His Convenient Marchioness

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Another tear slid to join the first. ‘He’d like that. I’m sure he knows anyway, but he’ll like that you came. He made me promise him something at the end.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He made me promise to be happy again. To love again and...and to find someone to love me. And he said, “No regrets, Emm.”’

  A soft laugh shook him. ‘Anne didn’t have the chance, but she would have said something very similar. I’m glad I finally obeyed her on all counts. Perhaps you might like to tell her?’

  He knew the moment she understood, the moment his words and their implication sank in. She stopped dead in her tracks to stare up at him, her heart and his future in her eyes.

  ‘Hunt? Are you saying—?’

  He covered those trembling lips with his own, folded her close and kissed her deeply. After a moment he broke the kiss and smiled into her eyes. ‘That I love you? Oh, yes. So very much. I thought there was nothing left in me and perhaps there wasn’t. But somehow you—you and the children—have filled me up again. I had no idea what it was at first. Just that I felt complete again.’

  ‘You didn’t want that,’ she whispered.

  ‘No. But it happened,’ he said. ‘And I may be a fool on occasion, but I’m definitely not fool enough to refuse love when it finally hits me over the head.’

  ‘Then our marriage of convenience is not, after all—’

  ‘Convenient?’ he suggested. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all. I find being in love with my wife, and having her love me in return, perfectly convenient.’

  Late November 1804

  Hunt took the main stairs of Pentreath Hall two at a time, Fergus at his heels, not bothering to shed his greatcoat and gloves.

  He walked quietly into the nursery, waving Bessie to silence, and just looked his fill. It was a sight he could never tire of—Emma, seated in a rocking chair by the window, their child at her breast. Two weeks away, and little Piers had grown again. He’d forgotten how fast they grew. And Emma, his Emma, cradling the baby, a tender smile curving her lips.

  Fergus rushed forward, wriggling in joy, and Emma looked up, her smile blooming to outright joy. ‘Hunt! We didn’t expect you for another two days. Harry and Georgie are out riding with Masters.’

  He hadn’t expected himself for another two days. ‘I missed you,’ he said simply, dragging a chair over to them. ‘All of you. No need to ask how he is.’ He stroked his son’s cheek and was rewarded with an annoyed glare at the disturbance. ‘Piglet!’

  Emma laughed. ‘He’s sleeping through the night now, thank goodness. How was Mr Selbourne?’

  ‘He says he’s dying.’ Hunt sat down. ‘His heart.’

  Emma’s smile faded. ‘I’m sorry. And Kit?’

  ‘I didn’t see her, but she’s still with him. He hasn’t told her. He has promised me that he will.’ He hesitated. ‘Emma, he has left everything to her.’

  Emma switched the baby to the other breast. ‘Well, of course. Surely he didn’t call you up to town just to tell you that?’

  ‘No.’ Hunt let out a breath. ‘He’s appointed me executor and Kit’s trustee. She’s nearly twenty-two, so not a guardian as such.’

  ‘Oh.’ Emma thought about that. ‘Will she continue to run the bookshop?’

  Hunt nodded. ‘Yes. He says he’s taught her nearly as much as he can, that she will manage perfectly well, but he wants me to act as trustee until she’s thirty. He doesn’t trust her father.’

  Emma snorted. ‘And Martin? Any news of him?’

  Hunt nodded. ‘Yes. He’s back. Limping badly, but safe.’ Martin Lacy had disappeared within a month of the broken betrothal. Very few had known that he had volunteered for a covert mission to the Continent. ‘Oddly enough Ignatius seemed to know all about it.’

  Emma stared. ‘How?’

  Hunt shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. The only thing I can think is that Martin told him. That he’s seen him.’

  ‘Then he did care about her,’ Emma said softly. ‘Poor Martin. And poor Kit.’

  Hunt sighed. ‘Yes. But at least she has Ignatius. And I have you.’ He leaned forward to kiss her tenderly. ‘And our family.’

  She returned his kiss. ‘Yes. You have us and we have you.’

  He had everything. Everything he had lost and thought never to feel again. He had always known that to truly receive you had to give. Now he understood the equal truth: that to be able to give with a whole heart you had to be prepared to receive in turn.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to miss

  these other novels from Elizabeth Rolls

  IN DEBT TO THE EARL

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  A COMPROMISED LADY

  Keep reading for an excerpt from COMPROMISED BY THE PRINCE’S TOUCH by Bronwyn Scott.

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  Compromised by the Prince’s Touch

  by Bronwyn Scott

  Chapter One

  London—late winter, 1823

  St John the Divine was entirely wrong about the end of the world. Prince Nikolay Baklanov had, in the last hour, arrived at a revelation of his own: the four horsemen of the Apocalypse weren’t men armed with swords at all, but, in fact, four young ladies, armed with formidable matchmaking mamas who would give those swords a run for sharpness. He was quite convinced, as he barked at Miss Ransome for the third time to get deep into the corners on her turns, that the world as he knew it would not be done in by widespread warfare and pestilence, but by the trampling to death of his patience over the course of several Thursday afternoons as the girls sawed on their horses’ mouths and disregarded his oft-repeated instructions.

  ‘Heels down, Miss Edgars, or you’ll come off your mount’s back at the slightest jolt! Miss Kenmore, remember the left-shoulder rule, unless you want a collision with Miss Ransome!’ He shouted orders from the centre of Fozard’s arena, home to one of London’s elite riding schools. But there was nothing elite about the skill of the four young misses trotting around him.

  Make that three.

  ‘Miss Calhoun, why in heaven’s name have you stopped?’

  ‘My horse stopped, not I.’ The spoiled chit tossed glossy curls from beneath an expensive stovepipe hat and gave him a pout that had no doubt been practised far longer than her riding skills.

  ‘You are the master here, Miss Calhoun.’ Nikolay clung to the shreds of his patience. Surely their requisite hour was nearl
y up? Then just one more lesson for the day. Who would ever have imagined teaching four girls to ride was more difficult than marshalling an entire regiment?

  ‘But...’ Miss Calhoun began to whine. His temper flared.

  But? She dared to argue with him? He, who was a Prince of Kuban? He, who had led and trained the Kubanian cavalry? A man who excelled on horseback? Nikolay raised his voice, overriding her excuses. ‘No buts, Miss Calhoun. Set your horse in motion or I will do it for you!’ The last was met with a significant amount of shocked rustling in the spectators’ gallery where the girls’ mothers and maids sat in vigilant attendance. He knew what they were debating in their heated whispers—the merits of questioning him for his harsh tone. Was it worth the risk of alienating him? Or did they allow him to scold Miss Calhoun in the hopes of securing his attentions?

  He did not fool himself. That’s what they were here for: attentions, affections. It was what all his female pupils were here for, well-bred daughters of the British peerage, angling to snare a foreign prince, even one in exile from a place most had never heard of seemed to suffice, never mind that he wouldn’t be accepting any of those offers. He’d been in London for two months, since the Christmas holidays, and business at Fozard’s had increased exponentially—quite a feat considering much of London society was still in the country. The rustling ceased. The jury of mamas had decided to let his tone pass.

  ‘All right, ladies, that’s enough for today. Walk your mounts and then hand them off to the grooms.’ He strode towards the door, his words as rapid as his pace. If he exited fast enough, he could escape making polite small talk with the mothers before his next lesson. He headed for the private instructors’ lounge and slipped inside, breathing a bit easier. It was his first piece of luck all day.

  ‘Hoy, Nik. I see you survived the Misses Four.’ Peter Crenshaw, one of the other instructors, looked up from cleaning tack.

  ‘Barely. I’ve got one more and then I’m done.’ Done with this day that had started badly and gone downhill from there. The morning had begun with Lady Marwood slipping a key into his pocket with a note, making it explicitly clear she was more interested in riding him than the lovely bay mare her besotted older husband had purchased for her last week at Tattersall’s. That was how the day started and the Four Horsewomen of his personal Apocalypse had ended it. What he wouldn’t give for a strapping lad who could jump something.

  Peter gave him a wry look. ‘You can always quit. You don’t have to put up with the girls or any of it.’ Nikolay didn’t miss the edge of envy beneath Peter’s words. Peter needed to work. Peter depended on the income. He was a half-pay officer in an army going nowhere.

  Nikolay shrugged. ‘What would I do with my days if I didn’t come here?’ He needed to work, too, but perhaps for a different reason than Peter. The income wasn’t the issue. The scheduling of his days was. A year ago, he’d been a high-ranking officer in the Kubanian military. He’d spent his days out of doors on the parade grounds schooling cavalry units, leading manoeuvres. He’d spent his nights at palace revels, consorting with the loveliest women Kuban had to offer; waltzing, flirting, engaging in an affaire or two when the whimsy took him. Political calamity had changed that, or at least part of that. True, he still revelled at night. London, even out of the Season, wasn’t much different from Kuban’s glittering court and there were still women aplenty available for pleasure of the physical kind, just the way he liked it, with no strings attached. But his days had suffered. Oh, how they’d suffered.

  He’d kept with his old military habit of rising early, only to discover London gentlemen rarely rose before eleven. He’d taken to walking the streets and parks, watching the town rise. He’d spent his ‘mornings’—a term he used loosely since they seemed to occur briefly between eleven and two—conducting the business of resettlement: establishing accounts, garnering memberships to clubs, settling his horses. All of which was handled efficiently and quickly with little effort from him. He’d spent his afternoons sightseeing with his comrades from Kuban, the friends who had fled with him. But when that was done? When all the pieces were in place to ‘begin’ living the London life? How did he spend his time then?

  He’d found himself at a constant loose end. No wonder English gentlemen rose so late in the day. There was nothing to do, nothing to look forward to. So, he’d come here to Fozard’s, a place with horses, a place where he knew how to live—to some degree. He was painfully aware the parallel was not exact. He was a trainer of disciplined men, not spoiled girls. But it would do until he figured out who he was in this new life and what he wanted to be. It was a question which haunted him not a little these days. He’d been in England nearly a year and he still had no answer. His hopes of starting his own riding academy were still just hopes.

  Nikolay picked up the file with his last client’s information in it. He scanned it once and then twice, the second time more slowly, more carefully, the hairs on his neck prickling at the name: one Miss Klara Grigorieva, a diplomat’s daughter. Another ‘Miss’, of course, because that was how his luck had run today. There was the immediate concern of her riding ability, which was probably negligible. He could only imagine how ill-suited to the saddle she would be. Diplomats’ daughters knew how to host afternoon tea parties and evening dinners. They might even speak a language or two and converse on a variety of subjects. But they were not equestrians. Even so, it wasn’t only that which had his neck hair prickling. It was that she was a Russian girl; Klara Grigorieva was the Russian ambassador’s daughter, which, on the surface, made it easy to see why she’d been paired with him. What Fozard’s couldn’t know was the suspicion such a pairing provoked for him. Did this pairing have more sinister undertones? Had she been sent to smoke him out? Was Kuban hunting him at last? He snapped the folder shut. He wouldn’t have any answers standing here. It was four o’clock. Showtime.

  Only he couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in the waiting area. She wasn’t wandering the aisles petting the horses or any of the usual places the other girls tended to be. They were going to start late at this rate, and to top it off, someone was in the arena riding when everyone knew he had one more lesson before the arena was free for instructors’ personal work.

  Nikolay strode to the gate of the arena, prepared to halt the intruder, and found himself halted instead. Whoever the intruder was, he was an excellent rider: solid seat, straight back, rolled shoulders, elbows in. The rider urged the horse into a canter with an imperceptible use of hands and knees. Nikolay followed the rider’s trajectory to the jump in the centre of the arena—a jump that had become purely decorative. His students certainly didn’t aspire to it. It was high enough to be challenging. At three feet, a rider needed to know what he was doing. The rider lifted over the horse’s neck and the pair flew over the faux wall easily. The horse could go higher. Nikolay could see it in the tuck of the animal’s knees over the wall. He could also see the horse wasn’t one of their schooling string. This was no instructor riding early. Which begged the question—who was he?

  The rider doubled back, preparing to take the jump from the other side, giving Nikolay a first glimpse of the rider’s face: sharp cheekbones, the firm but fine line of jaw, almost feminine beneath the helmet, the intensity of green eyes fixed on the jump as the rider sighted the target. Nikolay couldn’t be sure if the rider saw him. The horse and rider took the jump again, coming to a stop in front of him at the gate.

  The rider undid the strap of the helmet and removed it, shaking loose a stream of walnut waves. He was a she. A not entirely warm smile played on her sensual lips. ‘Nikolay Baklanov, I presume?’ She tossed those glossy waves with presumption. ‘You are late.’

  ‘You are riding without permission or supervision. Klara Grigorieva, I presume?’ Nikolay countered. Best to begin as he meant to go on with this supercilious miss who clearly possessed a healthy dose of arrogance, if not common sense. Nikolay placed a booted foot on the rungs of the gate
and gave his newest pupil a considering gaze from head to boot. ‘You’re the Russian ambassador’s daughter?’

  She swung off the horse. ‘I am, and this is Zvezda, my mare.’ She smiled broadly, eyes sparking as her boots hit the ground. ‘Surprised? Not what you expected?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ She was also very tall for a woman, a fact emphasised by the male attire she wore, breeches that encased long legs and emphasised the slenderness of waist. Her hair fell to that trim waist, and she had a face that rivalled Helen of Troy, a beautiful mix of eastern exoticism in the seductive slant of those eyes arched with narrow dark brows, the sharp cheekbones of her Russian ancestors and the delicate jaw of an English rose—the perfect combination of strength and femininity.

  ‘“No, not at all”?’ she parroted. ‘What does that mean? No, not at all surprised? Or no, not at all what you expected?’

  Nikolay put a hand on the horse’s bridle. ‘You know very well you had the advantage of me.’ But he would not be cowed by that surprise. Neither would he allow her to keep that advantage. Bold women were attractive up to a point. ‘I think you like surprising people, Miss Grigorieva.’ How intriguing; the ambassador’s daughter had a rebellious streak. He petted the horse, looking for neutral ground before their first encounter became overly adversarial. ‘Zvezda, that’s Star in Russian.’ He didn’t miss the spark in her eyes. She hadn’t known. Interesting. ‘Pretty name. Pretty horse.’ The mare was an excellent specimen of English horseflesh. A Russian name for an English horse, much like the daughter, apparently. Klara was a name that could bridge both worlds, where Grigorieva could not.

  Nikolay watched her carefully, this Anglo-Russian creation standing before him. ‘What is it that you’ve come to me for, Miss Grigorieva?’ His eyes drifted, letting his gaze convey explicitly what his words implied. If she wanted to play with fire, he’d light the match.