His Convenient Marchioness

by Elizabeth Rolls

  He grimaced. She’d seemed stunned afterwards, despite her wild response. This time he wasn’t going to have at her like a randy schoolboy with his first woman. He was going to take his time, reassure her that her husband had some control and finesse in bed. That he was capable of pleasing a woman before he slaked his own greedy lust.

  He shouldn’t have slept with her at all, but since he had he rolled over, gathering his sleeping wife close. She gave a contented sigh and wriggled even closer. His heart swelled as he feathered kisses over her temple, her cheek, found the corner of that fascinating mouth...through the linen, female curves warmed under his hand. Hip, waist, and the silken weight of a breast. Pity it was dark, but he had no intention of leaving off to get up and light a candle. Carefully he unbuttoned her nightgown, pushed it aside and found soft skin, fluid and delicate.

  Slowly. Slowly.

  Sleek and pliant in sleep, she responded, skin heating, becoming damp as he caressed and kissed his way down her throat. Hungry, he kissed the upper slope of one breast, found the nipple and sucked gently. Felt her pleasured sigh as she arched up to him and wondered if he could bring her to pleasure before she woke...

  ‘Mmm.’

  Tenderness consumed him at the sleep-drowned murmur. She would be awake before he’d finished...

  ‘Mmm.’

  Lord, she tasted...he was going to discover exactly how she tasted... He reached for her nightgown, easing it up the slender legs—

  ‘Mama? Is it time to get up?’

  Every fibre froze rigid in horror. ‘Georgie?’

  There was a shocked silence, followed by the rustle of sheets. In the dim light he saw a small figure sit up. ‘Yes. Why are you here, Uncle Hunt?’ The child’s voice held a world of indignation. ‘This is Mama’s bed.’

  Between them—and thank God she was!—Emma stiffened. ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Yes, Mama. Why is Uncle Hunt here?’

  ‘Because I married your mama yesterday, Georgie,’ Hunt said. ‘One of the privileges of that is that I get to share your mama’s bed. Off you go. Back to your own bed, please.’

  For God’s sake! What if the child hadn’t spoken? Heat scorched his cheeks with the knowledge of what he’d been about to do.

  ‘But I always—’

  ‘Your own bed, Georgie.’ He kept his voice quiet.

  ‘Hunt—’

  ‘I slept here the other nights!’ Georgie’s voice wobbled. ‘And I’ve lost Anna Maria. Mama—’

  ‘That was because your rooms weren’t ready,’ he said. ‘Off you go!’ Who on earth was Anna Maria?

  Emma sat up. ‘Anna Maria? Oh, Georgie!’ Emma’s voice softened. ‘Hunt, she doesn’t understand. She—’

  ‘She will now,’ he said firmly, interrupting Emma’s low-voiced protest. Apart from anything else, it wasn’t safe for the child to wander around unsupervised. What if she fell down the stairs? ‘She needs to know there are rules here. Now, Georgie.’

  ‘But I might not find my way back to my room!’

  ‘You found your way here,’ he said inexorably. ‘And if you can’t, the servants are up now. One of them will see you back. Run along.’

  There was a muffled thump as the child slid from the bed. His eyes fully adjusted to the dim light from the coals in the fireplace, he saw his stepdaughter glaring at him.

  ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘Georgie, you need to go now. I’ll come up after breakfast.’

  Emma’s quiet voice seemed to do the trick. The child caught her breath. ‘But I was lonely without Anna Maria, Mama.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart. She’ll turn up. Go now.’

  As the door closed, Emma turned to him. ‘Hunt, there was no need for you to interfere. I am more than capable of managing my own child. She didn’t understand at all!’

  Interfere? ‘I know she didn’t,’ he said grimly. ‘Have you considered what you might have had to explain if we hadn’t realised she was there?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Emma, she needs to stay in the nursery, in her own room. Just because she slept here the first two nights—’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ Emma’s voice was stiff with something. ‘She has always slept with me.’

  ‘Always?’

  She shrugged, threw back the covers and got up. ‘Yes. There were only two rooms upstairs in Chelsea. Harry had one, Georgie and I shared the other. Before Peter died we had a larger place, but even there she was in a crib in our room.’

  Embarrassment. That was the edge in her voice. He let out a breath. He’d never been upstairs in her house. Hadn’t realised the small size meant there could only be two rooms up there. Hadn’t thought, more like. He’d never considered all the ramifications of the poverty to which she’d been reduced. But that didn’t change the situation here.

  ‘Emma, she can’t wander around the house at night.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘But she doesn’t understand it!’

  ‘She ought to now,’ he said.

  She stared at him. ‘You think it’s that easy? You just tell a child that everything about her life has changed and...that’s it? They magically do exactly what you want?’

  He stiffened. ‘Certainly. If they have been properly—’ He broke off too late. If they have been properly brought up.

  Emma swept up her dressing gown from the floor, flung it on. ‘I’ll ring for my maid now. Good morning, my lord.’

  ‘Emma—’

  The dressing-room door closed behind her.

  Hunt pushed back the covers with a curse.

  Who had known that being a stepfather was this complicated? So far he was making a complete muddle of everything. Well, there was one thing he could do and get right. They still had to tell Harry that he was Keswick’s heir.

  Chapter Twelve

  Harry stared from Emma to Hunt. ‘A duke?’

  Hunt could only guess at the boy’s feelings. His own experience had been very different. He had been born with the courtesy title of Earl of Tremaine and had been raised to succeed his father. He had grown up with all the servants calling him my lord and very few people, apart from his sisters and Anne, had ever used his Christian name. Even his father had called him Tremaine. His mother had mostly followed suit. He had become Huntercombe at thirty on his father’s death. There had been no shock, no moment of revelation, no turning upside down of his world. Just a steady progression and certainty.

  ‘Sir,’ Harry appealed to him. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Harry, dear—’

  ‘Yes,’ Hunt said firmly.

  Harry swallowed. ‘But—’

  ‘If your father had lived, he would be the next Duke,’ Hunt said. ‘Granted it is an enormous responsibility, but I think your father would have been more than capable and, since you are his son—’ He left the rest for Harry to work out.

  The boy was silent for a moment. ‘But won’t I have to live with my—the Duke?’

  ‘No,’ Emma said very firmly. ‘You don’t.’

  Harry looked at Hunt. ‘I don’t?’

  Hunt shook his head. ‘No. Your mother and I discussed the matter with your grandfather yesterday. You will remain with us and visit his estates with us from time to time. When you are older you may like to go by yourself. I can teach you much of what you will need to know about running estates generally. Later we can think about the specifics of Keswick’s estates.’

  ‘You’ll help me, then, sir?’ Harry sounded slightly less panicked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And I’m Thirlbeck now? A viscount?’

  ‘A courtesy title,’ Hunt said.

  ‘Does Georgie have to call me my lord?’

  Hunt bit back a laugh at the hopeful tone. ‘Don’t count on it. And perhaps for now you may like to leave it at Master Harry for th
e servants.’ The boy had quite enough adjustments ahead of him.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Harry flushed. ‘I just thought—never mind.’

  Hunt kept a straight face. Not unexpected that Harry, despite his shock, had been able to see at least one advantage in his new status.

  Harry looked at his mother. ‘Should I go to see my grandfather? Do I have another grandmother?’

  ‘Yes, you should. And, yes, you do.’ Emma’s smile looked as though it had been glued in place. ‘As well as an uncle, Lord Martin—the tall gentleman with your grandfather yesterday. And several aunts.’

  ‘Oh.’ Harry bit his lip. ‘When I saw him—Lord Martin—yesterday, just for a moment I thought it was Papa.’ He looked at Hunt. ‘Cannot he be Duke?’

  ‘No, Harry,’ Hunt said. ‘It has to be you.’

  ‘But I don’t have to live with the Duke.’

  ‘No.’ That, Hunt realised, was the boy’s greatest fear.

  Harry was silent for a moment. Then, ‘What if Mama hadn’t married you?’

  Hunt hesitated, glanced at Emma who had paled. Lord, the boy was quick.

  ‘He was going to take me, wasn’t he? And Georgie?’

  ‘Yes.’ He heard Emma’s gasp, but if the boy had realised there was no point lying. The important thing was to reassure him that he was safe. ‘The Duke was anxious that you should learn about the job you will have to do. He did not know that I had already asked your mother to marry me.’

  Harry scowled. ‘I still don’t like him. He was unkind to Mama.’

  Hunt cleared his throat. ‘You don’t have to like him, Harry. But you do need to show him proper respect. It is what your father would expect of you.’

  ‘But if he’s horrid to Mama, Papa would expect—’

  ‘That you explain politely that your mother is your mother and is to be respected,’ Hunt said calmly. He suspected that as long as Harry was scrupulously polite about it, Keswick would be obliged to choke it down. It might even engender a respect for the boy. Keswick was stubborn and opinionated, and he’d been blindly so about Lord Peter’s marriage, but he was not a fool.

  ‘Will you tell Georgie, Uncle Hunt?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No,’ Emma said. ‘I think it might be better coming from me.’ Her eyes met Hunt’s in direct challenge.

  Hunt concurred silently. Right now he wasn’t entirely sure that he could face his stepdaughter without blushing.

  * * *

  Georgie went straight to the issue of most concern to herself.

  ‘Do I have to call Harry my lord?’

  Emma squashed the urge to laugh. ‘No.’

  Georgie relaxed in Emma’s lap. ‘Good. Is he awfully rich? Richer than Uncle Hunt?’

  ‘No. Harry isn’t rich. Your grandfather is very well off, but it’s not considered polite to ask.’

  ‘Does Harry have to live with him?’

  ‘No.’

  Georgie nodded. ‘Can I sleep in your room tonight, Mama?’

  Emma braced herself. At least she didn’t have to open that conversation. She was going to be firm. Kind, but firm. ‘No. You can’t.’ Somehow she had to ensure that Georgie began to understand the changes that had come into their lives. And then she had to make sure Hunt understood that the children, especially Georgie, would need time to adjust and learn how to go on in their new lives.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Georgie’s lower lip wobbled. ‘Uncle Hunt can. And the bed is simply huge.’

  ‘Don’t be a silly baby, Georgie.’ Harry, curled up reading in a chair by the fire, looked up. ‘Mama has to share a bed with Uncle Hunt now.’

  Georgie’s scowled. ‘Why? She’s our mama. Why can Uncle Hunt sleep with her?’

  Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Because that’s what married people do. Papa and Mama always slept together in the other house.’

  Emma blinked. Of course—Harry was old enough to remember that.

  ‘It’s to do with having babies,’ Harry added, without much interest since he was looking at his book again. If there was any air left in the world, it certainly wasn’t in Emma’s lungs. Her cheeks burned.

  ‘Babies?’ Georgie looked even less impressed. ‘Mama isn’t going to have babies.’

  Harry gave her a superior look. ‘Yes, she will. That’s what happens when ladies get married. Besides, Uncle Hunt needs to have babies. I heard the maids talking about him needing to have a son to be Lord Tremaine like I’m Lord Thirlbeck.’

  Emma had the sensation of having been dropped into a maze without any exits.

  ‘Are you having a baby, Mama?’ Georgie demanded.

  ‘Not right—’ Emma hesitated. It was altogether possible that she was. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you don’t want one, do you?’ Georgie tugged at Emma’s sleeve.

  Emma met her wide-eyed gaze. Harry had set his book aside, was watching her interestedly. ‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘I do. Very much.’ It was the truth. She wanted more children. Hunt’s children. Although it seemed he didn’t think too much of her ability as a mother after this morning.

  ‘But you’ve got us!’ Georgie wailed. ‘Why do you have to have a baby?’

  Emma remembered exactly how pleased a four-year-old Harry had not been over the prospect of a little brother or sister. ‘What about Uncle Hunt?’

  Georgie shook her head. ‘He can share us. Harry can be Lord Tremaine and Lord Thirl-thingy.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that, Georgie,’ Emma said.

  Georgie’s lower lip stuck out. ‘We could go back to Chelsea. Uncle Hunt could just visit sometimes.’

  ‘No, Georgie. It doesn’t work like that either. Tell me, have you found Anna Maria yet?’ Anna Maria was Georgie’s favourite doll, tattered and beloved beyond all other possessions.

  ‘No. Bessie says she must be here somewhere.’ Georgie’s eyes filled. ‘But we looked everywhere! I think she’s gone back to Chelsea.’

  ‘Oh, Georgie. Anna Maria wouldn’t run away from you.’

  ‘She might. If she didn’t like it here. If people were horrid and didn’t let her sleep in my bed.’

  Emma hugged her. ‘Maybe she forgot to get in the carriage. If she doesn’t turn up we’ll go and fetch her.’

  Harry rolled his eyes. ‘It’s just a silly doll, Georgie. And there are dolls here. Bessie found you a better one last night.’

  ‘I want Anna Maria!’

  ‘Mama? Did other children live here once?’ Harry asked.

  She looked at him. ‘Yes. Why?’

  He held up the book. ‘Well, this. And the doll Bessie gave Georgie. Mark, the footman who helps look after us, and Bessie unpacked lots of books and toys from the attic. There’s a whole army of toy soldiers. But Uncle Hunt said he didn’t have any children.’

  Emma took a careful breath. ‘Uncle Hunt’s children died, Harry.’

  * * *

  Hunt froze, his hand on the door knob, as memories poured through him in an agonising flood, sweeping away the eleven years since he had visited these rooms. Simon, Lionel and Gerald, sprawled on the floor with those toy soldiers massed ready for battle. Marianne curled in a chair, dressing one of her dolls for a ball. The smell of clothes drying by the nursery fire and Anne’s quiet voice reading. Unlike many of their set, Anne had enjoyed spending time with the children. So had he.

  Other children lived. Why had his died?

  ‘Died?’ Georgie sounded horrified and his stomach churned, remembering the small white coffins, the knowledge seeping into him that the nightmare was real, that he wasn’t going to wake up.

  ‘Yes. They and their mama were very sick.’

  ‘And they all died?’

  Hunt clenched his fists. He’d pounded on the walls of that room in his early rage and despair at the emptiness where once there had been so much life, so much potentia
l and so much joy. And now there was life, potential, even joy again and he wanted only to turn back the clock, reverse time and undo death...

  ‘But what if you get sick, Mama?’

  The sudden fear in Georgie’s voice jerked him back. Perhaps Emma had been right this morning. She was just a little girl and—

  ‘Then Uncle Hunt would look after you.’ Calm, confident. Emma made it sound as though anything else were unthinkable. Was it? It had seemed so simple when he decided that a widow with children would suit his purpose. It had still seemed simple when he met her. So reasonable, logical that they should marry, the contract benefiting both of them and the children.

  He had not thought of Harry and Georgie as children. As his children, which, according to law, they now were. He was obliged to be a father to them, when hearing and seeing them in these rooms that his children had lived in ripped open wounds he’d thought healed. They were not. Perhaps they were not meant to heal. That did not absolve him of the duty he had accepted in regard to these children and any that Emma might give him.

  He leaned against the wall beside the door, unable to walk through it. This was what came of rushing into marriage without giving anyone, himself included, time to adjust or to plan for the change. No nursery staff meant that Emma was still needed hands-on with the children. And given Georgie’s excursion this morning, the children needed time and space to adjust. And Emma was very like Anne in that she enjoyed her children, liked being with them.

  He let out a breath. If he had wanted the other sort of wife, then he should have married Amelia Trumble.

  And what if something did happen to Emma? Something he couldn’t protect her from? Or worse, something he caused. Like childbirth.

  She didn’t need another child, although she had told Georgie and Harry that she wanted one.

  Talk about topsy-turvy; right at this moment he wasn’t sure that he wanted one, although he needed an heir.

  Harry and Georgie had already lost their father. How could he face them if he were responsible for Emma’s death? What if he failed them, as he had failed Gerald and his own children?