Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  So they went inside. The Baron turned the lock in the door. That seemed odd to Christopher, but maybe it was just the man’s habit.

  Lord Cullingsley noted that a bottle of fine, aged sherry sat on the sideboard, with two clean glasses on the silver tray. “Break open that sherry, Clydekill. Serious talking is thirsty work.”

  The last thing I feel like now is more alcohol. But I’ll indulge him. Christopher poured out two glasses. But he barely sipped at his own.

  “Look, I understand she’s angry with me. But she put me in an impossible position as a gentleman, Cullingsley. I could not simply drop that poor young lady just because Lady Jersey beckoned me. She must see that.”

  “Women are the very devil, boy. They see only what they want to see. Perhaps you’re the sort of man who’s more at home with other men.”

  “Well, I was a lot more relaxed with my school chums, I admit! I do feel awkward with many women—with sophisticated women like Lady Jersey, in particular.”

  “I understand, m’boy. It’s a natural feeling, nothing to be ashamed of. Why, the ancient Greeks practically made a religion out of it—the love men can have for each other….”

  What the hell is he talking about? Why is he looking at me in such a…greasy sort of way?

  All of a sudden, the Baron leaned across the chaise to Christopher, and, taking the younger man’s face between his hands, he attempted to kiss Christopher on the mouth.

  Christopher’s years of pugilistic training took over. Pulling back, he struck the Baron twice with closed fists—a right hook to the eye, a left undercut to the jaw. Within seconds, the Baron’s eyesocket swelled and turned black. His mouth was bleeding, too.

  Good God, what have I done? But what would any man have done, if he was embraced against his will like that?

  Unlike many people of his time, Christopher had no prejudice against homosexuality. He knew a couple of boys at ‘varsity that were so inclined, and he wished them well. But it was not to his taste to be approached so forcefully by another man, when he clearly had offered no encouragement.

  “Baron, I’m sorry, truly—”

  The older nobleman glared at him. “You led me on, boy. Admit it. All that talk of lads at university and the natural love between men.”

  No, that was what you said, not I, Christopher wanted to protest. But he kept his mouth shut. No point in stirring the pot even further.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket. Dipping it in some water in a ewer on his dressing table, he silently handed it to the Baron.

  The Baron stood up, pressing the damp cloth to his aching jaw. “If you say one word of this to anyone, I vow I will ruin you.”

  In a flash of understanding, Christopher understood him. He can’t bear the idea of others knowing that I rejected him. I’ll bet it’s never happened to him before.

  * * *

  The guests slept till beyond noon after the late night. Lady Jersey and the Baron of Cullingsley were the first to come to the dining room to take breakfast. The Baron had pulled himself out of bed early because he did not want to walk in on a roomful of people—not with his face looking like this.

  Lady Jersey looked up and, in a single glance, took in the Baron’s black eye and swollen jaw. “Well?” she asked. “What happened to you while the rest of us were sleeping so virtuously?”

  “I stumbled and fell in the dark,” the Baron said peevishly. “I hit the bedpost on the way down.”

  “Ah. I see. And I think I can guess whose bedpost it was, too. Care to forfeit the bet yet, darling?”

  The Baron snarled something under his breath. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry enough to eat. He returned to his bedroom, where he stayed hidden for the rest of the day.

  Lady Jersey did actually maintain the fiction that the Baron had injured his head in a fall, and he needed to rest quietly. It was the least she could do for him. He was an annoying old goat, but after all, he was one of her best friends.

  Chapter 14

  The Love of a Father

  Domnall stared across the campfire at the lovely face of his only child. This business with the young lord was a puzzlement to him.

  Since around August, he had noticed his lively, spirited daughter draw into herself. There was no spring in her step anymore. He rarely heard her laugh. She seemed to take little interest in the autumn trek westward to Stonehenge, or in the enjoyment promised by the upcoming Samhain festival.

  He even found her crying once, sobbing as if her heart would break. He walked away without saying he had seen her. He did not want to embarrass her pride.

  He had asked Maggie Mae, who knew his daughter better than anyone else alive, what ailed Joanna.

  “Ah, she’s becoming a woman, Domnall,” said Maggie Mae. “Hasn’t it always been a woman’s right to shed her tears freely?”

  “But what is she crying about?” he asked in exasperation.

  “It need not be about any one thing, sure. As a girl becomes a woman, she feels the weight of the world on her sometimes. Let her cry a little. ‘Twill give her ease.”

  But Domnall was not convinced. These were not the flighty, silly moods of a young lass on the edge of womanhood. He knew Joanna. He knew there was nothing flighty or silly about her. If she was weeping, it was because something—or someone—was making her weep.

  “Is it Beathan, do ye think, Maggie? I haven’t seen him around much lately. And there are many who blame me for continuin’ to live, when Beathan’s da didn’t get a chance at the same. That might be upsettin’ her.”

  “Nay, it’s never Beathan she’d be cryin’ over. She never cared tuppence about that lad. And as for him, well, he probably got tired of gettin’ nowhere with the girl, and that’s why he’s given up at last.”

  It was known among the Travellers that Beathan was now sweet on another girl, a freckled little lass. It was likely they’d wed at the Samhain festival.

  “Then who, Maggie? Who’s our Joanna cryin’ over?”

  The old woman said she knew not.

  This night, after meeting the young lord, he wondered if he had found the answer. A pity, if so. In truth, he liked the lad—a fine, strong, handsome boy who had looked him full in the eye and called him “sir.” Domnall could not think of any other time in his life when he had been addressed so respectfully.

  Yes, the youth was a good man, he’d swear it. Better by far than his bastard of a father. He wished he had not parted from him on such a sharp note this afternoon, after all the kindness the boy had shown him.

  But be he kind or not, he would not permit a man—particularly an Outsider—even more particularly, a noble Outsider—to speak his daughter’s name so freely. A good name was all a poor girl had in the world, and if she lost that, only misfortune lay ahead for her.

  So he sat by the fire, staring over the flames at the person he loved most in this life. What could he do or say to help her? But at least he had to try.

  “Well,” he said casually, standing and patting his belly. “That was a fine dinner, ladies. I think I need a bit of a walk to stretch my legs. I won’t be long. Joanna, want to come along? Keep an old man company?”

  He spoke as lightly as he could. She was skittish as a filly these days, and he did not want to scare her off.

  She stood, too, looking glad at the invitation. “Sure, Da. We haven’t walked together in I don’t know how long. See you later, Maggie Mae.”

  Maggie Mae just smiled and nodded, as if it was of little matter to her. That’s one wise old woman. She can see right through me—she knows I’m going to try to talk to Joanna. But Maggie’s smart enough to say nothing.

  For a while, Joanna and her Da walked along a path in the meadow in comfortable silence. It seemed comfortable to Joanna, at least. For Domnall, it was torture. He ached inside. He did not want to hurt her in any way. If only her mother were alive, she’d be talkin’ heart to heart with Joanna, as women do. I’m just a man. I don’t know the way.

  He must speak, though. It w
as a father’s duty.

  So he began as casually as he had acted all evening. Don’t scare her, now. Don’t hurt her pride, get her back up. She’ll close up then and tell you nothing.

  He could remember, not too far in the past, when his little girl would tell him everything.

  “Did I say I was in town today?”

  “Which town, Da? Salisbury?”

  “No, not that far. Just Domesday St. Osmund’s. Funny name for a town, that. Do ye know why they call it that?”

  “No, Da, I’ve never heard. Why?” Once again it seemed he was her Da, the big man who adored her, who would answer all her questions, no matter how silly.

  “Well, ye’ve heard of the Domesday Book? This was many hundreds of years ago, when the Saxons still had England. Before the Normans came.”

  “In 1066. I remember learning about that from you, Da.”

  “Well, this fellow, St. Osmund—of course he wasn’t a saint yet, but he was a holy man who copied the entire Scriptures by himself so others could read them—well, he heard that some other energetic man had sat down and made a list of every single property in England, and the names of who owned each bit of land. ’Twas called the Domesday Book.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, girl. Maybe it was believed that this was such an important list that it would be looked at from here till Doomsday, whenever anyone wanted to know who first owned the land.”

  “But our people first owned the land. Long before the Saxons.”

  “So they did. But the Saxons didn’t see it that way then, no more than their descendants do today. That’s why we call them the Outsiders, because we were here ahead of them. Anyway, this Osmund convinced the Saxon king to meet the fellow who had written the Domesday Book, and to reward him for it. And this happened just outside Salisbury. So the town honors that event by its name.”

  “That’s interesting, Da. You know a lot of history. I like that.”

  And she smiled so sweetly he thought his heart would break in two. Now, how do I bring that rambling tale back to the things I really want to talk to her about?

  “Ah, well, history is interesting. If you understand what happened before, then you can understand whatever happens later. Does that make sense?”

  “It does, Da.”

  Stop stalling, now. “In fact, it’s rather funny, but while we were in town, we went to a public house called The Holy Scrivener. That would be St. Osmund with all his scribbling, you see.”

  They both were silent for a minute or so.

  “I met someone in the public house I had never expected to see this far from his home.”

  “Really, Da. Who?”

  As he spoke next, he stopped walking and scanned her face for a reaction. “‘Twas that young nobleman. The one who got his father to spare my life, last summer. He said he was sorry he wasn’t able to help the other two who were hanged. He gave me some money for their widows.”

  He searched her face. In the dark of the night, it suddenly seemed white with shock, and her large dark eyes had something like pain in them.

  “A good lad, I think, for all his fancy ways.”

  She stayed silent, looking at him.

  “I didn’t know what to call him, other than ‘My Lord.’ I heard some calling him Marquess, and others Lord Clovedale.”

  She walked right into the trap. “No, it’s Lord Clydekill. He’s the Marquess of Clydekill, till he becomes the Duke. But his given name is Christopher. That’s what he really prefers to be called, by the few people closest to him.”

  She clapped her hand over her own mouth, in almost the identical childlike gesture the young lord had made when he realized he had spoken Joanna’s name aloud.

  He tried to speak as gently as he could, but his heart was racing with fear. Whatever is between them, this can’t end well for her. “And are ye one of them?”

  “One of…them?”

  “One of ‘the few people closest to him,’ as ye put it.”

  She was silent, but the torment on her face told him all he needed to know. His daughter never could lie to him.

  “Come, lass. Let’s sit over here on these rocks for a bit.” She let him lead her to the side of the path. Again, they sat there for a long while without speaking.

  It was she who finally spoke first. “How did you know, Da? We’ve been ever so careful….”

  “Well, the lad spoke your name to me when we were talkin’. He didn’t mean to,” he added quickly, in case she thought the boy had betrayed her secrets. “He just blurted it out, like. And then he realized what he had just done, and he looked ashamed of himself for speaking so freely to me.”

  “What did you do then, Da?” She hung on his words. Clearly, it was a great relief to her to speak of the boy freely.

  “Well…I told him I’d have no man speak my daughter’s name lightly. And I told him he’d best have naught else to do with you, or he’d have me to answer to. It grieved me to say that to him, Joanna. I want you to know I like the lad, I admire him and respect him. And of course, I owe him my life, as well. I suppose it was for your sake he did that for me—spared me from the hangman?”

  “I hope so,” she said, with a little of her old spirit returning. “I hadn’t asked him to do it, but I expect it must be for me he did it.” There was pride in her voice as she said this.

  “Hmm.”

  They sat in silence again for a little while, neither sure where to take this momentous conversation.

  “Ye’ve been pinin’ away since about August, lass. Was it because o’ him?”

  “I suppose. But Da, you won’t speak of this to anyone, will you?”

  “Not till ye say I may. I’ll keep yer secrets, Joanna girl. But clearly there’s a lot more to this story, and I think ye’d better tell it all to me. From the beginning.”

  So she did. She left nothing out, though it was her own father she was talking to. She spoke of their secret childhood friendship. All their games and adventures together. How she gradually learned how lonely and unloved this boy was, for all his riches. How proud she was to find that it was she who could always put a smile on his face.

  She talked for an hour or more. Domnall did not interrupt her. Sometimes he nodded in agreement; other times he raised a quizzical eyebrow. But he kept his silence.

  “He used to say I was the little brother he had always wanted. Because I could climb trees and build a fire and use a slingshot. Then he went away to school for two years. To a place called Oxford. Do you know of it, Da?”

  He suppressed a smile. “Aye, I’ve heard of it from time to time. A good school, they say.”

  “And when he came back two years later, he had changed. He was just as kind and brave as ever, he was still my Christy.” The fondly familiar nickname and the possessive “my” got another raised eyebrow from Domnall.

  “But before, he was a kind, brave boy. Now he had turned into a kind, brave man.”

  “And when he looked at ye,” her Da said gently, “he didn’t see a little brother there anymore, did he?”

  “No.”

  Now came the hardest part. “Joanna, ye’ve always been honest and straight with me. I have to ask this, and I’m hoping ye’ll answer me as honestly as always. Has he—? Did the two of ye—?”

  He did not know the words to use with her. Once again, he wished her mother were still alive. Between them, this conversation would have been a natural thing.

  She looked him in the eye. “No, Da. We didn’t.”

  “Oh, thank God, lass. I was so afeared for ye.”

  “Not that I didn’t want to. But it was always he who stopped us from getting—closer. Because he didn’t want to harm me, he said.” Again, that note of pride in her voice.

  “He’s a good man, Joanna, better than most, I’m thinkin’. But hear me, girl: even a good man is still a man. If ye keep this up, then sooner or later, his willpower is goin’ to slip. And he’ll ruin ye, girl. I’m not sayin’ the lad would
want to do that. But he will.”

  “Christy’d never harm me, Da.”

  “And what would ye call puttin’ a babe in yer belly? Do ye think he’d marry ye afterwards? Not bloody likely, lass. Even if he wanted to, that family of his, that father the Duke, do ye think he’d allow the boy to sink so low? Vermin, the Duke called us, when he had Padraig and Dristin hanged. Would yon Duke want his son to wed the daughter of vermin?”

  “Christy doesn’t think like his father does, Da.”

  “I don’t expect he does. But look ye, the lad has to live in his world, same as we have to live in ours. And everybody’s world has rules, and if ye dare break them, ye’ll have a lifetime of sorrow ahead of ye, and so will he. Is that what ye want to do to the boy? Just to prove that ye can?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  It seemed time to stand up and walk back to camp. “Da?” Joanna asked, “are you forbidding me to see him again?”

  What to say to that? I could forbid her, but she’s a woman grown, and she’ll do what she wants to do in the end. If she finds herself in any trouble, I want her to feel she can still come talk to me about it.

  So, against his better judgment, he said, “No, Joanna. I’m not forbiddin’ ye. Ye’re a woman now and must make yer own decisions. I’m just sayin’ I’d…well, I’d prefer if ye saw no more of him. For yer own sake, and for his, too.”

  She didn’t answer. They walked back, and they talked of other, easier things, like what she’d wear to the upcoming Samhain festival.

  It was when they were nearly back at camp that she said to him, seeming as casual as he had tried to be earlier in the evening, “That public house, Da. The Holy Writer, or whatever you called it. Is it an inn? Is that where he and the other nobles are staying?”