Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1)

by May Burnett

  “Well, as to that, Lady –“

  “Call me Minerva, please. Surely we are beyond titles at this point.”

  “Minerva,” he repeated slowly. “What happiness to be given the right to call you thus! As you have surmised, I am well able to maintain a wife and family in comfort. In the past few years I have made a number of successful investments, and do not depend solely on my work as a solicitor. It was my plan to try for a political career eventually, which impelled me to put aside a large part of my capital.”

  “A member of parliament?” Minerva grinned. “This is perfect. Amberley can give you the seat that is opening up shortly.”

  “But your brother James might want to take it –“

  “I doubt he’ll care to. In any case, if not that seat, there are plenty of others. So I may end up as a political hostess after all.” She shook her head with a smile. “What about that kiss now, before everyone else leaves the dance floor and the garden becomes crowded?”

  “You are quite certain, Minerva?”

  “I’ll answer that after I see how you kiss.”

  “You are a rogue. I had no idea.”

  “Prepare yourself for many more surprises, Henry.” It felt odd, yet right, to use his first name. His happy smile reassured her that she was doing the right thing, even as he deftly pulled her outside the open French window to the terrace. Arm in arm, unhurriedly they walked in the direction of the rose garden, as though trying to reach to the lavish supper buffet early. The delights Minerva had in mind were of a quite different kind, and proved even more delicious and exciting than she had imagined.

  “You realize,” Beecham said after they had kissed for the fourth time, in a manner that would have been shocking had they not just become engaged, “that it is too late to back out now – after tasting this joy, I am never going to let you go.”

  “Who wants to back out? On the contrary, I would prefer an early wedding, so that we can explore the other stages that still remain forbidden.”

  “Ah.” He turned serious. She loved to see that passionate seriousness on his handsome features, and lightly passed her hand through his brown curls. “You are under age. Nineteen, I believe?”

  “Yes, I shall not be twenty-one for another twenty months. I do not want to wait that long.”

  “No, indeed. Who is your guardian?”

  “My brother George, the earl. He will surely give his consent, if I tell him my happiness depends on it, but who knows when he’ll be back from Constantinople. We have to wait for his return, since he will want to give me away. And in the meantime all those rumours will die down, I hope. I would hate you to be embroiled in them.”

  “We should in any case write to Lord Amberley immediately.”

  “James and Charlotte will advise us how best to go about it,” Minerva said optimistically. “Mother and Jennifer will not like it, but they have no right to prevent us.”

  They kissed again. “If anyone does try to come between us, we could always marry in Scotland, as you have been advising Celia to do,” Minerva said. “And we needn’t have a vulgar Gretna Green wedding, either. My brother has a castle in Scotland that is traditionally used for wedding trips in the family. Only James and Charlotte went to Cornwall instead.”

  “We’d better tell James and Charlotte right away,” Beecham said. “Until they know, and hopefully approve, I will not feel easy. But your sister’s approval, or your mother’s, I hardly care about. My own family will be overjoyed, but rather intimidated by you and your connections.”

  Minerva hooked her arm in his, as she planned to do many, many times yet during their joint lives. “You can tell me all about them over supper. People are coming towards the buffet. Show me how you can fight for me there, Henry.”

  “I will not fail you, my lady.” His joyful expression warmed her heart. “Come, love.”

  Chapter 31

  Mrs. Ellsworthy’s ball would be talked about for years in their county, but eventually even the most indefatigable dancer left for home. Towards five in the morning, when it was already light, weary servants extinguished the last candles, and began to pack and count silver trays, cutlery, and tablecloths.

  There had been more than enough food, and the servants also had enjoyed their fill of delicacies that rarely came their way.

  Celia found herself unable to sleep. Leaning against the trunk of the larger oak, already dressed for the new day, she watched the mopping-up process with interest.

  She had danced every dance, and heard countless compliments. That her own suggestions and assistance had contributed to the ball’s success had only heightened her enjoyment. In her mind she had already devised several methods to organise even more spectacular events, at some undefined future date.

  Had she first met Rook on this occasion, and seen how well he danced, might she have felt differently about him? But the question was moot. Rook would never dislodge the picture of her ideal man, a picture that she had foolishly formed within hours of meeting its embodiment. Dark hair and eyes, a tall but graceful carriage, perfect manners and an almost imperceptible twinkle in those eyes, even when he was grave and in trouble …. But the man she dreamed of had not been present at the ball. She was indulging in useless fancies. And had she not concluded that noblemen were hardly ideal husband material? Of course, neither was she the perfect wife for – she broke off that unprofitable train of thought, and looked again at the servants. Her mind automatically calculated the time it would take them to finish their tasks, and how many of the small silver spoons would be found to be missing. Sir Mortimer had told her some guests liked to take them as souvenirs, though Celia would have used another word for it.

  “It is the lark and not the nightingale,” a voice said behind her, and she whirled around, only to see before her the very man she had been thinking of moments earlier. He was dressed for travel, and looked tired.

  His eyes devoured her. “Miss Conway!”

  “Celia.” She smiled. “You missed the ball, Marquis, but no matter. Your daughter is safe and in good health. I saw her just hours ago.”

  “Thank God.” He took a deep breath. “I have already seen her – that was the first thing I did, when I arrived half an hour ago. I have been travelling non-stop since leaving here, and still feel out of breath. Finding you here in that sunlit garden at this early hour, I felt as though I had finally come home, and could relax.”

  “So you can, surely,” Celia said. “When you have rested, you must tell me all about your adventures on the way. I daresay that, like me, you have not slept at all this last night.”

  “No. When I found Lady Minerva’s note in London, I drove down immediately, through the night.”

  “Have you talked to Mme Fourrier already?”

  “She was sleeping on a cot next to Monique. Both looked so peaceful that I had not the heart to wake them.”

  “I can answer most of your questions,” Celia offered. “Since my French is fairly fluent, I have had the entire story from the nurse.”

  They found one of the leftover supper tables, denuded of its tablecloth, and sat down on the chairs, still enveloped in cloth covering. Celia described Mme Fourrier’s motives and progress in a concise and neutral manner. She added, “The woman loves your child more than many mothers love their own children. I beg that whatever you do, you do not separate them. Monique would also suffer, and the poor child certainly does not deserve that.”

  “I have done some hard thinking on this journey,” Alphonse told her. “Most of the trouble was my own fault. My mother is not a fit guardian, and I should not have left my child in her charge. I gave contradictory instructions, and in my self-absorption, was unaware of serious tensions in my own household. I will require Mme Fourrier’s promise to never do such a thing again, but her fears of the girl’s great-uncle were not unreasonable.” He told Celia about his talk with the Comte de Montalban, and the large fortune that the man would inherit if Monique failed to grow up.

  “I se
e,” was all Celia said. “You will make sure your daughter will be safe in future, of course.”

  “That is my firm intention. And what of your own situation, Miss Conway – Celia?”

  “It is the same as before, except that my father has explicitly demanded that Mr. Beecham should hand him control of my assets. He seems less interested in custody of my person, now that I am no longer a child. Beecham has been delaying the matter with legal objections, but it is getting time for me to undertake some long journey to unknown parts, until I come of age. I see no other solution. With any luck, at least part of my inheritance will be intact by the time I come back.”

  “I might have another solution to offer,” Alphonse said, almost diffidently. “Beecham also suggested that a marriage, performed in Scotland to ensure its validity, would spike your father’s guns. Unless you have your heart set on another man, would you consider marriage to me, as soon as may be? It would make me the happiest of men.”

  “We do not know each other well enough,” Celia objected, but she felt a tell-tale blush warming her cheeks. “I confess that the notion is more attractive than travelling for over three years, in a journey that I have no desire to undertake.”

  “Marriage is forever, much longer, I hope, than three years,” Alphonse pointed out. “Please consider carefully, whether I could make you happy. I realize that I may be too old for you, though I do not feel any older, when we are talking like this. We are equals in all that matters, and with you at my side, I could be the man I would like to be. Never perfect, of course, but taking small steps in the right direction.”

  “Why would you offer for me, when you could have any of the ladies of the ton? I know my money means nothing to you, and as for everything else –,” she made a helpless gesture with her hand. “Consider who would be your father-in-law! Would you ally your noble house to such a scoundrel?”

  “Without a moment’s hesitation.” He fell silent for a few moments, while two footmen were passing by with a stack of chairs. “If you decide to take me on, the obligation would be on my side, make no mistake, Celia. My family is almost extinct, and my daughter needs a mother, since life is so uncertain – a woman strong and clever enough to shield her, and our other children, if anything ever happened to me. This is no easy life I am offering you, especially as you are still so young. I have many dozens of dependents, three households, large business concerns, and any number of social and political obligations.”

  “You would not talk of business to another young lady,” Celia said, surprised he had even brought it up. “Are you saying that you want me to be involved with that part of your life?”

  “Only if you wished to, of course, but I appreciate your sharp mind and common sense. When I dealt with the builders and wine merchants over the last two years, I could have used a second opinion on many bargains that probably were not entirely to my advantage. But that is a strange thing to talk about now, I beg your pardon for even mentioning it.”

  “If I understand you correctly,” Celia said slowly, “you are proposing a partnership encompassing every aspect of your complicated life in two countries? But what of my breweries, here in England?”

  “What about them? You could do with them whatever you wanted, but would live in France at least for part of the year. The income would be settled on you personally, and on your children. I have no need of your fortune.”

  “It would not bother you or your family,” she spelled out more clearly, “that I have breweries, and relations of humble background?”

  “The Marquise de Ville-Deuxtours can do and have whatever she wants. Nobody will say a word. You can open more breweries in Nantes and environs, for all I care.”

  The servants had finished carrying away the other chairs, but discreetly left their table standing undisturbed as they left the garden.

  “Alone at last,” Alphonse said, with a smile that melted her heart, composed at is was of hope and uncertainty. “I would very much like to kiss you, but I suppose I should give you time to think my offer over more carefully. I will entirely understand if you decide to wait for some more suitable fellow.”

  “I am sorely tempted,” Celia admitted. “By the kiss, as well as the rest. My ideal of marriage is a true partnership, such as Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworthy have achieved. It also involves fidelity on both sides, and I am not sure if that is possible among the aristocracy. Certainly there seems to be a long tradition against it. My morals are bourgeois in this respect.”

  He creased his brows in surprise at this condition, or perhaps her indelicacy of alluding to such a subject. But his answer came readily enough. “You need have no concern on that account. I was faithful to my first wife, though we had little in common, and my heart was never engaged. It is not my habit or intention to break my vows, and that would be a great deal easier with a wife for whom I had those warmer emotions that I did not feel then.”

  “It is not a mere marriage of convenience, then, that you are proposing? You need a capable wife, I need a husband. But that in itself is not, and should not be enough. We both deserve more.”

  “Though we have not known each other very long,” Alphonse said, “my feelings are completely engaged, you need have no doubts on that score. During that nightmare journey, every night I had your dear face before me, as an inspiration that a brighter future was possible, could I live to grasp it. Maybe I was deluding myself, but never doubt that I am in love with you, and expect that state to only deepen the longer we are together. But unless you feel that you can learn to love me, I had rather you denied me. One-sided feelings are the very devil.”

  “They are not only on your side,” Celia confessed. “You made a very strong impression on me from the first moment. I dreamed of kissing you more than once, while you were gone. I would like to compare the reality with my dreams. Now seems an excellent time.”

  She had hardly finished speaking when she felt herself lifted bodily from the chair, pressed against his tall body and soundly, expertly kissed. The experience left her breathless, her blood hot and fast as it was pumped through an exquisitely sensitized body by her hammering heart. Seeing her lips reddened and her eyes shining, Alphonse had to kiss her again. “You are so sweet,” he groaned, “I am never going to get enough of you.”

  Celia felt the same, but when she had recovered her breath, said only, “That was amazing. I accept your proposal, Alphonse.” She pressed a small, shy kiss on his mouth, before breaking out into a mischievous grin. “How happy my uncle and grandmother will be!”

  “You minx, as though I cared about that. Are you happy? That is the only thing that matters.”

  “Happy enough, but if you kissed me again, I might be even happier.”

  “I can see you intend to keep me on my toes.” He immediately obliged her. “Whenever you want to be kissed, in future, you need only say the word. We can devise some secret codes, in case others are within hearing.”

  “I will think on it,” Celia said. “Let’s announce our news at breakfast. I fear it will be late, everyone is sleeping after the ball.”

  “That just gives us more time to make plans – I don’t feel at all tired any more. I pity everyone who is sleeping. Have you ever seen such a splendid morning as this?”

  “Never,” Celia said.

  Chapter 32

  True to Celia’s prediction, breakfast was late that morning. So late, in fact, that it morphed into lunch, and wan faces only appeared after the clock had struck eleven. By that time the newly engaged couple had spent two hours in the nursery, talking to Mme Fourrier and playing with little Monique.

  Mme Fourrier was greatly relieved when her master said she would remain in her position, and overjoyed when she was told that Mademoiselle Conway would soon be her new mistress. She expressed her felicitations to both with whole-hearted verve.

  “It is strange that the wet-nurse is the first person to be told,” Celia said, as they finally left. “Have you seen that Monique is now able to take three steps a
ll by herself? She may be small, but she is just as clever and advanced as any other child her age. Her colour is already better than when she first arrived a few days ago. Mme Fourrier said the dusty air of London was not good for her lungs.”

  They parted reluctantly, but Alphonse needed an overdue bath and change. Celia was eager to inform her uncle of her new status as an engaged woman and soon-to-be Marquise, but after the late night, decided to let him sleep and keep her news until he should wake up.

  But somebody should be told, it was too hard to contain this exciting news. She wanted to tell the whole world. Possessing herself in as much patience as she could manage, Celia sipped tea in the deserted breakfast room.

  Slowly the place filled up. Rook and his father, the duke, Mr. Potts and Lady Jennifer, Mr. Beecham, Charlotte, a little pale this morning, and finally Lady Minerva and James, deep in discussion, followed by her own Alphonse, more elegant than she had ever seen him. He sent her a look that made her feel hot all over, and recalled their recent kisses in vivid detail.

  “We depart after breakfast,” his Grace of Ottway said to his hosts. “The ball was delightful, well worth the journey down, and you can depend on us to help squash any remnants of those stupid rumours when we return to town.”

  “I am obliged to you, Duke, and hope you journey safely,” Lady Minerva said. “As for the rumours, I shall be getting married shortly, to Mr. Beecham. It hardly matters what stories a crowd of vicious busybodies invents, we shall be happy in any case.”

  The duke stared, brows contracting, and astonished silence held the others, followed by an explosion of congratulations and expostulations. The latter came from Lady Jennifer. “Minerva! You cannot be serious!”

  “Jennifer,” James said sharply, “whatever you say now could lead to an estrangement that nobody in our family could wish for. Isn’t one of those quite enough?”

  Jennifer stared at him incredulously. “You cannot mean to condone this folly, James! Minerva, who could have married anyone – and he’s not even a barrister, a mere solicitor!”