Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  But what could be done? It was not the first time an old name had allied itself to new money, and it would not be the last. Still, Society wished that the prize had gone to a sweeter girl. It was generally understood that Miss Dorothy Coleman was insufferable.

  But one lady among them actually relished the idea of this union. The Countess of Jersey had not forgotten the handsome man-child she had met in Gresham over the summer.

  With her acute instincts for these things, she noticed that Christopher almost seemed to shrink from Miss Coleman’s touch. Neither their eyes nor their hands ever met.

  The boy rarely took the girl off the dance floor for a moonlight stroll in the gardens, as young men were wont to do. If anything, he avoided her.

  Lady Jersey was bored with her paramour, the middle-aged Prince of Wales. She knew the Prince was losing interest in her, too. To reassure herself of her own desirability, and to whet her jaded palate, she needed fresh kill.

  It would be perfect, from her viewpoint, if the Marquess of Clydekill were to enter into a loveless marriage. It would be the ideal cover for a liaison between them.

  I can tell he has no experience. I could introduce him to the pleasures of lovemaking—teach him all the ways he could please a woman.

  * * *

  Lady Jersey had secured an invitation from one of her many noble gentleman friends to stay whenever she wished at Wilton House, a charming country manor near Salisbury.

  Wilton House was often left empty for months at a time while its owner provided companionship to the Prince of Wales. The gentleman admired Lady Jersey exceedingly, and he was only too happy to give her leave to entertain at his home in his absence.

  To a handful of select acquaintances, Lady Jersey proposed a trip outside the capital. Her friends could stay with her at Wilton House and enjoy the bracing autumn air. From Salisbury it was easy to visit Bath.

  “You must come,” Lady Jersey said to Christopher. “Bath is such fun. And so many of my acquaintances will be staying at Bath at this time of year. It’s a perfect place to take the healing waters of the Roman baths, before winter draws in and the weather becomes too cold for travel.”

  Christopher was uncertain. On the one hand, Lady Jersey seemed more than ever like a hungry bird of prey whenever she looked at him. He sensed that to be pinioned by her sharp claws would be a disaster for him, socially and personally.

  But she’s the Countess of Jersey. She practically controls the haut ton. One little disapproving glance or gesture from her, and her unfortunate victim is suddenly beyond Society’s pale.

  And he had never been to Bath. The neoclassical architecture was said to be splendid. And of course the Roman ruins and artifacts were a scholar’s dream.

  “I’m inviting just a select group of friends,” she confided. “Just some people you’re sure to enjoy. I hope you don’t mind—but there just wouldn’t be room in the party for Miss Coleman.” She smiled knowingly. “Or your father—I doubt Gresham would enjoy our company.”

  “How long would we be gone?” Christopher asked.

  “Oh, about a fortnight. It would depend on other commitments of mine back here in London.”

  Two weeks. It would certainly be pleasant to be out of Miss Coleman’s and my father’s company for that long. Perhaps I should consider it.

  And then the Countess played what was—had she only known it—her strongest card.

  “They tell me you were quite the academician when you were at Oxford. If you got bored by our frivolous company, then Stonehenge is only a brief ride from the house. It’s very historic, you know. Particularly if you have any interest in the Druids and the fey folk.”

  Stonehenge. Christopher suddenly decided that he would make that trip. In fact, nothing in heaven or on earth was going to stop him.

  Chapter 12

  The Road West

  Lady Jersey was pleased with how well her travel plans had taken shape.

  The company set out on a crisp early morning in mid-October, a day when the sky was bright blue and the autumn breeze was sharp. A party of eight, they rode in an impressive convoy of equipages.

  A couple of the male guests showed off before the ladies by driving their own phaetons four-in-hand. The ladies sat more comfortably in curricles and coaches, letting their liveried coachmen do the work.

  Lady Jersey guided the Marquess of Clydekill to a handsome landau emblazoned with the Jersey arms. She wanted him seated with her for the trip—it would give her a chance to signal her interest in him in the relative privacy of the covered rig. And she wanted to display her ownership of him right from the outset.

  The other three women—and at least one of the men—would no doubt be hoping for the favors of this lovely young man. But my net will be the one to snare him.

  The young Marquess guided her to her carriage and assisted her into it. Such a gallant lad. That’s certainly novel, compared to my usual self-centered dandies.

  Once seated, she reached a graceful white arm out of the landau to draw Lord Clydekill in after her. But he deftly avoided her touch and, bowing courteously, jumped up on the outside front seat alongside the coachman.

  Naughty boy! Playing hard to get, it seems.

  Meanwhile, from the other side of the rig, the Baron of Cullingsley saw his own opportunity and jumped into the landau to join her. Normally she would have enjoyed the Baron’s vicious, sardonic wit during the long ride west. Now, though, she was equally vexed with the Marquess and with the Baron.

  Lady Jersey was not a woman who appreciated having her wishes gainsaid. Lord Clydekill would pay for this little display of independence, once she had him firmly in her grasp!

  The hours passed as the ornate carriages proceeded westward, past broad fields cleared of their harvests and little towns peopled by quaint country folk. Lord Cullingsley was a good travel companion. He soon had her laughing cruelly at how he had won the heart of a particularly innocent young girl coming out this Season, then had openly dropped her acquaintance once she had given her body to him as well.

  “‘Pon my soul, it’s the talk of the ton, m’dear,” he snickered. Another notch in his well-notched belt. “Although I did try to shield her reputation, truly I did.” The Baron took a pinch of snuff, then sneezed elegantly into a handkerchief that was the same white lace as the frills on his shirt.

  “But once she realized I wasn’t true to her—and can you imagine such a tedious fate, m’dear?—she just grew so melancholy. Always bursting into weeping fits in public. Such an embarrassment to me. And she lost all her looks—I declare, I was ashamed to have my name associated with her.”

  Lady Jersey had already heard from others how the story had ended. The girl took her own life—hanged herself in her father’s stables. A young stable boy found her body, and the girl’s family then found the two of them, one sobbing piteously, the other quite dead.

  It was said she had been with child.

  Lady Jersey could almost find it in herself to feel sorry for the girl. But, really, she had only herself to blame. What sort of a little fool would permit herself to be totally consumed by Lord Cullingsley, a known libertine? Truly, women shouldn’t play the game if they couldn’t figure out the rules.

  After years as the Prince of Wales’ chief—but hardly His Highness’s only—mistress, Lady Jersey knew the rules. Some might say she had written them.

  So she laughed with the Baron about the foolishness of some women, and before long she no longer felt the sting of the Marquess’s unspoken unwillingness to seclude himself with her in the coach.

  * * *

  The sun was already far below its zenith when the array of rigs passed through Domesday St. Osmund, a small, prosperous town on the road to Salisbury. Domesday St. Osmund was a well-known staging post for coaches heading east to London from the Salisbury Plain. The inn there, The Holy Scrivener, was a popular watering place known for its good local ale.

  Lord Cullingsley suggested the party should stop. They had lunch
ed lightly about halfway through the journey, but Lord Cullingsley wanted a drink and the horses could, no doubt, use a short rest. He rapped on the front wall of the carriage to signal a stop to the coachman.

  Lady Jersey did not want to stop, though. She had planned to reach Salisbury in time to dress for dinner. So they pressed onward.

  The horses were indeed tired, and their pace slowed. A mile or so from the town, one of the horses drawing Lady Jersey’s landau started limping badly. It became necessary to stop.

  The coachman hopped off his box, and Lord Clydekill jumped down after him. Together, they checked the horse’s legs for injury. Luckily, as it turned out, no harm had been done to the horse, but he had thrown a shoe somewhere back on the road. Clearly, he could not pull a vehicle the rest of the way to Salisbury.

  What to do? Lady Jersey would not agree to use a horse taken from one of the other carriages. “My horses are perfectly matched, trained to move in lockstep with each other. Bringing in another animal to the team will fret my horses and spoil the smoothness of the ride.”

  It seemed the best thing would be to walk the horse slowly back to Domesday St. Osmund. A blacksmith serving the stables of the inn could easily fit another shoe. The passengers of the other rigs would crowd together so that Lady Jersey, the Baron, and the Marquess could ride with them. The coachman would walk the horse back; one of the grooms serving the party would stay with Lady Jersey’s empty landau.

  But Lord Clydekill said he’d accompany the coachman to see Domesday St. Osmund. The Baron said he’d come along for a lark and try the good ale of The Holy Scrivener.

  Lady Jersey thought rapidly. This was her party, but suddenly it seemed that all the interesting people were leaving her out of things. “I’ll go, too,” she said.

  “But, My Lady—” the coachman protested.

  “Really, m’dear, a rough alehouse is no place for a lady,” the Baron smirked. But his smirk dared her to come along anyway.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she said sharply. Really, the Baron is getting quite above himself. “I’ll go and scandalize the local yokels. It will be fun.”

  So the equipages were rearranged again. They would borrow one of the other rigs to take back to town. The coachman could tie the lame horse to the back and bring it along slowly.

  When they rode into Domesday St. Osmund, they made quite a spectacle as they dismounted from the lavishly appointed carriage. Townsfolk, unused to mingling with the great, stopped to gape and point. Laughingly ignoring the stares of the commoners, the nobles turned into the inn. The coachman gave the reins to a stableboy and went to find the smithy.

  Lord Clydekill asked the landlord if there was a quieter saloon area at the inn where a well-bred lady could sit. Seeing Lady Jersey to a comfortable chair by the roaring fire, the young Marquess turned to order the party some beverages, while Lord Cullingsley just lounged about.

  This is when he’s at his most confident—playing the role of the polished, polite young man. I do like him like this.

  Suddenly, Lady Jersey saw the Marquess’ face go white and his mouth fall open, as if in shock.

  Across the room in the crowded bar area were several rough-looking tramps. Their swarthy complexions and colorful clothing marked them as gypsies. Why would the Marquess know or care about a gypsy band?

  One of the men looked right at the young Lord and murmured something to his companion. The second man looked over, as startled as Lord Clydekill was. But he seemed to draw himself up with something like manly resolve. He squared his shoulders and crossed the room to stand in front of the Marquess.

  “Seems ye be far from yer home, My Lord,” the man said. Unbelievably, it appeared this man knew who Lord Clydekill was.

  The Marquess courteously responded. “As you are yourself, sir.”

  “Ah, well, we Travellers have no real place we call home. Ye might say wherever we go, we’re at home. But at this time of year, we’re most like to be found around Stonehenge, just a few miles from here, for a bit of a reunion with our distant kin.”

  “Indeed.”

  Lord Clydekill is treating the fellow like an equal! Really, this is too much. Everyone know these Travelling people carry knives and would rob and slice you as soon as look at you. She exchanged glances with Lord Cullingsley. She was horrified; he seemed quite amused.

  “What are you drinking, sir? Hie! Innkeeper! Another glass for this man, please, and for his friends over there. And I’ll have the same.”

  The innkeeper looked doubtfully at the Marquess, then at the gypsy. But he saw a flash of gold—the young nobleman had put a full guinea in his hand. Gypsies or no, that appeared to justify serving his finest brandy to the men.

  Once the men had fresh glasses in their hands, Lord Clydekill raised his politely. “To your good health, sir.”

  “Thank ye, My Lord, and to yer own. Ah, this is fine drink, it is. Ye’re a true gentleman, My Lord.”

  “I trust you’re in better health now, Mr. Bagley, than when our paths last crossed.”

  “Aye, well, I owe ye a big debt fer the kindness ye done me that day. I didn’t know then, My Lord, who ye were, but I’ve since been told. I’ve no doubt I would have been swinging from a rope that day, like my friends were, had ye not put in a good word for me. I hope, now, that the Christian charity ye showed me caused ye no trouble with yer lord father the Duke. A hard man he is, an’ I mean no offense to ye in saying so.”

  The Marquess seemed to brush aside the reference to his father. “I’m sorry, sir, that I could do nothing for the other men, although I tried. They had families, I’m sure?”

  “They did, My Lord, a couple of widows and their children left behind.”

  “Here, then.” Lord Clydekill reached into his pocket and took out several banknotes. “I think I can trust you to pass this small assistance on to them.”

  “Certainly, My Lord. An’ I know not why we deserve such kindness from ye. But rest assured the Travellers have long memories, and if ye ever find yerself needin’ a favor, just mention Domnall Bagley to one of us and ye’ll find ye have a friend.”

  Had Lord Clydekill actually just given money to that fellow? And was he shaking the man’s dirty paw? Honestly, no wonder his father the Duke complained of him.

  The Dukes of Gresham go back many centuries, and it is known that such old, inbred families produce eccentrics from time to time. I do hope Lord Clydekill isn’t one of them.

  Seeing the surprising friendliness of Bagley’s noble acquaintance, the other two gypsy men joined them and thanked the young Marquess for their drinks.

  “Where do Your Lordship be stayin’?” asked the quietest of the men, who seemed to be called Finbar.

  “At a place called Wilton House. Do you men know of it?”

  The men smiled at each other. “Indeed, we do,” said Domnall. “‘Tis a grand palace ye’ll be stayin’ at, fer certain. But if ye don’t mind me askin’, what’s Your Lordship doin’ drinkin’ at a common tavern, instead of up at yon fine, luxurious house?”

  The Marquess explained to them, in some detail, the problem of the lame horse.

  The one they called Cormac said, “Is he being shod at the smithy right now? We’ll go right away an’ see if we can lend a hand. Domnall, here, carries a potion—an ointment, really—that does wonders with horses’ aches an’ pains.”

  “We’ll head over right now, then, My Lord, and see what we can do,” Finbar said.

  As the three men turned to go, Domnall turned back.

  “I thank ye again, My Lord, for everything. And don’t ye worry about the animal. I’ll have him right as rain for ye. I have some skill with the horses, if I do say so meself.”

  “I know you do, Mr. Bagley. Joanna always said—” the Marquess stopped himself at the gaffe he had just apparently made. He flushed and almost clapped his own hand over his mouth, like a child who had blurted out a secret.

  Domnall’s expression was suddenly not so friendly. “Ye know my daughter, My L
ord?” His eyes glittered as if the Marquess had just cast doubt on his daughter’s good name.

  “No—that is, I have heard it said, sir—” Lord Clydekill seemed to be scrambling wildly to cover his own mistake.

  “I’ll have no man speak lightly of my daughter, My Lord, even yerself. She’s but a child. If ye’ve spoken to her ere this, let it not happen again.”

  “Of course, sir. I bid you good day, sir.”

  The gypsy man turned on his heel and strode away without replying.

  So there’s a gypsy girl in the picture somewhere. “Joanna,” he called her. I wonder…. And Lady Jersey, listening to the exchange, began to think that perhaps the young Marquess was less of an innocent than she had assumed him to be.

  Chapter 13

  The Splendors and Perils of Bath

  Christopher could have kicked himself. Everyone knew these Travellers were touchy about their womenfolk’s honor, particularly with Outsiders like himself. Why had he blurted out her name like that?

  Stupid! And I was doing so well with her father up till then. Lord knows what he thinks of me now, or imagines what my connections to Joanna might be.

  But another part of him was strangely glad that his secret was out, at least among the Travellers. I’m happy they know now that I know her, even that I love her. Why should we have to hide our love from the world?

  Yet he knew why it must be so. In his own way, Joanna’s commoner father would be just as horrified by a liaison between Joanna and himself as Christopher’s noble father would be. For different reasons, of course…a father would fear that in such a mismatch, it would be his daughter who would risk more and suffer more.

  As if I would ever hurt Joanna….

  The one positive outcome of the horse’s lameness was that Christopher, along with his hostess and Lord Cullingsley, arrived too late to Wilton House for a formal dinner. The other guests had already made a late supper of cold meats, cheeses, and fruit, and were mingling in the drawing room over sherry and port.