A MARQUESS FOR CHRISTMAS
by
VIVIENNE WESTLAKE
* * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Vivienne Westlake
A Marquess for Christmas
Copyright © 2012 by Vivienne Westlake
Cover by Vivienne Westlake
Edited by Lorena Streeter
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the original vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Kara and Lisa for their endless guidance, support, and unconditional love.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the prodding of Eden Bradley, who convinced me that I needed to write a Christmas book.
Thank you to my editor, Lorena Streeter, and the people who beta read this book for me: KB Alan, Marie Hall, Suzanna Medeiros, and Lia Sebastian.
To the ladies at Romance Divas, thank you for your support, advice, chat challenges, and the wonderful friendships I’ve made. I am also grateful to everyone at Write Chat. You were there with me as I wrote most of this book.
Jax Cassidy, you are always there for me and I am so thankful to call you my friend.
Thank you to Linda H. and Sofia Harper, who read my many emails and are always willing to give me input on blurbs, excerpts, and cover drafts. We’ve grown so close this year and I am glad to share this journey with you.
A special thanks goes to Gemma Halliday and Amanda Brice who have generously shared their knowledge of indie publishing with me and many others.
Thank you to all the fans of Lady Northam’s Wicked Surrender; you’ve inspired me and reminded me why I write.
Lastly, I want to thank Elizabeth Lowell and Beverly Jenkins. Reading your books made me want to touch people in the same way that your words touched me. It was so nice to meet you at RWA conference and I will be forever grateful to you for all that you have given to the romance community.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Excerpts
Lady Northam’s Wicked Surrender by Vivienne Westlake
How to Woo…A Reluctant Bride by Lyndi Lamont
Loving the Marquess by Suzanna Medeiros
About the Author
Chapter One
England, November, 1815
A fist nearly rammed the side of his face, but Daniel, Marquess of Kittrick, managed to give it the slip with a swift turn of his torso. He could see the fraying strands of cotton from the strips of cloth taped around Freddy’s hand. An inch or two closer and he’d have a black eye. Kit shifted to resume his fighting stance, bracing his legs apart and raising his fists, watching for a tell-tale sign of his opponent’s next move. Freddy merely stared back, his blue eyes betraying nothing.
They were covered in perspiration, both shirtless to the waist, despite the drafty room and ominous clouds outside. Kit would’ve been happy to fight out in the cold, but Freddy had said he didn’t want to box in the rain. Not that there’d been a single drop as far as he could tell. But the duke insisted on fighting indoors.
Freddy had blamed foul weather, but Kit knew the truth. The duke was hiding from his wife, not the storm.
“I could tell Isabella about this afternoon’s excursion,” Kit warned. She’d given them leave so they could go riding and pursue their sports, but Bella would scream if she caught them boxing again. Though she’d find out sooner or later given the red patches forming on Freddy’s light skin. He’d be purple and blue tomorrow.
“I should think the duchess would applaud me. You deserve a good thrashing. And you know she’s been wanting to give you one ever since you were a babe.”
He grimaced. Of course she had. His sister couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking for himself—or worse, ruining the family name—so she’d taken every possible opportunity to correct him, which inevitably meant torturing him until he gave in to her demands.
“She may have good reason, but you surely do not.”
Freddy’s eyebrows waggled. “Are you sure?” He kept moving them until Kit couldn’t help but laugh, and then he threw a cross punch. Kit’s cheek stung with the burn of a hundred needles, but he shook it off. He should’ve seen that coming.
“So what is your grievance against me?”
“Do I need one to defend my wife?” He flexed his shoulders and rolled his head from side to side, but kept his fists at the ready. They hadn’t fought in six months, but obviously Freddy had been practicing.
“Bella is the one haranguing me. What have I done to offend Her Grace?”
The grin his brother-in-law gave would have convinced a nun to run off to Gretna Green. It made Kit want to jab him. “You insulted Miss Hargrove. And you made improper suggestions to Miss Glenworth.”
Freddy could care less if Kit insulted half the debutantes in town. This was merely an excuse to box him and avoid his wife’s punishment.
“I told you both yesterday that I wouldn’t marry Miss Hargrove if she had diamonds coming out of her arse.” The woman was a petite blond shrew with striking elven features who seduced men with her looks, then skewered them with her sharp tongue. If he took her to wife, Miss Hargrove would send him to Bedlam in a fortnight.
Behind his muffled hands, the duke’s grin widened. “If I was not married to your sister, I’d jump at the chance to marry a chit with diamonds coming out of her arse.”
Kit laughed and while his brother-in-law chuckled, he jabbed and cross punched him in the ribs. Unfortunately, the cross punch opened up Kit’s guard and Freddy undercut him in the side, beneath his armpits.
“Damn it, Freddy.”
The Golden Duke shrugged. “You are slacking today. I have not seen you this piss poor since that day against the ugly Flemish kid back at Eton.”
“I would be doing much better if I hadn’t lost a thousand pounds to you at hazard.” Though it was his own fault for drinking Scotch and throwing dice. Kit knew better, but he could only spend so much time with his sister before he was downing whiskey like a parched man in the desert.
“Do not play what you can’t afford to lose, brothe
r.”
Of course Freddy would throw that back in his face. Kit had said that to him often enough, when the duke got too deep in his cups and gambled a little too freely. Since when had they switched roles?
“Tomorrow, it’s picquet and I’ll double the bet.”
“Then I shall be two thousand richer. Maybe I’ll buy Bella a new coach and a team of horses.”
Kit never took his eyes from his opponent, waiting for him to drop his hand or narrow his stance. Freddy could be quite chatty, especially when he thought he had the upper hand.
“I think Bella would be happier if you bought me a new wife. Perhaps she should start offering a dowry for me instead of the other way around.”
“Ha! What should we sell you for? I do not think there is a high market for battered and bruised marquesses who care more about games of hazard—and breaking other men’s noses—than they do about Court and the manners of good society. What do you think? Five hundred? A thousand?”
Kit raised his chin, throwing his nose in the air. “Do you not mean a handsome, rich blueblood with five estates and a good bedside disposition?” He grinned. “What woman could resist that? You should ask for ten thousand.”
Freddy laughed and took a swing. Kit dodged him this time, ducking low. They squared off a moment, each getting in a good punch, before they clinched arms around one another—preventing either from getting a good blow in.
Freddy loosened his hold and they resumed their fighting stances.
“You know that you will end up giving in to Bella. So why do you resist? Pick a pretty marchioness, stick her in the country and be done with it.”
They’d been over this countless times. Kit had no desire to marry. At least not now. He didn’t want some innocent, proper miss without the sense of a sow and he certainly didn’t want a nagging harpy like his sister.
He would never consider dropping his bride off in Essex or Dover and seeing her twice a year, when duty required him to. He’d seen the damage that could do. His aunt had spent her last years lonely and embittered because she’d loved a man who only cared enough for her to send a letter at Christmas and Easter. The infernal reprobate had not even visited her when she was on her deathbed.
To hell with a frosty, vacant marriage. He did not need the money and he could care less about gaining political connections. “No. I like my life as it is.”
He had his companions. Courtesans and actresses for the most part—or the occasional widow. His women never expected more than a few months of frolic and fun. When it was over, they kept their baubles and he kept his freedom.
“If you wait too long, you’ll be so scarred and unsightly no decent woman will have you. By then your prick will be limp and stale and incapable of siring an heir.”
He might as well be talking to Bella. “If you had not used the word ‘prick’, I’d swear that you were my sister in disguise.”
Freddy raised his eyebrows. “But we are right. You are thirty-three for Christ’s sake. How long are you going to keep throwing your face in front of any fist that will have you?”
Kit got the opening he wanted. “You wish you were me.” He punched Freddy in the jaw so hard that the duke staggered back, blood running down his lip.
Do not feel guilty. He begged you to fight him. Kit said nothing, but grabbed a cloth from a table and handed it to Freddy. As he cleaned up, Kit went to the wooden bench, where their clothes were still strewn about, and sat down.
“No, Kittrick. I wish no such thing.”
When Kit gave him a pointed look, his brother said, “You think marriage is such a trial and your sister the biggest trial of all. But I love Bella. Faults and everything.” Freddy sat down at the table. “Your problem is that you have little care for anyone but yourself.”
“Now hold on!”
A warm hand rested on Kit’s shoulder and Freddy shook his head. “I don’t doubt that you love me and Bella in your own way. But the first person on your mind is always you, Daniel. When was the last time you went out of your way for someone else?”
It was not true. Had he not come to Oakfield Manor to spend the winter with his family? Because he could think of a hell of a lot more interesting things to do than spending six weeks in the country with Bella and Freddy. But Bella always had a hard time with the holidays. It reminded her too much of the death of their parents.
“Mind your own bloody business, Frederick.”
“Take care of yours and I will.”
* * * *
Violet glanced up at the amber and amethyst sky, knowing that time was not her friend. Frost covered the nearby trees and the ground was thick with snow. She needed to get back home before the next storm hit. She’d lingered too long at the Crofts’ farm.
“Can you travel more speedily?” she asked the driver.
“My lady, the ground is slippery. It is not safe to travel any faster.”
She bit her lip. It was her own fault, not Hinkley’s, but she had no wish to be out in the midst of a storm.
Crossing her arms, she bundled herself against the cold afternoon air. As she adjusted her pelisse, the curricle came to a halt and jerked her forward.
When she looked up, there was a man standing in the road, but his face was shielded by the shadows of his top hat. His clothes were well-made, but frayed at the edges, and obviously cut for a different frame.
“My good lady, if ye wish to pass, ye’ll need to pay a toll.”
This was no fine highwayman of legend, despite his polite words. She could see now that a few of his teeth had rotted and his face was scruffy and weathered.
“Let us pass, sir. You have no cause to accost us and I have no intention of paying any fee.”
“Not very smart o’ ye, milady.” He whistled. Another man came out from the trees, stepped up to the carriage and yanked Hinkley by his greatcoat and tossed him out of the carriage. He held a knife to her driver’s throat.
Hinkley was three-and-twenty and pretty strong for his size. If she could distract the footpads, would he be able to wiggle out of the man’s grasp? Hinkley gave her a hard look and tried to turn his head as if to say, no. The rusted blade must be dull because she saw no blood when he moved.
She turned back to the first man, who grinned. “Now, what say ye? We don’t ask for much. Five guineas should make yer passage easy.”
If Hinkley wasn’t afraid, then she would not be either. These were ruffians, not men of honor. Even if she gave them the money, it was no guarantee that the thieves would let them go. Twenty years ago, her grandfather had nearly died fending off robbers on a secluded road—and that was after giving them his purse.
She needed to distract the men, keep them occupied until she could think of something. “Five guineas! You must be addled in the head if you think I will part with such a sum.”
It was ridiculous. That was half a year’s wages for a scullery maid. Who would ask for that much money? They must be drunk or desperate. If he’d asked her for five shillings, she might have obliged him. A man merely down on his luck wouldn’t ask for an exorbitant sum. These men were the worst sort, which only affirmed her fear that they would not leave at the promise of a few coins.
She lifted her chin and feigned indifference. “Take two shillings each and be gone.”
The brigand pointed a pistol at her. How were they going to get out of this now? Oh, dear. She could take a chance and pay him the five guineas and hope the promise of the money would be enough to send them off. But what was to stop these foul men from killing them both and running off with her purse and carriage?
A shot rang out and the thief holding the pistol fell over, clutching his chest. Violet looked up. Down the road, she could see someone on a horse. How he’d managed the shot, she wasn’t sure for he was several yards away.
The second footpad leapt onto one of the horses in front, snatching the reins and driving the carriage forward, but this clumsy maneuver caused him to drop his knife. Violet was thrown back in her seat or she
would have reached for him. Maybe she could climb forward and hit the thief over the head or shove him from the horse. Not bloody likely. However, she might be able to distract him long enough to give her rescuer time to get close.
The sound of hooves filled her ears as the carriage jostled. They were moving fast. She glanced down the lane. The gentleman dug into a satchel, presumably looking for buckshot and gunpowder. Violet needed to keep the assailant occupied until her rescuer could reload his pistol and come after them.
“You should stop now and let me go before you are shot just like your friend,” she said.
“If he fires that pistol, he’d just as likely shoot ye, milady. So I will keep ye real close for a while.”
The thief smelled worse than a wet dog and his long face was covered in blond stubble. He grabbed her waist with one arm. When he looked down at her chest and smiled, she shivered. His breath was almost as bad as the stench of his soiled clothes, and what teeth he had left were brown and yellow. The whiskey on his breath was not a good sign. “I might be willing to settle for two crowns and a little sport. If ye behave yourself, neither you nor yer man will get hurt.”
She had no intention of letting that odious piece of filth take advantage of her. Violet smacked him across the face. What she wouldn’t give for a weapon. She looked down for something useful. Her reticule did not look promising. There was nothing in it that could be used as a blunt object. She regretted her decision not to replace the pistol in the carriage after the hammer had broken. Highwaymen hadn’t been seen in these parts for the last three years, so she had not thought it necessary.
But now she was in danger and all she had to defend herself with was an empty basket, which she’d brought to the farmer’s cottage to deliver bread and cheese. Not her weapon of choice, but it was handy.
When he turned and lifted a hand to his face, she clobbered him with the basket. He still held the reigns with one hand. She didn’t wait for him to recover, but whacked him again, this time on the side of the face.
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