A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS

by Lillian Marek

  “Mine,” he growled, “you are mine, always mine.”

  “Yes,” she gasped, “always.”

  They came together in a cataclysmic rush, her scream of release almost drowned by his shout of triumph, until they collapsed in each other’s arms.

  Finally at peace, they lay there. His head was cradled on her breast, and she slowly ran her fingers through his hair. “I love you, you know,” she said.

  She could feel his smile against her skin.

  “I had begun to hope that might be so,” he said. “You hesitated when you said you loved…being here. I should scold you. You promised not to lie to me.”

  She smiled contentedly. “It was no lie. I do love being here. And I never promised the entire truth.”

  He lifted his head to look at her. “Would you like the entire truth? I never realized how completely I love you, how much a part of my very being you have become, until your uncle tried to take you from me. When I thought you wanted to leave—it was as if I had been given my death stroke.”

  “Oh Philip, if you had told me to leave—it would have killed me. When I thought to run away, it was because I wanted to hide from you, because I feared your indifference far more than I ever feared my uncle.”

  Then they were clutching each other, and the cries of “I love you” were mingled with the kisses until the one could no longer be separated from the other.

  The next morning Penworth was awakened by the warmth of the morning sun on his face and smiled. Anne had left the curtains open again. He reached over and pulled her close to him. She snuggled against him with a contented sigh, and he answered with one of his own. Yes, he thought happily as he rubbed his cheek against her hair, this was the way it was supposed to be.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  In which Mr. Craddock rails at fate

  Once in his carriage, driving away from the castle, Falmouth turned on Craddock in a fury.

  “What the devil were you about?” demanded the magistrate.

  Craddock was in a turmoil of indignation and humiliation at the treatment he had received, and fury at being balked. “He was supposed to be gone. They said he had left her there alone.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Falmouth was almost spitting in his anger. “You heard him. You lied to me. And I, fool that I was, took you at your word and did not demand evidence.”

  “But, but, it was no lie. She is my ward. I have the control of her.” Craddock was sputtering.

  “She may have been your ward but she is now his wife! And you heard him—she had another guardian. An earl no less! Are you mad?” Falmouth closed his eyes. “It would have been an abduction, God help me. Had I helped you, he might well have killed me before going after you.”

  “But why would he want her?” Craddock wailed. “He was told she was penniless. It makes no sense.” Craddock seemed enclosed in a cloud of resentment and incomprehension.

  Falmouth sneered and drew away, as if Craddock’s touch was contaminating. “Not everyone values a lady solely for her dowry.” Whatever had possessed him to listen to this creature? His claim that a Tremaine had carried off his ward was plausible enough—or at least it would have been plausible enough with any of the other Tremaines, but people had been saying that this one was different.

  He should have paid attention.

  As for Lady Penworth, he had heard nothing but praise. Even his own wife had proclaimed her very gracious and courteous, the picture of a lady. Hardly the description of a lightskirt.

  He should have paid attention.

  Now what was he going to do?

  When his wife discovered what had happened… He did not want to think about it.

  How could he remain as magistrate after insulting the most powerful lord in the district? He did not want to think about it.

  “My God,” he whispered to himself. “The Duke of Winchelsea. The Earl of Greystone. I am a dead man.”

  When the carriage arrived in the village, Falmouth almost threw Craddock out. “I’d advise you to leave the area immediately. Penworth may not bother to hunt you down, but the villagers hold him and Lady Penworth in rather high esteem,” the magistrate said.

  There was some satisfaction in knowing that Craddock was probably in an even worse position than he was himself.

  Craddock set out for London immediately after his humiliation but had not gotten even so far as Poole when the driver of his coach carelessly allowed the coach to slip off the road into a ditch. This broke a wheel, snapped an axle, and destroyed any vestige of civility remaining in Craddock’s temper. Craddock sat first on a stone by the side of the road, and then, when it began to rain, inside the coach despite its tilt.

  It took several hours of waiting before it dawned on Craddock that when the driver had shouted “I quit!” in the midst of Craddock’s harangue on his carelessness, he had actually meant it. He was not coming back. Nor was he sending any help. What was worse, he had taken the horses. Craddock was going to have to walk.

  Evening was coming on when Craddock finally reached an inn. He was soaked through and furious. He demanded a room, a fire, and a meal. These were forthcoming. He demanded that someone be dispatched to retrieve his luggage from the coach. This was more uncertain. There was no one to spare; it was growing dark, it was raining, it would be difficult to even find the luggage.

  When Craddock demanded that someone set out at once to repair the coach, the innkeeper decided that enough was enough. Craddock was told flatly that nothing could be done until morning, and then only if the rain had stopped.

  He was shown to a room where the chimney smoked when the wind was from the north. The wind was from the north.

  The bowl of stew he was given had originally been intended for the dog, being full of fat and gristle. The dog, presented with a dish that would have pleased the most discerning traveler, could not believe his good fortune.

  Craddock lay in bed that night, cursing the innkeeper, cursing the coachman, cursing the weather, and cursing Penworth for a fool. The man should have recognized an escape when it was offered to him. Why didn’t he? It made no sense.

  But most of all he cursed his niece. How dare she defy him that way? He was too soft-hearted. He should have killed her years ago and avoided all these problems.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  In which our hero decides a puzzle must be solved

  October had arrived. The sun was near setting as Penworth turned his horse toward home, but the day was still warm. He was hatless, the sun picking up golden streaks in his brown hair, and he wore only a leather vest over his shirt. He might have been an ordinary farmer from the look of him, were it not for the quality of the chestnut gelding he rode.

  He was thinking like a farmer as well when he stopped to look over the fields to the south. Galveston had assured him that they would support a decent herd of milk cows. Come spring he would expand the existing herd. They could easily produce enough milk, cream and butter for the estate, and cheese as well. Guernseys, he thought, or Jerseys. The old dairy was a ruin, but a new one could be built over the winter. And a greenhouse. The apples from that tree at the edge of the orchard had a grand spicy flavor, but the tree itself was weak. Maybe some grafts could be made…

  The vicar, driving his donkey cart, hailed him with a smile, and Penworth pulled alongside.

  “You have the look of a happy man, my lord,” said Mr. Margrave, looking as pleased as if he were the one responsible for that happiness.

  “Why would I not be on this glorious day?” Penworth smiled at the vicar. He found he quite liked the man, who seemed kindly and protective of his flock. “I have just been going through the orchard with Galveston, and it looks as if we will be able to salvage enough of an apple crop for a decent pressing of cider. If nothing else, there should be plenty for wassail for everyone at Christmas time.”

  “Wassail?”

  Penworth looked a trifle sheepish. “Much though I enjoyed my years in India, I did mis
s the Christmas traditions of my childhood. The smell of those windfall apples took me back, and all I could think of was the wassail bowl of spiced cider.”

  Mr. Margrave beamed. “Then you and your lady plan to stay and make your home here. I am so pleased to hear it. Indeed, everyone will be pleased to hear it.”

  Penworth was startled. “Why?”

  Mr. Margrave looked startled in turn, but explained. “Why, you ask? Because you are the most important landowner here. If you live elsewhere, it signals that you will care nothing for the estate but what income it will provide you, and you will have no care for your tenants. Hard times for them mean hard times for those in the village. On the other hand, a landlord who cares for his tenants and supports the village means better times for all.”

  “And they have decided already that I am a good landlord? Very kind of them, I am sure, but perhaps a bit hasty.”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Margrave shook his head emphatically. “Consider. I have just come from Tom Whelan’s place, where he and his wife have a new bouncing boy.”

  “The babe has arrived?” Penworth interrupted. “I did not know that. My lady will want to know.”

  Mr. Margrave nodded approvingly. “That’s just what I mean. The babe arrived this morning, and when I got there, the parents were both full of praise for you for having had their roof fixed.”

  “That roof should have been fixed years ago.”

  “That’s as may be, but the fact remains that it had not been repaired until you came. Now not only are roofs being repaired, but the work on the drains is nearly complete, and Jack Ickleston is working on a marble monument to those who have died far from home.” The vicar shot a glance at Penworth. “That was a truly kind gesture. Any fishing village has lost men at sea, and there were those who went off to the wars and never returned. It is hard on those left behind to have no grave to visit, not even a place to leave flowers in remembrance. Jack tells me it should be completed by All Souls Day, and we will have a dedication then.”

  Penworth made a dismissive gesture, but Mr. Margrave would not be put off. There was something else he wished to say. “And quite aside from all that, you have acquired something of an heroic reputation.” Mr. Margrave looked amused at Penworth’s confusion. “Oh yes. The tale of your heroic confrontation with Lady Penworth’s uncle has spread everywhere, no doubt with embellishments, but all to your credit.”

  “I do not care to be the subject of servants’ gossip,” said Penworth stiffly.

  The vicar shook his head tolerantly. “Servants will always gossip, just as everyone else will. It is inevitable. But in this case, it redounds to nothing but your credit. Your lady was already a favorite with the servants for her kindness, and your defense of her was considered highly romantic.”

  Penworth flushed, and Mr. Margrave decided not to mention that the aspect of the affair that was considered most romantic was the way he had carried Lady Penworth off to their chamber and had not reappeared until morning. Instead, he mentioned a side effect of the confrontation—a change in the magistrate.

  Mr. Falmouth, it seems, had always been particularly hard on poachers, a second offense being enough to send a man to the assizes and likely transportation. In addition, all that was needed was an accusation from one of the gentry. Yesterday, however, Jeb Cooper had been hauled before him on Lord Willesford’s complaint. To the astonishment of all, Mr. Falmouth had let him go. When Lord Willesford protested, Mr. Falmouth had shouted, “Evidence! I must have evidence! You cannot expect me to condemn a man simply on your accusation. I must have evidence.”

  When Penworth stopped laughing, Mr. Margrave said, with smiling regret, “Unfortunately, Jeb Cooper almost certainly was guilty, and is unlikely to see his reprieve as a sign that he should mend his ways.”

  “Well,” said Penworth, laughter still in his voice, “it sounds as if he knows his way around the woods. Perhaps he would be interested in a job as a gamekeeper—he could take part of his pay in rabbits. Tell him to come see me.”

  “I will do that,” said the vicar with a nod. “Now I must be off. Do give my best to Lady Penworth.”

  “Indeed I will.” Penworth gave a wave, and the gelding picked up his pace as they headed home.

  Home?

  He had not thought of any place as home since his father died, and his mother had set off with him to seek refuge, first here and then with the Lamarches. Since then, he had lived in other people’s homes—other people’s countries, even, when he was in India—but no place had been his home.

  Now Penworth realized with a shock that he was thinking of the castle as home. His heart no longer sank as he neared the castle. It no longer inspired dread. It was no longer the lair of those hated and despised dragons—his father’s Tremaine relatives.

  When he had first brought Anne here, he had left the castle to her while he tried to spend as much time as possible away from it—meeting the tenants, viewing the farms, riding over the fields. The land itself held no memories for him. He had never even seen it before. His demons resided only in the building where he had encountered his grandmother that one time. However, once out of doors, he was safe. There was so much to be done, since the estate had been neglected for so long, that it was not difficult to keep away all day long.

  But while he was keeping busy with the estate, something had happened to the castle. It was no longer gloomy and oppressive. The dust was gone, and furniture gleamed. The heavy draperies had been pulled back or pulled down to let in the light. There were vases of late blooms or colorful leaves in the hall. It looked nothing like the bleak and joyless cavern they had entered little more than a month ago.

  This had been Anne’s doing. She had driven the ghosts away and turned the castle into a home. He smiled and urged the horse on. Home was waiting for him. Home and Anne.

  Later that evening he and Anne were sitting by the fireside in the library. She had various lists of plants and was comparing plans for the garden by the breakfast room. He had an agriculture treatise open on his lap, but instead of reading he was staring into the flames.

  Anne looked up and noticed his frown. “Is something wrong, Philip?”

  He turned to her, but the frown remained. “In the recent excitement, I had forgotten all about the reason for my aborted trip to London.”

  The sudden stillness in her face made him smile. “No. Do you still mistrust me? Confess it. You thought I was off to the fleshpots.”

  She looked down at her lists but not quickly enough to hide the flush rising in her face. “I should not presume to question your comings and goings.”

  He laughed at that. “You may not have questioned but only because you thought you knew. And you didn’t like it one bit, did you?”

  That won him a glare, but he continued. “You are right. I should have explained. It was a letter from Whyte that prompted me to head for London. He said he had learned some things about your father’s finances and suggested I should join him in the investigation.”

  She flattened her mouth. “Yes, you should have explained. You knew perfectly well what I was thinking, didn’t you? And it amused you to know I was wrong.”

  He put the treatise aside and stood up. “I apologize for that. But now I keep returning to the same questions. Is your uncle a fool? Or is he slightly mad?”

  “I never thought so. Unpleasant, certainly, but neither foolish nor mad.”

  “Well, what can have possessed him to try to drag you off that way? He knew perfectly well that we were married, and that there was no way he could have had the marriage annulled. What did he hope to achieve by abducting you?”

  She put down her lists and thought for a minute. “Now that you say it, I do not know. It makes no sense, does it? He probably thought you would be delighted if he could have the marriage annulled, that you would be glad to be rid of me since I brought no fortune.” Penworth made a rude sound, and she smiled. “No, it is true. He might have thought you would simply take his word for it that the
marriage was not valid and not investigate any further. You must realize that he assumes all aristocrats are heedless idiots.”

  “But why would he care?” Penworth persisted. “If nothing else, you were off his hands. He no longer had to provide for you.”

  It was Anne’s turn to make a rude sound. “He spent far less providing for me than he would have had to spend if he had to pay a housekeeper. Perhaps he just wanted to retain my services. Or perhaps he wanted to prevent any chance that I might be happy.”

  Penworth smiled at that. “You are, I hope.”

  Anne smiled back. “Indeed, my lord. Most happy. A fact that would make my uncle most unhappy did he know it.”

  They smiled at each other for a minute or two. Penworth considered taking his wife upstairs immediately, but then he pulled his thoughts back to the subject at hand and frowned again.

  “It still does not make sense.” Penworth leaned back and brooded for a minute. “It has to come down to money. You keep saying you are penniless. But how do you know that? Surely your father would have left some provision for you, even if the estate itself was entailed.”

  Anne shrugged. “Apparently there were large debts. My uncle said there was nothing left.” Her mouth twisted. She could not quite hide the bitterness. “That pleased him, you know. He always resented that my mother, who was only the daughter of a country gentleman and his wife’s younger sister, had married an earl. After my parents died, he enjoyed the fact that my father’s house, my home, was now his. That Corinne slept in what had been my room while I slept in a servant’s room. That his wife presided in my mother’s drawing room.”

  Penworth bit back the anger. He should have given the bastard the beating he deserved when he had the chance. He took a deep breath, and then another. “Did you ever see anything—papers of any sort—to show such debts? Or was it just his word?”

  She gave him a look that made him smile in spite of himself. “Really, my lord,” she drawled, “do you think men—any men, not just my uncle—feel obliged to explain anything to a fifteen-year-old girl? A fragile female mind could hardly be expected to grasp the intricacies of finance and inheritance.”