Dangerous Lords Boxed Set

by Andersen, Maggi

  After signing the registry, they emerged to find their friends and a determined crowd of villagers waiting outside the church, their hair and clothes whipped about by the fresh sea wind. They stopped to greet each one of them in turn before climbing into the landau. “Take the long way home from the church, Gaffney,” Flynn instructed.

  Her brows knitted. “Why the long way?”

  “For good luck.”

  “It won’t be good luck if the rain clouds return.” She laughed. “You are teasing. I doubt you believe in such things.”

  “I do.” He pulled her close and lowered his voice. “But I have a quite different purpose in mind. Everyone awaits us back at the house, and I wish to kiss my bride in private.”

  She shook her head, but her smile broadened in approval.

  That evening, Flynn stood with Althea at the front door, his arm around her waist as they waited to welcome more guests. The glow of braziers curved along the driveway to where the first of the carriages appeared. He glanced up at the night sky. Thin clouds veiled the waxing moon. “A growing moon, another sign of good fortune.”

  “You Irish are so superstitious.” Althea’s voice was tinged with laughter. “Brigit told me I was not to wear green and that I must never take both feet off the floor when we’re dancing. It’s because of the fairies, apparently.” Joy bubbled up in her laugh. “I might be spirited away by the little people.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not about to risk that happening. You are more persuaded by these superstitions than you pretend. What about the satin horseshoe?”

  “Brigit meant well. I didn’t wish to offend her.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A likely story.”

  Her eyes danced. “We have our superstitions in England. And I saw no sense in taking unnecessary risks.”

  “When you look at me like that, I want to kiss you,” Flynn said. He tightened his arm around her, pulling her soft body against his. “Again and again. Until you grow tired of me.”

  “Silly man. I shall never grow tired of you or your kisses. You might kiss me now, but our guests have begun to arrive.”

  The new footman, resplendent in uniform, stepped down to perform his duties with suitable gravity. He had been a welcome addition to the staff, freeing Quinn, having regained his health and vigor, to scuttle about behind the scenes.

  Friends had come from England, and the house had been filled with bright chatter for days. King George sent his felicitations, along with delicate confectionaries like works of art from his patisserie chef and boxes of French champagne. Lady Catherine, recently returned from the Continent, arrived, and gave her warm approval, after stating that Flynn could afford to hire more staff and make further improvements after she died. Flynn suspected the service was not what she was used to. No doubt, she’d hoped her niece would choose to marry a wealthy Englishman.

  The woodwork in the great hall had been polished until it shone and the fine crystal chandeliers sparkled. The air was a blended bouquet of smoky beeswax, flowers, and the ladies’ perfume. His mother’s portrait now hung where it belonged amongst his ancestors. Under the newly expanded staff, the house ran smoothly. The small feminine touches Althea had wrought made Flynn proud to welcome his friends to his home.

  And they had all come.

  Flynn and Althea cut the cake as the Irish Wedding Song was sung. Then Dr. O’Leary stepped forward. He raised his glass. “May all your joys be pure joy and all your pain champagne.”

  Glasses clinked, and a cry “Sláinte!” resounded throughout the room.

  After the newlyweds were toasted with honey mead, the champagne flowed, and a trio in the musician’s gallery struck up a waltz. Applauded by the guests, Flynn swung Althea into the circle of his arms. Her beautiful blue eyes held his. “Do you remember the first time we danced?”

  “I remember every moment spent in your company.”

  She grinned. “I hope you don’t. I was rather rude.”

  “Were you? I didn’t notice.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry for it now.”

  “You have many years ahead to make amends.” He drew her closer. “Beginning tonight.”

  “Yes, tonight.” Her smiled promised such delight that Flynn’s body tightened. He tamped down his impatience and gazed around at the friends who had come to wish them well.

  Guy’s wife, Horatia, spun by in her husband’s arms, her brown eyes full of mischievous laughter. Earlier, she had confessed to Flynn that she hadn’t the heart to scold a wounded man for taking her husband on a dangerous mission. Flynn was confident that Guy would settle down once more on his estate, already deeply involved in modern methods of farming.

  “I like Hetty’s brown dress,” Flynn said. “Unusual.”

  “Hetty has the figure to carry off such a gown,” Althea said with a sigh. She wrinkled her nose. “And brown is hardly a good description. It’s mustard silk and taffeta. Did you take note of her ankle-length tippet? It’s the first stare of fashion.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It is? I must compliment her on her style.”

  “She has such a trim waist. I suspect she is wearing one of the latest corsets.”

  “Then perhaps I won’t. I don’t wish to encourage the fashion,” Flynn said. “And what might Sibella’s gown be called?”

  “Delicate gauze like a spider’s web threaded with gold. She looks like she might float away. I always wanted to be taller.”

  “Isn’t it lucky that you weren’t, when I like you smaller?”

  “You said talking to me gave you a crick in the neck,” Althea said as they turned on the floor.

  “I have given considerable thought to that.” Flynn smiled. “We shall lie down to talk.”

  “Oh you.” Her blue eyes danced. She looked so fully alive that he pulled her hard against him.

  In a froth of apricot, Sibella swirled by on John’s arm. She had not sought Flynn’s promise that John would never be required for such a venture again. A canny woman, she no doubt knew John was not a man to be managed. Unlikely he’d reenter the spying game though. Nowadays his was a voice to be heard in Parliament, already shaping up to be the equal of his father, something few had anticipated. Flynn highly approved. If only he could have such a future for himself here in Ireland.

  Flynn breathed in Althea’s perfume, attar of roses. After the dance, he escorted her from the floor. They went to speak to friends, as many would be gone tomorrow, and he very much doubted he and Althea would make it to breakfast.

  *

  The house was quiet when Althea entered their bedchamber in her dressing gown. Flynn sat by the fire in his patterned silk banyan. She was nervous. She’d saved her news for this moment. She went and climbed onto his lap, reaching up to stoke back his thick hair from his brow. “I have something to tell you.”

  His arms came around her. “It can’t be…”

  “Yes. When we make our plans, we have another whose needs we must consider.”

  He leaned back to study her face. “A baby?” He inhaled sharply. “Darling! You’re sure?”

  She nodded, her smile widening. “I didn’t believe it possible, after… I’m in my third month. I waited to be sure before I told you. I want so much for it to be true. To give you an heir.”

  “Let the future take care of itself. A daughter is as welcome as a son.” He rested his head against her breast. “I just want you here with me, safe and in good health.”

  She stroked his hair. “I’m in perfect health, Flynn.”

  He framed her face with his hands and pressed his lips to hers. “My love. I’m so grateful you took a chance on me.”

  “I never wanted anyone but you. You drew me out of my fog of despair and banished my sad past with your humor and your kindness and your love. You make me feel alive, Flynn.”

  His arms wrapped tighter around her, and his mouth plundered hers. She opened her mouth to his, tasting of heat and champagne. As a yearning ache spread low in her abdomen, she wiggled agains
t him, warmed by the heat of his body, and wanting more. Intense desire flared between them. “I want you so much,” she murmured, giving in to the delectable sense of expectation and demanding need that washed over her.

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he stripped off his banyan. Tall and lean, the perfection of his olive skin was marred only by the puckered redness at his shoulder. It was a badge of courage. She reached for him, her heart full.

  The End

  Please enjoy an excerpt from The Marquess Meets His Match.

  Prologue

  Katharina Bancroft looked around the home she’d lived in all her life for the last time. Memories of a happy childhood lingered as she shut the front door and led her old governess down the path to the waiting yellow chaise.

  “My dear Kate. What will become of you?” Nanny sniffed into her handkerchief. “Your father would never have wished such a fate to befall you. But then he did not expect to shuffle off this mortal coil so soon, and your dear mother, too.”

  Nanny was fond of Shakespeare and employed the language from the bard’s plays in everyday speech as Kate’s father had done. It just served to make her think sadly of her parents now resting below ground. She stiffened as tears welled up in her eyes again. She really must get some backbone. But when she thought of the ordeal ahead, she struggled to tamp down her fears. She had no idea what awaited her in Cornwall. She drew in a shuddering breath and escorted the elderly lady through the gate to the hired chaise which would take her to her sister’s home in York.

  Kate assisted Nanny inside the carriage and the coachman shut the door. “You are not to worry about me, Nanny,” she said through the carriage window. “You must enjoy your new life with your sister. I shall be perfectly all right.” She glanced behind her at the grand coach with the St. Malin crest emblazoned on the doors where a liveried footman was loading her trunk and bandboxes. “After all, my godfather has sent his coach to collect me.”

  “Indeed, my dear. Now don’t forget to write to me. You are an excellent correspondent. I believe I have taught you well and shall greatly look forward to your letters.” Nanny’s handkerchief fluttered from the window as the coachman moved the horses on.

  Kate waved until the chaise was out of sight, a heavy ache in her heart. She turned and walked over to the coach and the waiting footman. Cornwall seemed like the end of the earth, and why the Marquess of St. Malin requested her presence remained a mystery.

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, 1786

  The carriage rocked as it traveled the road along the cliff. Kate grabbed the window frame with one hand and the edge of her seat with the other, to hold herself steady. She was nervous in a vehicle at the best of times, made worse after her father’s carriage careened off a bridge in Oxford.

  Kate reminded herself that this coach her godfather had sent was a fine one. She was exhausted after being thoroughly jolted about for three days. It had been impossible to sleep in the inns where the coach stopped for the night. They were most dreadfully noisy, and the looks men gave her when she ate in the dining room caused her to lie awake with her gaze fixed on the chamber door, despite having locked it and placed a chair against it. She stiffened when the coachman’s curse was followed by a crack of the whip. The rugged coastline was different from anything she’d ever seen. Through the misty rain, she glimpsed the dark gray sea swirling around the blackened rocks. The lack of discernable color in the landscape reminded her of the drab-colored mourning clothes she’d worn, and the rhythmic boom, boom, boom of the waves filled her with the same dread she’d experienced when a tolling church bell signaled a village disaster like the fire which had spooked her father’s horses and ended her parents’ lives.

  In an effort to overcome the fear of tumbling to her death, Kate pulled her cloak closer, and directed her thoughts to what might await her at St. Malin Castle. Unfortunately, this produced anxieties of a different sort. The last time she’d seen her godfather, the Marquess of St. Malin, was when she was fifteen. She remembered him as tall with a long thin nose which made him appear haughty. Her father had saved St Malin’s life when he fell overboard during a boat race on the River Cam in Cambridge, and despite their different stations in life, they’d continued to correspond regularly.

  Now, at twenty years of age, her fate lay in this marquess’ hands, for apparently, he said as much to her father years ago. Papa made mention of it in his will. And a letter addressed to her with the waxed St Malin seal came shortly after her father’s funeral. Then the coach had arrived. The marquess seemed keen to keep his promise. Whatever that entailed. Kate was grateful for his kindness, of course, but would much have preferred to remain with Nanny in Oxfordshire. That was impossible, for her father left very little money. Poets were not good at business, and he’d lost a considerable amount of money on the ’Change. Subsequently, her childhood home had been sold to pay off the debts.

  The coach reached a bend in the road, and the sheer stone walls of the castle loomed ahead, the outline of its battlements imposing against the darkening sky. At the sight of the massive structure, a prickling sensation rose up her spine. Kate half expected to see knights in armor riding toward her. Lights from the braziers along the walls fell upon lawns which must once have been a moat. The coach rattled across a bridge and entered the arched gatehouse. The horses came to a stop in a courtyard. Moments later, a servant rushed out. He put down the steps on the coach and opened the door.

  Kate’s sense of relief faded when she stepped down onto mossy cobbles, and stood, disorientated, in the swirling sea mist.

  A door was flung open, spilling candlelight into the gloom like a welcoming hand. She hurried toward it and entered a lofty hall. Heavy Tudor beams and ornate timber paneling spoke of its ancient origins.

  A tall liveried footman stood waiting. “I’ll take ye to the master, Miss. He’s in the library.”

  Kate’s heart beat unnaturally fast as she followed him up a stone stairway. Along the walls of the wide corridor, candles flickered in their sconces, throwing light on huge tapestries depicting bloody battles. As the moment approached when they would meet, Kate tried to rake up some clear memories of the marquess. But he’d been of little interest to her back then, beyond his eccentric manner. He’d smiled with warmth upon her father, she remembered. But that wasn’t surprising; a cultured man who quoted Shakespeare at the drop of a hat, Papa was possessed of enormous charm. Now she was in this man’s debt. Would he be kind to her?

  The footman knocked on a solid oak door.

  “Come.”

  Apprehensive, she stepped into the room and was embraced by a welcoming surge of warmth. A fire crackled and spat in the baronial fireplace where a liver-spotted spaniel lifted its head from the rug to study her. After a thump of a tail, its head sank onto its paws again, lulled back to sleep by the heat. Above the fireplace, the painting of a hunting scene featured several dogs. Two china spaniels flanked the fireplace mantel. The walls were covered floor-to-ceiling in bookshelves, which made the room seem cozy.

  Kate looked around for the source of the voice, and when she saw no one in the room, she crouched on the Oriental rug and gave the dog a pat. “You’re a nice fellow, aren’t you?” Her stiff, cold muscles loosened, and the icy pit in her stomach began to thaw. Maybe she could be happy here. She loved dogs.

  “Welcome to St. Malin Castle, Miss Katharina.”

  Startled, Kate looked around. She hadn’t noticed the man who rose from behind a pile of papers and books on the massive mahogany desk. He crossed the room to greet her. He was not her godfather. The young man not yet thirty, was tall, his black hair drawn back in a queue.

  She scrambled to her feet. “I’m here to see the marquess.”

  “I am the Marquess of St. Malin. My uncle passed away a short time ago.”

  Kate was so shocked she could think of nothing to say. There was something of the marquess’ haughty demeanor about his handsome face.

  With a sense
of foreboding, she curtsied on unsteady legs. She could only stare at his attire, her gaze locked on his exquisite gold embroidered silk waistcoat as he bowed before her. Black crepe graced the sleeve of his emerald-green coat.

  “I am sorry.” Dead. She had an urgent need to sit, and glanced at the damask sofa facing the fireplace.

  She must have looked unsteady, for he reacted immediately, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit by the fire. You must be cold and exhausted.” He turned to the footman. “Bring a hot toddy for Miss Bancroft.”

  Kate sank down gratefully, her modest panniers settling around her.

  “You shall feel better presently,” he said. “I find a hot toddy can cure many ills.”

  “Why did you send your coach for me?” She leaned back against the soft cushions. “I wouldn’t have come had I known your uncle passed away.”

  “I thought it best to sort the matter out here and now.” He rested an elbow on a corner of the fireplace mantel and stirred the dog with a foot. “Shame on you, Felix. You might accord Miss Bancroft a warmer welcome.” He looked at her. “My uncle’s dog. He’s mourning his master.” He raised his dark brows. “Notice of my uncle’s passing appeared in The Daily Universal Register.”

  “We don’t get that newspaper in my village. What matter do we need to sort out?”

  “I’ll come to that. To be honest, I wasn’t aware of your existence until the reading of the will. Then I learned of your parents’ untimely death from my solicitor. Please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you. How long ago did your uncle…?”

  “He fell ill some months ago. He rallied and then it happened very quickly at the end.” The new marquess sighed and stared into the fire.

  “You must have been very fond of him,” Kate said in the quiet pause that followed. Though, if she were honest, she was surprised the cool man she remembered could have provoked that level of affection.