His Convenient Marchioness

by Elizabeth Rolls

  * * *

  Doctor Thompson smiled reassuringly at Hunt over his sherry. ‘Nothing to worry about, my lord.’ He sipped appreciatively. ‘Ah! Very fine, indeed. The merest sniffle and a little congestion. I fear her ladyship’s natural maternal concern has misled her. I dare say the child will be up and about in a day or so. On no account should she be overindulged. Ladies, being tender-hearted, as one would wish, are inclined to make much of little.’

  Hunt blinked. ‘Oh. Then Lady Huntercombe should feel no concern about leaving the child for a few hours tonight?’

  Thompson waved the suggestion away. ‘Goodness me, no! Her ladyship need not concern herself in the least.’

  Hunt breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, thank you, Thompson. I’ll see you out.’

  * * *

  He would be able to dance with Emma after all. All the way up to the nursery corridor Hunt dwelt on this prospect, imagining the delight of dancing the minuet with Emma, taking her through the stately steps, his gaze on her and only her...and afterwards they would come home together, go to bed together...she wouldn’t need her maid and he’d tell John not to bother waiting up...

  He met Emma in the corridor just outside the nursery. She was still in the old gown she had put on last night. ‘Are you off to change? You’re driving out with Letty, are you not?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Just stretching my legs for a moment. I’ve sent an apology around to Letty. Hunt, can you—?’

  ‘I saw Thompson.’ His relief still bubbled through him. ‘Excellent news. The Westerfold ball is—’

  ‘Hunt, I can’t possibly leave her.’

  He stared. ‘The doctor said—’

  ‘Thompson is an idiot,’ she said. ‘Positively mediaeval! He spoke of the four humours as if he referred to modern medical knowledge! I’m surprised he didn’t recommend I put a toad on Georgie’s wrist to draw out the fever, and if Letty and Caroline had him to attend on their children it’s a wonder any survived.’

  ‘Emma, are you sure—?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes narrowed to fiery blue chips. ‘And the message Bentham sent last night? I sent Robert back with a note asking Caroline what happened. She replied she had not wished to have her dinner party ruined!’

  He might have known it. Poor Robert had insisted that he had delivered the message—an urgent request for Emma to come home. Still... ‘Emma, if it is just a cold—’

  ‘I am sure the Westerfold ball is important, but my husband—that is, Georgie’s father—died of just a cold. You will excuse me, my lord. Please convey my regrets to the Duchess.’ She slipped back into the nursery and closed the door in his face with a decided click.

  Hunt stared at the door and let out a muttered curse. Did she really think he was worried about the importance of a ball? But he did want to dance with her, damn it!

  * * *

  In the end he sent his regrets for the dinner they had been invited to attend, but went to the Westerfold ball for an hour by himself. Long enough to make an appearance and quell any incipient gossip. Letty had sent a furious note about Emma’s decision not to go out with her.

  I had assured people that she would be with me this afternoon, that she is perfectly respectable and that we are delighted with the connection. For her not to be seen will cause gossip. You must insist that she attends the Westerfold ball this evening...

  And more in a similar vein. But he didn’t have that sort of marriage with Emma and nor did he want it. He had struck a bargain with her. She had married him to protect her children from Keswick, not for him to assume authority over them, let alone over her.

  By the time a dozen people had twitted him on his bride’s absence, he was irritated and defensive. Was he supposed to have exercised his husbandly authority and insisted that she accompany him? Nobody had said so outright, but Letty had come perilously close...

  ‘My dear Giles, it is very bad for a child to be coddled by anyone, let alone the mother. Sitting with a sick child is a task for a servant, not a lady. Never mind, I am sure you will guide her aright in the future.’

  She had changed the subject and then sailed regally away before he could tell her to go to hell. Guide Emma aright? She was more than capable of guiding herself. A sick child was far more important than a ball. What the devil would they say later if Emma had attended the ball and Georgie was seriously ill and died?

  And he had suggested that it was just a cold...

  ‘My husband died of “just a cold”...’

  He was a fool. His own family might have died of smallpox, but Emma knew, none better, how what began as a minor illness could turn out to be nothing of the sort.

  ‘Your lady is not with you tonight, Huntercombe?’

  Recognising the mocking voice, he turned. Lord Martin stood before him, a perfectly unremarkable young lady on his arm. To his surprise the girl met his gaze squarely, no simpering or coyness apparent, and the smoky eyes tugged at a memory. Hunt frowned slightly. He had seen this girl somewhere before. Wondering, he bowed slightly to Lord Martin. ‘Good evening, Lacy. One of the children is unwell.’

  Lord Martin stared. ‘She is sitting with a sick child?’

  Hunt returned the startled gaze coldly. ‘Yes. Mothers do that, you know.’

  The young lady smiled. ‘My own mother used to sit with me when I was ill.’

  Lord Martin shot her a wry glance. ‘Did she? I can’t say that mine ever did.’

  Hunt smiled at the young lady. ‘Apparently you are blessed in your mother.’

  ‘I was,’ she said quietly. ‘But she died when I was ten.’

  Lord Martin scowled. ‘I think you have not met Miss Carshalton, Huntercombe? Miss Carshalton, may I present Lord Huntercombe? He has recently married my brother’s widow.’

  Hunt stiffened, but he bowed. ‘A pleasure, Miss Carshalton. I have met your father. Shipping, is it not?’

  He watched, fascinated, as the girl—from his viewpoint she was definitely a girl—lifted her chin, a challenge in the grey eyes. Suddenly she was anything but unremarkable. ‘Yes. Papa is in shipping. The Duchess has offered to introduce me to society.’

  From the chin and the almost defiant expression, Hunt suspected that the Duchess’s protégée was finding the going rather heavy. There would be plenty who, while outwardly polite to a girl whose father was richer than Croesus, would snigger behind her back about the smell of the shop, or, in this case, bilge water. Plenty who would miss the spark in those smoky eyes and dismiss her as a cypher with a most desirable fortune.

  ‘I hope then, Miss Carshalton, that you are enjoying yourself and will call on Lady Huntercombe.’ He gave her a polite smile. Carshalton had political ambitions, but there were whispers about his business practices, that he was none too particular about his business partners. And there was something about Carshalton himself, a streak of ruthlessness. No doubt his daughter was supposed to make a match that would further his political ambitions.

  Miss Carshalton looked surprised. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She hesitated. ‘I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but do you still have the Donne autograph?’

  Hunt raised his brows. ‘I have several. Which one did you mean in particular?’ And how had she known about it at all?

  She flushed. ‘The sonnets. You won’t remember me, but my great-uncle Ignatius sold it to you.’

  He stared and suddenly remembered a small girl in black with the same smoky eyes. ‘You’re Ignatius Selbourne’s Kit, aren’t you? You wrapped the manuscript up for me.’ He chuckled. ‘That must be ten years ago. Good heavens. How does Ignatius go on? We correspond, but I haven’t seen him in the past couple of years. And, yes, I do still have that manuscript.’

  Her face lit with pleasure. ‘I’m glad. He’s very well, my lord. I spent an afternoon with him in his shop last week.’

  Hunt smiled, trying to recon
cile this young lady with the sad-eyed, black-clad little girl, who had so often been in her uncle’s Soho bookshop. She had usually sat in the corner with a book and Selbourne’s shop cat for company. Selbourne had mentioned that his niece had died, that he had inherited her daughter. Then, some years later Selbourne had commented that his Kit had returned her father. And she was Carshalton’s daughter? Good God! ‘I’m sure Ignatius enjoyed that. Do give him my regards when you see him again.’

  Lord Martin was staring at the girl as if he’d only just seen her. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in books, Kit.’

  She went very pink. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Your mama does not like me talking about books, let alone Uncle Ignatius or helping in his shop.’

  Lord Martin scowled. ‘I think you should stop worrying about what my mother will think.’ He nodded to Hunt. ‘Good evening, Huntercombe.’

  Hunt inclined his head. ‘Lacy. Miss Carshalton—it was a pleasure meeting you again.’

  She smiled, even though she cast an uncertain glance at Lord Martin. ‘Thank you, sir. I hope your child is better soon.’

  Lord Martin cleared his throat. ‘Stepchild.’

  Anger spiked in Hunt. ‘That is immaterial,’ he said through clenched teeth. Miss Carshalton’s gaze flickered between the two of them.

  Lord Martin inclined his head. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I hope the child improves quickly.’ From the tone of his voice one might have thought the words had been wrenched from him under threat of torture. ‘Is...is it Harry or the little girl? Georgiana, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Georgie,’ Hunt said quietly. ‘Very kind of you, Lacy. And you, Miss Carshalton. I’ll pass your kind thoughts on to Lady Huntercombe.’

  Lord Martin nodded stiffly and stalked away with Miss Carshalton.

  Hunt watched them for a moment. Interesting. Keswick’s Duchess, the highest of high sticklers, giving her approval to a plain—until something interested her—and bookish young woman with no connections or pretensions to gentle birth? He could think of only one reason—the Duchess saw the Carshalton fortune as a chance to establish her only remaining son in the wealth to which his upbringing had accustomed him. It was a bargain made often enough not to raise eyebrows, although it did not necessarily mean a match made in heaven.

  He continued on through the throng of superfine, silk and nodding plumes. On the dance floor couples wove their paths through the graceful strains of a minuet, reminding him that the only person he really wished to see, the only woman he wished to dance with, was not here. He pulled out his watch. Nearly midnight. Well, his carriage might not devolve into a pumpkin, or Masters into a rat, but he was leaving.

  * * *

  Hunt opened the door to the night nursery very quietly and looked in. The only light came from the fire, but he found Emma exactly where he’d expected; in a chair by the bed. Dancing shadows made it impossible to see if she was asleep.

  ‘Emma?’ He spoke softly, hoping that if she were asleep he wouldn’t wake her.

  ‘Uncle Hunt?’ Such a small, croaky voice.

  ‘Yes.’ He walked towards the bed. Georgie lay high on the pillows. Even in the dim light he could see that her cheeks were flushed, the soft curls damp with sweat.

  ‘Mama’s asleep.’

  As a whisper it was less than stellar and he winced as Emma stirred. ‘Not any more, sweetheart.’ He laid a gentle hand on Emma’s shoulder, feeling the knots and stiffness that were the consequence of sleeping in a chair.

  ‘Hunt?’

  ‘Yes. Are you quite comfortable there?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He had to admire the ready lie. ‘And how is Georgie?’

  Emma leaned over and set her hand to the child’s forehead. ‘Better, I think.’

  ‘But I’m thirsty, Mama. And my throat still hurts.’

  ‘Are you, love?’ Emma rose, bending over the child.

  Hunt nudged her back, realising what she was about. ‘Let me.’ He helped Georgie sit up fully and propped her against the pillows. ‘There.’ He sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Emma set a tumbler to Georgie’s lips and the child drank thirstily.

  ‘That’s nice, Mama.’

  Emma smoothed damp curls back from the small brow. ‘Was it? That’s Mrs Bentham’s special lemon and barley water. And I think some more willow-bark tea and honey might help that pesky throat again.’

  ‘Did you go to a party, Uncle Hunt?’

  ‘I did. A rather dull one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then why go?’

  He grinned. ‘I get into trouble if I don’t. Your Uncle Martin was there. He and Miss Carshalton sent their best wishes for your swift recovery.’

  ‘Who is Miss Carshalton?’

  Who indeed. ‘A little girl I knew once who is all grown up now. Like you are going to be.’

  ‘Oh. Did you dance?’ Georgie persisted.

  He sent Emma, busy with a kettle, an embarrassed glance. ‘Since your mama wasn’t there, no.’ Foolish of him, perhaps, but he didn’t dance often and he wanted her to be the first woman he danced with after their wedding.

  ‘Did you want to dance with Mama?’

  He smiled at her persistence. ‘Yes. Very much.’ Gently he placed his hand against her forehead. The heat there sent a chill down his spine.

  Looking up, he met Emma’s steady gaze and saw shadowy fear behind the calm. She rose from the hearth with a small cup.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said.

  Hunt slipped his arm around Georgie, steadying her.

  Obediently the child sipped until all the drink was gone. ‘I’m still hot, Mama.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart.’ Emma already had a damp cloth ready and Hunt watched as she set it against the flushed little cheeks.

  ‘That’s nice.’ Georgie’s eyelids drooped as she lay back against the mounded pillows.

  Emma spoke softly. ‘Keeping her propped up helps her breathing.’

  Hunt nodded, looking at the child, now close to sleep. Shame flooded him that he had doubted Emma’s judgement even for a moment. He, of all men, ought to have understood her fear.

  ‘Have you a moment?’ He gestured to the door.

  She looked at Georgie closely, but the child was sound asleep again and she nodded. Taking her hand, he led her out into the corridor.

  ‘Hunt, I am truly sorry, but—’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  She blinked. ‘What? I’m trying to tell you—’

  ‘You’re trying to apologise, when I should be apologising,’ he said. ‘Is she truly better? Her forehead was burning when I touched her. Did Thompson bother to examine her? Even I can see she is seriously ill.’

  She pushed a curl from her eyes. ‘She is more comfortable and her breathing has eased a great deal.’ She bit her lip and he had to suppress the urge to kiss the small hurt better. ‘Hunt, I am sorry. I know being your Marchioness—’

  ‘Sweetheart, it wasn’t about being my Marchioness.’ He raised his hand, traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertips, lingering at the corner of the soft mouth that could be so fiercely stubborn. ‘I wanted to dance with you. Remember? Particularly the minuet.’

  ‘You wanted—?’ She stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not so bloody old that I wouldn’t want to dance with my—’

  ‘I did, too.’

  His turn to stare. ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. Very much.’ Her tired eyes laughed a little. ‘And you definitely aren’t too old.’

  He cleared his throat and wished he could clear his mind as easily of all the distracting thoughts that swarmed there. ‘Good.’ That was about the safest thing he could think of to say. ‘You’re staying up here again tonight, aren’t y
ou?’

  Her face clouded. ‘Yes. She becomes restless if I leave for long. I know it’s just a cold, Hunt, but—’

  He silenced her by gently setting his fingers across her mouth, felt her lips quiver. ‘Don’t make me feel worse than I do already, Emma.’

  Caressing her cheek with his thumb, he saw the deep shadows beneath her eyes. He cursed, silently. He’d wanted to ease her worries and burdens. He set his hands to her shoulders, longing to pull her against him, hold her close. He didn’t know if she would want that.

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He loved her directness, that she didn’t bother with a polite lie to soothe him.

  ‘Couldn’t the maid sit with her while—?’

  ‘I can’t leave her.’

  ‘I know.’ He slid his hands down her arms, gathered her hands in his and held them gently. ‘But you could lie down on the sofa in there until she wakes again.’

  She let out a breath and, to his utter shock, stepped close, leaning against him. The sweet fragrance of her hair drifted around him. ‘I’m not used to having help.’

  He closed his arms around her. ‘No.’ She was not used to having someone take any of the load. He held her close, giving the comfort, the reassurance that she needed. ‘But now that it has been pointed out to you—’

  ‘M’lady? I heard—’ There was a startled gasp. ‘Tis you, milord!’

  Hunt tightened his hold on Emma for a moment, then released her. He looked at the surprised maid who had come out into the corridor. ‘Her ladyship is going to sleep for a little while on the sofa, if you would please sit with the child.’

  ‘Of course, milord.’

  Emma spoke. ‘You will call me if she wakes, please, Jane.’

  ‘Of course, m’lady.’

  ‘There.’ Hunt smiled at Emma as the maid slipped back into the room. ‘You see how easy that was?’ He only wished it could be as simple navigating the shoals of his marriage.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Of course, Emma, you have never taken your proper place in society.’ Letty set down her tea cup with an air of authority.