The Marquis' Kiss (The Marvelous Munroes Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  “Most assuredly,” Thomas replied, forking up a mouthful of the beef.

  Lady Agnes continued to mutter for a few moments, then launched into an impassioned diatribe about the proper way to conduct a courtship. As she had never married, he found her advice without basis. He let her continue to rail throughout the meal, knowing she would only be happy if she thought she was making her point clear. He was equally happy letting the noise wash over him. Only when he excused himself for his club did Catherine speak again.

  “I think it very noble of you, Thomas, to stand up for your true love,” she proclaimed.

  Lady Agnes snorted. “True love? True insanity if you ask me. Like should marry like, my boy. You have always prided yourself on a well-reasoned response to matters. You may find this wildness attractive now, but it will pale in the long run.”

  “Only time will tell, Aunt,” he replied, dropping a kiss on his sister’s head for her support. Even as he did so, he felt a twinge of guilt. He could not in good conscience say that he was pursuing an interest in Margaret Munroe out of a sudden passionate love. His aunt was probably right when she said it was the novelty that attracted him. Yet he saw no reason why that couldn’t lead to a good marriage, in the end.

  Catherine looked up at him in surprise, coloring at his gesture. He smiled encouragement and headed for the quiet of White’s.

  But he was not to be given any peace even in his favorite club. No sooner had he began his stroll through the card room when he sighted Reginald Pinstin bearing down on him, wide mouth grinning as if they were old friends.

  Thomas would not give in to the panic to flee. He squared his shoulders and raised his quizzing glass. Pinstin skidded to a stop, grin fading.

  “Are you peeved with me, my lord?” he whined, paling. His full lower lip trembled as pathetically as a young girl’s on being denied a new bauble. “Truly I thought you would enjoy courting my cousin, Margaret.”

  The card players at the nearest table paused in their play to listen to the drama. Thomas turned his glare on them, and the pasteboard squares flew back into action. He jerked his head for Pinstin to follow him and led the fellow to two chairs in a quiet corner.

  “I would prefer, Mr. Pinstin,” he said, pausing to frown quellingly, “that you refrain from linking your cousin’s name with mine.”

  Reggie had clearly been expecting some other confidence, for his color, which had been returning, fled once more. “I feared this. She is her own worst enemy. Have pity on her, my lord and forgive whatever sin she has committed. She’ll make you a fine wife, truly.”

  Thomas did not want the fellow bandying it about that he was disappointed in Margaret, especially since the opposite was quite true. On the other hand, he didn’t much like confirming anyone’s suspicions that his intentions were serious. He wasn’t sure that they were. Curse Pinstin for being so adept at putting him in untenable positions.

  “What I feel for your cousin, Mr. Pinstin,” he tried with his most determined voice, “is none of your affair. It was good of you to introduce us, but I reserve the right to proceed from here keeping my own council. Now, excuse me, for I have friends I should meet.”

  “Oh?” Pinstin licked his lips eagerly, gaze darting about. “Perhaps I could join you? I have a number of stories I could relate regarding my cousin.”

  Thomas refused to say another word on the subject to an encroaching toady like Reginald Pinstin, cousin or no. He was about to tell the fellow so when he spotted Court entering the room. He managed to catch his friend’s eye easily enough, but when the viscount saw Thomas’ companion, he hurried in the opposite direction. Coward, Thomas thought.

  “No, I must go,” Thomas told Pinstin, rising. Pinstin puckered up again, then brightened.

  “Then perhaps a toast,” he caroled, springing to his feel as well and signaling a passing waiter. “To my cousin Margaret.”

  Thomas was determined not to be drawn into the fellow’s snare again. “As your cousin is beyond peer,” he said, “a mere toast would be an insult. Good night, Mr. Pinstin.”

  Pinstin was doing his fish imitation again, but Thomas turned his back on him and strode after Court.

  He eventually found the viscount in the farthest room from the door, lounging in a wingback chair, eyeing the fire, brandy at his elbow.

  “Driven you to drink, has he?” Thomas asked with a chuckle as he sank into the seat opposite his friend.

  Court managed a smile, straightening. “Sorry, DeGuis. I can’t abide the fellow. Two rescues in less than a fortnight seemed excessive.”

  “Agreed,” Thomas replied. “You don’t mind if I join you? I could use some peace and quiet.”

  “Certainly.” Court’s smile faded. “Though you must allow me to apologize. I heard Pinstin created a scene at the Baminger’s ball after I left with your sister. I understand you actually had to call on Miss Munroe because of it. You must believe I would never have abandoned you if I had known.”

  “On the contrary,” Thomas replied readily. “I told the fellow I appreciated the introduction, even if his method left something to be desired. I appear to have been too narrow in my choice of ladies to pursue. Miss Munroe is a welcome change.”

  Court eyed him, iron eyes reflecting the fire. “Welcome? Do you mean that?”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow at the implied challenge. In truth, he was beginning to tire of the fact that everyone assumed Margaret Munroe was somehow beneath him. He found her diverting at the least and disarmingly charming at the best. “Am I known for lying to my friends?” he asked.

  “Never,” Court replied. He returned his gaze to the fire. “I am simply surprised it has gone this far. Will you court her?”

  “I am considering it,” Thomas answered stiffly. Hearing the belligerence in his tone, he forced himself to relax. “That is, I am uncertain. She is different from anyone I have ever met.”

  “Different does not mean better,” Court murmured.

  Thomas frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re against her as well.”

  To his surprise, Court colored. “The lady is not my type. She beat me in a private horse race last year, a claiming race no less. She’s the one who won my prize three-year-old. Her father made her give it back, but I can tell you it was embarrassing nonetheless. Good thing it was off Season.”

  “Her parents allowed her to race you?” Thomas asked, even more surprised.

  Court tightened his jaw. “I don’t believe her stepmother knew. Her father sent back a note with the horse. It wasn’t an apology.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I had no idea. She challenged me to a friendly race today, but it was not for a prize. I couldn’t resist the offer. I’m surprised you accepted.”

  “Prestwick issued the invitation on behalf of a ‘friend.’ I assumed it was for Lord Leslie Petersborough. The two are nearly inseparable, and you know Petersborough’s father the marquis frowns on his son racing. Besides, she was dressed as a coachman, and that black beast of hers wouldn’t let me get close enough to see her face beneath the cap. It wasn’t until it was over and she’d won that I knew.”

  There was the unmistakable trace of bitterness in his friend’s voice. Thomas wondered if he’d feel so angry if Margaret had beaten him. It did not seem likely, but then he could not imagine mistaking her for a man, coachman’s cape or no. He decided against mentioning it to Court.

  “Well,” he said with a shrug, “no harm done. As I said, the lady is a refreshing change.”

  “Then you’re done with Lady Janice?” Court asked.

  “Quite done,” Thomas assured him.

  “Pity,” Court murmured. “I thought surely you had her, old fellow. You seemed well matched. But perhaps it is all to the good. She is developing quite a reputation for turning fellows down. You’re number ten, did you know that?”

  Hearing that he had nine comrades did not make him feel any better. He was certain they could not have been discharged for the same ignoble reason, certainly not by two diff
erent women. “I wish the lady well,” he replied. “I can only hope her next suitor is more successful.”

  “If any man can be,” Court muttered darkly. “I begin to think Pinstin has the right of it. Women are a fickle lot.”

  “What do you mean?” Thomas demanded, eyes narrowing as he realized the man must be talking about his sister. “Has something happened between you and Catherine?”

  “No,” Court hedged, refusing to meet his eye. “I mean, nothing is happening. That is precisely the problem. Your sister seems to have taken me in dislike.”

  “Why would that be?” Thomas asked quietly. Court would have had to have been an idiot not to hear the threat under the words.

  He was not an idiot. He sat straighter. “I did nothing improper, I assure you. I know the difference between an opera dancer and a lady like your sister. We’ve gone driving twice, and she brought her maid along each time. Whenever I’ve called, your aunt has played chaperone. Whenever you’ve allowed me to take her out, once to the opera and the other night to the ball, you’ve been in attendance for much of the time.”

  “Are you saying you haven’t had sufficient time alone with her?” Thomas probed with a frown.

  “It wouldn’t matter,” Court replied. “The few moments we have had alone are the same as when we are in company. She refuses to say more than three words at a time to me, and they are generally, ‘yes, my lord,’ and ‘no, my lord.’ It’s incredibly difficult to get to know a young lady well enough to propose in such an atmosphere.”

  “You must try harder to draw her out,” Thomas advised, relieved to hear that there appeared to have been nothing to hurt his sister. “I told you, she is very sensitive.”

  “I’ve been as gentle as a lamb, I assure you,” Court insisted. He eyed Thomas for a moment. “You’re certain there isn’t someone else?”

  Thomas started. In truth, he had paid little attention to his sister’s activities or visitors, assuming the matter taken care of by his agreement with Court. If Catherine had fallen in love with another suitor, it would explain her antipathy for the young viscount and her sudden championship of his courtship of a woman she assumed to be his true love.

  “I’ll speak to my sister,” he promised. “My own courting has taken precedence, and for that I apologize.”

  “You must do what you can to set up your line,” Court agreed. “A collapse like the one you had last winter would make any man feel mortal.”

  Thomas frowned at him.

  Court kept the gaze. “Do not bridle. I assure you I have told no one of the incident. I wouldn’t even have known you were sick from the way you put down dinner that night. There is nothing like your Mrs. Tate’s famous fish chowder. And that physician you had in to interview you afterward said it was a freak occurrence.”

  “As long as I do nothing that would unduly excite my heart, whatever that means,” Thomas agreed glumly.

  “Precisely. You do not live a particularly sedate life, though I would hardly call you reckless. I only mention the incident to show you that I understand what’s driving you to find a marchioness and set up your nursery. As I said, any man would feel so driven under the circumstances. But are you sure about Margaret Munroe?”

  Thomas sighed. “I wish I knew. In truth, I’m tiring of all this. I’d like the matter settled. Margaret Munroe seems no worse than any other and considerably better than some.”

  Court nodded. “Then perhaps we can dispense with the ladies and discuss something of more importance. You have been preoccupied of late, but our friends in Parliament do not understand your silence on the proposed amendment to the Poor Laws. Lord Liverpool was especially concerned.

  Thomas had never had much patience with the lords who played at governing—appearing and disappearing from Parliament as the mood took them. It appalled him that of the hundreds of seats in the hall, fewer than a third were ever occupied in a given session. Perhaps that was why it took no more than three nobles to make a quorum. But allowing decisions about governance of the commonwealth to rest in so few hands was surely a dangerous thing. He should have been more attentive.

  “Please convey my apologies to the Prime Minister,” Thomas told the viscount. “I did not realize the bill was coming to a vote.”

  “Oh, it isn’t,” Court replied, and again Thomas heard the trace of bitterness. “That is precisely the problem. This business of celebrating the end of the war has turned everyone’s heads. The cabinet has yet to formally introduce the bill to discussion. They want support to be assured before then. Have you seen the proposed language?”

  When Thomas shook his head, the viscount continued. “I’ll have my secretary drop by a copy. It’s a sweeping gesture, designed to rid our streets of the trash we seem to be accumulating.”

  “It’s difficult for me to equate humanity with trash,” Thomas remarked.

  Court eyed him, iron gaze unreadable. “It wouldn’t if you noticed the wastrels begging on the street corners. It’s an embarrassment to a civilized nation like ours.”

  “On that we agree,” Thomas replied with equal determination. “But it is the method of removing them from the streets that is the problem. I will not countenance work houses.”

  The fire was dancing in the viscount’s eyes. “Nor will I countenance useless charity. A man should work for his wages.”

  “And should the women and children?” Thomas pressed.

  Court stiffened. “I can see we have different views on the matter.”

  Thomas was used to seeing the man stiffen up about political issues. Court had his eye on the prime minister position someday, if he could prove himself more able than Lord Malcolm Breckonridge, the leader of the moderate Whigs, who were growing in popularity. But much as he wanted to support his friend, he would not change his principles.

  “Our differences are nothing two civilized gentlemen cannot discuss, I hope,” Thomas tried in mollification.

  Court retrieved his glass of brandy and raised it in salute. “Not at all. I look forward to changing your mind.”

  “As do I,” Thomas replied. “About the Poor Laws, and Margaret Munroe.”

  Chapter Eight

  Margaret did not immediately pen a note to her cousin Allison. Between her conversation with her stepmother and the one with Lady Janice, she had much to think about. She was not given the opportunity, however, for no sooner had she seen Lady Janice to the front door than Mrs. Munroe was at her side.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Who was she? Why did she seek you out here?”

  “She was not one of the women from Comfort House,” Margaret assured her. “And I see no reason to keep her identify a secret, even if she guards it so closely. You will not gossip, will you, madam?”

  Her stepmother drew herself up to her full height, just under Margaret’s chin. “Certainly not!” Then she bent closer conspiratorially, dark eyes alight, voice lowered. “Who was it?”

  “Lady Janice Willstencraft,” Margaret replied, turning to lead her wide-eyed stepmother back to the sitting room.

  “Lady Janice?” Mrs. Munroe frowned in obvious confusion as she lowered herself onto the sofa. Before Margaret could explain, she brightened again. “Why, my dear, you have obviously won. Why would she come in disguise but to beg you to return the marquis?” Just as quickly as she had brightened, she sobered again. “I certainly hope you did not agree, Margaret. I know your tendency to be kind-hearted. Promise me you did not return him to her.”

  “I am considerably tired of everyone making assumptions,” Margaret declared. “The Marquis DeGuis is not a book, madam. He does not belong to Lady Janice, nor does he belong to me.”

  “I can only hope you did not tell her that,” her stepmother answered with a sniff.

  “I didn’t have to,” Margaret explained. “She did not wish to renew the acquaintance. She advised me to shun him as well.”

  Mrs. Munroe’s frown deepened. “Did she say why?”

  “She hinted at some dire flaw in his char
acter but refused to name it.”

  Now her stepmother paled. “Could he be a monster under that civility? Do you think he struck her or attempted to force her?”

  Margaret shrugged, though her heart quailed at the thought that her hero could be so depraved. “In truth, I don’t know what to think. As vain as it sounds, I would be tempted to put it down to a case of jealousy, except she advised me to contact cousin Allison for particulars.”

  “Is that why Allison turned him down?” her stepmother asked, clearly amazed. “It would certainly explain her preference for the Pentercast boy, though a second son of a country squire is still sinking rather low. I will pen your aunt immediately.”

  “No,” Margaret said. “My aunt is nothing if not close-mouthed. I doubt she would tell you. Besides, I’m not sure she knows. It sounds as if it were some kind of pact between Lady Janice and Allison. I’ll write Allison.”

  Mrs. Munroe nodded, rising. “It is settled, then. I expect you to let me know the minute you receive an answer. And until you do, I intend to see you are more closely chaperoned.”

  Margaret frowned. “Do you think that necessary? He has never been less than a gentleman with me.”

  “I do not wish to find he is anything less. But I also do not want anything to happen to you. I have never heard anything bad about the DeGuis family, mind you, unless of course one counts that business about their hearts. Still, I refuse to take chances.”

  The word “heart” hung in Margaret’s mind. “What about their hearts?” she pressed, thinking again of her fear that her hero might not be able to love deeply.

  Her stepmother waved a hand. “The last marquis, and his father if memory serves, died rather early from weak hearts, or so the story goes. I’m sure it’s why the present marquis is so set on finding a bride and assuring his line. He cannot be certain how much time he has.”

  “But he seems so strong,” Margaret protested, realizing this was the source of the desperation Lady Janice had tried to warn her of. “He rides daily. He races!”