A Marquis to Marry

by Amelia Grey

  “Milk. I told you I was drinking milk.”

  “I know, but I thought there must have been some kind of sweet liqueur in it.”

  “It is plain milk,” he said with a cunning smile.

  Race looked closely at Gibby. The old man looked fine, yet Race asked, “Are you sick?”

  Gibby leaned back in his chair again and puffed out his chest. His lips tightened together for a moment. “No, I’m not sick. I’m in fine shape. Why?”

  “Why do you think?” Race said, exasperated. “Bloody hell, you’re drinking milk, for mercy’s sake.”

  “Of course I am. I’m in training.”

  Race stuck a finger down his collar, trying to loosen it. The muscles in his neck and shoulder had begun to ache. Gibby could heat his blood to boiling. “In training? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’m not drinking anything but water and milk. I’m not eating anything but fish, vegetables, and fruit. I’m not taking my carriage. I’m walking everywhere I go until after my fight with Prattle.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Not drinking ale or wine, and walking everywhere? That’s insane, Gib. You’ve lost your mind, and you’re taking this too far.”

  Gibby placed both his hands on the table and leaned forward. “All the winning pugilists train, Race. I’m good-sized for a man my age, but did you notice that Prattle is built like a tree trunk?”

  Race swore under his breath. “Yes, I did happen to notice that, Gib. Why do you think I’m trying to stop you from meeting him in Hyde Park a month from now?”

  Gibby waved his hand as if brushing away Race’s comment. “It’s less than a month now. You just want to mind my business. That’s all you and your cousins ever do.”

  “It’s full time employment, and somebody needs to. You aren’t doing a very good job of it.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Race. I can beat Prattle once I get in shape. I’m sure of it. And I would like to hear that one of my favorite people in the whole world had some confidence in me about this.”

  How could he let Gibby know he and his cousins were worried about him and didn’t want him to take the chance of getting hurt? The old man was just too stubborn to admit he had made a mistake in encouraging Prattle.

  “Let me tell you what I do have for you—an answer. I discussed this with Blake and Morgan a couple of days ago. We want you to give us permission to offer Prattle and his sister money to end this farce.”

  Gibby threw his shoulders back and bowed up his chest. His eyebrows wrinkled together, and his lips pursed into a sneer. “That’s an insult.”

  “Not if money is what Prattle was after in the first place.”

  “I’m not talking about Prattle,” Gibby exclaimed. “I don’t care what he wants or doesn’t want. It’s an insult to me. My honor is at stake here.”

  “So is your life.”

  “What kind of life would I have without my honor?”

  Race softened. “Gib, we don’t believe for a moment you did anything to his sister, and I don’t want you fighting and possibly getting hurt over something that didn’t happen.”

  “You don’t know what did or didn’t happen, because I’m not talking.”

  “You don’t have to. We know you. We know you are an honorable man and would never push a lady into something she didn’t want.”

  “It’s unforgivable what her brother did to her by his blathering in the park, but I can’t change that. I can only answer his challenge,” the old man said, shaking his head.

  “We can do what Prattle didn’t do and settle this quietly.”

  “No, I’ve given my word now. Besides, every gentleman, no matter his station in life, loves a good, fair fight.”

  “Not when one of the bruisers is a member of Polite Society,” Race argued.

  “Tell that to Figg, Broughton, Jackson, Mendoza, and all the other great pugilists who have been welcomed by the ton. Even that sap, Lord Byron, enjoys a good match and writes about them. He has been known to go a few practice rounds at one of the fight clubs in Town.”

  “Most of us have, Gib, but it’s always been in private, not public,” Race emphasized. “Besides, we use gloves in practice. You’ll be expected to bare-knuckle it. Look, my job was to talk you into letting me offer them money. If they don’t take it, we’ll go from there.”

  Gibby leaned forward. “Do you realize there are already hundreds of wagers at every club and gaming hell in London about this match, and I’ve heard betting has spread to outlying towns?”

  “I’ve been to White’s and The Rusty Nail, looking for you. I know the furor this has caused.”

  “And I can’t believe you want to take this away from me. You tell your weak-kneed cousins I’m going through with this, Race. And I’m going to win.”

  Gibby picked up his glass and drained it. Race’s stomach tightened. Gibby’s hands were red and chaffed. His knuckles were swollen, too. No doubt he was in the process of toughening his hands with some harsh concoction like all prize fighters used.

  “I’ll finish this for you,” Gibby said and reached over and pulled Race’s glass toward him. “Now tell me, what can I get you to drink?”

  Eight

  My Dearest Grandson Alexander,

  I hope you will remember these sobering words from Lord Chesterfield. Take heed, dear one, he is seldom wrong about anything and never wrong about a man. “That great wit, which you so partially allow me, may create many admirers; but, take my word for it, it makes few friends.”

  Your loving Grandmother,

  Lady Elder

  RACE WAS IN A QUANDARY AND FILLED WITH frustration as he entered his house late in the afternoon.

  He’d had a frustrating and unsuccessful meeting with Gibby at the Harbor Lights Club a couple of days ago, and he’d just come from another long, heated discussion with his cousins. He was beginning to feel as if he was going in two different directions at the same time. Gibby had been absolutely giddy with excitement over his duel—if this travesty could be called that. And Blake and Morgan still thought Race should talk to Prattle and find an amenable way to settle his accusation against Gib, even though the old man was dead set against him doing it.

  Race really had no idea how Prattle would take an offer of money, if in the end he decided to approach him. Except for Gibby’s objection, there certainly wasn’t anything out of line about doing it. Through the ages, men, and maybe a few ladies, too, had been saved from marriages they didn’t want by the exchange of money, lands, or making other suitable arrangements with the offended parties. But this sort of thing usually happened with young ladies and randy blades, not people the ages of Gibby and Miss Prattle.

  Blast Gibby’s rotten soul. What was a man in his sixties doing training for a bare-knuckle fist fight and drinking milk? Gib was too damned old to be a pugilist.

  Race strode into his book room and straight over to his sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine. He took a sip of the velvety liquid as he loosened his neckcloth. The stiff collar had been choking him all day. He walked toward his desk and stopped midstride. Was that music he heard? He looked over at the open window. The brown and gold wide-striped draperies were parted, and the alluring melody drifted inside.

  The sound was coming from a pianoforte, but was it a composition of Bach, Mozart, or some other composer? He listened to the soft engaging theme for a few seconds.

  He half laughed as he took another sip of the wine. Hell, why hadn’t his grandmother insisted they learn more about music and less about Lord Chesterfield and his bloody blubbering about how to be a man?

  Race walked over to the window and looked out over his grounds and realized that the music came from Susannah’s house. Was it her, Mrs. Princeton, or someone else playing? He stood there for a few moments, looking at her house and listening to the strains of the score.

  Finally, he pulled a chair over to the window, sat down and propped his feet on the windowsill, and let the soothing, lyrical note
s float in and relax him as he enjoyed his drink. He felt the tightness leave his eyes, mouth, and shoulders. The stress of the past couple of days, his conversations with his cousins and Gibby, seemed to ebb out of his body. His neck and shoulders loosened up, and he melted more comfortably into the chair and thought about Susannah. He liked that she was unconventional. She created an excitement inside him whenever she was near.

  Race had sent Susannah an informal note four or five days ago, saying that he wanted to see her, but as of yet, he hadn’t had the time to call on her. He supposed he should have been more decorous when he wrote to her. After all, she was a dowager duchess and deserved the most circumspect protocol, but to him, she was simply a beautiful, desirable woman named Susannah. He wanted to put aside her title, and his, and simply enjoy her. He didn’t really know why yet, but she enchanted him.

  He wanted to see her again.

  Today.

  Right now.

  What would she do if he went to her door and asked her to go to the park with him again, or to a party or the opera? Vauxhall Gardens was open. She might enjoy walking around the gardens with him and watching the fireworks. Or they could walk right here in his own gardens.

  He really didn’t care what they did. All he knew was that he wanted to look into her sparkling green eyes and kiss her again. But this time, he wanted to kiss her properly, in private. He didn’t want a quick peck on the lips while standing on a street. He wanted a long, leisurely kiss, so he could drink in her essence. He wanted to pull her close and feel her warmth against him and lose himself in the softness of her tempting, womanly body.

  Suddenly, without real thought about exactly what he was going to do, Race set his glass down on his desk and headed for his rear door. The only clear thing he knew he wanted to do was to establish who was playing the pianoforte.

  Afternoon mist lay gray and gloomy in the air when he stepped outside. A gentle breeze blew a strand of hair across his face, and he quickly brushed it behind his ear as he hurried down the steps that led to his back grounds.

  People often commented that he had one of the largest and loveliest formal gardens in Mayfair, but he had seldom walked through it. He never had the time for such niceties. But today as he stomped on the stone pathway, he noticed that it was, indeed, beautiful. The foliage in his garden was a lush, deep shade of green. No doubt from the drenching spring rains that had plagued London for months. All of the roses in the beds were different shades of pink, but the various kinds of flowers that dotted the landscape seemed to be of every color imaginable.

  The formal knot garden had been laid out to form an intricate pattern, with shrubs trimmed in different sizes and shapes. Obviously his gardener had a sharp eye for detail. And the large waterfall fountain that stood in the middle of the garden was expansive and flowing with water.

  When he reached the end of his property, he was perplexed for a few seconds. He stood in front of a seven-foot yew hedge that had made a solid fence, separating his grounds from Susannah’s, and whispered, “Bloody hell.”

  His gardener was obviously worth the money Race paid him. The man had made it impossible to pass through or around the thick yew wall that completely surrounded his garden on three sides. What the devil was he going to do now?

  But Race was not of a mind to be stopped by a tall green shrub. He strode back to his gardener’s supply room, picked up a hatchet, and returned to the green mountain hedge, knowing what he had planned was not going to be easy with the small hand-held ax. He mathematically studied the corner where two ends met, and then carefully started chopping and hacking a hole at the bottom of the yew, big enough for him to squeeze through.

  It wasn’t an easy task, and it took him quite a while, but after he finished, he stepped back and looked at his handiwork of the closely cropped hedge. He was satisfied that it would be difficult for him to crawl through but not impossible. He looked around at the clippings that were scattered all around his feet. His gardener was not going to be a happy man when he found the mess the next day.

  After forcing himself through the hole, Race stood and brushed small bits of the shrub from his coat as best he could. He straightened his neckcloth as he traipsed through Susannah’s property. He couldn’t help but notice, after passing through his own well-tended gardens, that the grounds surrounding Susannah’s house had been sadly neglected. He supposed that was to be expected when the place hadn’t been lived in for at least a year.

  The music grew louder as he approached the rear of the house, and he realized the sounds came from the right. He finger-combed his hair and cautiously walked around the house until he saw a slate pathway that led to a side door. A window was nearby, so he quietly eased up to it and peeked inside.

  He saw Susannah sitting at the pianoforte, her back to him. His breath quickened, and his loins thickened at the sight of her. She sat on a cushioned bench. Her spine was straight, the nape of her slender neck accented by a stray curl of hair that had escaped her chignon. He admired the gentle slope of her softly rounded shoulders. It stimulated him to watch the way her nimble fingers danced across the ivories while her hands and shapely arms moved gracefully.

  She was in a small room that held only the pianoforte, two upholstered side chairs with matching pillows in them, and a summer blue settee with a brocade footstool in front of it. There was no one else present in the room that he could see.

  He stood there watching her, listening and thinking how lovely, how romantic she looked.

  The tempo of the music had him wanting to take Susannah’s hand and dance a waltz with her. Dances like the quadrille were fast and fun, but a man never got to actually feel the frame of a woman in his arms with those dances.

  Race had been taught better than to spy on anyone, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Although he was only looking at her back, he could see from the way her body moved and swayed with each note, she was intense and derived much pleasure from playing. And he found great pleasure watching her and listening to the lovely music. His desire for her grew, unrelenting and tense.

  Race moved closer to the windowpane. He reached up to shield his eyes with his hand, so he could see better, when the gold family-crest ring he wore hit the glass. It sounded like a pistol shot.

  Susannah jerked around, and their eyes met. Race jumped back, stumbled, and almost fell. She rose and put her hand over her mouth. He could see she was laughing at him by the glint in her eyes and the way her shoulders shook with each breath.

  He deserved it, peeking in her window like a common thug.

  He shrugged and gave her a guilty smile. She motioned for him to go to the right where the door was located.

  Race felt more than a little naughty, getting caught watching her through the window, but he didn’t care, because he wanted to see her.

  “My lord,” she said, stepping out onto the slate-covered landing. “By the saints in heaven, what is a fine, upstanding gentleman like you doing lurking around my house and peeking through my window?”

  He liked the twinkle in her eyes and the teasing smile on her beautiful, shapely lips. In fact, there wasn’t anything about her he didn’t like.

  “Pardon me, Duchess, but I was listening to you play.”

  “And watching me, too?”

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t admit to that.

  “That is not a very polite thing for a marquis to do, is it?”

  She moved closer to him and reached up to his neckcloth as if to touch him. A shiver of anticipation and excitement surged through him. She lowered her hand and held up a piece of yew for him to see.

  “Why is your coat littered with these?” She brushed more of them away with her fingertips. “You didn’t come through your garden to get here, did you?”

  He nodded. “And it wasn’t easy.”

  She laughed softly, making Race want to pick her up and swing her around.

  “I can see that by the twigs in your hair. You could have come to the front door and knoc
ked like a proper gentleman.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a half grin as he brushed a hand through his hair. “What fun would that have been?”

  “Probably none.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  They both laughed, and Race was suddenly glad that he had cut a hole in the hedge and crawled through. When she looked at him like that, he would crawl through hell to get to her.

  “I must admit that my being here is simple. I heard lovely music, and I came to find its source. I didn’t know if it would be you playing, Mrs. Princeton, or someone else. That is all there is to it.” He stepped closer to her; his gaze swept down her face and then back up to her eyes. “All the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never heard music before.”

  “Perhaps that’s because the pianoforte is new to the house. I bought it a few days ago.”

  “You are very good.”

  She smiled shyly and looked away for a moment. “Thank you. My life at Chapel Gate is very quiet, and I’ve had much time to practice over the years. You don’t have to stand outside to listen. Come inside, and I will play for you.”

  “Are you sure? I really didn’t want to be a bother if you are practicing,” he said, knowing that couldn’t be further from the truth. He didn’t mind disturbing her at all.

  “You are not bothering me.”

  She turned away to go back inside, but he caught her by the wrist, letting his hand slide down to cup her fingers. Just the feel of her hand in his made him desire to make her fully his.

  He held her and said, “Wait.”

  She turned to him and looked down at his hand on hers. For some ridiculous reason, touching her made him feel very protective of her.

  “What I would really like to know is what parties you will be attending tonight. I want to meet you there so I can dance with you.”

  She lifted her shoulders slightly, rested her green gaze on his eyes, and said, “I’ve received some invitations the past couple of days, but I haven’t planned to attend any of the parties or balls. I did not come to London to enjoy myself. I have only one mission in mind.”