A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Grief, but also a sizeable portion of relief, as though the weight of expectation had been lifted from his shoulders. Relief that he might no longer feel the pressure to walk in the ill-fitting footsteps of his father.

  He looked across at Betsey. My sister.

  The words felt strange, and yet, somehow undeniably right. Somehow, the restlessness in him had begun to still. Perhaps he had lost the illusion of his father, but he had found a sister in his place. For the first time since he’d pulled that embroidered smock from the chest, Ernest began to feel the joy of it.

  “What will you do?” he asked Betsey finally.

  She ran her fingers along the silky trim on the edge of the blanket. A faint frown creased her forehead, as though she were deep in thought. “I have my life at the bakery,” she said after a moment. “And a family of my own. A wonderful husband. A wonderful adoptive mother.” She looked up. “But I’ve always had a need within me to know who I truly am. Where I truly came from. And I want my children to know their grandmother.” She gave Ernest a faint smile. “And their uncle.” She looked down. “I don’t know how to go about such a thing. How do I manage to be both a baker from the East End and a Duchess’ daughter?”

  Ernest pressed a hand to her shoulder and smiled down at her. “You’ll find a way,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “And you?” said Betsey. “What will you do?”

  Ernest raised his eyebrows. “About what?”

  Betsey gave him a knowing smile. “About my dear friend Miss Bell. It seems the two of you are quite taken with each other.”

  Ernest didn’t answer at once. If a baker from the East End could also be a Duchess’ daughter, perhaps a marquess and an escort might find a way to be together.

  Former escort, he reminded himself. Now Rachel was safe from harm, he would see she never needed to sell her body again.

  “You love her,” said Betsey.

  He nodded. “Yes. Very much.” He lowered his voice. “And I need to make sure she knows it.” He sucked in his breath and stood. “Will you excuse me, Betsey? There’s somewhere I need to be.”

  * * *

  Rachel sat on the chaise in Ernest Jackson’s parlor. She was alone in the enormous room. She was alone, and she was glad of it. The events of the day had left her feeling unsteady. She could barely imagine how Ernest and Betsey must feel.

  Rachel couldn’t help but feel an intruder in this house. She had felt it the moment they had walked in the door, when they had climbed that gold and white staircase, and when the body of the Duke had been carried from the house in somber, stony silence.

  She felt an intruder. And yet, Ernest Jackson had said he loved her.

  The words had spilled from his lips in a fear-induced fury. And in spite of the grave situation they had found themselves in, Rachel had been unable to stop the leap of her heart.

  Ernest Jackson loved her. And she loved him. Might they somehow find a way to bend the rules of this society? Might they somehow find a way to be together? How desperately she wanted it. And yet, how afraid she was to let herself imagine it, in case it might never be.

  The door creaked, yanking her from her thoughts. She leaped from the chaise as Ernest made his way into the room.

  “How is your mother?” she asked.

  Ernest smiled. “She will be fine. The doctor expects her to make a full recovery.” He let out his breath. “I just can’t imagine how difficult the last thirty years must have been for her. Imagine carrying around such a dreadful secret.” He paused. “Imagine being married to a man who had threatened to kill your child…”

  Rachel reached for his hand. “She no longer has to carry around that dreadful secret,” she said, “and it’s all because of you.”

  His lips turned up. “It’s all because of you, Rachel.” He grinned. “Well, you and those underskirts.”

  Rachel laughed. After a moment, her eyes grew serious. “And how are you?”

  Ernest reached for her suddenly, pulling her into a tight embrace. Rachel slid her arms around his waist, trying to steady him, trying to steady herself. Everything felt easier with Ernest Jackson in her arms.

  “I’ve a lot to take in,” he admitted. “But, I’m sure I’ll cope.” He pushed a strand of blonde hair from her cheek. “And I have you.”

  Rachel held her lips gently against his for a moment. She could sense the tension lingering within him. How she longed to take it all away.

  He stepped back, squeezing her hands in his. “Perhaps we might walk?”

  * * *

  The last of the light was fading, and they stepped out into the manor gardens. The sky was drenched in orange and pink, the sun dipping toward the horizon.

  “There’ll be sun tomorrow,” said Rachel, looping her arm through his. She pointed. “Pink sky. It means there’ll be sun.”

  Ernest smiled, pulling her close. Yes, he believed her.

  They walked in pleasant silence for a while, feeling the cool breeze against their cheeks. The evening chorus of birds was twittering around them. Ernest felt the tension in his body begin to melt away.

  He glanced sideways at Rachel.

  There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to say. And yet his words felt suddenly trapped on his tongue.

  “Rachel,” he began. She turned to look up at him. The intensity of her gaze made something swell in his chest. He hesitated. “I know you took Jones on as a client because you wanted the money to escape your old life.”

  She nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Yes. I was a fool.”

  “No.” Ernest gripped her hand. “You’re not a fool. You’re strong, independent and determined. But I want to help you have that better life you’ve dreamed of. You deserve it. You deserve far better.”

  She eyed him uncertainly.

  There was more of course. He wanted far more than to simply help her escape her old life.

  I want to wake up beside her every morning for the rest of my life. I want Rachel Bell to be my wife.

  He thought of all he had been afraid of. Disappointing his father. Shaming his family name. But that name had been shamed when the Duke had lifted a pistol and sought to take his own son’s life. No, that name had been shamed many years ago when he had sought to kill an innocent child in her cradle.

  His father was gone, and he had taken with him Ernest’s need for approval. Graceton Manor was his now, and in it, he would live a life that made him happy. A life with Rachel Bell.

  “I want to help you find that better life,” he said huskily, “because I…”

  Good lord, I’m so certain of this. How can speaking these words be so difficult?

  He swallowed. “Because I hope you might do me the great honor of becoming my wife.”

  Rachel’s lips parted. Ernest could tell that, despite all that had happened between them, she had not been expecting this.

  “I can’t marry you,” said Rachel after a long silence.

  Ernest’s heart plunged. “Why not?”

  “Because,” she said, her eyes down. “You’re a…and I’m…”

  Ernest lifted her chin, making her look him in the eye. “You’re strong, intelligent and beautiful,” he told her firmly. “I love you. And I want you to be my wife.”

  Rachel let out her breath. “I love you, too,” she said shyly. “But that doesn’t change who we are.”

  “It doesn’t matter who we are,” Ernest said gently. “I can see that now. I’ve spent my life trying to please my father, and live up to a family name that carried the darkest of secrets. It’s never made me happy. And it never will.” He squeezed her hands. “The only thing that will make me happy is you.”

  People would talk. Let them. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had found the woman who made him feel excited to be living. He had found her, and she was safe. And now that she was here with him, he would never let her go again.

  Finally, Rachel looked up at him. “To think,” she said, her voice quiet,
“that Betsey might find herself the daughter of a Duchess. And I might find myself the wife of a Duke.”

  Ernest grinned. “Are you saying you will be my wife?”

  Rachel pressed her lips into his and held them there for a long second. “Yes, Ernest Jackson. There is nothing that would make me happier than being your wife.”

  Epilogue

  Three Months Later

  Rachel knelt down and pulled a basket out from underneath the bed in her room at the White Lion. There was her bottle of rose water, her wash ball, her lampblack, just as she had left them. She clutched the basket to her chest, unable to stop the enormous smile that was spreading over her face.

  She looked back over her shoulder at the room, before she pulled closed the door for the very last time. She knew every inch of this place; every creaking floorboard, every lump of the bed. It had been three months since she’d set foot in the room—she’d not stepped into the White Lion since the night she’d taken “Burns” as a client—but there was a need in her now to see this place one last time.

  She carried the basket downstairs. In the late afternoon, the tavern was still quiet. Lucy was perched on a stool at the bar, twirling her dark hair around her finger, the way she did when she was bored. She and the barkeep watched as Rachel made her way to the bar.

  The barkeep looked at the basket and let out an enormous sigh. “So it’s really happening then. My dear Miss Bell is moving on to better things.”

  Rachel grinned. Better things indeed.

  When she had imagined herself crawling out of the White Lion for the last time, it was to take up a position in the scullery of a nobleman’s manor. Not to take up the position of Lady of the house.

  The barkeep snorted. “I still think you’re lying. You ain’t marrying that toff what nearly fell asleep on my bar.”

  “Course she is,” Lucy scoffed. “Didn’t you see the way he looked at her that night? That’s love if I ever saw it.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I only hope I’m as lucky one day.”

  Rachel couldn’t stop her smile from widening. Yes, she was the luckiest woman in the world. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle and marry a man who made her heart swell. Tomorrow, her new life as a duchess would begin, and her days at the White Lion would become a distant memory.

  But in spite of herself, she couldn’t deny the faint flicker of affection she had for this smoke-stained, liquor-scented place. Yes, she had spent countless nights in that dank, creaking room upstairs, but when she thought of the White Lion now, it would be with Ernest inside; lard in his hair and lampblack on his hands. When she looked at this bar, she would see him sitting at the counter waiting for her in his rolled-up silk shirtsleeves.

  She turned to Lucy and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Perhaps you will be so lucky,” she said, close to her ear. “Life has a way of surprising us.”

  * * *

  Ernest buttoned his waistcoat and drew in his breath. His heart was hammering with nerves. A knock at the door made him start.

  Betsey poked her head around the door. “May I come in?”

  He smiled. “Of course. I could use the company. I’m working myself into quite the state.”

  His sister grinned. “Matthew was the same the day he married me. Came into the church with his buttons done up all wrong.” She walked into Ernest’s room with a hand behind her back. “I’ve something for you. Perhaps it might steady the nerves.” She gave a short laugh. “Or at least take your mind off them for a time.” From behind her back, she produced a thin silver sword.

  Ernest’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that—”

  “Your fencing saber,” she said. “Mother found it among your father’s things. She said you had quite the talent for it.” She smiled. “She asked me to give it to you.”

  Ernest took the saber, turning it over in his hands. The feel of it beneath his fingers was pleasantly familiar and brought a broad smile to his face.

  There was none of the restlessness he had felt when he had first gone searching for the saber. Then, he had been hunting for it so it might fill the chasm that had sprung up inside of him, hunting for some lost part of himself.

  How distant that time felt. It had only been three months since he had met Rachel and Betsey, but he could not imagine his life without them.

  He and Rachel had spent many happy evenings around Betsey and Matthew’s kitchen table. There had been more candlelit suppers of bread and broth while Ernest plowed through the endless questions of his adoring nieces and nephew.

  Despite his invitation that she join him at Graceton Manor, Betsey had been reluctant to leave her bakery in Bethnal Green.

  “This is my home,” she told him. “Daughter of a duchess or no, I don’t feel as though I belong at the manor.”

  Ernest couldn’t argue. Didn’t want to argue. The evenings he spent around Betsey’s crooked dinner table were some of the happiest of his life. One day, perhaps, when all this was not quite so new, Betsey might feel at home in the manor she had been born in. One day, she might truly feel as though she belonged when she walked the halls of her family home.

  Ernest ran a light finger along the edge of the saber. “Thank you,” he said, his voice suddenly husky with emotion. “You’re right. This has helped my nerves. It’s reminded me that I’m about to have the life I’ve always dreamed of.”

  Betsey smiled. “I’m glad of it.” She glanced out the window at the carriages. “We ought to go. You don’t want to keep your bride waiting.”

  * * *

  Rachel stood outside the church, smoothing her cream silk wedding gown. For a fleeting moment, she wished her father might be there with her, offering her his arm as she walked down the aisle to the man she loved.

  Papa was not there, of course, but Rachel had no doubt he was watching her. And Mama too, of course. They had seen it all, she felt certain. Seen her struggles, and the desperate acts she had committed to survive. And now they would watch from afar, as she lived this life beyond her dreams.

  The church doors opened, releasing the gentle strains of a string orchestra. She felt no nerves, Rachel realized, as she took her first steps down the aisle. Her eyes met Ernest’s, and his face broke into the broadest of smiles. No, there were no nerves. There was just excitement. Since the day she had wrangled Ernest Jackson’s hair with lard, her life had been the greatest of adventures. And as she looked into the eyes of her husband-to-be, she felt certain that the adventure of their lives was only just beginning.

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

  Eager to know more on how Rachel and Ernest’s relationship evolved? Then enjoy this free complimentary short story featuring the beloved couple!

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  But before you go, turn the page for an extra sweet treat from me…

  Seduced by the Brooding Duke

  About the Book

  Laura Irving spends her days helping in the family farm, still mourning her brother’s sudden death.

  Alexander Conner, Duke of Farnworth, is the epitome of what how a Duke should live an act. Cold and aloof on the outside but lonely on the inside, his boring life changes the day he hires Laura to be the new governess of his unruly sister.

  When a dangerous man appears at the Irving household’s doorstep claiming unpaid debts, Laura is given a choice: see her family suffer...or kill the Duke of Farnworth.

  Chapter 1

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, she’s done it again.”

  Alexander Conner, Duke of Farnworth, didn’t look up from his desk where he was sitting and looking over papers. He shook his head slightly and took in a deep breath. The odor of malt from the nearby vats tickled his nose as he took in the fragrant air.

  “Where is she now?”

  Francis Grove, his steward, did not immediately respond. His large frame filled the d
oorway to the office, and his balding head lowered slightly.

  “Grove?” Alexander asked. He looked up from his work and slowly turned his head toward his steward and stared into his eyes. His ginger-colored eyebrows raised in anticipation of Grove’s response.