To Marry A Marquess (A Regency Romance)

by Teresa McCarthy

  The oxtail soup was served, and after a moment, Phoebe looked up. "They say he hardly smiles anymore."

  "Who?" Sarah asked. "The duke?"

  Phoebe shook her head. "No, his eldest son. Talk has it he resembles something of a pirate."

  Victoria choked, grabbing a glass of red wine to wash down her food. Pirate, indeed.

  She took another gulp of wine, recalling the only two pirates she had ever known, the mischievous one upstairs and the menacing one back at that inn.

  She flashed a tremulous grin in her aunt's direction. "A p-pirate? How utterly ridiculous." But as she spoke, she knew ridiculous was too tame a word. It was horrid.

  Phoebe frowned at Victoria's reaction. "I had no cause to upset you. How careless of me to mention the mother's accident."

  Victoria's parents had died in a carriage accident, but that had not been what upset her. She regained her composure and waved her hand in the air. "No. The soup. Went down the wrong way."

  Victoria caught Sarah's curious gaze. Her cousin would have to wait for answers because when the footman pulled the top off the platter of chicken, a green blob jumped into the air and struck the table with a thump. The footman leapt back in surprise and dumped the entire dish on top of Phoebe's head, tray and all.

  Phoebe shot straight out of her chair and screamed.

  The footman stammered an apology. "So very s-s-sorry, my lady. 'Tis only me working today, and well, I ain't been checking all the platters since ..."

  He wanted to say since the mischievous William returned home, Victoria thought with a smile, but the poor man's face turned three shades of red as he fought for a plausible explanation, helplessly dabbing at Phoebe's ruined gown.

  Victoria and Sarah sat covering their mouths with their hands, watching a huge frog hop down the lace tablecloth, teeter on the edge, then jump to the floor with a ferocious croak.

  Phoebe pushed the footman out of her way while she wiped a chicken leg off her gown. "WILLIAM!"

  A flash of white zoomed by the doors of the dining room.

  Victoria exchanged amused glances with Sarah. Phoebe pounded up the stairs, her voice echoing off the walls.

  "William! Do not think for one single minute that I did not see you down here, young man!"

  When Victoria slipped into bed that night, her mind whirled with thoughts of that pirate. He could not be the son of a duke. It was just not possible. She plumped her pillows into a soft mound, slamming her fists into the sides.

  She recalled the night she met Lord Nightham at the ball given by the dowager duchess. Could there have been a closer connection between Nightham and the duke? If so, then it seemed plausible that Nightham knew the duke's son—the pirate.

  Her stomach stirred with uneasiness as she pushed her feet further toward the foot of the bed. What if her pirate was indeed the duke's son?

  She flinched when something brushed across her feet. At the sound of a squeak, her eyes snapped open in horror. In the light of the moon, a white mouse scurried from beneath her covers, racing across the floor. She jumped from her bed and onto her vanity chair just as the hideous beast scampered back in her direction.

  "William!"

  Her door instantly swung open, and a small shadow hovered in the hallway.

  "What be all the shouting about, landlubber?" William's bare feet hit the floor in a string of happy thuds. "Oh," he said innocently, followed by a mischievous chuckle as he glanced up at her. "I see you have met me second in command, Cap'n Whitie."

  The boy hurried over to scoop the mouse into his hands. Then he turned to leave, but not before he sent her a devilish smile and a six-year-old's piece of advice. "Ye should know, pirates do not like being slobbered on," referring to her kiss in his bedchambers. "I should like it above all things if you do your kissing with your prince."

  Prince, indeed!

  Victoria watched in awe as the door closed behind him. Grimacing, she crawled off her chair and carefully tiptoed to her bed, palming the covers, feeling every crinkle and curve for anything that could be lurking about. She felt things that were not even there.

  Climbing back into bed, she cringed, not certain which pirate was worse, the big one or the little one. Nonetheless, what she did know about pirates vexed her to no end. They were odious creatures, every last one of them.

  That same evening, in the library of Percy Hall, the country home of his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Glenshire, Drake took a seat in the bottle-green wing chair beside the hearth. Surrounding him, rich wood wainscoting met with thick crimson carpets, giving the room a warmth much like the duchess herself.

  Drake thought of his grandmother fondly as he lifted a crystal decanter off the mahogany end table and splashed some Madeira into his glass. She was a woman of good taste and unconventional means. He could not thank her enough for showering Margueretta with love and giving his little girl a home, a place where Drake felt at home as well.

  A kind, gentle woman, the dowager never approved of his gallivanting about Town with the ladies, taking him away from his daughter for weeks at a time, and doing who knows what else. Gambling, fencing, boxing, you name it, he did it. But she had always loved him, the only woman besides his mother and daughter who ever had.

  Crossing one well-polished boot over the other, Drake swirled his drink and took a sip, reflecting upon the recent turn of events that had turned his life upside down. He could not forget that mahogany-haired goddess from the inn and wondered if he ever would.

  He tilted his head toward the fireplace, blinking against the reddish-orange flames dancing before him, flames that reminded him of both her hair and her temperament. He pulled out his watch, then slipped the timepiece back into his pocket.

  A heaviness centered in his chest when he thought about Nightham. The funeral had been brief with a small piece in the paper. Nothing had been said about the woman. Only that the earl had died from a footpad's knife. There had been rumors, but nothing that amounted to anything. And it grated on Drake's nerves to have the bounder responsible for Nightham's death still about.

  Drake had paid well to ensure his friend's privacy and to avoid a scandal that would affect Nightham's mother. He also had spent a good deal of time and money discreetly searching for Lady Victoria with no luck. The female seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, or at least from London.

  He could only guess that Nightham had met her in Town. At a ball perhaps? A soiree? Through mutual friends?

  Sighing, he placed his glass down and rubbed the back of his neck. The strain from the search for the woman and the death of his friend had begun to take a toll on him. Despite the fact that the woman had eluded him, he would never give up.

  Confound it. He had made a promise. Yet in the back of his mind he knew there was another reason for seeking her out, but he refused to search that part of his heart. Never again.

  "Papa! Papa!"

  Drake smiled as Margueretta rushed through the doors and into the library.

  "Papa, you thaid, you would give me a horthy ride."

  "Did I now?" He nuzzled her neck, taking in the sweet scent of rosewater that lingered on her skin. "Last time I saw you, the horsy ride was very short if I remember correctly."

  "You had to help a friend."

  Drake thought about Nightham and grimaced. "Did you receive the gift I left for you in your bedchambers?"

  "Yeth, Papa. Thank you." Her small white hand pulled out a tiny locket that hung around her neck. "It tickth, Papa. Lithen. Tick. Tick. Tick. I will keep it forever and ever and ever." She threw her hands around his neck in a tight squeeze. "Will you find that thpecial clock, will you, Papa?"

  "It's being made in a place very far away, poppet."

  "And will thith," she pulled at the locket timepiece, "be part of your thpecial thingth too." Her dark gaze looked hopeful.

  Drake gently tapped her nose. "Yes, but you will have to guard it very, very closely for me. Can you do that?"

  Her eyes lit u
p with pride. "Oh, I will, Papa. I will. I promith, I will hold it forever and ever."

  Drake's heart skipped a beat every time he looked at his child. "How would you like a ride to London on Papa's back?"

  Margueretta let out a gleeful gasp and clapped her hands. "Yeth. Yeth. To London, to London, my horthy."

  Smiling, Drake pulled off his jacket, tugged at his neckcloth, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, rolling up his shirtsleeves. "Ready, my lady?"

  Margueretta giggled. "Ready, Lord Horthy."

  Drake hunched down on all fours while laughing

  Margueretta jumped onto his back, holding onto his mane of black hair.

  "Whoa," she yelled, her little bottom bouncing up and down in the air. "Whoa," she giggled again.

  "Almost there." Drake trotted toward the open doors to the hall. "Grab tight, my lady."

  "Now, what have we here?" a male voice sounded in the hall, sending Drake's four hooves grinding to a halt.

  Drake groaned, focusing his eyes on two sets of Hessian boots reflecting back up at him. His gaze followed tan breeches clinging to two pairs of muscular legs. The devil. His brother James and his friend Foxcroft had come to call.

  "Papa'th giving me a ride," Margueretta squealed.

  Twenty-two-year-old James laughed as he bent down to give Margueretta a kiss. "Papa's giving you riding lessons for the circus?" He paused to stare at Drake. "And neigh to you horsy."

  Drake glared at his brother. No doubt, the two men were here about Nightham, and from the looks on their faces they weren't leaving until they had some answers.

  "Can I play horsy, too?" James said, patting Drake's black hair, a shade darker than his own. "See here. I can be the front of the horse." He quirked a brow toward Drake. "And you dear brother, you can be the other part of the horse. By Jove, what an idea! You ... you can be yourself!"

  The two hovering men hooted with laughter.

  "Come here, Gretta," the other man said, whipping the girl off her now thoroughly disgusted horse. Twenty-five-year-old Viscount Foxcroft hoisted her into the air, catching her in his arms. The sandy-haired man had been friend of both Drake and James since childhood.

  "Weeeeee," Margueretta squealed. "Do that again, Foxth."

  "Here we go, Cabbage. But watch out for Lord Horsy. He might give us a swift kick in the you know what and send us flying into the wall."

  Fox, James, and Margueretta cackled with laughter.

  Drake rose to greet the men while brushing the dust off his breeches. When he gave them a glare that sent most men scrambling for cover, the laughter stopped abruptly. Although the two men were by no means small, Drake hovered over them by a few extra inches.

  "What in the—" Drake looked down at his smiling daughter and bit back a curse "—world are you two doing here?"

  "What indeed?" James held a teasing glint in his warm brown eyes, then glanced at Fox. "Daresay, word has it around London there was a horse for sale here and we came to inspect it." He sniffed the air and moved closer to Drake. "By Jove, smells like a barn in here."

  Margueretta let out a giggling snort as Fox dropped her to the floor. No sooner had James opened his mouth than both men started poking and prodding Drake from head to toe as though he were a horse for sale.

  Fox cleared his throat. "Ah, this one could be sold at Tattersall's at a fair price. Do you not think so, Lord James?"

  Margueretta giggled, throwing her hands to her knees as Fox attempted to check the inside of Drake's mouth. "Oh, but I see he's a stubborn one, he is. What say you, Lady Margueretta?"

  The little girl nodded and laughed. "Thubborn!"

  Drake clamped his mouth tight. He gave them his most contemptuous glower, knowing Margueretta was loving every second of it.

  "Oh, Uncle Foxth." Margueretta pulled at the viscount's blue brocade jacket. Her big brown eyes regarded all three of them as if they were very stupid men. "He ith not a horth. That ith my papa. You call him... Drake."

  Drake's name came out as Dwake, and his eyes twinkled as he met the amused gazes of the other two men.

  Minutes later, after Dwake had galloped his daughter to her waiting nanny, he rejoined the two gentlemen in the library.

  Drake reached for the crystal decanter and turned to them. "Not in London chasing the ladies? But the Season has begun, gentlemen. I cannot fathom the reason behind your visit, for you will have only the pleasure of my company tonight."

  He raised an inquisitive brow, searching for a sarcastic reply, but there was none.

  "You must know about Nightham." James stood, his fists tightening at his sides. "The story is all over London that his body was sent back from that inn. And from what I can deduce from your servants in Town, you took off in a hurry that same day he was found dead. You were there, were you not? Why the devil did you not tell us? The funeral was over before we came back from Brighton!"

  Drake leaned against his desk and sipped from his glass. "True. All true. You must have seen the papers."

  "True?" Fox shot up from his seat beside the fireplace. "Nightham was our friend, too! You should have sent word to us right away. Dash it all! The man was murdered!"

  Sitting on the corner of the desk, Drake tipped the last of the liquid down his throat, wondering what to say.

  "Drake?" James demanded. "What happened?"

  Drake peered back at the men as a handful of embers snapped in the hearth. He slipped off his desk and retreated into the leather chair behind it, his mind clouding with the memories of that disturbing night. Grief still cut deep into his heart.

  "Nightham was knifed. I found him behind the inn."

  Grimacing, Fox leaned forward. "Thought it was something like that. Probably saw something he shouldn't have." He paused, frowning. "Rumors are flying at White's that Nightham had a special license on him. What about the woman?"

  Drake's brows shot up in surprise. Rumors at White's?

  Fox narrowed his gaze on Drake. "By Jove, I knew it all along. Nightham had no brains when it came to females. An inn in a small village. What else would the nodcock be doing? He was always a bit sneaky, you know. Tell us. What of this female? I demand an answer."

  "You demand an answer, do you?" Drake's tone was cool as he leaned forward, glaring back at his friend. "Nightham is dead and you demand an answer!"

  "Enough." James threw his hands in the air, separating the two. His brown eyes widened in surprise as Drake and Fox sank back in their seats.

  Drake frowned, recalling the entire escapade with Nightham and Lady Victoria. He could still smell the rosewater from his daughter's bath lingering on his shirt. The scent made him think of the woman, and that made him think things he had no right to think.

  "Nightham did not marry her," he said, avoiding their gaze and biting back a curse. The lady had slipped through his fingers as easily as oil through a crack.

  "At least there's one blessing in all of this," Fox said. "Should save his mother some grief. Poor soul. But who is this mysterious woman?"

  A muscle twitched in Drake's jaw. "She disappeared. Scared, I think."

  "Disappeared?" both men replied.

  "Disappeared," Drake said, shifting his gaze toward the dying fire. He had told them too much already, and as much as he hated to confess the rest, it was almost impossible to stop now. He owed that much to Nightham.

  Fox leaned back in his chair. "Man always had an eye for the pretty ones. He had a downright gem on his hands, did he?"

  "I say," James replied thoughtfully. "The woman didn't just disappear. She gave you the slip, didn't she?"

  Drake glared at his brother.

  James stared back, a teasing glint in his brown eyes. "Well, who would have known? You wanted the woman for yourself, but she didn't want you. Isn't that so, big brother?"

  "Shut up, James. You go too far."

  "Do I? Your latest flirts have been beautiful, yet they have all gone after you. But what of this mysterious lady? Did she love Nightham then?"

  Drake clenched his t
eeth. Did she love Nightham? He was wondering the same thing himself. "It was not that way at all. I made a promise to Nightham."

  As the night progressed Drake eventually furnished the details to the two gentlemen about Nightham's death and the promise he made. He knew James and Fox would keep the information in confidence. They knew the lady involved was comely in her own right, but that was as far as Drake went on her description, conveniently leaving out the lady's hair color. Fox had a fetish for reddish-brown locks.

  When the men stood up to leave, James turned to his brother. "Ah, almost forgot."

  "What now?" Thoroughly exhausted, Drake frowned as they made their way to the front door.

  "Father's to be in London next week."

  "And that is supposed to thrill me?" As if he wanted to know where his father was all the time?

  "So ..." James whisked his hat off the hall table.

  "So?" Drake stepped toward the door.

  Miles, the butler, handed them their cloaks. Fox sidestepped the brothers, but Drake had distinctly heard the man's muted chuckle.

  "So," James threw one foot over the threshold and glanced over his shoulder, "I did come here to find out about Nightham, but I daresay, thought you would like to see who your stepmother is going to be." Without any further explanation, James turned around and closed the door behind him.

  Drake whipped open the door. "What the blazes are you talking about?"

  James looked up. "The new duchess-to-be. She stayed here at Percy Hall while you were gallivanting about Town. Grandmother knows all about her."

  "The devil, you say?"

  James threw back his head and laughed. "No, but she is a beautiful, well-bred widow, if my sources are correct."

  "And who are your sources?"

  "Father, of course."

  When James finally took his leave, Drake mounted the oak staircase, retreating to his bedchambers. "A blasted widow!"

  "Jonathan."

  Drake's gaze shifted down the hall. The Dowager Duchess of Glenshire emerged from her bedchambers. She was a small woman dressed in a pristine white robe buttoned to her neck.