Sons of the Marquess Collection

by Mary Kingswood

  Then she lifted her face to his, and he was entirely swept away. He leaned nearer, brushed his lips softly across her forehead, her cheeks, her closed eyes… As softly as a butterfly’s wing, his lips touched hers. Then again. And yet again. Each time he pulled away, the return was sweeter, less tentative, more ardent. She made a little sound, like a whimper, then her hand crept to his cheek, and around to the back of his head, pressing him closer to her. He closed his eyes and gave himself utterly to the moment, lost in bliss.

  It seemed like hours later when they finally came to themselves. To his astonishment, the waltz was still going on in the hall below, although faster now, punctuated by squeals. In the great hall, the dancers were spinning, spinning, all violent movement. In the minstrels’ gallery, the two dancers stood motionless, clinging together, gazing into each other’s eyes, dizzy with enchantment.

  She sighed, and he smiled, moving away from her just a fraction.

  At once there was a shift in her expressive face, and she tipped her head to one side. “Well?”

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  “Humphrey, you cannot do that and not say anything, you know.”

  “I… no?”

  “No!” she cried, wriggling free of his embrace and pushing him away. “If you kiss me that way, at least speak to me afterwards. Say something. Oh, you are hopeless!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “I suppose you still have some fustian in your mind about my reputation.”

  He knew what she wanted. A declaration of love, perhaps even an offer of marriage, and it was true, a passionate kiss could only be a prelude to something more. He could not walk away from her, not after that. Yet what could he say? The same difficulties still held sway in his mind. But he need not now assume indifference, for their kisses had swept away all pretence between them. He could at last be honest with her.

  “Hortensia…” She stilled at the use of her name. He cupped her face in his hands, and said gently, “I cannot speak yet. I cannot, and indeed it is your reputation which is at the forefront of my mind. So we must be patient for a while—”

  “How long?” she said breathlessly.

  “It would be best to wait a year—”

  “A year!”

  She spun away from him again, and rested her forehead on the wall. From the way her body shuddered he guessed she was crying again. Damnation, but this was hard on both of them.

  “Hush,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the top of her head. “You must not cry. It will pass in no time—”

  “No!” she cried. “You cannot expect me to wait so long. I cannot! I will not!”

  “Hortensia…”

  She spun round to face him. “You do not know what you ask. When one has to wait, everything changes. I waited once before for a man to come back to me, but he never did.”

  “Who was he? Someone you met in India?”

  “Captain James Quayle, of the East India Company’s Madras Army.”

  “Miss Quayle’s father? He must have been a lot older than you.”

  “A few years. You remind me of him — he was big, too, and blond.” She reached up with one hand to run her fingers through Humphrey’s hair, and his breath was suddenly ragged. “One noticed when he entered a room. I fell very much in love with him when I was fourteen, and by the time I was sixteen he was in love with me, too. But I was too young to marry, he and my father both said. We must wait. So I waited, and he went away to do army things, and still I waited, while his letters became less and less frequent. And then he put himself in front of a bullet, idiotic man, and that was that. So you see why the idea of waiting holds no appeal for me. Waiting is just another way to say no.”

  “Not to me,” he said quietly. “I should never abandon you.”

  “You would not mean to,” she said bleakly. “Sometimes it happens anyway. Life is uncertain, Humphrey, and who knows what may happen in a year? We are all in God’s hands. And it seems to me that if a man says it is imperative to wait a year, perhaps he is not so keen anyway, for if two people are of age and there are no other obstacles, why should they wait?”

  “But there are other obstacles,” he said quietly. “Must I enumerate them? There is your lack of rank or connection to any family of consequence. There is your fortune, made by trade. And there is my status as a confirmed fortune hunter. Any one of these individually might be readily overcome, but now there is the matter of your concealed identity. For myself, I care nothing about it, but for others… like my brother…”

  “Lord Carrbridge? What has he to say to it? He cannot prevent you from marrying where you please. We are both of age, after all.”

  He took a long breath. This was so difficult. “Your reputation is… damaged, and Carrbridge feels that the family would also be damaged if… I do not believe it, myself, but it is important to him and I cannot… I cannot go against his wishes in this matter. He has supported me for years, and asked very little in return, so I owe him my loyalty. You must see that. He feels that if nothing precipitate is done to draw attention to ourselves, then the scandal will die down. If we are patient and discreet, and allow Connie to introduce you to the ton next season, then all may be well, and you will have London at your feet, as you deserve.”

  “But I do not want London at my feet,” she burst out. “I cannot imagine a worse fate than to be forced to endure London, and the season. Rosemary and I spent a month there, solely to replenish our wardrobes, and I could not wait to leave it.”

  “That is because you knew no one and moved only on the fringes of society,” he said. “London is very comfortable if one moves in the first circles. I cannot wait to take you to Almacks and Carlton House.”

  “Can you not understand?” she cried, one clenched fist thumping his chest in frustration. “I have not the least desire to go to Almacks or Carlton House. I should hate it! Even staying here has been torture to me — so much time sitting in drawing rooms and morning rooms, pretending to be engrossed in my stitchery, or exchanging mindless conversation on suitable topics. If you had not been kind to me and lent me Ganymede I should have run mad, I swear it. I do not care if I never go to Almacks!”

  “Easy to say, yet you do not know what you would be giving up.”

  “Humphrey, I am six and twenty years of age. I understand enough of the world and of myself to know what I want, and now I have the money to live my life as I choose. London holds no appeal for me. People everywhere live and die without ever setting foot in London, and enjoy contented, fulfilling lives. I intend to make my home here in Yorkshire, where I can ride on the moor every day and breathe clean air and not be caged. Lord Carrbridge is to sell Silsby Vale House to me, and it is my intention to live there with Mrs Andrews as my chaperon and—”

  “What?”

  “—companion, and if I have my way, then I shall never go to London again.”

  “Mrs Andrews? As chaperon? Do you know her history? She will not increase your consequence!”

  “I know all about her, and if you think I care about my consequence, you have not been listening to a word I have said.”

  “Hortensia…” He stopped, unable to grasp the magnitude of her rejection. It was not just him she abjured, but his family, his rank and his whole way of life. How could he marry a woman who rejected everything he was? He slid down the wall to sit, knees drawn up, head bowed.

  “Humphrey?” She plopped to the ground beside him in a froth of pale green silk. “Can you accept me as I am? Because this will never work if you cannot.”

  He lifted his head, not looking at her but comforted by her nearness. Surely there was a way past this? “I feel I do not know you at all,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.

  “I am not sure that I know you, either,” she said, wrapping her arms around one of his, and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “You appeared to me to be everything I have dreamed of — a man who was happy to step outside the bounds of propriety, who had the courage to be different. But
you are no more than a fly caught in propriety’s web after all, afraid to take any chance. Afraid to defy your brother. Afraid to take a chance on me. Do you not want to risk it?”

  “I do not know what I want,” he said slowly. “I cannot see a way forward.”

  “What does your heart say?”

  But he could only shake his head and repeat, “I do not know.”

  22: A Gamble

  They stayed for hours in the minstrels’ gallery, drinking champagne but not talking very much, not kissing, and both of them reluctant to leave, it seemed to him. But when the music had finally stopped and the great hall below them had emptied, the only sounds the chink of glasses and scrape of table legs as the servants righted the room, they could no longer avoid the parting. They kissed again, and then, separately, made their way to their rooms.

  Billings was dozing beside the fire, but he had waited up much later than this for Humphrey on his heavy gaming nights, so the valet was not reproachful. Humphrey silently suffered himself to be undressed and prepared for bed. Then, as soon as the door had closed behind Billings, Humphrey threw back the bed curtains and got up again. He shrugged into a robe, then sat himself in the window gazing unseeingly at the gardens, pondering his dilemma.

  It had seemed so simple. He had planned to say nothing to Hortensia, leaving the next day without declaring himself, for it would hardly be honourable to speak, knowing that they would have to wait. They would meet again in the spring, when the season began, and then he would court her in good earnest. Or perhaps Connie might invite her for another visit before then. But now… everything was upside down. She would not go to London. She was not prepared to wait. She cared nothing for the good opinion of the ton. He could not but admire her spirit, but it was so foolish!

  Or was it…? His indecisive mind flip-flopped about. What if they were to marry anyway? What dreadful harm could come of it, except that the patronesses of Almacks might not send them vouchers? Would that be the end of the world? If he had been looking for a well-bred wife, then Almack’s would be the very place to meet one, but—

  The click of the door alerted him. Before he had time to wonder where his pistols were, or even to move, a face peeped round the door, framed in an abundance of unrestrained dark hair .

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Hortensia said, shutting the door behind her softly. “I was afraid I had got the wrong room, and just think how awkward that would be.”

  He felt he ought to be shocked, but somehow it was typical of her. “Hortensia, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Why, I came to see you, of course. We cannot have things left in this unsatisfactory manner, so I have decided that we shall settle everything once and for all. Do you have a small table? Ah, this one will do. Help me carry it over here, will you? And now some chairs. Yes, that one, and the one from the window. Do you have some more candles? Mine is burning very low.”

  He did as he was bid, trying not to laugh at her bustling about arranging chairs in the middle of the night in a man’s bedroom, as if it were a perfectly ordinary thing to be doing.

  “There now, we may sit comfortably and have a talk.”

  “Do you want some brandy? Or I might have some port…”

  “Oh no, I am still full of champagne. I am a little hungry, since we missed supper, but I daresay you have nothing to eat, and one cannot ring for a servant under the circumstances, can one?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “Hortensia, we had much better leave any further discussion until the morning. We have both been overwrought this evening, not to mention drinking a whole bottle of champagne between us, and I do not think this is the ideal time for rational thought. Or place,” he added, eyeing his bed not five paces away.

  “No, no, this is precisely the right time. The place, I grant you, is unconventional, but I could not think where else we might go at this time of night.”

  “Each to our own beds, to sleep,” he said, but he could not help smiling. He knew her well enough to understand that she was talking so much because she was nervous.

  “Perchance to dream? No, not yet. Humphrey, we must get this settled, and it must be done now because in a few hours I shall be leaving here to go to Silsby Vale House and—”

  “So soon!” he cried, shocked.

  “I must, because Maria is terrified that Mr Sharp will turn up on the doorstep. Who is Mr Sharp, by the way?”

  “The agent here, who abused his position rather.”

  “Indeed! He sounds like a dreadful man. So, I shall be gone, and it will be much more difficult to find an opportunity to talk, and I am determined not to let everything drift on for week after week. Humphrey, I need you to be honest with me. Will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have to know what you want from me.”

  He sucked in his breath. What did he want. Her. Of that much he was certain, but how? How was it possible? “Hortensia, you want me to make a commitment that I am not yet ready to make.”

  “Very well, then. I will make it simple for you,” she said, her chin rising defiantly. “There are only three options. I could become your wife, or your mistress, or we could part for ever.”

  He could not speak. This was too blunt, too plain-spoken! Surely there must be other ways?

  “Choose,” she said. “Choose one of the three, and then we may move forward.”

  “This is… impossible!” he cried. “I cannot make such a decision, not without careful thought.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “No more careful thought. You have had time enough for careful thought. I want to know what is in your heart, Humphrey, not your mind. Do not weigh the options, one against another, as you might when buying a new horse. This is not a matter for rational thought, it is a matter of passion, of desire, whether it be for me, or my fortune, or for your position in society. One of them will be pre-eminent, and if you set aside logic, you will know which it is. What do you want most?”

  “Do not ask it of me,” he cried in anguish. “I cannot decide, not like this.”

  “Very well,” she said. “We will let chance decide.” From a pocket in her robe, she produced a dice cup and a single ivory die. “You may throw for your future, like the gambler you are.”

  “No, Hortensia,” he whispered. “I cannot do this.”

  “If you throw a one or a two,” she went on relentlessly, “then we part for ever. If you throw a three or a four, I shall be your mistress, and you may have whatever life you wish for otherwise. If you throw a five or a six, then you marry me and we work out our differences together. But Humphrey — you will be bound by the outcome. However the die falls, that will decide our lives, whether together or apart.”

  “No,” he whispered. “This is madness.”

  She set the dice cup on the table. “Throw.”

  “No.”

  “Throw.”

  “You cannot make me.”

  “Very well, then I shall throw in your stead.” She snatched up the dice cup and shook it.

  “No!” he cried, and lunged forward to grab it from her. She jerked it high to keep it out of his reach, but the sharp movement shook the die free, and it sailed through the air. With a cry of despair he leapt after it. It fell on the floor, bounced out of his grasp, fell, bounced again. He dropped to his knees and stretched for it, missed, cried out in terror. It settled…

  It was a six.

  “Oh, thank God!” he whispered, his head lowering until it almost touched the floor. “Thank God, thank God, thank God!”

  From the table behind him, he heard a low chuckle.

  “Now you know what you want,” she said.

  He was too shaken to see the humour in the situation. If the die had fallen some other way—! It was unthinkable. He could not let her go, nor could he take her as his mistress. There was only one future for them, and that was marriage. Yet what a way to find that out!

  “Hortensia, you will be the death of me,” he said. Scrambling to his feet, he pi
cked up the die and tossed it onto the table. It settled with the six upwards. “Oh, wait…” He threw again. Another six. Then another. Slowly he began to laugh. “You devious little hussy! This is loaded!”

  “Well, you did not really suppose I would leave all to chance, did you? You may not have known what you wanted, but I did.”

  He sat down in a rush on his chair, rolling the die between his fingers. “You must think me such a fool.”

  “Not a fool, no. Too clever by half, in point of fact. You spend too much time trying to reason everything out, the way you do at piquet — if I have this card and this other one, then I discard that one. But love is not susceptible to reason, Humphrey dear. Love is closing your eyes and taking a deep breath and leaping into the darkness. There is no knowing how it will end, but you believe it will end well because you have this other person leaping alongside you, holding your hand and not letting go, no matter what happens. Love is about faith and trust and taking a chance without stopping to weigh the risks. Will you take a chance with me, Humphrey Marford?”

  And without hesitation he answered, “Yes. Yes, I will, Hortensia Blythe, because I love you and need you and you matter more to me than anything else in the world. And a great deal more than Almacks.” She giggled at that. “We will work something out, I daresay, about London and all that business. If we get married in the autumn—”