The Reluctant Marquess

by Maggi Andersen

  Without her consent, he would lose a fortune.

  She suspected he was far too used to getting his own way. Aristocrats were spoilt from birth. Hadn’t her father always said so?

  Why the marquess had wished this union she couldn’t fathom. Surely he would have wanted someone titled for his nephew? She couldn’t think of it now. The long exhausting trip, the shock of his words, plus the wine had all taken their toll; she simply had to sleep. Her eyelids drooped, and she had trouble focusing on his face.

  She put down her napkin and rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord—”

  “Robert,” she said hesitatingly. It felt odd to say it. “I believe I’ll retire.”

  “The footman will show you to your bedchamber.” He seized the bell and rang it with the same energy he applied to everything he did. It made her think of him as a prospective lover, and her eyes widened.

  “Good night, Charity.” He made an elegant bow.

  Charity gathered up her skirts and curtseyed, hoping she appeared as graceful as he, but doubting it. She was too short for imposing gestures. Resigned, she followed the footman from the room, up the winding staircase and down a long corridor hung with tapestries and impressive works of art to a heavy oak door.

  Her chamber, filled with solid mahogany furniture, echoed with the ocean’s loud roar that filtered through the arched leaded windows. A young maid waited in attendance. A pile of Charity’s faded gowns lay over a chair. Charity was gripped again with embarrassment and consternation. Her father had been an academic, far better at verse than investments.

  “You’ve unpacked my trunk. What is your name?”

  “Rebecca, Miss Barlow.” The sturdy, fresh-faced maid bobbed, her brown curls bouncing against creamy-skinned cheeks.

  “Thank you, Rebecca.”

  Charity went to the fire to warm her hands, cold again after negotiating the chilly corridors. The carved mahogany tester bed festooned with royal blue velvet hangings beckoned enticingly.

  Rebecca closed the windows and pulled the thick velvet drapery, and the sounds of the sea muffled to a dull roar. She assisted Charity out of her gown and unlaced her stays. Then she withdrew after saying a quiet goodnight.

  Discarding her shift and panniers, Charity washed herself from head to toe at a basin of lukewarm water with sweet-smelling soap. Shivering, she toweled herself dry and donned her nightgown. She plaited her hair and climbed into bed to discover a warm brick at her feet. She settled back against the headboard with a moan of delight.

  Her thoughts turned to the marquess — Robert. She needed to remind herself to call him by his name. Not only would it put them on equal footing, apparently, but if all went according to his well-laid out plan, he was to be her husband. Her heart raced with the idea and she had no idea why. Was it fear? Excitement?

  He certainly was a handsome man, and she knew she could do far worse. What other course of action was open to her? A governess perhaps? She felt sorry for governesses. She’d often seen them lurking in corners at social gatherings like poor relations. Well, she was rather like a poor relation herself. If she refused Robert, he would lose a substantial part of his fortune. Could she be responsible for such a thing? It would be foolish for them both to lose out, when they might gain something valuable by it.

  “My husband, Robert,” she said to the empty room.

  The sound of her voice was followed not by the warm emotion that should come with the thoughts of a husband, but a quiver of alarm. Her tired mind failed to supply answers to any of her questions. His visage kept getting in the way. Were his eyes more blue than green? What sort of man was he? His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw made him look strong and determined. But there was something about him that worried her. As if he’d donned a metaphorical knight’s armour for protection. He seemed so stiff and formal, and that was not at all the kind of man she’d planned to marry. She had had quite a clear vision of what her future husband would be like. Someone kind, and quite desperately in love with her. Someone brave who would fight her battles for her like a chivalrous knight.

  She sighed heavily, disturbed by the thought of becoming a marchioness. She had not been prepared for that role, particularly to a man she didn’t know and was not entirely sure she liked. She’d expected to toss and turn all night, but sleep claimed her as soon as snuggled down farther into the comfortable bed and nestled her head on the feather pillow.

  Robert returned to the library and splashed a liberal portion of brandy into a tumbler. He sat down at the desk again, and Felix settled at his feet. He’d never owned a dog, because his parents didn’t like them, but he found that he did. He wasn’t fond of this place though. The castle was too isolated and far too drafty, but the old man had loved it here. The climate was superior, but good society was scarce and it was dull. It could offer nothing to equal life in London. His uncle had given him love and support when others had failed him. Robert fully intended to honour his memory and make him proud, but if his uncle had believed this would improve his character, intending it as some kind of a test, he was asking a great deal of him.

  He leant down and absently patted the dog. The thought that his uncle might not have been of sound mind when he made his will was quickly banished as disloyal. He shook his head, bemused. He should be outraged that such a trick had been played on him, but he couldn’t find it in himself because he knew his uncle had loved him. It might have been driven by his uncle’s disapproval of Millicent, the only thing he’d shared with Robert’s parents.

  Robert shrugged and went to add wood to the fire. He stood close to the burgeoning heat as if it might melt the tense knot in his chest. It mattered not whom he took to wife. Society beauty, Millicent Burrowdale, who set the ton on its ear, had rejected him for a Nabob’s son. Her choice of husband was neither titled nor distinguished, but was heir to one of the richest men in England.

  And at that time, Robert had had little to offer her. It seemed that all women were calculating, and that small, sweet-faced young woman asleep upstairs would most likely prove to be the same when put to the test. It would be a shame to see that happen, for her eyes gazed into his with honesty and a frankness he liked.

  He liked too, that her pretty, greenish-hazel eyes tilted up at the corners in a most intriguing way below straight brows.

  He returned to his desk and picked up his pen. The mountain of paper had barely grown smaller. His uncle had vast interests in several businesses. There was an iron works in Birmingham and a pottery factory on the lands of his Great Aunt’s estate in Vauxhall. Not to mention the two estates with tenant farmers. His uncle, while liking the idea of business, did not embrace the more practical side of things. The actual running of them he left to others. Consequently, Robert had inherited a fine mess to sort out, and would have to visit each one to make sure the staff, most particularly the stewards and estate managers, were up to the mark.

  Robert had been gratified to see that St Malin Castle was well run. Although his uncle had discussed business with him and attempted to prepare him for the responsibilities which lay ahead, Robert felt the absence of him sorely and the weight rested uncomfortably on his shoulders. He felt as if his life had been thrown into total chaos. Despite obtaining a first in mathematics at Oxford, he felt totally unprepared for what lay ahead of him. And now a marriage to a stranger to contend with.

  He threw down the pen and took a liberal pinch of snuff, admiring the large ruby on the quaint silver box, engraved with a stout pig, which had belonged to his uncle. It was so like his uncle to have such a thing made. The pig was a delightful jest at what he perceived as the shallow habits of the ton, although he enjoyed his own special mixture of tobacco. Robert flicked snuff from his coat, preferring to mull over his bride-to-be, than what lay on the desk before him.

  There was nothing for it, but to accept what lay ahead with as much grace as he could muster. Charity’s appearance and bearing would improve considerably with a more fashionable and costlier w
ardrobe.

  He had not been blind to her charms beneath the shabby, old-fashioned clothes, although no matter how she dressed, she would never equal Millicent’s tall, graceful beauty. He had studied Charity over the dinner table. Her unpowdered honey-coloured locks, tied up with a green ribbon, had curled around shell-like ears. When startled, those large hazel eyes appeared greener. She was every inch an innocent country girl, completely unaware that the way she bit her full provocative bottom lip stirred his loins.

  It had annoyed him at the time, until he realized it would serve to make the act of producing an heir far more pleasant. Yes, he was more than willing to bed her, but he would have to go gently. She might become too dependent on him too quickly. Even though she’d refused him, as was the fashion, he felt confident that she would agree to the marriage, and would be easily managed.

  Her family was unimpeachable, although poor as church mice. He smiled. His eccentric uncle didn’t care for the rest of his own kind; he’d thought most aristocrats too lazy and dependent on others to care for them, and at times too inbred. Indeed it was unusual but his uncle had admired all forms of endeavor, from poets to inventors. He had talked at length of James Watt’s invention of a steam-engine to work a mine-pump and had often said he wished he’d lived a more productive life.

  Could it be this reason he’d chosen Charity? Did he feel a more satisfactory life could be had with someone like her? His uncle might have asked him. Robert would have been happy to set him straight. A man could go about his business without needing a wife at his side, surely, although an heir and a spare was necessary, of course.

  He added more brandy to his glass. A wedding as soon as possible would be wise, and hopefully an heir would quickly follow. Perhaps she was the perfect choice. This unsophisticated young woman would never have the wherewithal to get under his skin or have the power to hurt him as Millicent had done.

  Once married and his heir secured, the estates and businesses in perfect order, he could return to the caresses of his accomplished mistress and the life he enjoyed in London.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Charity woke when Rebecca entered the bedchamber bearing a cup of steaming hot chocolate. She sipped it while the maid pulled the draperies, then threw open the window. The sun streamed into the room, carrying with it a strong briny smell of the sea. From her bed, Charity saw a wide blue sky and heard the cries of the sea birds. She stretched, feeling invigorated and ready to tackle whatever the day had in store. Perhaps it was best not to examine too closely what that might be.

  “I’ll wear the blue damask, Rebecca.”

  Throwing back the covers, Charity went to the window and perched on the window seat, gazing out. Below, a smooth green lawn ran down to the rocky foreshore. The deep violet-blue sea sparkled in the sunlight, so different to yesterday. About to turn away, she paused when she saw a horse and rider cross the grass, followed by Felix with his tongue lolling. Robert, astride a black stallion. A strange nervous tension settled low in her stomach. Perhaps she needed breakfast.

  Flicking her long plait over her shoulder, Charity began to undo it. Her hair was too long to be stylish, she knew.

  “Can you do something about my hair, Rebecca?”

  “Why yes, miss. I’ve quite a way with hair, I’m told.”

  Charity settled in front of the mirror, and the maid began to brush her hair. Fashion had not concerned her much before. Tucked away in their small community, she’d felt little pressure to follow fashion trends. Now it became a source of anxiety. She wasn’t at all sure what a lady should wear on any given occasion. She sucked in her breath. She was certain to make a mistake and embarrass herself and her new husband.

  If he became her husband, that is.

  An hour later, Charity entered the breakfast room, patting her hair and feeling a little more confident. Robert sat at the table reading The Gentleman’s Magazine and eating ham and eggs, a mug of ale by his side.

  He rose and bowed. “Good morning, Charity.”

  “Good morning, my lord.” She sat down in a chair opposite him as the servant stepped forward to pour her coffee. “After breakfast, I’d like to see my godfather’s will if I may.”

  He nearly choked on his food. His dark brows rose, and his eyes widened. “You don’t believe what I told you?”

  “I’d like to, but it would be foolish of me, don’t you think? I’ve only just met you.”

  He kept his gaze on her, clearly perplexed. Yes, she had been right, his eyes were more blue than green. It pleased her that she’d surprised him. Perhaps he would not be so quick to take her for granted. She wiggled slightly in her chair, very happy with herself.

  A servant carried in a tray loaded with warm rolls, scrambled eggs and ham, a pot of strawberry jam, and small jug of cream.

  Charity loaded her plate with eggs and ham, and ate quickly while Robert talked of how they might spend the day.

  She reached for a roll. “Mm. What lovely thick cream,” she said, spreading it liberally onto a roll with jam.

  Robert watched her with a faint smile. “You have a hearty appetite.”

  “It’s nice to discover different foods than those one is used to.” She took a bite of the roll, savoring it. She glanced at the window. “I would like to go out; it’s a much nicer day than yesterday.”

  “The weather changes swiftly here.”

  “Did you enjoy your ride?”

  “You saw me then?”

  “From my window. I was admiring the view.” She added the last, not wishing him to think she’d spied on him. It occurred to her that he was part of that view, and she had been admiring him also. Her cheeks grew warm.

  A spark of interest brightened his blue eyes. “Do you ride?”

  “Oh, yes, at every opportunity.”

  “Then I’ll show you over the St Malin lands after you’ve read the will.” He dropped his gaze to her gown. “Do you have a riding habit?”

  “Yes.” She doubted he would approve of it though, as it was a style from several seasons ago. She glanced at his immaculate blue coat. He was even more unnerving this morning in riding clothes. Last night the marquess had seemed like a peacock in his silk taffeta coat. He’d made her a bit apprehensive, but she had felt reasonably capable of standing up to him. He now appeared powerful, the rightful lord of the manor, his clothes emphasizing his narrow waist and broad shoulders. In a way he was closer to a vision she had of a knight of old. One of King Arthur’s court, perhaps capable of launching a siege. In another way, he seemed even more remote from her, as if he’d carefully constructed a wall or a shield, to fend off trespassers. Charity smiled.

  “What’s amusing?”

  She didn’t know he’d been watching her. “Just a thought.”

  “Care to let me in on it?”

  Her cheeks grew warm. “I don’t think you’d find it amusing.”

  His blue eyes gleamed beneath raised brows. “Why don’t you give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  Heavens. What had she got herself into? Could he read her mind? She squirmed in her seat. “I, uh, was thinking about this old castle. I could envisage a knight riding into the forecourt in his armor.”

  He studied her. “I have a feeling you’ve left something out.”

  She shrugged. Surely her thoughts were her own at least. “It wasn’t important.” She glowered at him. “Really.”

  “Very well.” He rattled his paper as if he’d grown annoyed.

  But his voice sounded mild when he said. “You have an active imagination. Are you artistic like your father?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Excellent. You’ll find much to amuse yourself when by yourself.” She crumbled the last of her roll and studied him from under her lashes. His coal-black hair was thick and silky, his skin smooth and olive-toned. His dark brows formed a peak when she’d surprised him, and they almost met in the middle when he frowned. He had frowned a lot during the previous evening, but now a tiny smile, albeit a self-satisfie
d one at hiding her away in one of his properties, no doubt, hovered around his generous mouth. She wished she could think of something witty, she felt an urge to make him laugh, but that urge died when he resumed talking.

  “I thought if you found the situation to your liking, we could be married in the parish church here. I’ll arrange it with the parson and travel to the Doctors Commons in London for a special license.”

  A piece of bread lodged in Charity’s throat. She spluttered. “Are you all right?”

  She took a long sip of coffee. “Yes, I think so. It’s just that it’s very sudden.” I can’t go through with this, she thought.

  “Yes, it is, and I’m sorry. I know you women like to turn the occasion into something special. Family and so forth. But you don’t have brothers or sisters, do you?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes. A younger sister and brother.”

  Charity longed to be part of a large, boisterous family. “Would they come here to meet me? If we should marry.” He shook his head. “Neither will my parents.”

  Shocked, she said, “Your parents wouldn’t come to your wedding?”

  “No.” His blue eyes turned glacial, and his expression brooked no more questions.

  She gazed at him uneasily, wondering what lay behind his bleak countenance. Was it to do with her?

  Then as if the subject had never come up at all, he tapped his chin. “Does this mean you accept my offer?”