In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess

by Hazel Linwood

  “Martha! Oh! You look beautiful! I thought I’d quickly come in and see you before you go downstairs and everyone is crowding around you. You look stunning,” she finished, grinning.

  Martha smiled, her fingers slipping into her sister’s slim hand. Amelia was wearing a muslin gown in pale lilac. She was the matron of honor, for she and Alton had wed a week before.

  “I will go down in a moment,” she said.

  “My Lady! Don’t forget these,” Penitence said, passing her a small posy of flowers and a little drawstring purse.

  Martha nodded, holding the two items, going down the stairs. Penitence looked lovely, too, she thought—she was wearing a new blue muslin gown, and she would attend the wedding. The villagers would all attend—Martha wanted them all to be there, and her mother had agreed to it.

  She went down the stairs and into the hallway. She looked to her right, where a man walked out of the shadow.

  “Martha,” Lord Redfield said. He was dressed in a tail-coat with a velvet collar, and his hair had been combed and cut. He looked dignified and proud, and it was easy to see the handsome man Lady Weston had fallen in love with. Martha felt her throat tighten as he took her hand in his.

  “Father,” she whispered. It was only herself, Amelia and Mama—she could reveal the secret. He beamed.

  “I am so proud of you, daughter. So proud.”

  Martha looked at the ceiling to stop her tears. She heard her mother chuckle, and then clear her throat.

  “Frederick…stop it. Let’s all go to the coach.”

  She looked down and saw the two of them smile at each other. She felt her heart fill with light.

  She and Amelia sat on one side of the coach, her mother and Lord Redfield on the other. Her father, the Earl, was already at the church. She wished Lord Redfield and he could both escort her down the aisle, but she supposed she had to be content with him simply attending the wedding—anything else would result in too many stories circulating.

  The coach stopped outside the church, and she felt her stomach twist with excitement as she saw it. She waited, and then jumped down as the coachman took her hand. Her feet were on the cold ground that led up to the church. It was a sunny day, and her heart was pounding in her chest.

  She reached the door. Her mother and Lord Redfield had gone in first to take their places in the pews. Amelia walked behind her, and she turned to her father who was waiting by the door to lead her up the aisle. She could see the townsfolk and feel their approval, but then, as she looked in the direction of the altar, she could see only Nicholas.

  His formal clothes were black, and the color matched his hair, which was glossy in the light from the high clerestory windows. He was facing the front of the church, but as he heard the sigh of the people assembled, he turned around. She felt her heart glow as he smiled.

  They were beside each other, and the priest began the ceremony. She listened, but her mind was elsewhere—on the feeling of his hand on hers, the way his eyes shone in the well-lit space before the altar, on the joy in her heart.

  “And do you, Martha Claudia, take thee Nicholas Claydon, to be your lawful wedded husband?”

  “I do,” she said. The words were warm and full of love. The priest repeated the vows to Nicholas.

  “I do,” he said.

  Martha felt her heart fill with light.

  As soon as the ceremony was over, she drifted down the aisle beside Nicholas, her mind reeling, trying to take it all in. She walked carefully beside him, feeling not quite as if she walked in reality, as people shouted and exclaimed and called out to them both.

  “Blessings on you, Lady Martha!”

  “All wishes to you!”

  She laughed joyously as they exited the place, and people threw flowers and nuts—symbols of blessing. She held tight to Nicholas’ hand and he helped her up into the coach and she looked at all the faces around them—her sister and Alton, her mother and the Earl, and Penitence and the townsfolk—and felt delight such as she had never imagined she could feel.

  She spotted Lord Redfield on the edge of the crowd. He caught her eye and lifted his hand in greeting. She nodded, tears running down her cheek.

  Nicholas took her hand and then the coach was moving into the street, and they were heading towards Weston Manor, where a dinner had been prepared for them.

  As the coach rolled down the street, Martha looked up at Nicholas and felt her heart fill with love. She held his hand and he rested a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes.

  “It’s so…” she grinned. “It’s remarkable! We’re really here, we’re really…” she shook her head, unable to express the enormity of what she felt.

  Nicholas grinned back. “Yes. We are. I am so happy, Martha.”

  “I couldn’t be more joyous,” she said, and squeezed his fingers. He leaned forward and she leaned forward and their lips met in a kiss. It was tender and warm and full of longing that made her body ache with how strong it felt.

  “I love you, Martha,” he said softly.

  “I love you, too.”

  She held his hand and they looked out of the coach and watched the street pass by as they headed to the manor house together.

  Epilogue

  Martha looked out of the window and over the garden, and felt happiness fill her heart. She had not lived at Nicholas’ home in the north for long, but she had already determined that this was her favorite room in the house. It was the drawing room, and was cozy compared to the one at Weston Manor. It looked out over a beautiful view of the flowerbeds, and down the garden to the fields at the back of the estate.

  They had heard no word of his father—Nicholas had written to London, and heard only from the steward that His Grace was missing. A week later it came to light that the Duke had been intercepted trying to leave the country, and detained on suspicion of fraud. He would have to answer for what he had done. Martha felt little about him—she was just glad that they were finally safe from his dark deeds.

  We are safe, and that is all that matters to me now, concerning him.

  “Martha?” a voice called in the hallway. She turned and looked out. “Where are you?”

  She was about to reply, when Nicholas walked into the drawing room with a fond smile on his lips. He took her hands in his and kissed her. The feeling of his lips on hers made her body heat up with longing. She blushed, thinking suddenly that she wished they were upstairs together.

  He must have seen the look in her eyes, for his own eyes sparkled. “Martha. I thought you’d be up here. I hope I wasn’t gone too long?”

  “Not at all—though, of course, I missed you.” She felt her lips lift with a grin.

  He smiled, too, and she felt her excitement rush through her, almost too much to resist. He must have felt the same way, because she could see how he flushed, too. She was about to suggest they slip away, when the butler came in.

  “My Lord? My Lady? Lord Redfield wished me to tell you he is back from his walk.”

  “Oh. That’s very good. Thank you,” Martha said, feeling pleased. She hadn’t realized she worried for him whenever he went out—his leg did pain him and he needed to walk with a stick on most occasions. But he was surprisingly sturdy, and she thought he was getting stronger.

  “He likes it here, I think,” he said. Martha nodded.

  “I think so. I am pleased he’s chosen to divide his time between here and his home. It’s good to see him here.”

  Nicholas nodded. “I like having him here,” he admitted. “And that painting he did is remarkable—I always wanted to have the estate rendered in a painting, and he’d captured my favorite scene so well.”

  Martha grinned. “Almost as good as our portrait.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “I don’t know about that.”

  They both smiled at one another. They were standing in the hallway, and Martha looked towards the stairwell as she heard footsteps echoing off the wall. She recognized those steps—they were too light to be anyone but Amel
ia.

  “Sister! There you are,” she said, as Amelia walked up the steps, looking breathless and happy. She and Alton were visiting, as well. They weren’t planning to stay long, though—Martha was glad they had chosen to spend part of their tour with her in the north.

  “Martha! I was just walking with Alton. He said he’s planning to go into town to find things for our trip—I am so excited! Switzerland…I can hardly imagine it!”

  Martha smiled. She took her sister’s hand in hers. She was so pleased for her.

  “I know you will enjoy it,” she said.

  “I know,” Amelia said.

  Martha grinned to herself as Alton came in and the two of them went out to the terrace together. They were touring Europe, and Martha knew it was mainly to pursue Amelia’s joy in music. She was very happy for the pair of them.

  She and Nicholas had reached the hallway. He smiled at her. “Shall we walk?” he asked.

  Martha nodded. “A walk before dinner? I would like that.”

  They went into the garden together. The paths at his home were meandering, the garden laid out beautifully. The main path led to the arbor, which was Nicholas’ favorite part of the garden. Martha loved it, too—she could see the skill and knowledge that had gone into creating each path.

  “I am so pleased you’re here,” Nicholas said, and they stood side by side in the garden under a tree. As they looked out over the lawn, a butterfly flew past, and Nicholas went tense. They watched it and it circled them both, then flew up high over the hedge and into the sunshine.

  Nicholas took a deep breath, and Martha frowned up at him.

  “Whenever I see those butterflies, I think of my mother,” he said softly. “She would have liked you so much.”

  Martha took his hands and looked into his eyes. “I am sure she is joyful to see you so happy, Nicholas,” she said.

  “I am sure, too,” he said softly. “I am happy. More content than I would ever have believed possible.”

  Martha smiled up at him. “And I am, too.”

  They sat together, side by side, and watched as the evening settled over the garden.

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

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  Preview: A Forbidden Waltz with the Dashing Duke

  Chapter 1

  Christopher shifted in the uncomfortable hard wooden chair, trying to find a position that would not leave him utterly stiff.

  By Jove, this is worse than the seats at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. At least I have a cushion there. How did Father manage to get through thirty years of this?

  As if he’d read his mind, his uncle, Nestor Hicks, the Earl of Totham, leaned over toward him. “Getting stiff already? Wait until you reach my age.”

  Christopher nodded with his chin toward the speaker. “He has been up there for three hours, talking. How much longer are we expected to sit through this?”

  His uncle chuckled. “However long it takes. Lord Westchester once spoke for near six hours. I would have paid a pot of gold to have gotten out of having to sit through that one. You gather my meaning, eh, wot?” he laughed quietly once more.

  Christopher had always liked his Uncle Nestor, brother of his late mother. He had to admit he found it a great relief to have an instant ally in the House of Lords, where he did not know many of his fellows. He glanced around the gallery at the many empty seats. There were no more than thirty or forty lords in attendance and all of them appeared to be rather on the old side.

  Following his gaze, his uncle cleared his throat.

  “Shameful, it is really. All these empty seats. It’s the Season, and we should have a full house each evening. Yet our fellow lords would rather shirk their duty to sit at White’s drinking and placing wagers.”

  “I must say, having sat through that,” he nodded at the speaker who stood between the two sets. “I do not blame them.”

  His uncle sighed. “Which makes me even prouder that you are here, doing your duty. Your Father would be ever so pleased.”

  The mention of his father stirred something inside of Christopher. His father had passed away almost six months ago. He looked around the great chamber and tried to imagine his father sitting where he was now, listening to one speaker or another making their point and then heading down to White’s with Uncle Nestor or one of his fellow lords.

  The thought made Christopher smile. It felt good to think of his father as the healthy man he had once been.

  How I wish I had known him better when he was well. I should have spent more time with him when I had the chance.

  He sighed and felt his uncle place one wrinkled hand upon his forearm. He patted the older man’s hand and they exchanged a nod, each knowing what the other was thinking.

  Once, when Christopher was just a young boy, his father had been one of the most respected Peers in the Realm. The title of Duke of Westmond had inspired fear and loyalty in the heart of his subjects and trust and reverence in the minds of his fellow lords, as well as the Regent. His power and influence had reached far and wide.

  But then disease had struck him and the once strong, fear-inducing man had withered away over several painful years. The disease had robbed him in a few short years of not just his health and vigor, but also of his position at Court as well as much of his wealth.

  Christopher blamed himself. He’d trusted Horton, their steward, the run the estate while their father sought treatment after treatment, never realizing Horton was lining his own pockets while bleeding the Westmond estate dry.

  Between the steward’s stealing and the expense of the physicians who were summoned from far and away, they had soon found themselves almost on the rocks financially. By the time Christopher had taken control of the estate, they were almost bankrupt.

  No matter, I shall rebuild it all. I shall ensure that the Westmond name will once again be respected and I shall reclaim my Father’s position at Court.

  The desire to rebuild the respect and wealth he felt he was owed to his family, was his main reason for sitting through these tedious proceedings day after day. He had arrived in London after the Easter break and had attended Parliament each day with his uncle, who made introductions he thought beneficial for Christopher.

  The speaker at the podium had at last concluded his speech, causing even his uncle, a passionate Parliamentarian, to exhale with great relief.

  “At last. Now, come quickly, Christopher. I would like to introduce you to another of my fellow lords.”

  His uncle got up and made his way down the aisle, toward the Prince’s Chamber where the lords often gathered before and after the sessions. He was surprised at how spry his uncle was when he wanted to be.

  Christopher struggled to follow him and when he finally managed to catch up, his uncle had already struck up a conversation with two men, both of whom appeared to be in the same age range as his uncle.

  “Ah, very well. Here he is now. This is my nephew, Christopher Newmont, the Duke of Westmond. Lord Westmond, this is William Lornsdale, Viscount Havers, and Peter St. Clair, Baron Strygar.”

  A Viscount and a Baron. And I have never heard of either. I wish Uncle Nestor would introduce me to some more influential types.

  Hiding his disappointment, Christopher greeted his fellow lords with a nod of the head.

  “My, I’ll be darned. You look just like your Father when he was your age. Same striking blue eyes. Your Father could instill the fear of God in anyone with those eyes,” Viscount Havers said with a chuckle.

  “Indeed, it is true. Quite the force, your Father was, My Lord. I expect you’ve inherited his spirit as well as his eyes,” Baron Strygar added.

  “He certainly has. T
he new Duke of Westmond shall be a force to be reckoned with, I declare,” his uncle said with a certainty in his voice that made Christopher break into a grin.

  “I shall hope so.”

  While the older men continued their conversation, Christopher felt himself momentarily distracted by activity at the other end of the room. He glanced over and saw two younger men squabbling.

  “I was counting on you,” the taller fellow said. He was broad shouldered and had dark hair which hung down just past his chin. He was glowering at another man, shorter and with shaggy-blond hair. The taller man was presently jabbing his index finger into the shorter man’s chest, clearly displeased about something.

  He appeared to notice Christopher’s glance for he turned his head and tilted his head.

  “What?” he barked, his voice deep and full of anger.

  Christopher raised both his hands and shook his head, looking away.

  “That’s Lord Thornmouth,” his uncle explained. “Don’t mind him. He’s in a bit of a mood. He’d been trying to get the Lord High Chancellor to do something about unemployment out in Cambridgeshire and his pleas have fallen on deaf ears. Not something he’s used to.”