Lord Margrave's Secret Desire

by Samantha Grace

  “Are you certain you do not wish for my company? Moral support never hurts.”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t, but my morale is not in danger.”

  After years of friendship, Ben seemed to accept Crispin had nothing more to say on the matter. They were men’s men; they did not require a sympathetic ear. Crispin had grown up believing his mother and brother were dead. It was a lie. No amount of bellyaching over the unfairness would change anything.

  “Very well,” Ben said. “I will leave you to it.”

  With a jaunty wave, he disembarked from the carriage. Kane settled against the seatback as the conveyance lurched into the street. Crispin trained his gaze out the window again, staring into darkness and seeing his brother’s neat handwriting in his mind.

  Yesterday morning, as Crispin prepared to travel to spend Christmas with his godfather’s family, a letter arrived from his brother. He recognized the handwriting from years of exchanging correspondence when Alexander was at boarding school in Edinburgh, and later after he purchased his commission as an officer in the 68th Regiment.

  Lieutenant Alexander Locke had returned from Quebec two days earlier and taken lodgings in Town. Once the road became passable, he would travel on to Finchingfield where their mother resided with her second husband. It could be his and Crispin’s only opportunity to meet.

  Crispin had almost tossed the letter on the fire. He and Alexander had survived without one another’s companionship for a long time. A meeting was unlikely to bridge the chasm carved out between them after decades apart. When Alexander admitted in his letter he did not relish spending another Christmas alone, Crispin’s resistance had broken. It was not right for a man to feel forsaken and forlorn, especially upon his return from having served his country.

  When Crispin’s carriage arrived at Arden-Hill, he left Kane to unpack his belongings then continued to his destination. The Esterdell Hotel was a modest establishment compared to the rooms most gentlemen of his brother’s station rented when staying in London. What did that say about Alexander? Had he grown too accustomed to the meager trappings of military life to find comfort in the luxuries available in a finer hotel, or had he accumulated debt that required him to be pennywise?

  Crispin would know more once he sat down with his brother. He could always take a man’s measure by looking him in the eyes.

  Alexander was recognizable upon sight. Despite being the only man dressed in regimentals, he was a robust, younger version of their father with russet hair, a soft jaw, and blue eyes. The only physical similarity Crispin and his brother shared was a strong brow—a feature that caused them to look serious whether they were or not. Crispin’s memory of his mother had faded over time, but he recalled he had inherited the physical trait from her.

  This air of seriousness seemed to be working to his brother’s advantage this evening. Alexander had been given wide berth and sat alone at one of the tables in the back of the coffeehouse. His eyebrows veered toward one another as Crispin approached.

  “Lord Margrave?”

  Crispin slipped onto the bench across from him. “No need to stand on formality. We are blood.”

  The lines of apprehension crisscrossing Alexander’s forehead disappeared. “I was uncertain you would claim me as kin. We are like strangers to one another.”

  “I remember you,” Crispin said. “Not well, but I remember you tried to eat one of my building blocks when I wanted a playmate.”

  “I was very young.” His brother smiled and ducked his head. “I am afraid I have no memory of you, but Mother spoke of you often after you found her.”

  Crispin sensed his eyebrow arch in doubt and guided the conversation away from their mother. He suspected she could be a point of contention between them. “What brings you home? Has your regiment returned to England?”

  His brother followed his lead and abandoned any discussion of their mother. “I am on leave. My stepfather fell ill a couple of years ago, and Mother writes that his condition has worsened. I’ve come home to see after him.”

  It seemed he and Alexander shared something else in common, a devotion to the men who had raised them. Crispin hadn’t strayed far from his father’s bed at the end. He smiled sadly, reminded of his father’s demise.

  “You are a good son. Mr. Ness is a lucky man.”

  Blood rushed into Alexander’s cheeks, and he swiped his finger over an invisible speck on the tabletop. “I only now realized how that must have sounded. I am aware Zachary Ness is not my father, but he has no children of his own, and he has always treated me like a son. Forgive me if I’ve given offense.”

  “I am not offended. I was remembering when our father was ill,” Crispin said. “You look like him.”

  Alexander’s gaze shot up. “Do I? I always wondered...”

  Crispin might not want to talk about their mother, but it seemed obvious his brother was curious about their father. For the next half hour, he shared stories about Father and answered Alexander’s questions about their family lineage.

  As Crispin spoke, anger simmered inside him for the lifetime of memories their mother had stolen from him and his brother; he buried the resentment deep before it bubbled to the surface. Appreciating this moment with his brother was more important. They might not see one another again for many years.

  He and Alexander had been sitting across from one another for an hour when Kane walked past the table with his hat in his left hand; he switched it to his right.

  A signal.

  Crispin was yanked from the pleasant cocoon that had enshrouded him as he spoke with his brother. The Regent’s Consul was calling him to duty.

  He sighed and stood. For a moment, he had tricked himself into believing he was an ordinary man. “I have enjoyed myself immensely, Alexander, but I must take my leave.”

  “I expect I will be in London for some time,” his brother said, looking up at him like an eager pup. “Perhaps we could meet again? I would like to see our father’s home, if it is not presumptuous of me.”

  “It is not presumptuous, but unfortunately, I will not be in residence much longer.”

  “But you’ve only arrived in London. What calls you away so soon?”

  Evading his brother’s inquiry didn’t sit right with him, but he had little choice. “A mundane task. I will not bore you with the details.”

  Alexander held a steady gaze. “I see.” His sudden cool demeanor and stiff posture suggested he didn’t see at all.

  Crispin wasn’t attempting to get rid of his brother, but he had responsibilities that transcended familial duties. “You are welcome at Arden-Hill even if I cannot receive you,” he said. “I will inform my housekeeper to provide you with a tour when you call.”

  The wariness in Alexander’s eyes diminished slightly. “Yes, thank you, I will try to find time to call at Arden-Hill before I leave London.” Alexander stood, too. “Thank you for meeting with me, my lord. It was rather sudden. Perhaps you had plans.”

  “Nothing important. I am glad you contacted me.” Crispin began to ease away from the table before the guilt ghosting over him could take solid form. He had begun to enjoy himself, but Kane's interruption was a harsh reminder of the solitary profession Crispin had chosen. “I wish you a safe journey to your stepfather’s bedside and pray for his recovery.”

  “You should come to Finchingfield when you are able. Mother would like to see you again.”

  “I will consider it,” he lied. The woman had made her wishes clear years ago. She wanted nothing to do with him; he returned the sentiment.

  Kane was waiting for him on the empty street. “I came by horseback.”

  Crispin fell into step with him en route to the mews. When he was certain no one was close by to overhear, he spoke. “What are my orders?”

  “Limerick at first light. I am to accompany you. We must stop an assassin.”

  “One of our men or an enemy?”

  Kane scoffed. “Ours. Farrin recalled his orders when the Lord Chamberl
ain discovered his plan.”

  “That must have been an interesting conversation,” Crispin said. “To hear Farrin talk, he fancies himself the King’s advisor.”

  “Or next in line for the throne.”

  Crispin smiled at the younger man’s joke; there was a thread of truth in it. Like everyone in England, Farrin understood the rules of succession, but he was an ambitious man. The leader of the Regent’s Consul would settle for pulling the monarch’s strings like a puppeteer.

  “There are rumors the Regent’s Consul might be dissolved now that Napoleon is in exile,” Crispin said. He didn’t give the gossip much credit. England would always have enemies. “Farrin will have to take his pleasure elsewhere if that comes to pass.”

  Kane uttered a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “I shudder to consider what he might become without the rules of the Consul to temper him.”

  “It is a frightening prospect, indeed.”

  Crispin had been sheltered as a boy, but in his service to the King, he had discovered evil often lurked behind a thin veil of civility with men like Farrin. This potent reminder of the life he had chosen sobered him. He had left Sophia with no promises, because it had been the right thing to do. Still, kissing her made him feel like the worst sort of blackguard—as well as the luckiest man on earth.

  Two

  My Dearest Lord Margrave,

  Forgive my boldness in writing, but after two weeks without any sightings of you about Town, it has occurred to me that you might be unaware Aunt Beatrice, my sisters, and I have set up house in London for the Season.

  Unfortunately, Uncle Charles remains abroad, but we anticipate his return any day. I am certain Aunt Beatrice would deem it suitable for you to call at Wedmore House given our longtime family connection. Perhaps you could call tomorrow, so we might determine what has kept each of us occupied since our parting.

  I must admit, I am longing to take a turn around Rotten Row, but I have been unable to bring myself to accept another gentleman’s invitation when the memory of our kiss occupies my every thought. I have grown exceedingly eager for the day I am afforded the pleasure of your company.

  Yours always,

  Sophia

  “Hellfire and damnation!” Crispin dropped the letter on the polished walnut desk. This was a distressing turn of events.

  Sophia should have forgotten about their kiss by now and set her cap for another gentleman. Instead, she was writing to him—a bachelor. He ought to march into Wedmore House to put a stop to this recklessness at once. She could not write to a man who was neither kin nor her intended without dire risk to her reputation. Was she not in possession of better sense?

  A whiff of something pleasant teased his nose.

  He snatched the letter and inhaled. “Camellias?” She had spritzed the paper with her perfume. As if they were lovers.

  He rang for his valet.

  Before one of his servants stumbled across the letter, he should burn it. No, he would burn it—later—after he read her elegantly swooping hand once more.

  Kane entered Crispin’s study, his posture stiff and formal as he played the role of servant whenever someone might overhear. “You rang, my lord?”

  “Close the door.” When the latch caught, Crispin held up the letter. “What do you make of this?”

  Kane shed his awkward formality and strolled to the desk to inspect the paper. “It appears the lady has grown impatient waiting for you.”

  “I am not a dolt. I can see she is impatient.” Crispin pushed away from the desk and strode to the hearth, agitation punctuating every step. “Why hasn’t she forgotten me? She should have made a match by now. I cannot frequent Brooks’s without hearing her name. She is the most sought after debutante this Season.”

  Kane hummed with approval. “She is a rare beauty. I am certain she will make her choice soon and settle into her new life with the lucky bloke.”

  “I—” Crispin crumbled the paper in his fist and forcefully threw Sophia’s letter into the fire. “I want to hit something.”

  “Naturally, you thought of me?” Kane asked with a cheeky grin.

  Crispin’s strangled laugh stemmed from a mixture of surprise and mortification at his behavior. What had come over him? He wielded power over his passions; he was not one to be manipulated by desire or jealousy, and here he was high in the boughs over the prospect of Sophia choosing another man.

  “You are my only equal when it comes to sparring,” Crispin said, his humor returning in pieces. “Mrs. Throckmorton cannot block a punch to save her life.”

  Kane tossed back his head and laughed. “She would beat you like a rug.”

  Crispin chuckled picturing the head housekeeper squaring off with him, rattling the ring of keys at her waist while she taunted him for being a lovesick weakling.

  “Venting the spleen might improve your disposition,” Kane said. “Should I set out your sparring attire and meet you in the gymnasium?”

  “Yes, that is a splendid suggestion.”

  The exercise might do him good. Anything to help him forget this damned gnawing need Sophia had created in him, an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t satisfy. Gads, if it didn’t cease once she was married and out of his reach, he might be driven to madness.

  He returned to his desk. “I have a message to send round to Wedmore House before sparring.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  When Kane exited the room, Crispin pulled out a sheet of foolscap from his desk drawer and retrieved his quill to dash off a quick missive.

  * * *

  Dear Beatrice,

  How pleased I am to learn you and your nieces have come to London. I regret that my duties at the House of Lords have occupied the majority of my time, and I have been unable to issue an invitation to dine at Arden-Hill. I do not expect a reprieve anytime soon, therefore, I am writing to extend my best.

  Please convey my regards to Regina, Evangeline, and Sophia. I have come to understand Miss Sophia has been deemed a diamond of the first water and should have her selection of eligible suitors. May she make a wise choice and a match that is to her advantage. I look forward to celebrating the nuptials if I warrant an invitation.

  Kindest Regards,

  Margrave

  Three

  10 weeks later

  * * *

  “Stay!” Crispin issued a stern reprimand that held the rambunctious black poodle at bay. Wedmore House’s pampered pet lowered to his belly and rested his chin on his paws. His large black eyes glittered in the morning light spilling through the drawing room windows. Tremors racked his small body.

  Then it began—the pathetic whimpering that always chipped at Crispin’s resolve. The dog was a master at manipulation, better than most men of the Regent’s Consul.

  “I refuse to hold you,” he said for the fourth time. “Cease this nonsense.”

  If he succumbed to Cupid’s pleas for attention, he would be slathered in dog drool for his audience with Sophia, and his call was not a casual one. Hell, nothing was casual between them since he had rebuffed her.

  At the time, he expected they could avoid one another until she was happily settled in marriage and forgot about him. Turns out he was terrible at predicting the future, and now he was escorting Sophia and her aunt all over London, keeping watch over them while Sophia’s older sisters traveled to Athens in the company of Regina’s new husband.

  Hopefully, Sophia would not send him away without seeing him.

  When the dog’s whining grew more insistent, Crispin raised an eyebrow. “Enough.”

  The dangerous edge to his voice would cause a wise man to slowly back away before turning to run. Cupid was not intimidated. The little dog inched forward on his belly, pausing to blink at him innocently.

  Crispin shook his head, amused. “You are relentless. Show a little patience. Sophia will be here any moment.”

  Upon hearing her name, Cupid leapt from the Aubusson and dashed for the drawing room door. The dog turned back wh
en he reached the threshold, tipping his head to the side as if asking where Sophia was. His tongue lolled from the side of his smiling mouth.

  “Patience, mutt.”

  Crispin admonished himself as much as the dog. He was eager to see her too, albeit for different reasons. She had befriended an actress, a duke’s former mistress, and the ill-advised friendship endangered more than Sophia’s reputation. Claudine Bellerose was a suspected murderess.

  Equally alarming, he had learned of Sophia’s solo trips to the Drayton Theatre while he was on a mission for the King. She hadn’t uttered a word to him about her association with the actress, despite her having had many opportunities to confide in him over the past few weeks. Of course, any discourse he and Sophia attempted these days often ended in a row.

  They argued about everything: The way in which he had gawked at her during dinner at Lady Chattington’s party. How he’d overstepped his bounds in warning her against laughing too heartily at Mr. Wittenberg’s stories unless she intended to encourage the scoundrel. The time she accused Crispin of spying on her at Hyde Park, which he hadn’t done. If he had been spying, she never would have seen him.

  After every gathering they attended, she chided him for skulking and looming and glowering while she tried to enjoy a pleasant evening. And she was correct. He acted beastly in her presence. A seething monster stirred awake inside him every time he saw her dancing with another man—all because he had given into temptation and kissed those sweet lips that now spewed rancor at him.

  It was bloody torture. He wished she would choose a husband and be done with it. Better to drive a dagger into his heart than slowly carve away at him.

  A rustle came from the doorway; he snapped his head toward the noise. Sophia stood in the threshold, her attention already on the poodle bounding across the room to greet her.