Lord Humphrey (Sons of the Marquess Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

“Promise me!”

  “I promise, I’ll not breathe a word, I swear. Didn’t understand half of what was said, anyway, ’cept that she’s quite something, ain’t she?”

  “Yes, she is. Now surely you have work to do?”

  With a flourishing bow, Charlie disappeared, and, very slowly, Humphrey followed. The rest of the afternoon, he diligently avoided Hortensia, spending his time as much with the Stoners as with his own family. In all that had happened, he had almost forgotten that the older Mr Stoner had the capability of unmasking the deception between Miss Quayle and Miss Blythe, but his casual questions elicited no worrying signs of suspicion. He discovered that Mr Stoner owned a small gaming establishment of his own in Newcastle, and the older man took a keen interest in his plans.

  “If you send me a detailed list of your likely initial expenses, my lord, I should be delighted to cast an eye over it and advise on where improvements might be made. My little place is not so grand as yours will be, but I shall be able to make some comparisons.”

  “I should be very much obliged to you for any advice, sir,” Humphrey said. “You are far more experienced in such matters than I, although it has to be confessed that I have spent a great deal of time in such places, over the years.”

  “It is not the same,” Stoner said. “In the best-run of such establishments, the customer will never notice the servants moving about, replenishing wine glasses, remembering what each gentleman prefers to drink, producing a lady’s favourite sweetmeat. It is like a play, where the audience is so absorbed in the performance, it is quite unconscious of the efforts behind the scenes. It takes a great deal of careful thought to produce the desired effect. Here — my card, my lord. You may write to me at any time.”

  But eventually, both parties began to drift away to the carriages, and the horses were attached. Humphrey found Hortensia standing disconsolately beside the curricle. She looked up hopefully at his approach.

  “Do you need my assistance, Miss Quayle?” he said, attempting a smile.

  Was that relief on her face? “Oh no, but I was not sure… I did not like to presume…”

  “Well, up you go, then. Tom, pass the reins to Miss Quayle.”

  She stopped halfway between ground and seat. “Oh! I am to drive back?”

  “Of course,” he said, puzzled.

  “I thought… oh, thank you, thank you!” Her smile this time was wide and sunny, the smile he so loved, and his heart jumped about painfully.

  “Yes, yes, but on you go, and then slide across so that I may sit beside you.” He knew his voice was gruff, but his throat was oddly tight.

  They drove back dutifully in slow procession, and there was no banter between them this time. Too much had happened that day, too much had been said and done, for either to be comfortable attempting the morning’s light tone. It was a bittersweet journey, Humphrey’s pleasure in her company warring violently with his grief that she would soon be gone from his life. Six days — that was all the time they had left.

  Yet he could not speak, it was impossible for him to say all he felt and desired. How could he? If he could not woo her openly, ardently as he would wish to do, he could not make any declaration at all. All he could do was to wait, miserably, until a suitable time had elapsed and his pursuit of Miss Blythe — no, Miss Quayle — had been forgotten. But by then Hortensia would be long gone, and he could not depend on her waiting for him, as he would wait for her. Why should she? How she must despise him now, for today he had as good as declared his love and yet still rejected her in every possible way.

  When they reached Drummoor, he lifted her down from the curricle as before, and when he set her down, she lifted her eyes to his, those great, dark eyes that haunted his dreams. For several seconds they stood thus, their eyes locked, as if on the brink of some speech that would break the dam of constraint between them. His hands rested on her waist, and he would have stayed thus forever if he could, lost in admiration.

  Then she stepped away from him and curtsied. “Thank you so much for allowing me to drive your curricle, Lord Humphrey.”

  And without a backward glance she disappeared into the house.

  15: Storms

  “It is such nonsense! Ridiculous man! How can he say such things!”

  “Hortensia, dearest, do calm down a little,” Rosemary said. “Will you not sit down? You are making me dizzy, pacing to and fro in that distracted manner.”

  Hortensia perched restlessly on the edge of a chair. The two women were in Rosemary’s bedroom, still fully dressed despite the late hour.

  “I wish I had never said anything,” Hortensia said, her anger dissipating abruptly. “If I had not spoken, if we had just told Lord Kilbraith directly, everything would have gone on so comfortably. I had barely begun to have hopes of him, and now all my happiness is destroyed.”

  “You must not despair,” Rosemary said. “Look how suddenly things can change.” She blushed a little as she spoke.

  “Oh yes!” Hortensia cried. “That is my only consolation, that your happiness is secure. Were it not for that, I might wish we had never come here. But how nonsensical it is!” She jumped to her feet once more, and strode across to the window and back. “We were getting along so agreeably, yet as soon as I told him who I was, he backed away from me as if I were on fire. And to say that he cannot approach me because society would see him as a fortune hunter — of all the foolish reasons!”

  “But you must see how it would appear,” Rosemary said. “Everyone knows we were invited here so that Lord Humphrey could marry a rich wife. His intentions towards me were very plain, and Lord and Lady Carrbridge have been so very kind, in the most particular way. I have been interrogated by all the aunts, you should know, as a possible bride of Drummoor. But once it is public knowledge that you have the fortune, not I, how can he suddenly turn his attentions to you? It would look so cold and mercenary.”

  “As if it is not cold and mercenary anyway! And Rosemary, if his attentions to you were calculated, his behaviour towards me must suggest a partiality, for he could not have known of the deception just at once, so surely—?” She sat down again abruptly. “It was mere kindness, was it not? He took pity on me, or perhaps he hoped to ingratiate himself with you, or—” A long pause, and then a sigh. Hanging her head, she went on, “It was no more than a light flirtation to him, I daresay. Something to amuse him, and give the plain companion some memories to warm her eternal spinsterhood.”

  “Oh no, dearest!” Rosemary said, shocked. “You are quite wrong, I am convinced of it, and Lord Kilbraith thinks so too. He is certain that Lord Humphrey likes you very much, that he has the greatest admiration for you. He let you drive his curricle, after all, and his wonderful matched pair, and what gentleman ever does that unless he is quite in love?”

  “That only makes it worse,” Hortensia said in a low voice. “If he loves me, then let him show it, instead of leaving me to wonder. Oh, how I hate these restrictions! A lady must never show her feelings, must always receive a gentleman’s advances with cool politeness and must never, ever be forward. So I cannot get rid of Mr Whittleton and I cannot promote my cause with Humphrey.”

  “Lord Humphrey, dear.”

  “Oh, yes. Lord Humphrey,” she said in a small voice. “Stand up, and I shall unfasten your gown, dearest. Let us go to our beds, and try to sleep.”

  ~~~~~

  Humphrey dismissed Billings, his nerves too jangled to listen to the valet’s grumblings about the state of his attire after a mere few hours of wear. The man would be happiest if Humphrey stood to attention in a corner all evening, as motionless as a suit of armour, for only then would he return satisfactorily unrumpled.

  Once the valet had left, radiating disapproval, Humphrey ripped off his coat and cravat, kicked off his shoes and shrugged himself into a robe. Moments later, even the robe was too much and was summarily tossed aside. He threw open the window, which Billings had closed, the night air being potentially injurious to his master’s health
. Even leaning out, however, the air felt close and sultry, and a few faint rumbles of thunder could be heard in the distance.

  He wished there would be a storm, for it would suit his mood admirably. Such a tempestuous day, his emotions tossed about like a small boat bobbing on a wild ocean. And then the awkward drive home, and the even more awkward apology to Julius for breaking his nose. Not for hitting him, though. He could not apologise for hitting a man who was annoying a lady. And after that, the whole dreary evening to be got through, with Hortensia pale but composed, not meeting his eye, and the family either chiding him for getting into a mill, or teasing him unmercifully. And one or two, hearing the tale, had said, “Miss Quayle, eh?” and looked at him curiously, and then at her, as if wondering what anyone might see in the mouse of a companion.

  All of it set him on edge, and the lingering heat was oppressive. There was nothing for it but to find a cooler spot, somewhere he could rest his troubled mind and consider what might be done. He padded through the dark corridors of the house, the shadows jumping about as his candle wavered. Then up into the gallery attics and up again, onto the roof above the library wing. The library itself had a pitched roof, but most of the central part of the house had a flat roof, the crenellated battlements lending themselves to many a secret tryst by night, while by day they were the scene of childish games involving imagined siege engines, trebuchets, bows and arrows and invading hordes of armoured knights from France or terrifying clansmen from Scotland.

  At this hour, however, the stout defending warriors were tucked up in their beds in the nursery wing, and even the trysting housemaids and footmen were sleeping before rising with the dawn. Humphrey was alone.

  At first he walked aimlessly about, first looking down into the fountain court, and then out over the main entrance, but eventually his steps let him to a point above the kitchen court, and here he halted. He knew where her room was, of course. There was a board below stairs with every guest’s room, and the maid or valet assigned to them, and he had just happened to be passing one day and had just happened to see her name. The rose room. Her friend was in the larger, more luxurious jasmine room with a view over the gardens, but Hortensia’s room looked out into the more prosaic kitchen court, and if he positioned himself just so, he could see her window…

  She was there. The window was wide open, and she had her arms resting on the sill. The moon was full on her, making her upturned face a pale ghost of the orb above, whitening her bare arms and her slender throat. Her dark hair tumbled about her face, and something glittered on her cheeks — was she crying? His heart twisted in sudden pain. Was this his fault? Had he distressed her so much that she, his strong, magnificent Hortensia, was reduced to tears again? He blinked away tears of his own.

  When he could see clearly again, she was gone.

  He strode about the roof, too agitated to care if he were seen. It was intolerable! He was miserable, she was miserable too — why should they not pursue their own happiness, like rational people? Why must they be bound by the petty constraints of society’s whims? What had she said? ‘I am your equal, Humphrey, in every way that matters.’ And so she was, and not merely his equal, for she was stronger, more daring even than he was. ‘I shall live my life as seems best to me.’ Such a grand philosophy. And perhaps with her two hundred thousand pounds, she could afford to cock a snook at the ton and live an independent life — a free life. How glorious that would be!

  Was it possible…? Did he dare to follow her lead and step outside the tight clasp of society’s arms? What would it be like to be free, not to care what anyone thought? He could not imagine it. But with every circuit of the roof, he grew more certain that he had to try. If he could just secure her hand — how happy they should be! What did anything else matter? Yes! He would do it! Tomorrow, he would dare to court Hortensia.

  The rumbles of thunder were drifting nearer, and the first fat drops of summer rain began to fall around him, kicking up the dust. He laughed out loud, and broke into a trot, and then a run. Before long, the rain was falling in earnest, a steady downpour that bubbled across the roof and gurgled into the drains. He ran faster, laughing, rain dripping down his face, his clothes clinging to him, until he was soaked and exhilarated and breathless. Then, still smiling, he dripped his way back to his room.

  ~~~~~

  This happy state of affairs lasted for precisely one night. Humphrey woke the next morning to all the same doubts that had assailed him the previous evening. How could he speak? Could he even be sure that she would welcome his advances? Had she really been crying? Perhaps they were tears of rage, not sorrow, or perhaps they arose from some other cause that had nothing to do with him. It was arrogant of him to presume that a lady’s happiness might depend solely on him.

  And then there was Carrbridge. As soon as he had heard of the deception, he had sought out Kilbraith to express his outrage at the ladies’ behaviour, and to apologise, as host, for allowing a guest to draw him in. Kilbraith had just laughed at him, and said that he had guessed it all long since, and could not find it in his heart to condemn Miss Blythe or Miss Quayle. But Carrbridge could and did, and when he got Humphrey on his own, had ranted about how lucky they were that he had not yet made an offer.

  “For it would be the most shameful thing to have such a deceitful person in the family. Kilbraith may not care, but he is Scottish and I daresay they have not the sensibilities of the English. For our own family, I could not countenance such a marriage. It would bring the greatest discredit to the Marford name, Humphrey, and I will not have us dragged through the mire, and people whispering about us. We have had our share of scandals, it is true, but always the most respectable sort — gambling and duels and mistresses and so forth. Nothing alarming in any of that. But I will not have anyone saying that this family was taken in by two trumpery girls from abroad and fooled into marriage.”

  “Would it be as dreadful as all that?” Humphrey said miserably. “Might it not be that the Marford name is strong enough to wipe away any stain?”

  “Do not even think about it,” Carrbridge had said sternly. “You are to keep well away from Miss Quayle… Miss Blythe…” He huffed in annoyance. “You see how awkward it is? One does not even know what to call either of them. Promise me, Humphrey… give me your word that you will not do anything foolish.”

  “Carrbridge…” He hesitated, then decided he had nothing to lose by being honest. “Carrbridge, would you keep me from the love of my life because of family pride?”

  His brother paused, looking at him intently. “Is that how it is? But if that is so, it will still be so in six months’ time, or a year. Let all this business die down, and then we will see, for I should not like you to be unhappy, you know. Give it a year, and Connie will bring her into society and if the lady behaves in a properly demure manner, as one new to society should do, then it will all be forgot. Then you may marry her with my goodwill, if you still wish it.”

  And Humphrey had had no option but to agree, and having given his word, he could not break it without deeply disappointing his brother. And yet… what of Hortensia? He was torn in two ways, his desire to be with her warring with his determination to follow his brother’s wishes.

  It was a most unaccustomed state for him. Humphrey Marford the gambler, the man who cast his stake instantly on the turn of a card, who set his horse at the highest wall or the widest ditch and never flinched from his course — yet now he dithered like a spinster, quite unable to see his way forward. If he followed his heart, he brought distress to his brother and shame to the family name. If he kept to his brother’s wishes, he might lose his one chance for happiness. Whatever was he to do?

  As he dressed, letting Billings’ scoldings about his sodden clothes rumble round his head without attending much, he reminded himself that he must endure only a few more days of this agony.

  When he was finally deemed sufficiently of credit to his valet to be released upon the world and allowed to go downstairs, he found C
onnie in a lather of excitement.

  “What do you think?” she said triumphantly. “Lord Kilbraith has written to his father, and the earl wishes him to take Miss Blythe directly to Scotland. No, Miss Quayle. Ah, but no, she must be Miss Blythe a little longer. But both the ladies are to go to Scotland, in fact.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But now you must get to the point with your lady, Humphrey. You have not much time left, unless you plan to chase after her all the way across the border.”

  “Connie, I—”

  “Never mind Lord Carrbridge, you know,” she whispered conspiratorially, smoothing the skirt of her riding habit. “He thinks only of honour, but love is much more important, so you must not have qualms. Faint heart never won fair lady and so forth. Who said that, was it Shakespeare?”

  “I do not think so. Connie, you must not—”

  “But you get on so well with her, Humphrey! And she is the one with the fortune, so you must see— Yes, yes, my dear, I am coming,” she said to the marquess, who was trying to urge her towards the stables for their morning ride. “Are you busy today, Humphrey? Will you call at Tambray Hall?”

  He pulled a face. “Must I? The Melthwaites are so dull.”

  “I know, but they are my aunt and uncle, you know, and they ask after you so pointedly whenever Lord Carrbridge and I call, and you know that Lady Melthwaite cannot go out now. Everyone else has paid a call, except you. Yes, yes, my dear, I shall be there directly! Please, Humphrey. Take Harriet with you, then it will not be so bad.”

  Humphrey was cast into even deeper gloom. The Melthwaites were possibly the most boring people he had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Once upon a time, he had managed very successfully to evade them, for despite being close neighbours, the Marfords had seldom visited and never dined there, inviting them once or twice a year to one of the larger entertainments at Drummoor so that their dreariness might be diluted in merrier company. In London it was possible to escape them almost entirely, or do no more than nod when passing on the stairs at a ball.