How to Marry a Marquis

by Julia Quinn

  “Are you Mr. Dunford?” the footman asked.

  “I am.”

  “I have a note for you.”

  “A note?” Dunford reached out one hand and took the cream-colored envelope. As his eyes scanned the words, his lips settled into a frown.

  “Not bad news, I hope,” Elizabeth said.

  “I must return to London.”

  “Immediately?” Elizabeth wasn’t able to keep the disappointment from her voice. He didn’t make her blood rush like James, but Dunford was certainly marriage material.

  “I’m afraid so.” He shook his head. “I’m going to kill Riverdale.”

  “Who?”

  “The Marquis of Riverdale. A rather good friend of mine, but he can be so vague. Look at this!” He shook it in the air, not giving her any opportunity to look. “I can’t tell if this is an emergency or if he wants to show me his new horse.”

  “Oh.” There didn’t seem to be much else to say.

  “And how he found me, I’d like to know,” Dunford continued. “The man dropped out of sight last week.”

  “It sounds serious,” Elizabeth murmured.

  “It will be,” he said, “once I strangle him.”

  She gulped to keep from laughing, which she sensed would be very inappropriate.

  He looked up, his eyes focusing on her face for the first time in several minutes. “I trust you can continue without me.”

  “Oh, of course.” She smiled wryly. “I’ve done so for more than twenty years already.”

  Her comment caught him by surprise. “You’re a good sort, Miss Hotchkiss. If you’ll excuse me.”

  And then he was gone. “A good sort,” Elizabeth mimicked. “A good sort. A bloody good sort.” She groaned. “A boring good sort.”

  Men didn’t marry “good sorts.” They wanted beauty and fire and passion. They wanted, in the words of the infernal Mrs. Seeton, someone utterly unique.

  Well, not too unique.

  Elizabeth wondered if she’d go to hell for burning Mrs. Seeton in effigy.

  “Elizabeth.”

  She looked up to see James, grinning at her from the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Reflecting upon the sweet hereafter,” she muttered.

  “A noble pursuit, to be sure.”

  She looked up sharply. His voice struck her as a little too amiable. And why was it that his smile made her heart stop, when Dunford’s—which, objectively speaking, had to be the most startling combination of lips and teeth in all creation—made her want to give him a sisterly pat on the arm?

  “If you don’t open your mouth soon,” James said in an annoyingly bland voice, “you’re going to grind your teeth to powder.”

  “I met your Mr. Dunford,” she said.

  He murmured, “Did you, now?”

  “I found him quite pleasant.”

  “Yes, well, he’s a pleasant sort.”

  Her arms straightened into two angry sticks at her sides. “You told me he was a rake,” she accused.

  “He is. A pleasant rake.”

  Something was wrong here. Elizabeth was certain of it. James seemed a bit too unconcerned that she’d met Dunford. She wasn’t sure what sort of reaction she’d been expecting, but complete dispassion was definitely not it. Her eyes narrowing, she asked, “You’re not acquainted with the Marquis of Riverdale, are you?”

  He started choking.

  “James?” She rushed to his side.

  “Just a bit of dust,” he gasped.

  She gave him a pat on the back, then crossed her arms, too lost in her own ponderings to spare him any more sympathies. “I think this Riverdale fellow is a relation of Lady Danbury’s.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She tapped her finger against her cheek. “I’m sure she’s mentioned him. I want to say he’s her cousin, but maybe he’s actually a nephew. She has scads of siblings.”

  James forced one corner of his mouth into a smile, but he doubted it was convincing.

  “I could ask her about him. I probably should ask her about him.”

  He had to change the subject, and fast.

  “After all,” Elizabeth continued, “she’ll want to know why Dunford left so suddenly.”

  James doubted that. Agatha was the one who’d hunted him down and demanded he get Dunford—that unscrupulous rake, she’d called him—away from Elizabeth.

  “Perhaps I ought to find her right now.”

  Without even a second’s pause, he starting coughing again. The only other way to keep her from leaving the room was to grab her and ravish her on the floor, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t consider that appropriate behavior.

  Well, perhaps that wasn’t the only other way, but it was certainly the one that held the most appeal.

  “James?” she asked, concern clouding her sapphire eyes. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  He nodded, wrenching out a few more coughs.

  “You really don’t sound well.” She laid a warm, gentle hand on his cheek.

  James sucked in his breath. She was standing close, far too close, and he could feel his body growing tight.

  She moved her hand to his forehead. “You look rather queer,” she murmured, “although you don’t feel warm.”

  He said, “I’m fine,” but it came out halfway on a gasp.

  “I could ring for tea.”

  He shook his head quickly. “Not necessary. I’m—” He coughed. “I’ll be fine.” He smiled weakly. “See?”

  “Are you sure?” She drew her hand back and studied him. With each blink, that cloudy, unfocused look disappeared from her eyes, to be replaced with a brisk air of utter competence.

  Pity. The cloudy, unfocused look was a much better prelude to a kiss.

  “You’re well?” she reiterated.

  James nodded.

  “Well, if that’s the case,” she said, her voice exhibiting what he thought was a remarkable lack of concern, “I’m going home.”

  “So soon?”

  One of her shoulders rose and fell in an oddly endearing shrug. “I’m not about to accomplish anything more today. Mr. Dunford has been called back to London by this mysterious marquis, and I doubt I’m going to wring a proposal from the blond Adonis who mistook me for a serving wench.”

  “Adonis?” Good God, was that his voice? He’d never known he could sound so peevish.

  “Face of an angel,” she elaborated. “Manners of an ox.”

  He nodded, feeling much better. “Fellport.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Bertram Fellport.”

  “Ah. The one who drinks too much.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How do you know these people?”

  “I told you, I used to mix in higher circles.”

  “If you’re such good friends with these people, don’t you want to say hello?”

  It was a good question, but James had a good answer. “And let them see how far I’ve fallen? Absolutely not.”

  Elizabeth sighed. She knew precisely how he felt. She’d endured all the village whispers, the pointed fingers and titters. Every Sunday she brought her family to church, and every Sunday she sat ramrod straight, trying to act as if she wanted to dress her siblings in outdated frocks and breeches that were perilously worn in the knees. “We have a lot in common, you and I,” she said softly.

  Something flickered in his eyes, something that looked like pain, or maybe shame. Elizabeth realized then that she had to leave, because all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around his shoulders and comfort him—as if a tiny woman like herself could somehow shield this big, strong man from the worries of the world.

  It was ludicrous, of course. He didn’t need her.

  And she needed not to need him. Emotion was a luxury she couldn’t afford at this point in her life.

  “I’m going,” she said quickly, horrified by the tang of huskiness she heard in her voice. She hurried past him, wincing as her should
er brushed his arm. For the barest of seconds she thought he might reach out and stop her. She sensed him hesitate, felt him move, but in the end he just said, “I shall see you Monday?”

  She nodded, and hurried out the door.

  James stared at the empty doorway for several minutes. Elizabeth’s scent still hung in the air, a vague mix of strawberries and soap. Innocent stuff, to be sure, but it was enough to set his body tightening and make him ache for the feel of her in his arms.

  In his arms, hell. Who was he trying to fool? He wanted her under him, surrounding him. He wanted her on top of him, beside him.

  He just wanted her. Period.

  What the hell was he going to do about her?

  He’d already arranged to have a bank draft forwarded to her family—anonymously, of course. Elizabeth would never accept it otherwise. That ought to stop all this nonsense about her marrying the first able-bodied—and able-walleted—man she could get to propose.

  But it would do nothing about the muddle he was in. When his aunt had chased him down earlier that afternoon and told him that Elizabeth had gone off with Dunford, he’d felt a rush of jealousy unlike anything he’d ever dreamed possible. It had squeezed around his heart, pounded through his blood, and left him half irrational, unable to think of anything other than getting Dunford out of Surrey and back to London.

  London, hell. If he could have figured out a way to send Dunford to Constantinople he would have done it.

  He was through trying to convince himself that she was just another woman. The thought of her in another man’s arms made him physically ill, and he was not going to be able to carry off this charade of finding her a husband much longer. Not when every time he saw her he was nearly overcome with the desire to haul her off into a closet and ravish her.

  James groaned with resignation. It was becoming clearer to him every day that he was going to have to marry the chit. That was certainly the only avenue that would offer his mind and body any measure of peace.

  But before he could marry her, he was going to have to reveal his true identity, and he couldn’t do that until he’d taken care of this blackmail business for Agatha. He owed his aunt this much. Surely he could put aside his own needs for one measly fortnight.

  And if he couldn’t solve this riddle within a fortnight—well, then, he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do. He sincerely doubted he could last much longer than two weeks in his current state of distress.

  With a loud and unapologetic curse, he turned on his heel and strode outside. He needed some fresh air.

  Elizabeth tried not to think of James as she scooted past his cozy little cottage. She wasn’t successful, of course, but at least she didn’t have to worry about stumbling over him this afternoon. He was back in the sitting room, presumably laughing over the way she’d fled the scene.

  No, she admitted to herself, he wasn’t laughing at her. It would make things so much easier if he were. Then she could hate him.

  As if the day weren’t bad enough, Malcolm had apparently decided that torturing Elizabeth was more fun than listening to Lady Danbury lecture the Corbishleys, and the immense cat was presently trotting alongside her, hissing at regular intervals.

  “Is this truly necessary?” Elizabeth demanded. “To follow me out just to hiss at me?”

  Malcolm’s reply was another hiss.

  “Beast. No one believes you hiss at me, you know. You only do it when we’re alone.”

  The cat smirked. Elizabeth would swear to it.

  She was still arguing with the blasted cat when she drew alongside the stables. Malcolm was growling and hissing with complete abandon, and Elizabeth was jabbing her finger at him and demanding silence, which was probably why she did not hear the approaching footsteps.

  “Miss Hotchkiss.”

  Her head jerked up. Sir Bertram Fellport—the blond Adonis with the face of an angel—was standing in front of her. Rather too close, in her opinion. “Oh, good day, sir.” She took a discreet and, she hoped, inoffensive step back.

  He smiled, and Elizabeth half expected a gaggle of cherubs to appear about his head, singing of angels on high. “I am Fellport,” he said.

  She nodded. She knew that already, but she saw no reason to inform him of this. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Did you find your notebook?”

  He must have been listening to her conversation with Lady Danbury. “No,” she replied, “I did not. But I am certain it shall turn up. These things always do.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, his sky-blue eyes regarding her with uncomfortable intensity. “Have you worked for Lady Danbury long?”

  Elizabeth inched back another baby step. “Five years.”

  He reached out and stroked her cheek. “It must be a lonely existence.”

  “Not at all,” she said stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  His hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist with painful force. “I don’t excuse you.”

  “Sir Bertram,” she said, somehow keeping her voice even over the pounding of her heart, “may I remind you that you are a guest in Lady Danbury’s home?”

  He tugged on her wrist, forcing her to move closer to him. “And may I remind you that you are in Lady Danbury’s employ, and thus obligated to see to her guests’ comfort?”

  Elizabeth looked up at those stunningly blue eyes and saw something very ugly and cold. Her stomach knotted, and she realized that she had to get away now. He was pulling her toward the stables, and once he had her out of sight, there would be no escape.

  She let out a scream, but it was cut short by the vicious clamping of his hand over her mouth. “You’re going to do what I say,” he hissed in her ear, “and afterward, you’re going to say, ‘Thank you.’”

  And then all of Elizabeth’s worst fears were realized as she felt herself being dragged into the stables.

  Chapter 15

  James had his hands shoved in his pockets as he made his way to the stables. He was indulging in a rare fit of sulkiness; it wasn’t often that he had to deny himself anything he truly wanted, and putting off his pursuit of Elizabeth had left him in a bad mood.

  The fresh air hadn’t helped much, so he decided to take that idea to the next level and go for a ride. A breakneck, hell-for-leather, wind-whipping-one’s-hair-into-knots-and-tangles sort of ride. As Agatha’s estate manager he had free run of the stables, and if it was irregular for such a person to be galloping about like a wild man—well, James intended to be moving far too fast for anyone to recognize him.

  But when he arrived at the stables, Malcolm was on his hind legs, clawing madly at the door and screeching like a banshee.

  “Good God, cat. What has gotten into you?”

  Malcolm howled, backed up a few steps, and head-butted the door.

  That was when James noticed that the stable doors were closed, which was odd for this time of day. Even though the guests’ horses had long since been rubbed down, and the grooms had probably all removed to the Bag of Nails for a pint, one would think that the doors would have remained open. It was a warm day, after all, and the horses could use whatever breeze filtered in.

  James heaved the doors open, wincing at the loud creaking of a rusty hinge. He supposed it was his job to take care of things like that. Or at least to see to it that someone else got it done. He tapped his gloved hand against his thigh for one moment, then headed for the supply closet to find something to grease the hinge. It wouldn’t take too long to fix, and besides, he rather thought a bit of messy manual labor would do him good just now.

  As he reached for the closet door, however, he heard the oddest sound.

  No more than a rustle, really, but something about it didn’t sound like it originated from a horse.

  “Is anyone here?” James called out.

  More rustling ensued, and it was faster and more frantic this time, accompanied by a strange panicked grunting noise.

  James’s blood ran cold.

  There
were dozens of stalls. The noise could be coming from any of them. And yet somehow he knew. His feet carried him to the stall in the farthest corner, and with a savage cry that was ripped from his very soul, he tore the stall door off its hinges.

  Elizabeth knew what hell looked like. It had blue eyes and blond hair, and a vicious, cruel smile. She fought Fellport with everything she had, but at a hair over seven stone, she might as well have been a feather for all the effort he needed to drag her across the stables.

  His mouth ground against hers, and she fought to keep her lips closed. He might be stealing her dignity and her control, but she would keep at least one part of herself from him.

  He pulled his head away and pressed her up against a post, his fingers biting her upper arms. “I just kissed you, Miss Hotchkiss,” he said in an oily voice. “Thank me.”

  She stared at him mutinously.

  He yanked her toward him, then shoved her back against the post, grinning when her head cracked against the hard, splintered wood. “I believe you had something to say to me,” he cooed.

  “Go to hell,” she spat. She knew she shouldn’t provoke him; doing so would only cause him to lash out at her, but goddamn him, she would not allow him control over her words.

  He glared at her, and for one blessed moment, Elizabeth thought he might not punish her for her insult. But then, with a furious grunt, he heaved her away from the post and threw her into an empty stable stall. She landed sprawled on the hay and tried to scramble to her feet, but Fellport was too quick, and too large, and he landed on her with a force that knocked the breath from her body.

  “Leave me alone, you—”

  His hand clamped over her mouth, and her head was twisted painfully to the side. She sensed the crisp hay digging into her cheek, but she felt no pain. She felt…nothing. She was leaving her body, her mind somehow sensing that the only way to get through this horror was to pull away, watch it from above, make that body—the one being abused by Fellport—not her own.

  And then, just when the separation was almost complete, she heard a noise.

  Fellport heard it, too. His hand tightened over her mouth and he went utterly still.