubbed, her hat a very plain straw chip trimmed with a simple black ribbon. And Harry had said something about Georgie being sick and the medicine costing too much for them to buy a kite as well.

  ‘We must start for home,’ she said. ‘I’d better call the children.’

  ‘May I escort you?’ Why the devil had he asked that? Of course it was the polite thing to do, but she had clearly consented to his accompanying them for the children’s sake. And wasn’t that his motivation? Admittedly, he liked the children. Excellent manners, but not so regimented they couldn’t engage in a good squabble. And he liked that they were so deeply smitten with a dog.

  Her chin came up and she stiffened. ‘There is no need, sir. It was very kind of you to bring Fergus this far for them.’

  He raised his brows. ‘Who said I came this far just so the children could enjoy Fergus?’ Hadn’t he?

  ‘If you are suggesting, sir—’

  ‘That I enjoyed your company? I did. And I should very much like—’

  ‘No.’

  He blinked. ‘No?’

  Her mouth, that lovely soft mouth, flattened. ‘No, as in “no, thank you, I am not interested”.’

  Not interested? Not interested in what, precisely? What on earth had set up her bristles?

  ‘Harry! Georgie!’ She stepped away, beckoning to the children.

  ‘Mama!’

  Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Permit me—’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth—a skill his mother had deplored and his sisters still did—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

  Fergus, the ball in his mouth, bounded back, the children racing behind. Hunt made a grab for the dog, but Fergus danced out of reach, grinning around the ball. Hunt laughed. Fergus knew perfectly well it was time for home, but Hunt played his silly game for a moment while the children shrieked encouragement to the dog. At last, slightly out of breath, Hunt said firmly, ‘Sit.’ Fergus sat at once, the expression on his face saying very clearly cheat. He spat the ball out at Hunt’s feet.

  ‘Good boy.’ He bent to pick up the now completely revolting ball between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Are you putting it in your pocket?’ Georgie demanded. ‘Like that? Eeeww!’ She fished in the little embroidered pocket hanging from her waist and brought out a handkerchief. ‘Here.’ She held it out. ‘You can wrap it in that, sir.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Georgie,’ he said gravely, not meeting Lady Emma’s eyes. ‘But your mama will not wish you to lose your handkerchief.’

  Georgie’s expression took on an air of wholly spurious innocence. ‘You could bring it back if you walked Fergus to Chelsea. We live on Symons Street, in the row behind the stone yard.’

  If not for the frozen expression on Lady Emma’s face, he might have laughed.

  ‘Georgie.’ Lady Emma’s voice was very firm. ‘His lordship does not have the time to walk all the way to Chelsea. You have other handkerchiefs.’

  Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir. I do have lots of hankies.’ But her gaze lingered on the dog.

  ‘One should never contradict a lady, of course.’ Hunt accepted the handkerchief, wrapped the ball carefully and dropped it in his pocket. ‘But I can always find time to walk Fergus and he very much enjoys Chelsea Common.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day, ladies.’ He held out his hand. ‘Harry.’

  Beaming, Harry shook hands. ‘It was very nice to meet you, sir.’

  Yes, excellent manners. He smiled. ‘Au revoir.’

  He turned and left them, Fergus trotting beside him.

  Georgie’s clear voice followed them. ‘He said au revoir, Mama. That means until we see each other again! He’s going to come!’

  Well, at least someone would be pleased to see him. But he still couldn’t think what the devil he had said to make Lady Emma poker up like that.

  No, as in, No, thank you, I am not interested.

  And he was damned if he could think why that annoyed him. It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to see her again, had he? Just return the child’s handkerchief, because she’d been so delightfully open about her desire to see Fergus again. That was all.

  * * *

  Hunt was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street when it dawned that a gentleman strolling with an impoverished widow might have less altruistic intentions than walking a dog and indulging two children...

  ‘Bloody hell, Fergus,’ he said. ‘She thought I was trolling f
or a mistress!’

  Fergus looked up, interested. Hunt shook his head. At the very least he was going to clear up that misunderstanding, but—

  A carriage halted beside him.

  He recognised the carriage, horses and coachman even before Letty put her head out of the window. ‘Giles! How very convenient. If you stop in now I have that list.’

  This list would be much more appropriate. Women of some maturity and dignity who would understand the advantages and convenience of a second marriage. But the thought of perusing that list under Letty’s gimlet gaze and no doubt being expected to indicate a preference...

  ‘Thank you, Letty. But I have Fergus with me. Perhaps you might send it around?’

  That would buy time to consider the possibilities in private.

  Letty gave Fergus a disapproving stare. ‘I cannot think why you have a dog in town at all. Or, if you must, why a servant can’t take it for an airing.’

  ‘Well, you see, Letty,’ Hunt said cheerfully, ‘since he is my dog, I like to walk him. So, send your—’

  Letty snorted. ‘One can only hope that a wife will curb some of your bachelor habits. I dare say I can put up with the wretched animal in my drawing room. It appears well behaved enough. I shall see you in a few minutes.’ She rapped with her cane on the ceiling. ‘Drive on, Bagsby!’

  Hunt stared after the carriage as it lumbered away from the curb. He glanced down at the dog. ‘Much help you were! Couldn’t you have misbehaved for once?’

  Fergus just grinned up at him. Hunt snorted. ‘It would serve you right if I did let a wife change some of my bachelor habits.’

  * * *

  Hunt, fortified with his brother-in-law’s brandy, rose as Letty sailed into her drawing room a short time later. She gave Fergus, lying quietly by the hearth, a disapproving look, but said nothing. Hunt suspected that not a single woman on this new list would care for dogs in the house. Idly he wondered if Lady Emma minded dogs in the house.

  Letty took the chair opposite him and arranged her skirts very precisely. ‘Caro and I have given a great deal of thought to this.’ She frowned. ‘The last thing you want in a wife is any breath of scandal. I am sad to say that there is often far more than a breath about many widows.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure you won’t consider—?’

  ‘No virgins,’ he said. He cleared his throat as Letty’s brows shot up. ‘Your list?’

  Letty scowled. ‘It isn’t a list, as such. Merely a suggestion.’

  ‘A suggestion?’ He stared at her. ‘Just one? Do you mean that in the length and breadth of Britain you can only suggest one possible candidate? Who?’

  Letty preened a little. ‘My goddaughter—Amelia Trumble.’

  Hunt stared. ‘Amelia? She must be well over thirty, surely!’

  Letty bristled. ‘Twenty-seven. And she is a very good sort of woman,’ she said. ‘You could hardly do better, especially since you already know her.’

  Hunt didn’t see that as an advantage. Amelia Trumble was about the most boring female of his acquaintance. Her late husband, eldest son of Baron Trumble, had been equally dull. How a young woman of twenty-seven contrived to make herself look and act forty, he wasn’t sure, but...

  ‘Dear Amelia is the very pattern of Respectability and Good Sense,’ Letty pronounced.

  He knew that. And Respectability and Good Sense were all very admirable. But did they have to be allied with Dullness?

  ‘She would make you a most dutiful wife, Giles. She has every qualification—including an annuity that remains with her and would do for pin money. Nor will you be bothered with her son. As Trumble’s heir he will remain in the custody of his grandfather.’

  Hunt frowned. ‘She would leave the child with Trumble?’ He was surprised that it bothered him. Most men would be delighted not to have the evidence of a woman’s previous marriage underfoot, but—he saw a woman wearing a neat grey gown, her daughter snuggled in her lap... He shoved the memory away.

  ‘Trumble would not countenance otherwise,’ Letty said. ‘No doubt Amelia would visit the child, but she is not unduly sentimental.’

  The memory of Emma’s face as she accepted her son’s shamefaced apology slid into his mind. Unduly sentimental?

  But...he didn’t dislike Amelia. She just didn’t interest him. Did that matter? If Letty and Caro were satisfied he’d done his duty...

  ‘Very well. I’ll consider your suggestion. By the by, are you acquainted with Lady Emma Lacy?’

  She blinked. ‘Who is—? Good God! Emma Brandon-Smythe, you mean? Giles, she may be a widow, but you are not considering an alliance with that dreadful creature, are you?’

  ‘What?’ Hunt stared at her. ‘No. Of course not.’ Dreadful creature? ‘I ran into her in Hatchard’s, that’s all. It took me a moment to place her.’

  Letty snorted. ‘No doubt the shameless hussy presumed upon your acquaintance with Dersingham and forced herself upon your notice. She ran off, you know—from the altar, no less!—to live openly with young Lacy. And then persuaded him to make an honest woman of her. Dersingham cast her off regardless and naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’ Letty shuddered. ‘If she approaches you again, you must ignore her as everybody else does. I wonder at Hatchard allowing her in the shop. I shall have a word with him about that. Disgraceful that she is permitted to mingle with her betters!’

  ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary, Letty.’ Hunt’s mind spun. Lived openly with Lacy? In sin? Ran off from the altar? That had to be exaggeration. ‘I doubt she will approach me again.’ Not after she’d come close to telling him to go to hell. In fact, she hadn’t approached him at all. He had spoken to her. How the devil could he deflect Letty? The last thing he wanted was to have Letty force John Hatchard to refuse Emma admittance! ‘Ah, is Amelia in town?’

  Letty looked gratified. ‘Dear Amelia is not in town just yet, you know. Would you wish me to—?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ Hunt fixed her with a steely look. ‘You will say nothing whatsoever to anyone about this. Is that quite clear?’ Thank God he’d deflected her from Emma Lacy. ‘Just let me know when Amelia is expected in town.’ Letty was right; for a man who wanted a convenient wife, Amelia would be the perfect choice. Convenience was often a trifle dull.

  However, he would return Miss Georgie’s handkerchief. He was going to make quite sure Lady Emma understood that the Marquess of Huntercombe only trolled for books in Hatchard’s.

  Chapter Three

  Disappointment and rage lashed at Emma over the next two days. Disappointment that Huntercombe’s apparently disinterested kindliness towards the children had been anything but disinterested and rage that he had used them in his attempt to get close to her.

  Harry and Georgie could talk of little but Lord Huntercombe and Fergus. Emma even overheard Harry tell his sister what a jolly good idea she’d had with the handkerchief. ‘Because no matter what Mama says, I’m sure he’ll bring it back!’

  Georgie, openly smug about the predicted success of her scheme, asked Emma, ever so casually, just how long it took to launder a handkerchief. ‘In a big house, Mama.’

  It might have been funny had Emma not been so angry. And if she were honest, angry with herself for feeling even for an instant that betraying flicker of interest. Had she accidentally encouraged him? Did she have to be rude to every gentleman who spoke to her to avoid this sort of thing? And somewhere in all that there was hurt. Why she had thought Huntercombe would be different, she had no idea. After eleven years she knew how society viewed her.

  She did not have the heart to disabuse the children of their conviction that Huntercombe would call. How could she, without giving an explanation as to why she was so sure he would not? Six and ten was far too young for them to realise how gentlemen viewed their mother. Instead she took advantage of any dry weather to get them out for walks as much as poss
ible, trying everything she could think of to keep them busy and distracted.

  And yet walks inevitably brought on chatter of how fast Fergus could run, how he twisted in mid-air to catch the ball and when they might see him again.

  So the knock on the door on the third morning was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. Nor did Emma appreciate the involuntary leap of her own pulse. Harry and Georgie, just sat down for their morning lessons, looked up, eyes bright.

  ‘It might be him, Mama!’

  Emma gave Georgie a quelling look. ‘Him? The cat’s father?’

  ‘Fergus!’

  She changed her snort of laughter into a cough. The Marquess of Huntercombe, outranked by his own dog. Bessie’s footsteps hurried down the short hallway and the door creaked open. A velvet-dark voice spoke, the tone questioning, and Emma’s pulse skittered. Anger, she assured herself. Unfortunately it didn’t feel like anger, but that did not change how she was going to deal with this.

  ‘Yes, yer honour. What? Right. I’ll ask her then.’

  ‘Mama!’ Georgie and Harry jigged in their seats.

  ‘Stay where you are.’ She held them in place with a raised hand. ‘It might be a complete stranger.’

  More hurried steps and Bessie opened the door, face pink. ‘It’s a lordship, mum! Do I let him in?’

  Despite her anger, Emma suppressed another laugh. The Most Noble Marquess of Huntercombe left kicking his heels on the doorstep...

  ‘It is him!’ Harry and Georgie let out a unison shriek of delight, surged from their seats and stampeded past Bessie and into the hall.

  ‘Sir! Good morning!’

  ‘Look! It’s Fergus!’

  Bessie held out a visiting card. ‘Said ’is name was Huntercombe, mum. Not Fergus.’

  ‘The dog,’ Emma said. Damn his eyes! Must he make it so difficult? But it was not only Huntercombe who was making it difficult. She had repelled other men with ease. It was her own unruly attraction to him that was difficult. The others had been annoying. Huntercombe’s approach infuriated her.