A Ring From a Marquess

by Christine Merrill

  For all she knew, this woman was the one who had set the town buzzing about her disgraceful behaviour and brought Justine and Will down upon her like hounds on a hare. If so, she had best hope that Margot was not about to become Lady Fanworth, for there would be hell to pay.

  ‘I wish to speak to Lord Fanworth. In the drawing room, please. Or wherever it is he receives guests,’ Margot said, offering an equally aloof expression.

  The housekeeper let out a dismissive sniff to remind her that they both knew why she was not familiar with the proper, public rooms of my lord’s apartments. Then she took Margot down a short hall to the salon, not bothering with an offer of refreshments before she shut the door.

  A short time later it opened again, and Fanworth appeared. He did not bother to bow. ‘Margot?’ He greeted her with that strange, soft pronunciation that went right under her skin and made her shiver, even on a warm summer day. But it was not dread she felt. It was anticipation.

  Damn him. Even as she knew the truth about him, she could not help wanting him more than a little. She did not bother answering. Suppose there was an unexpected softness in her own voice as she spoke his name in return? ‘I have just been speaking with my sister and brother-in-law.’

  ‘Lord William,’ he responded with a nod.

  ‘And I have been informed that I must either wring a proposal out of you, or it is pistols at dawn.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Easy enough.’ He went down on one knee. ‘Would you do me the honour of accepting my offer of marriage?’ He delivered the proposal with such unemotional precision that, for a moment, she did not even understand the words. Then, just for a moment, she thought she saw a twitch at the corner of his lip. Behind that frosty façade, he was laughing at her. So she laughed in response, aloud and without kindness.

  He looked up at her in surprise. ‘I amuse you?’

  ‘Because you can’t be serious,’ she said, sure that it was so.

  ‘I am,’ he said, just as sombre. ‘Unless you wish to see me fight Felkirk.’

  ‘Of course I do not,’ she said. ‘We will explain to William that there is no reason for that. What I did, I…I did of my own free will. It is over now. The less said about it, the better.’

  ‘Technically, it is not,’ he said, still sombre. ‘We agreed on four. Once is not four.’

  ‘Twice,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing happened that night,’ he said. ‘It is not fair of you to count it.’

  ‘I have no idea what happened,’ she replied. ‘Because I was inebriated. You should know that. You were the one plying me with spirits.’

  ‘Champagne is hardly a spirit.’

  ‘Even worse. It is an aphrodisiac,’ she argued.

  ‘Not an effective one,’ he countered. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Then I am glad of it. I would rather go to gaol than to lay with you again,’ she said in frustration. ‘Look at the trouble a single time has caused me.’

  ‘A marriage will stop the tattle. The rest…’ He paused, as though he had suddenly lost his train of thought. Then he gave a helpless shrug. ‘…can be settled after the wedding.’

  ‘But I do not want to marry you,’ she said.

  ‘Then I must fight Felkirk,’ he said with a sigh and stood up, brushing the dust from the knees of his breaches.

  ‘The devil you will,’ she said, at the end of her patience. ‘I will not risk you shooting my sister’s husband because of me.’ Or being shot himself. Though she loathed the man, she could raise no pleasure at the thought of him bleeding on the ground.

  ‘It is a matter of honour. Such a challenge cannot be ignored.’

  ‘Your honour, or mine?’ she said. ‘And what does William have to do with any of it?’

  ‘B-B…’ He took a breath. ‘Yours and mine. Felkirk’s as well. You are of his family…’

  ‘A distant part, surely.’

  ‘Near enough to matter.’

  ‘Well, do not shoot him. I will give you whatever you want.’

  ‘I was thinking swords,’ he said, ignoring her offer. ‘As the one who was challenged, I choose the weapon. There is an advantage to fighting with the left hand.’ He gave an experimental lunge.

  She tried not to notice his tight calves and the rippling of muscle beneath his coat.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said in a low breath.

  ‘Unfortunately, I am legitimate,’ he replied, rising and sheathing an imaginary sword.

  ‘If you had not run Mr Pratchet off, I could have married him,’ she said.

  He looked surprised. ‘You want him instead?’

  ‘He was concerned for me.’ And the shop, of course. That had been his real concern all along. But if she’d have married him, she’d have had to share his bed. Even now, the thought sent a chill through her. ‘Marrying Mr Pratchet would have been the logical thing to do.’

  ‘And you are a shining example of feminine logic,’ said Fanworth, expressionless.

  ‘I thought I had no choice.’

  ‘You could have married me,’ he suggested.

  ‘You had not asked,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I have now. I await your answer.’

  He was being sarcastic to goad her. She responded in kind. ‘Why would you want to marry the thief who stole your mother’s necklace? Is the punishment we agreed on no longer enough?’

  ‘You did not take the necklace,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for having accused you.’

  Now she had found the flaw in his logic. ‘You knew that all along. Because you were the one to take it.’

  ‘I am innocent as well.’

  ‘You? Innocent? I cannot think of a less accurate word to describe you,’

  He shrugged. ‘In this case, it is accurate.’

  ‘I do not believe you. It is but another lie. You have told many of those, since I met you, I cannot keep track of them.’

  ‘Think as you will. Today I speak true.’

  She sighed, wishing it were true. Then it might still be possible to trust him. ‘It makes no difference now, whether you are lying or not. What’s been done cannot be undone.’

  ‘Then why not turn it to your advantage?’

  ‘By marrying you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It did not sound like help at all. It sounded like the world would think her a title hunter, instead of just a whore. ‘I would be the only marchioness with a jewellery shop of her own,’ she finished glumly.

  ‘Eventually you would be a d-duchess,’ he added, displaying more vulnerability than she had seen in ages.

  ‘That would make it worse.’

  Just for a moment, she saw another flicker of his old smile, as if the man she had always wanted was still there, hiding beneath the surface. Had this not been her fantasy, when he’d first visited the shop? That he would see past the difference in their different stations and want to wed her?

  That had been nothing more than a dream. This was real, and nothing at all like she’d imagined. How could she explain to Justine that the reality was not what she wanted?

  There were no words that would help. Her sister saw no further than her own miserable past and would be ecstatic at the prospect of such a marriage.

  And the Marquess of Fanworth was still standing before her, awaiting her answer.

  ‘What will your father say?’ she said, grasping at straws.

  His response was little more than the slightest twitch of an eyelid and a brief statement. ‘It does not signify.’ He might not care. He was annoyed that she had asked. But the silence accompanying it spoke loud enough. His family would not like it.

  She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, praying that when she opened them again, she would see some other solution to the situation at hand. ‘You are adamant, then. We marry, or you duel.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are willing to marry me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the only thing preventing a resolution to your argument with Will
…’

  ‘To Felkirk’s argument with me,’ he corrected.

  ‘The only thing preventing a resolution…’ she repeated.

  ‘Is you.’ His response was so gentle that, with her eyes closed, she could swear it was Stephen Standish who had spoken.

  But then she opened her eyes and saw the cool, aloof Marquess of Fanworth, staring back at her as though he could see the chair behind her. Of course he would marry her. It meant that she would be back in his bed without the inconvenience of clandestine meetings and gossiping staff.

  He had tricked her. Again.

  She glared at him. ‘Very well, then. Since I have no choice in the matter, I will accept. Send word through Lord William when you have the licence and we will put an end to this nonsense. Until then, I do not wish to see you or speak to you, or receive notes, letters, gifts or anything else. And for God’s sake, stop wandering past my shop, gaping in the windows at me. It is distracting to me and to my customers. And now, good day.’

  * * *

  It had not gone as he’d hoped.

  Of course, Stephen had hoped, when down on his knees before the woman he loved, he’d have been able to come up with words a little more stirring than a brief proposal. At least he could have managed a better apology for his mistreatment of her.

  I did not mean to dishonour you. I promised there would be no gossip. I did not give the necklace to Pratchet. It was my brother…

  There were other ways to say those things, he was sure. But when he opened his mouth to tell her, his mind was awash with impossible consonants. And as it always did, his tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth until he could say practically nothing.

  Then he smiled. It had gone wrong. But all the same, she had agreed to wed him. He would get the licence, reserve the Abbey and make all things ready. Then, once they were properly joined in matrimony, he would take her back to his bed and demonstrate the sincerity of his affection in a physical way that did not become muddled when he most needed it to be clear.

  When she had been properly loved and realised that he could buy her the contents of a dozen jewellery shops, she would see his side of things. There would be no more nonsense about the inconvenience of having a title. She would take her proper place in society. And all of London would take one look at her and fall at her dainty feet.

  Once she realised that she was happy, she would smile at him again. He would be able to speak freely to her, just as he used to. They would declare their love. And their life together would be as he’d imagined it, from the first moment he’d met her. Perfection.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘My lord, his Grace is waiting for you in the salon.’ The butler in Fanworth’s London town house announced the visitor with the barest trace of sympathy, for he knew of the strained relations between peer and heir. Stephen had hoped that his visit to the city to get a special licence would pass unnoticed. Obviously, this was not the case.

  Usually, he made it a point to avoid any city where Larchmont was staying. The duke remained in London long past the point when fashionable people had quit it for summer. So of course, Stephen spent early summer in Bath. By the time Larchmont arrived to take the water and bathe his gout, Stephen would be on his way to Derbyshire again. If the duke came home for Christmas, Stephen went to London. So passed the year.

  Because of his impending marriage, a temporary intersection of their schedules was inevitable. But Stephen had hoped that it would be postponed until after the ceremony when there was less the duke could do to influence matters. Still, if it occurred now, his bride might be spared the meeting with her father-in-law until the man had grown used to the idea. ‘Thank, you,’ he answered to the butler. Then he braced himself for battle as the servant opened the door to the receiving room.

  Larchmont had aged. But who had not? It had been nearly five years since their last meeting. His hair was more grey than brown and the lines on his face had deepened. Five years ago, the ebony walking stick he always carried had been little more than a vanity. But as the door opened, he was using it for support. When he realised he had been caught in a show of weakness, the duke straightened and twirled it in his hand as if to prove that it had been nothing more than momentary fatigue.

  Stephen did not bother with a greeting. He had learned long ago that to speak was to open himself to ridicule. As a child, he’d had no choice in the matter. But now that he was a grown man, he did not have to put up with it in his own house. He stood before the duke and offered a respectful, but silent bow.

  His father dispensed with cordiality as well and went immediately to the matter at hand. ‘I suppose you know why I am here.’

  ‘No idea,’ Stephen replied, with an insolent shrug.

  ‘The word is all over London that you have gone to Doctors’ Commons for a special licence. You mean to be married. To some shop girl in Bath.’

  The temptation was there to offer correction about Margot’s position. Shopkeeper would have been a more accurate term. Since it would not have changed his father’s opinion, Stephen held his tongue.

  ‘I forbid it.’

  ‘I am of age,’ Stephen said, without raising his tone.

  ‘It does not matter. You should act in regard to my wishes, since you continue to spend the money I send you.’

  How like his father, to bring up the stipend he was awarded each month. The money was largely symbolic. He had long ago learned to invest his inheritance in such a way that a supplement was not needed. ‘I will manage without,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean to give back the house as well? You live quite comfortably on my estate in Derbyshire. Perhaps it would be better if I put it up for rent.’

  It would be dashed inconvenient. Stephen had grown quite fond of that house and the properties around it. Though the income generated went into his father’s pocket, he had been acting as landlord since his majority and considered it almost his own.

  But he would relinquish it if he must. He chose the counter-attack most likely to madden his pater familias. ‘Then I shall have to live off my wife’s money. She owns her shop. It is quite successful.’

  His father gave a growl, part-frustration, and part-anguish. ‘No Standish has ever needed to marry for money.’

  As far as Stephen could tell, none had married for love either. ‘I shall be the first,’ he said, answering both conditions.

  ‘You bring shame upon our good name,’ his father said, in disgust,

  ‘So you always tell me,’ Stephen replied.

  ‘I should have drowned you like a puppy, the minute I realised you were foolish. Instead, I endured years of your squalling and yammering and stuh-stuh-stuttering. When I think of the heir I could have had…’

  Which meant Arthur, he supposed. He was the son that Larchmont deserved: drunken, dishonest and disrespectful. But at least he had a silver tongue to talk his way out of the trouble he caused. ‘It was not my request to be spawned by you. Nor to be first. Though I share your regret, I cannot change it.’

  ‘But you could modify your behaviour,’ the duke suggested. ‘As you did your abominable penmanship.’

  If he was not careful to wear gloves in summer, the sun still brought out the white scar across his knuckles that marked the reason Stephen had finally learned to use his right hand to make his letters. God knew what his father intended to break to improve his taste in women. ‘I am satisfied with the way things are,’ he said, with a calm that was sure to annoy Larchmont.

  ‘Because you are an idiot. And like all idiots, you cannot control your lust. Tear up the licence, give this girl a bank draft and send her away. Then, perhaps we can find someone from a decent family who is thick-witted enough to have you.’

  Stephen could think of a myriad of responses to this, involving his marks at Oxford, the shrewdness of his investments and the circumspection he employed when navigating the slew of marriage-minded young ladies who were more than willing to overlook his speech impediment for a chance to be the next Duchess
of Larchmont. And then, of course, there was the genuine feeling he had for the woman his father wished him to cast off.

  But as it always did, after a few minutes arguing with his father he could feel his tongue tiring. It was ready to slur or stick on even the simplest words, as it had done when he was a child. So he remained silent.

  His father held a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that, boy? I did not hear your answer.’

  So he gave the only one necessary. ‘No.’

  The old man glared at him in shock. ‘I beg your pardon? I do not get your meaning.’

  At this, Stephen laughed. ‘And you call me idiot. Even I understand a word of one syllable.’ It would feel good to say it again, so he did. ‘No.’

  ‘You seriously mean to defy me in this?’ his father said, as always surprised that the world did not turn at his pleasure.

  ‘Yes.’ The fight was grinding to a halt, as it always did, when he had run out of words. Though the duke sometimes made up for the silence with one last, protracted rant, Stephen was down to monosyllables and weighty silence. He stared at the old man, barely blinking, with the same look of disdain he used on the rest of England. It was an expression that said that the person before him had nothing more of interest to contribute. The unfortunate presence would be borne with as little patience as was necessary, until the interloper withdrew.

  The look was one of the least painful lessons he had received from his father. He had been on the receiving end of it since he’d said his first, malformed words. He had learned to ignore it. While a glare might frighten, it did not hurt nearly as much as a stout cane across the knuckles. But he had learned to use it as well. Now, he was every bit as skilled at hauteur as his father.

  The duke was not impressed. ‘Do not think to turn stubborn on me now. Call off this wedding or I will see that you and your bride are banned from society.’

  What hardship would that be? he wondered. He had no use for society and Margot had not yet been introduced to the people who might snub her. ‘As you will.’ Then he continued to fix his father with the direct stare that informed him that the conversation was at an end.

  The duke stared back at him, in a silent battle of wills.