The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘No, sir, it’s just that she’s always there,’ one of the men offered with trepidation. There, in this case, meant Newlyn House. ‘She and her mother are there almost every afternoon.’

  The man beside him jostled him with an elbow. ‘How bad could it be if her mother’s there? It’s likely they ain’t tupping one another.’

  Tupping. A disgustingly vulgar word. But what could one expect from the East Docks? These East Docks men wouldn’t ask questions, they would just take their money and do what they were told. For now, that involved watching Marianne.

  Hayes thrust two bags of coins forward on the desk and dismissed them with an abrupt wave of his hand. He didn’t want to hear the rest of it. He almost wished they were trysting. Her mother’s presence made it far worse than an illicit rendezvous. He could blackmail them both with that. But this decent, chaperoned visiting could be serious. There were only so many reasons young women and their mothers visited dukes at home and most of those reasons involved marriage. Hayes brought his fist down on the desk. Damn it, he was not going to lose Marianne to Newlyn. She was the key to all his plans.

  He needed to act. He needed to do something more than dancing attendance on her since that wasn’t working, not with Newlyn increasingly on hand to steal her away. He glanced at the calendar sitting to the side of his desk. It was the first half of June. He’d not meant to stake a more formal claim until next month, but his original plans had not counted on any strong competition. Well, perhaps ardour would hold some sway with Sir Jock Treleven when he pressed his suit on short acquaintance. Hayes called for his secretary. ‘Send a note over to Treleven House and request a meeting for this afternoon.’ All the better to do it when it could be man to man without interruption. If his informants were to be believed, Marianne and her mother would be otherwise engaged.

  * * *

  One look at Vennor’s gaze told her he didn’t find selecting wallpaper for the drawing room nearly as engaging as she did. But to his credit, he was persevering. ‘I think the grey will be suitable, Mr Howser. We will leave you to your measurements.’ Marianne wanted the issue settled as quickly as possible for Vennor’s sake. She wanted him in a compliant mood when they addressed the ballroom.

  They left Mr Howser and his staff and headed towards the ballroom. Vennor was still smiling; that had to be a good sign and he seemed in overall high spirits despite their late night. Marianne threw open the walnut double doors to the ballroom and sailed inside, throwing her arms wide in a twirl before reaching for Vennor. ‘Come and dance with me.’ She drew him out into the centre of the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the dusty bank of French doors that lined the far wall. Beyond the vast wall of glass lay the town gardens of Newlyn House. ‘Do you know, I’ve never danced in here.’ She spoke without thinking, caught up in the whirl of their impromptu waltz.

  Vennor’s smile faded. ‘You would have danced at the charity ball if they hadn’t been killed.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had to brave it out now and own up to her misstep. She’d not meant to remind him of anything sad. ‘I remember looking forward to that growing up. My sisters would tell me such fabulous stories of that night.’ Her eldest sister had attended twice and Ayleth and Violet had each attended once. ‘How the chandeliers would glisten...’

  She looked up to the ceiling where a pair of shrouded crystal masterpieces hung. What she would give to see those chandeliers unwrapped and shining! Vennor turned her at the top of the ballroom, the two of them in perfect step in their silent dance, but his hand burned at her back as it always seemed to these days. The excitement of the Vigilante’s trips to the slums, the interviews, the secrecy of slipping out of balls, the joy of seeing her article printed in the magazine, even if it was short and had to share space with her column, all of it was nothing compared to the reckless thrill conjured by Vennor’s touch; it could ignite her, body, memories and all.

  Oh, how she wanted a repeat of that night in the warehouse, to have his hands on her, his mouth, his voice low and husky as he shared a piece of his heart with her. She did not fool herself that he’d told her everything, but it had been a much-needed start. She didn’t want it to end there, not for him or for her, yet it seemed it had. Unless she did something about it. She’d waited long enough for him to bring it up. She fixed Vennor with her gaze, a light smile on her lips. ‘Will it always feel this way from now on when you touch me? Like I’m burning up from the inside?’

  She had surprised him, she saw it in his gaze, the quick rapid blink of his eyes, twice, and then nothing as he recovered. ‘Maybe. Perhaps in time it might wear off.’ Vennor swept her through another turn fast and light, trying to distract her.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want it to wear off.’ She’d come this far, she might as well go the distance.

  ‘What we want and what must be aren’t always the same thing.’ That urbane mask she hated so much was starting to slip into place again, hiding him from her.

  ‘Do you not want to kiss me again? Did the kiss mean nothing?’ she asked boldly. Now that she’d started, there was no turning back. ‘You can tell me the truth, Ven. Was that night in the East Docks a mistake? Something you regret?’ Although her pride might take a hit, she had to know.

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You ask the most awkward questions. I don’t regret it, but I do think it was a mistake.’ Their waltzing slowed. ‘It doesn’t matter if I liked it or if we want to do it again. We simply can’t. What can come of it but harm?’ His voice dropped, low and sincere, edged with pain, proof that he had thought of their kisses in the intervening weeks. She’d not been alone there. ‘You and I don’t want to marry at the moment. Yet how else does this end but in marriage? How long do you think we could restrain ourselves from folly if we indulged in kisses again? Surely you are not ignorant of my wanting you.’

  No. She was not. She’d felt the proud hardness of him pressed against her leg, felt the heat of him, seen the desire in his dark blue eyes, and he had seen hers and heard it in her moans. That was dangerous tinder. ‘Maybe you don’t have to play the gentleman, Ven.’ The suggestion was out before she could call it back or check her boldness. But it was not a lie.

  ‘Marianne, you don’t know what you’re saying. I could not ruin you. A friend does not...’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be my friend in this matter.’ Marianne was quick to reply. ‘I may never marry, Ven. Why should I not take pleasure where I can find it? There are women who do and who live respectable lives if they’re discreet.’

  ‘You are too young to make such a decision.’ Vennor was all caution. They’d stopped dancing and stood still in the centre of the room, their bodies touching, their hands still linked. Vennor’s breath came hard as if he were still exercising. ‘What about Lord Hayes?’

  She hadn’t even thought about Hayes seriously in the past two weeks. She’d been too swept up in her reporting, in her small success of a story and in being overwhelmed by Vennor, his revelations, house clearing, kisses and all. The rest of her life—ballrooms and gowns and a court of suitors—had paled by comparison. ‘Perhaps I’ll refuse him, if he even asks.’ She wasn’t sure he would any more. Their courtship had stalled. He stood in her court, danced with her, sent the daily bouquet to the house and watched her from afar. But there was nothing more, other than bristling in Vennor’s general direction.

  ‘You are being too glib, Marianne.’

  ‘No, I just know what I want,’ she challenged. She wanted him. It had taken the night in the East Docks to show her how she wanted him—as more than a friend.

  He opened his mouth to argue, but her mother’s interruption forestalled further debate. ‘There you are!’ Lady Treleven was slightly trembly, her hands clutched firmly together at her waist, her voice shaky with excitement. ‘Your father has sent a note. We need to hurry home.’

  Marianne felt a wave of panic grip her stomach. ‘Is it the girls? Rose’s baby?’ Oh, d
ear, not her sweet little nephew!

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’ Lady Treleven’s face broke into a smile. ‘Lord Hayes has been to speak to your father. I think he may have asked for your hand. Isn’t it exciting? We must go home at once.’

  The panic did not recede from her stomach. Only the reason for it was replaced as they hurriedly gathered their things and made their way to the hall. She’d not expected this, not when she’d decided she wanted something else, someone else, altogether. What could possibly have motivated the unemotional Hayes to do something as impetuous as ask for her hand after only a month’s acquaintance? She glanced at Vennor. His face was pale, his urbane mask firmly in place.

  Say something, do something! she cried silently. But he said nothing. He merely nodded and saw them out, the look in his eyes saying it all: This is why we can’t.

  It occurred to her on the way home that Vennor could have stopped this if he’d wanted to. He simply hadn’t wanted to. What was he afraid of? Surely it couldn’t be her father. Her father would welcome a suit from Vennor. Her father looked upon him as a foster son. Vennor had a title, wealth and he was a family friend. He was all one could wish for in a tonnish marriage. There would be no resistance save what he voiced himself, surely Vennor knew that. But it was still a marriage, still a trap that neither of them was keen to spring.

  That brought Marianne up short. Did she truly not want to marry or was it just that she didn’t want to marry Hayes? If Vennor offered for her, would his rescue solve anything? Did she want to be married? Vennor didn’t, not until he had settled the issue of his parents’ deaths. She didn’t want him sacrificing himself for her. She folded her hands in her lap, calm settling over her. Perhaps, in this case, she would have to rescue herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The house was buzzing when they arrived home. Marianne could feel it in the expectant air that greeted them. Lord Hayes had been here to visit her father—did she know? Her maid had whispered the news, eyes saucer-wide. A whirlwind courtship, how romantic! So that was how he was framing his early proposal. Marianne pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to quiet the riot of butterflies that fluttered nervously within as she marshalled her arguments should they be needed. Perhaps she was worrying for no reason. Maybe her father had dismissed Hayes’s proposal because of that haste. Or maybe not. Her parents had been pleased with Hayes’s attentions earlier in the Season. There was no reason for that impression to have altered. Her father would listen intently. He would see the male’s side of the argument and all the practical reasons he ought to give his permission. Her father wanted what was best for her and he would think Hayes fitted that criteria.

  ‘Marianne, is that you? Are you home? Come in here and bring your mother. I want to speak with you,’ her father’s jovial tones called out from his office. He sounded happy. She feared the worst. She also feared disappointing him. He was anticipating a celebration of sorts, but she couldn’t give him that.

  They all took seats, Marianne sitting on the edge of hers.

  ‘What is it, Father?’ Marianne smiled and tried to look quizzical, as if she had no idea about the reason for the summons.

  ‘We have things to talk over. You got my note?’ Her father beamed at her and her heart sank further. Oh, dear. Hayes must have been devastatingly persuasive. Her father’s eyes were bright and why shouldn’t they be? When a man had six daughters, marriage was an enormous accomplishment and he’d managed it three times already. He was halfway there. ‘Lord Hayes called. He’s asked for your hand. He understands it’s a bit premature. He had not meant to ask until later in the Season, but he wants to make his intentions known in a more formal way.’

  ‘Why does it need to be formal?’ Marianne was quick to respond, perhaps too quick. She needed to present a calm front. Her parents would wonder why she protested so vociferously when in May she’d been open to the suit. ‘We hardly know each other,’ she amended. ‘Did he give a reason? Because I’m not certain I’m amenable to an early engagement.’

  ‘What does it matter if it’s now or in six weeks?’ her father replied, surprised to meet with any resistance. He wasn’t used to it or prepared for it. None of her sisters had resisted when men had asked for their hands, although Cador Kitto had asked Rosenwyn first before going to their father, something their father had taken a bit to get over.

  ‘I’d like to finish my Season before deciding, that’s all. A girl is only young once and I do love London in the spring.’ It was all true.

  ‘Before deciding?’ Her father was sharp. He’d not missed her strategic wording. His earlier bonhomie was gone, replaced now by the father who could be stern with his recalcitrant daughter. ‘It sounds as if you aren’t sure at all about Lord Hayes whether it be now or six weeks hence. You’ve spent considerable time with him. I admit to believing this was a fait accompli, that the two of you had an understanding.’ He cast a worried look at her mother, looking for enlightenment, wondering what he’d missed before looking back at his daughter. ‘Marianne, have you been leading the Viscount on?’

  ‘No!’ Truly, she hadn’t been. She’d thought she could consider going through with it if she must, but that was before unmasking the Vigilante, before she’d seen the work that could be done in the East Docks, before Vennor had kissed her. But she could say none of that. If her father knew what had happened with Vennor, he’d never let her within a foot of him again. It would break the family’s friendship.

  Her mother broke in gently. ‘Is there someone else, dear? Is that why you aren’t sure of Hayes any more? I agree with your father. I thought you were set on him.’ She couldn’t blame her parents for thinking that. She’d certainly behaved that way, hadn’t she? The dutiful daughter had always been a convenient cover for getting away with more illicit activities. Now, she was caught in a trap of her own making.

  ‘I thought I could do it, but I’m not sure I can,’ Marianne confessed, her gaze going from her father to her mother.

  ‘Why in sweet heavens not?’ Her father’s patience was much shorter than her mother’s. She’d inherited her high spirits and temper from him. ‘Well? You must have an answer, dear girl,’ he insisted. ‘An upstanding man has come offering marriage. He cannot be turned away out of hand.’

  But if there were a reason? Marianne sifted rapidly through her knowledge of Hayes. What vices did he have? Had he ever once done anything inappropriate that might cause alarm? Unfortunately not, to her knowledge, but perhaps that was a reason in itself? She tried it out. ‘He’s not terribly exciting.’ It was excruciatingly embarrassing to have this conversation with her parents. What would she say if they asked her what she knew about exciting?

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ Her father’s greying brows shot up in disbelief. ‘He’s titled. He’s well behaved. He’s not riddled with vices like half the ton. He’s exactly what a man hopes for his daughter.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘Exciting is dangerous and inevitably disappointing.’ He tossed her mother a look of exasperation that clearly said this was a woman’s domain. He was out of his depth. ‘An exciting man will lose your dowry at the gaming hells, or flaunt his bas—’

  ‘Or worse,’ her mother concluded for him with a sharp look. She rose and held out her hand. ‘Come, Marianne. Let us talk in my sitting room.’ Marianne did not miss the look her parents exchanged. They were, as usual, united when it came to the well-being of their children.

  Her mother shut the sitting room door behind them and favoured her with a soft smile, misleading though it was. It did not match the blunt words that came out of her sweet mother’s mouth. ‘I trust that we can speak more openly between the two of us, mother to daughter.’ Marianne nodded, but she’d misjudged her mother’s acuity. ‘I assume what we mean by Lord Hayes being “not exciting” is that the Viscount is a terrible kisser and Vennor is not.’

  Marianne looked at her mother, stunned. ‘How did you know?’ The question w
as an admission, but there seemed little reason to keep it secret now. Perhaps it had never been a secret. She recalled her mother had been the first one to suggest Vennor was contemplating courting her.

  Her mother gave her a stern look that rivalled her father’s. ‘I’ve done my best to let each of my girls find their own way.’ She paused as they sat down. ‘Still, I feel it’s my duty to you to intervene if I think you are in danger of making a poor decision. I did not intervene soon enough with Rosenwyn and her earlier disaster in London. I will not make the same mistake with you. So, I fear I must be blunt, Marianne. How far have things gone between you and Vennor?’

  There was worry and genuine concern behind her asking, and guilt, too, as if she herself were to blame for allowing them certain leniencies based on the family connection. Still, the reasons behind her mother’s question were akin to a slap in the face. Marianne had not considered her actions in that light—a betrayal of her mother’s trust. ‘I was counting on both you and Vennor having the good sense not to let things get out of hand.’ Nor had she thought about how her behaviour would reflect on her sweet mother who’d raised her to know better.

  Marianne looked down at her hands, swamped with self-reproach. ‘Just kisses, Mama. That’s all.’ But she hadn’t wanted that to be all, had she? If it had been up to her, she would have quite the transgression to report. She’d wanted so much more from Vennor. He’d been the one with enough sense to put a stop to things that night when her hands had crept beneath his shirt. Guilt was one thing, regret was another, and she did not regret what they’d done. She would do it again given the chance—and, oh, how she hoped she might be given the chance.