The Marquess's Christmas Runaway

by Josie Bonham

  Then again, didn’t Mrs Powell have friends nearby? One of them could have been the man who had seen them together. It would be unbearable if Mrs Powell was known to Georgie and had helped her plan the whole thing. Whatever had happened Mrs Powell had to go sooner rather than later. He couldn’t bear to witness Georgie prevaricating about the woman now he had worked out the truth. He didn’t want a blackmailer in his house in any case.

  Why hadn’t Georgie denounced him when he stole that kiss? Had she reckoned on avoiding a scandal by finding him at the hall? She wouldn’t be the first person to underestimate the effect of cold. If so that suggested a degree of cunning that was worrisome. Mrs James had recommended Mrs Powell. He would get Charles to make discrete enquiries into the woman’s background to see if Georgie could have known her.

  Jepson’s voice telling him his bath was ready sounded far away. He took a deep breath. He was going round in circles and he had to stop. Maybe it was better not to enquire too deeply. Then he could believe the best of Georgie possible. He had to make this marriage work on some level. She might already be carrying his child. He hauled himself to his feet and threw off his clothes.

  He climbed into the tub and rubbed his hair, with a ruinous amount of soap, as if trying to wash away his worries. He would run mad if he didn’t stop thinking about it. Eliza was too taken with Georgie to be impartial but he needed someone to talk to. For once in his life he prayed that he would see Augusta soon. She might be a dragon but if anyone could help him make sense of all this it was her.

  He dipped his head under the water to rinse his hair and opened his eyes as he surfaced. Traces of soap stung at them. The ever-reliable Jepson handed him a jug of cold water and a towel. He dried his face and accepted another towel from Jepson to douse his eyes with cold water until the stinging eased. He threw the last of the cold water over his head. That might put some sense into him. Despite the roaring fire a shudder ran through him.

  Jepson disappeared into the dressing room. He climbed out of the bath tub and reached for another towel. A few minutes of vigorous rubbing had him dry and feeling calmer. He was the Marquess of Hargreaves. His world might have collapsed around his ears but he was damned if he was going to let it show.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Georgie made her way down to the drawing room, as they had done when they had company. It seemed the logical thing to do and she didn’t feel ready to deal with Max in anything less than a formal setting. She had to face the truth. His attitude to her had changed completely as soon as his sisters had departed. Her brown velvet gown, topped with the shawl Eliza had given her, wasn’t enough to keep the chill of the evening at bay. She shivered, unable to believe Martha’s assertion that it was a lot warmer now the thaw had set in.

  The room was empty and she found a chair near the fire. There was a sofa closer still but she didn’t want to share it with Max if he came in. She lay back with her eyes closed. It was such a short time since they had sat on that sofa seemingly in tune with one another. She closed her eyes tighter. She absolutely wasn’t going to cry. Her hands curled into such tight fists that her nails dug into her palms. Eventually the hot stinging sensation of unshed tears eased and she dared to open her eyes.

  She was in time to see Max sweep into the room. He halted in front of her and performed the sketchiest of bows. His features were concentrated into a tight mask and his eyes had deepened to the colour of a stormy sea. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He smiled at her but there was no sign of the usual laughter lines, at the corners of his eyes, to soften his expression. Pride helped her to rise and drop a curtsey. She lifted her eyes to his as she rose. He was the first to break the contact.

  He held out his arm to her. “Barton tells me dinner is ready.”

  She placed her fingers lightly on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her into the dining room. In other circumstances she would have enjoyed the beautifully prepared meal. As it was, she barely tasted what she ate. One course merged into another. She allowed Barton to refill her wine and then realised it was for the third time. All the same she tossed back the fine burgundy as if it was water. Max was talking about estate matters and she forced herself to concentrate.

  “I imagine you must be used to dealing with parishioners?”

  “Yes, I helped my aunt a lot with visits. I missed that when we moved to Canterbury for uncle to take up his position in the cathedral.”

  “Good. You’ll be comfortable with the duties of looking after our estate workers and tenants. That was something my mother took very seriously.”

  Despite her worries Georgie found herself speculating about his mother. “Were you close to her?”

  “I suppose I was, in the indolent manner of sons. I went away to school quite young but I always enjoyed our summer holidays at Hargreaves. That was when I spent the most time with her.”

  Georgie sighed. “I can barely remember my mother. My aunt was a wonderful substitute, although she was many years older.”

  Max gave her a genuine smile. Some of the knot of tension in between her shoulders eased. She smiled back but the moment was lost when Barton entered with the port decanter.

  Max’s brow creased into a frown. “I would prefer to take my port in the library, Barton.”

  ***

  Georgie drank a solitary cup of tea in the drawing room and made her way up to bed. With Max ensconced in the library even the solace of a book was denied her. She had been so pleased when she found the section with novels that must have belonged to Max’s sisters. Some of the older ones had perhaps belonged to his mother. How stupid not to take at least one there and then. Tomorrow she would select a few and leave them in her bedroom.

  Martha was waiting for her with one of the diaphanous nightgowns Max had given her. She would have loved to rip it into shreds. Instead she smiled as well as she could and allowed Martha to help her into it. Even with the roaring fire in the hearth, the room felt chilly. Martha, bless her, had put the usual flannel covered hot brick into her bed. She climbed in gratefully and drew the covers up to her chin.

  “It’s cold tonight, Martha. You get a hot brick for yourself and get off to bed.”

  Martha shuddered. “I daresn’t do that, my lady.” Her face drained of colour.

  Georgie studied her. “Because of Mrs Powell?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  A spurt of anger ran through Georgie. “If she tries to stop you ask her to come and see me, Martha. I want you to be warm and that’s all there is to it.”

  Martha bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good.” Georgie watched her rush out of the room.

  She doubted if she would follow her order. The girl was frightened of Mrs Powell for sure. That alone was enough reason to sack Mrs Powell in the circles she had been brought up. Max was right to want her gone. The thought of Max made her heart ache with longing. She sighed, what was she to do? He had every right to expect to share her bed. She wouldn’t rebuff him but she wouldn’t seek him out either. She had far too much pride for that.

  She snuffed out her candle and rolled the covers around herself. Perhaps that would put him off tonight. It would be hard to face him straight after his desertion of her. She rolled onto her back, and studied the play of the light from the flames of the fire on the ceiling. It was going to be a long, sleepless night. Her prophecy proved wrong. The next thing she knew Martha was relaying the fire and the first streaks of watery, winter sun were creeping around the edges of the drapes.

  In spite of her wish for a night without Max, she was infuriated by the empty place beside her. There wasn’t so much as a dent in the pillow to suggest he had joined her in bed. Two nights without him and her treacherous body was protesting. She asked Martha to bring her breakfast up and stayed in her room until mid-morning. All was quiet upstairs and there was no sign of Max downstairs. Was she glad or sorry? It was hard to say. Barton appeared as she hesitated in the hallway, wondering where to go. She asked for tea to be
served in the marchioness’s sitting room. It was time she made an effort to fill her new role.

  She strolled along the corridor and paused in the doorway to the room that was to be hers. It was far too large to be called a sitting room but there must be ways to make it seem cosier. The room was beautifully decorated, although the elaborate French style of furniture from the last century wasn’t to her taste. When she was in London, she would have to think about how to stamp her mark on it. Refurbishing Hargreaves House would give her an opportunity to see what she liked and where it could be obtained. She selected a seat near to a window which allowed in some of the morning sun.

  Barton delivered the tea tray himself. He beamed at her and lowered the tray onto a table by her side. “May I say, my lady, it’s wonderful to have a marchioness in the house once more. His Lordship said to tell you he is in the library working on estate business.”

  Georgie smiled back at him. “Thank you, Barton.”

  She lingered over her tea but there was no sign of Max appearing from his library. Barton must surely have told him where she was. She wrapped up well and went on a stroll around the gardens, imagining the loving attention that had gone into designing them. The gardens near the house were softer than most she had seen on country house open days. Max’s mother would have been the force behind them. What had she been like? Georgie found herself wishing she was still alive. She might have been able to help her understand Max better.

  After her walk, Georgie had a lonely, late luncheon in the breakfast room and went back to her sitting room. It was well into the afternoon before Max left the library. She heard him send a footman to the stables to request his horse be saddled up. Once he had left, she entered his den to collect some books. She paused by his desk. The smell of his cologne lingered in the air and her heart contracted.

  She selected a pile of books and asked a footman to carry them up to her bedroom. She ought to take them into the marchioness’s sitting room. Somehow, she still couldn’t see herself as a marchioness and had done enough pretending for one day. The little chair in front of the bedroom fire was a cosier option for reading. She picked the liveliest looking book. Even so her thoughts kept wandering to a pair of eyes whose colour had changed from deep blue to the angry, grey blue of a stormy sea the night before.

  At last it was time to dress for dinner. She was about to ring for Martha when the maid entered with a pale blue, silk evening gown over her arm.

  “I’ve finished altering this now, my lady.”

  Georgie smiled and silently thanked Cecilia for leaving a couple of dresses for her. It was lovely and might help to bolster her confidence when she joined Max. She had been so wrapped up in misery she had forgotten all about them. She tossed her head back. This would never do. She might be heartbroken but the last thing she wanted was for Max to notice. All she had left was her pride. That and the hope she might still be able to salvage something from this marriage.

  For a start she could try and tempt Max back to her bed. Martha seemed to catch her mood. She spent a long time on her hair and produced a stunning result with the help of curling tongs. Georgie’s lustrous chestnut hair was piled high on her head with little tendrils allowed to escape at the sides. When Martha was satisfied, she threaded a ribbon around the arrangement and added a tortoiseshell comb encrusted with tiny diamonds, a present from Sally.

  Martha stood back and surveyed her handiwork. “There. I’m right pleased with that, my lady. It’s the first time I’ve used those tongs. The countess’s maid showed me how to do it.”

  Georgie laughed. “I thought you looked rather nervous.” She studied her reflection in the looking glass. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Martha.”

  Martha beamed at her and bobbed a curtsey.

  “There is no need to curtsey to me, Martha.”

  “Ooh there is, my lady. You look so grand dressed like that.”

  “Thank you. If I do, it’s down to your skill.”

  ***

  Max prowled around the drawing room. Would Georgie come here first, as she had last night? He’d thrown himself into dealing with the estate business Charles had sent, more to avoid her than because it was urgent. He was honest enough to admit that deep down he wanted to return to how they had been in the first couple of days of their marriage. His jaw clenched. He had to accept that was not going to happen. He had been a fool and he needed to protect himself from further pain. At the same time, he had to make the best of it and forge a working relationship with her. One where he could be comfortable.

  It had been surprisingly easy to avoid her today. She had become wary of him it seemed. Was she pre-occupied with worries over Mrs Powell? Some distance had been what he wanted but heat rushed through him at memories of their lovemaking. Had she locked the door on him for a second time last night? His groin tightened and he wished he hadn’t been too proud to put it to the test. Whatever else, he needed to find a way back into her bedroom.

  She knew he wanted an heir and visiting her bedroom wouldn’t give away his feelings for her. Perhaps he should be a little more attentive tonight? The anger in her eyes when he had left her alone after dinner had been obvious. At the same time, he didn’t want her to realise the power she had over him.

  He smiled at himself as desire hit him so hard that he doubled over for a second. He had no choice but to be more attentive. The sound of footsteps had him straightening up and marching across to the window. It was too dark to see much outside but at least he had his back to Georgie when she entered the room. He turned his head and bit back a gasp. In a fashionable gown, with her hair dressed so becomingly, she looked truly magnificent. He walked towards her and bowed, before taking her arm and leading her into the dining room.

  “You look delightful tonight, Georgie.”

  For a moment he could have sworn that she flinched. The moment passed so swiftly he wasn’t sure if he had imagined it.

  “Thank you. Cecilia left a couple of gowns for Martha to alter for me.” She shivered. “It’s not as warm as my brown velvet.”

  They reached the dining room and Barton opened the door for them. Max nodded his thanks and led Georgie to her chair.

  “A thicker shawl might help. You must buy yourself a new wardrobe when we reach London. However, Hargreaves House is a more modern building than the Hall and a great deal warmer.”

  The first course arrived and they applied themselves to the food. Max finished first and sat back sipping his wine.

  “I must say Mrs James is a wonderful cook. Various friends have tried to persuade me of the benefits of a French chef but I don’t think she can be bettered.”

  Georgie caught his gaze. “I made some suggestions on the menu but I agree Mrs James is far too good to replace.”

  She looked nervous. Perhaps now was the time to discuss Mrs Powell? The door opened and several footmen entered. Max waited until the first course had been removed and they had helped themselves to some of the dishes of the next. The fish was beautifully done but it might as well have been sawdust as he struggled to find the right words. There was no easy way, he might as well be blunt.

  “Talking about replacing people, I’ve decided we should remove Mrs Powell straight away.”

  Georgie jumped at his words and his spirits sank. He carried on.

  “You have been consulting with the staff. Do you think they could manage without a housekeeper for a while?”

  She hesitated for several moments. “What about organising the party for Twelfth Night?”

  “That’s the only stumbling block, which is why I’m asking what you think.”

  “I own I would be happier with Mrs Powell gone but it would be better to leave it until after we go to London, surely.”

  Max watched her through narrowed eyes. She looked decidedly uncomfortable. A sigh escaped him. “No, it wouldn’t. I’m waiting for your opinion on how the staff might manage without her.”

  “Mrs James seems unflappable and Barton is so efficient I’m su
re he would be able to help.” She hesitated. “I still feel guilty about getting rid of Mrs Powell at all, even though I suspect she’s not very kind to the staff, especially the younger ones. The fact is she couldn’t be blamed for having doubts about me.”

  Max studied her through narrowed eyes. She twisted a loose tendril of hair around a finger and her gaze flitted around the room. Was she embarrassed or feeling guilty? A lead weight settled in his stomach.

  “I don’t agree. It seems an unlikely reason for her open dislike of you now. Why would a housekeeper risk one of the best positions in England?” His voice softened. “Is there anything more you can tell me which might explain her attitude?”

  Georgie’s cheeks flamed and she appeared near to tears. He waited to see if she would reply but she lowered her head and stayed silent. If she wasn’t telling him the truth how could he hope to be loved for himself?

  He sighed. “She has to go, Georgie. I’ll write to Charles and have him come to pay her off and arrange transport to wherever she wants to go.”

  Georgie nodded, still without meeting his gaze. “As you wish.” Her voice sounded dull and flat.

  For a moment, he hoped she might say more but the entrance of Barton forestalled any chance of that.

  He smiled at Barton. “I believe I will join Her Ladyship in the drawing room this evening, Barton. I’ll take my port in there.”

  “Very good, my lord. Shall I arrange for a tea tray as well?”

  Max looked towards Georgie, who again merely nodded.

  “Yes, a tea tray for Her Ladyship.” Max couldn’t stop himself putting the emphasis on the last word. She had got what she wanted; she might as well enjoy the status of being his wife.