A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS

by Lillian Marek

  The dowager swallowed another mouthful of beef then spoke with finality. “She knows what is suitable for the table in this house.”

  That was one more item to be added to Anne’s list. Either the cook was incompetent or she did not have enough help in the kitchen to prepare the menus she was given. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with that.

  When the last dish had been removed, Anne stood up. “Shall we withdraw?” she suggested to the dowager.

  The dowager glared at Penworth. “I have private business to discuss with you and your wife. Family business. You would do well to irritate me no further.”

  Penworth rose with a smile. “Then let us not delay. I consider all those at this table to be my family, so you need have no qualms about privacy. Anything you wish to say to me can be said before them. With that understood, I suggest we all return to the drawing room.”

  Once there the dowager seated herself by the fire once again. “Leave us,” she snapped at the footman bringing in the tea. He hesitated, having enough sense to look at Anne for direction. She nodded and waved him away. The dowager glared again. It appeared to be her most common expression.

  Lady Augusta arranged herself on a settee, with Whyte joining her, and her brother on a chair beside them. Penworth seated Anne in the other chair by the fire, facing his grandmother, and stood beside his wife, leaning on the chair in an effort to look casual. “Well, Grandmother?” he asked in his best aristocratic drawl.

  She stared at him steadily. Finally she said, “You do not belong here.”

  He shrugged. “I am inclined to agree. I cannot imagine who would. It is a quite hideous house. However, given the improvements my lady has made in even the short time we have been at the castle, I am sure she can manage to make even this monstrosity habitable.”

  “Do not be obtuse. You are not worthy of this house and you never will be.” She looked at Anne. “I understand you are of good family. The Earl of Elsworth’s daughter.”

  Anne nodded. “I assume that is good enough for an alliance with your family.”

  The dowager snorted. “Much too good for him. You’ve allied yourself with a mongrel.” She turned to Philip. “You’re not a Tremaine.”

  Philip raised his brows. “That would come as a surprise to my parents.”

  “You are not a Tremaine and neither was your father. He was a bastard,” she said flatly. “My son, but not Penworth’s.”

  This did silence both Philip and Anne, who stared at her wide-eyed. Their friends did the same. Whatever they had been expecting, it was not this. Philip was the first to recover. “Did my grandfather—excuse me, did your husband know this?”

  The dowager nodded. “I made sure he knew. He’d flaunted his mistresses often enough, so I made sure he knew there was a cuckoo in his nest.”

  Whyte gave her a chilly look and asked carefully, “But he acknowledged the child, did he not?”

  The dowager laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “I did not tell him until after he’d bragged about his fourth son.”

  Philip’s hand tightened on Anne’s shoulder. She reached up to hold it but kept her eyes on the dowager. “What an…interesting…family life you must have had,” she said.

  The silence stretched out as the dowager leaned back in her chair. Her smile showed satisfaction, but it was no more pleasant than her glares had been.

  Philip was the one who finally broke the silence. “That explains a good deal,” he said slowly. “No wonder you turned me and my mother away. And that marriage the marquess had planned for my father to the slaver’s daughter—it was not about money at all, was it? It was about humiliation.”

  She nodded. “To humiliate me, by humiliating my son. But Peter refused the match. He left, rather than submit. Penworth never forgave me that Peter escaped.”

  Philip expelled a breath of air and sat down on the arm of the chair. “This is quite a bit to take in. Who is my grandfather, by the way? Do you even know? Is he still alive?”

  “Of course I know who he was,” she snapped. “He was a groom in the stables. He died, not long after. In an accident.” She pressed her lips closed and turned away. “It was an accident.”

  At that Philip narrowed his eyes. “Did you tell my grandfather—excuse me, your husband—who he was?” When she nodded, he gave an exclamation of disgust and turned to Anne. “I do not know what to say. This was not at all what I led you to expect from our marriage.”

  Anne smiled at him with her honest smile. “Well I must say this is certainly a relief. Now we will never have to worry that our children will take after your Tremaine relatives. After what I have heard of them, a groom is a great improvement. Perhaps our children will all be bruising riders.”

  Philip stared at her openmouthed for a moment, then gave a shout of laughter. He pulled her up into his arms and kissed her soundly. “Have I told you that I love you, wife?”

  “Feel free to mention it as often as you like, husband.” Anne was laughing too.

  Greystone rubbed his hands together. “Now that makes sense. Always knew you and your father were too good to be part of that family of blackguards. Congratulations, my boy.”

  The dowager turned to glare at him. “Keep silent. You are speaking of a marquess and his family.” Then she turned back to Philip and Anne. “If you have finished this tasteless display, perhaps you will be prepared to hear what I have to say.”

  “Do not tell me there is more. Are you perhaps not really my grandmother? Was my father stolen as a baby from a kitchen maid?” Philip could not stop grinning and kept his arm around Anne’s shoulder as he looked at the old woman. “I can hardly believe it. I’m not a Tremaine! Could anything be more wonderful?”

  “Are you a fool? Do you not realize what it means that you are not truly a Tremaine? It means you have no right to inherit the title or the estates.” She looked smugly satisfied at the sudden confusion on their faces. “However, I will hold my tongue. In return, I will retain this house and the castle, with an income to maintain them. You can go stay on one of the other estates when a lease is up. If I am not distressed, you may have everything after I die.” She leaned back with a nasty smile.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “How dare you threaten us,” Philip exploded. Anne put out a restraining hand and he stilled.

  Whyte stretched out his legs slowly and crossed his ankles. The movement caught the dowager’s eye and he looked at her through half-lidded eyes. He spoke softly. “You are the fool, old woman, and an ignorant fool at that. Do you know nothing? Do you not realize that nothing you say now about your son’s parentage could make the slightest difference? Your husband accepted Peter as his son. That he disowned him in no way barred him from the succession. That is all the law cares about.”

  “The law! The law is not important,” she said with a dismissive wave at Whyte. “But what of society?” She turned back to Philip. “Think of the scorn that will greet you when it is known that your father was a bastard. Think of the scorn your children will face.”

  Philip gave a short laugh at that. “Half the members of society are bastards. Everyone knows it and no one cares.”

  “In fact,” said Lady Augusta, “people will probably think bastardy an advantage in this case. Do you truly have no notion of the contempt with which your husband and sons were viewed? Of the obloquy heaped upon the Tremaine name?”

  The dowager turned on her with a snarl. “You are lying. Even if it were true, my husband was a marquess, and our children were of noble blood.”

  Philip snorted. “Noble! Have you managed to forget that my uncles had been barred from their clubs and that no respectable door was open to them? Have you managed to forget that when my cousin was killed in a duel, the authorities passed it off as an attack by highwaymen because everyone thought he deserved to die? If people believe I do not share the Tremaine blood, they will heave a sigh of relief.”

  “To say nothing of the scorn you yourself will face when you
publicly declare yourself an adulterous whore. If, of course, anyone believes you,” Anne put in softly. The dowager glared at her. Anne shook her head, smiled, and continued, chiding gently. “You really should not have slandered my parents and Philip’s mother. Dismissing a member of the Lamarche family as a barmaid—really, that was not well done of you. Now, of course, everyone around Penworth knows that you were lying. Or, if they are more charitable, they say you are in your dotage. They have doubtless written to all their acquaintance of the old dowager whose wits have been turned, either by age or by bitterness.

  “Who will give you a hearing now? Your powerful friends? Do you even have any? Did you ever?” Anne gave a careless shrug. “I do not recall seeing any pile of calling cards and invitations in the hall. Does anyone in London still even remember you?”

  “My husband was a marquess,” she hissed.

  “Your husband was a marquess who neglected all his responsibilities and left nothing but debts. He was despised by all who knew him,” said Philip brutally. “If you are to have a roof over your head, it will be because I provide it. You might wish to consider that.”

  She shot him a venomous look. “You would not dare to turn me out.”

  “No? As I recall, you did not find it difficult to turn me and my mother from the door.”

  Lady Augusta gave a cough to draw everyone’s attention. “It might not be wise to turn your grandmother out, Penworth.” The dowager looked smug. Everyone else looked startled. Lady Augusta continued. “If she is going about claiming that my cousin—your mother—was a barmaid, it is clear that her wits have been turned. You can hardly turn a madwoman loose on the world.”

  Whyte nodded consideringly. “It would doubtless be best to have her confined.” The dowager gasped and turned on him in fury, but he raised a hand, turned to Philip and continued gently. “Oh, not Bedlam. That would be shameful and perhaps even excessive. But I would suggest a private hospital, where the attendants can make sure she does no harm.”

  “The very thing,” said Greystone, nodding approval. “Someplace in Scotland might be best. Safely out of sight.”

  The dowager narrowed her eyes at him and then sat immobile and silent. Philip and Anne sat, apparently relaxed, but watched her as one might watch a snake. Finally she spoke. “Very well. You will have the dower house repaired for me.”

  “No, madam, no.” Philip shook his head. “You do not set the terms. I do. Once I might have offered the dower house, but no longer. Now I will not allow you to live anywhere near me and my family. I will buy you a house on the Continent if you like, or elsewhere in England, provided it is far enough away from me and mine, and I will provide you with an allowance sufficient to keep you in comfort. I would suggest one of the German principalities. No one there is likely to know anything of your family and your title may win you some respect. And you will never intrude upon my family.

  “Tomorrow morning you will remove to a hotel, and you may let my attorney know what you decide. I do not think we shall have occasion to meet again.” He gave her a short bow, then stepped aside as she slowly rose. She held her head high and her back was stiff, but she could not disguise the shuffle of defeat in her gait as she left the room.

  The others waited in silence until the dowager’s footsteps could no longer be heard. Then Lady Augusta stood and gave her skirts a shake. “Well,” she said, “I must thank you for a most diverting evening. Most people have relations they would just as soon forget, but you two do seem to have been landed with rather extreme examples.” She took Whyte’s proffered arm with a smile. “Should a similar need for dramatics ever arise in the future, I do beg you to invite us. Mr. Whyte and I seem to improvise together quite well.”

  Greystone simply shook his head. “Remarkably unpleasant woman. Quite remarkable.” Then he suddenly seemed to notice his sister on Whyte’s arm. He blinked. “Dear me,” he murmured. “My goodness gracious.” He shook his head again and then smiled slowly as he followed them out.

  When the guests had departed, Philip turned and held out his arm for Anne. She took it, and they left the room in silence.

  They continued in silence up the stairs and to their chamber at the back of the house. A footman opened the door for them, and closed it behind them.

  Philip leaned against it and took a deep breath. “Did I do the right thing? The desire to defy her was overwhelming, but did I go too far? Should I refuse the title? It might be difficult to avoid it, but I am rich enough. We would hardly go hungry and could manage quite happily without it.”

  Anne smiled at him fondly. “You really are quite wonderful, my lord. Noble, one might say. The only title I desire is that of your wife, and well you know it. If you are a marquess, you bring honor to the title; it brings no additional honor to you. But I don’t think it will be possible for you to refuse the title. Even were it possible, I think you must continue as the marquess. The people of Penworth deserve a decent lord and employer after decades of abuse, and the same is probably true of the other estates. You have already taken on the responsibility. You cannot turn away now.”

  “Remarkable. I marry a woman who regards a title as a responsibility.”

  “And I marry a man who thinks the same way.”

  “I told you we would do well together, wife.”

  Epilogue

  Dorset, July 1845

  An avalanche of children launched themselves down the path to the beach, trailed by Nancy, the nursemaid, and Lord and Lady Penworth. The older ones had stripped off shoes and stockings and were clambering over the rocks with their fishing poles before the younger ones—the small girls and toddlers—had even reached the beach. Pip, the eldest, barely managed to keep a lead over his sister, Elinor, and Pip’s friends from Rugby. Pip—more formally, Philip Tremaine, Viscount Whitby, eldest son and heir of the Marquess of Penworth—glared at his sister. She was much too old to be racing over rocks like a hoyden. Besides, she had come much too close to beating him this time. He sometimes despaired of his parents. They should have put her in the charge of her governess long ago. He hated to think what his friends would make of her.

  Harry, one of the boys from Rugby, was actually relieved to be in the company of Pip’s sister, a girl who could climb trees and rocks, who would throw herself on a horse and race across fields, and who could put a worm on a hook without having a fit of the vapors. Harry and Elinor had long ago formed a pact—he would not expect her to behave like a lady, and she would not expect him to behave like a gentleman.

  Once everyone had arrived safely on the beach, Lord Penworth discarded his own boots, picked up his rod, and headed out on the rocks to join the fishing party. Pip swelled with pride to see the way his friends eagerly welcomed his father. No one else among the boys he had met at school had a father who was so tall and strong, who was so admired by everyone who knew him.

  It wasn’t just the tenants and the people in the village, Pip had discovered. He knew they came to see his father with questions and problems all the time. But when his father took him to school or came to take him home—something, Pip was surprised to learn, few fathers did—the masters and even the headmaster would ask for Lord Penworth’s views on the questions of the day. They all listened carefully to his answers and went off nodding thoughtfully. This seemed to please his father. At least, his father was always smiling slightly afterward.

  What made Pip happiest, though, was having a father who would go fishing with his children, who actually talked to his children and their friends. Harry, for example, said he didn’t even see his father above half a dozen times a year, and that was only when his parents were hosting a house party. The last time, his father hadn’t even recognized Harry when he met him in a corridor. Harry had laughed when he told the story, but Pip thought it rather sad. When he had told his father, Lord Penworth had looked sad too, and told Pip to always invite Harry to visit during vacations.

  Back on the beach, Emily was looking at the older ones a bit enviously. She and Ne
d had gotten rid of their shoes and stockings and were splashing about in the shallows, but she suspected that even more adventures were available on the rocks.

  The nursemaid was carrying Baby John, who looked around solemnly. Mama was shepherding four-year-old Susannah along the edge of the water. Susannah seemed certain she did not need anyone to hold her hand and pulled away. A small wave promptly swept her feet out from under her, and she sat down hard on the wet sand. Her mother laughed at the look of outrage on the child’s face and gave a hand to pull her to her feet.

  Off on the rocks the fishermen were concentrating silently on their sport. A tug on his line brought Pip to full attention, and in a moment everyone was watching him. He played the line out and drew it in. Penworth watched his son but made no comment and offered no interference. Pip was focused completely on his task. Gradually the fish weakened and he drew it in. A huge mackerel—the biggest he had ever caught. Nearly two feet long. He could hardly believe his eyes.

  “Pip, that’s fantastic!” Elinor’s praise was unstinted and her eyes were filled with awe.

  “Congratulations, son. I think that must be the biggest fish ever caught off these rocks.” Penworth clapped his son on the shoulder.

  His friends joined in, offering praise and punching Pip’s shoulder while Pip tried to look modest and toss it off.

  Penworth looked back at the beach. Emily had challenged Ned to a race. Baby John and Susannah were splashing at the edge of the water, kept firmly in hand by Nancy and their mother.

  Anne looked up and met Penworth’s eye and for a moment they were the only two people in the universe. Then the shouts and laughter of the children penetrated, and they smiled in love and contentment.

  This was the way it was supposed to be.

  About the Author

  When she retired after too many years in journalism, Lillian Marek felt a longing for happy endings and stories where the good guys win and the bad guys get their just deserts. Having exhausted her library’s supply of non-gory mystery stories, she started reading romance novels, especially historical romance. This was so much fun that she thought she’d like to try her hand at writing one. So she took her computer keyboard in hand, slipped back into the 19th century, and began.