The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

  On second thought, probably not sweet.

  * * * *

  Dorothea’s bedroom was far from the spartan chamber it had been when she’d arrived. Every day some small change was made. Today it was the best quality linen sheets. But she had the torture of dinner before she could retire for the night. And she wouldn’t be retiring alone.

  The maid was waiting for her. She was adequate as a lady’s maid, and she’d do well for Mrs. Thorpe. But the Marchioness of Belstead would need a maid well versed in fashion and court dress. Dorothea wasn’t a Puritan, but her height dictated elegant simplicity; wear a flowered silk, and she’d be parading around like a walking sofa. Tonight, she chose dark blue, in deference to Louis, but she refused to go into full mourning. Not on her wedding day.

  When she finally declared herself satisfied, she left her room to find her husband standing outside. Like her, he wore a sober color, a rich dark brown, and again like her, he had a wide black band on his left forearm. He glanced at hers. “A suitable compromise.”

  He took her downstairs. The warmth in his eyes nearly felled her, but she held up bravely, and they went to the drawing room.

  Cressbrook House had several drawing rooms, but the grandest by far was the one in the state apartments, the line of rooms constituting the formal procession from most public to most private. Tonight they made their way to the state drawing room, with its exquisite furniture in the French style, with much gilding in evidence. Everything was in such good taste and so well made that Dorothea felt almost intimidated by it. No doubt she would grow accustomed to it in time. Louis had added to the extravagance of these rooms.

  When they entered, the guests applauded lightly. Obviously, the gossips had been busy. But after they went in, one person followed them: Lady Honoria Thorpe, looking like a beautiful specter at the feast. The expression of deep sadness on her face didn’t change when Sir James informed her why people were clapping. “Then I must offer my congratulations,” she said stiffly.

  A shiver of fear breezed across Dorothea’s skin. She stood between Lady Honoria and the title, or so the lady would think.

  William filled the awkward moment by taking Lady Honoria’s hand and holding it warmly between his. “We must celebrate the living, as well as mourn the dead.”

  “I cannot help but think that the haste was uncalled for. A deferment would have been more appropriate.” She glared at Ben. “As I told Mr. Thorpe when he paid me a private visit in my room.” She glanced around at her rapt audience.

  Lady Honoria’s arrival balanced the numbers for dinner. If Honoria hadn’t appeared, there would have been a spare single. In the past, that would have been her, the lone woman. If someone did escort her in to dinner, she’d find herself matched to a younger son or older widower, the male equivalent of the single lady, or someone looking for a match. Desperate for one, sometimes. So much so that she would have to fight them off with one hand while eating with the other and making conversation.

  Those days were gone. Now she had a husband who would have to fight her off if he lingered too long. Especially tonight.

  Surprisingly, William abandoned Lady Honoria in favor of Angela. He appeared smitten, gazing at her with obvious pleasure. Lord Marston, a known admirer of Angela, watched with a smile on his face. He probably knew William would have as much luck with her as everybody else.

  “Such a pity my companion could not be present to hear your good news!” Angela told Dorothea.

  “Why, is she not well?”

  Angela heaved a sigh. “Alas, my poor Miss Helmers suffers from a variety of ailments. But she is a good woman and suits me well.”

  Not for the first time, Dorothea wondered if poor Miss Helmers had the constitution of an elephant and stayed away when Angela deemed it expedient. Having a companion was, she had confided in Dorothea, the worst part of remaining single.

  Dorothea would not have said that.

  The dining room was grand to the point of pomposity, the rectangular table running down the center a marvel of the cabinetmaker’s art. The chairs set around it were more recent additions, another of Louis’s extravagancies, although she had to admit they were good quality and would last a number of years.

  Dorothea had instructed the servants to remove the chairs from the head and foot of the table. With Louis so lately dead, she didn’t think giving anyone the chance to claim the symbolic seats was fair or respectful.

  “I ordered only one course for tonight,” she said, pitching her voice over the low murmur of polite conversation. “I did not consider a feast appropriate.”

  She received a number of approving nods and surprised looks. And one glare.

  She would not apologize to Lady Honoria for anticipating her orders. The lady would be in mourning, distressed over the loss of her husband. Dorothea had done her a kindness by attending to household matters. Most of the company appeared to agree with her.

  After they had taken their seats, disposed the dishes and begun their meal, conversation turned to anything except what was engaging everyone’s mind that day. Until Lady Steeping, as was her wont, broke the embargo imposed by politeness. “I thought to see that dreadful little man from the village at dinner tonight. He has made a nuisance of himself all day, keeping the servants from their tasks. Has he finished here?”

  “Who would that be, my dear?” her husband asked. He generally served as her prompt and chorus. And probably audience as well.

  “You know, the local squire, the magistrate.” She shook her head, frowning. “What was his name?”

  “Renning. Mr. George Renning,” Ben said. He glanced at Lady Honoria, concern in his gaze. “He will return until he has what he wants. I told him he would be welcome to join us, if he wished. He said he preferred to return home to his wife.” He lifted his glass and swirled the ruby wine around until the sharply cut crystal facets glimmered in the candlelight. “He said Frenchified food did not agree with him, and he preferred good English beef.”

  He sent a meaningful glance at the joint of beef set in the middle of the table, which he had just carved. Very efficiently, too. “But he is a good sort of man, conscientious. I have no doubt he’ll get to the bottom of the matter.”

  Dorothea judged they were getting too close to the painful topic of Louis’s death. Hardly something to talk about over dinner. “I’m sure he will. And swiftly, too,” she said.

  “We must pray for a sensible conclusion,” Lady Steeping said.

  They had laid Louis in the chapel, or so the maid had told Dorothea while she was dressing for dinner. He would remain there until the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, when the bishop, who was Louis’s uncle, would come to conduct the funeral service. Nobody had objected to Louis being interred in the family vault in the village church. The Cressbrook Chapel attracted antiquarians and historians alike, and now Louis would form one of the draws. Unfortunately, for the first few months after the interment the visitors were like to be sensation-seekers, not scholars.

  “I have employed extra men for the coming week,” Ben responded. “They will ensure nobody comes to the house who has no right to be here.” When Lady Honoria’s mouth opened, he continued smoothly, “At my expense, naturally.”

  Whatever the lady intended to say was muted to a simple word of thanks.

  The major spoke up, his handsome face troubled, his jaw set hard. “I feel bound to continue to promote my family’s claim to the estate and title. I had decided to encourage Sir James to disregard the claim and allow Benedict to accede to the title, but I fear I cannot.” He knocked back the contents of his wineglass and waited for the footman to refill it. “I must continue what my brother began, in his memory.”

  Lady Honoria sat like a stone, but Dorothea knew her better now. She had a shrewd notion what was running through the lady’s head now that her chance to become the marchioness had died. Since Louis had never been award
ed the title, she couldn’t call herself dowager, or a marchioness at all. She only carried her courtesy title because her father was a duke. All that knowledge flitted across her face, those huge blue eyes watching and calculating.

  “I do not care who inherits now,” she said, the picture of noble mourning. By the way she held her chin just so, she could have practiced her appearance before the mirror. After all, she was so very beautiful. If Dorothea had that weapon at her disposal, she had no doubt she’d use it too.

  But she didn’t, so there was the end of that.

  Now that Dorothea had married Ben, Lady Honoria couldn’t become the marchioness through him. Unless—she glanced at Ben, whose eyes had opened wide as he met her gaze. Unless Lady Honoria had killed her husband in order to get to Ben. Marriage had just put Dorothea in danger, but in the back of her mind she’d known that. It was not enough to stop her marrying him, though.

  A marriage to Ben, however brief, would be completely worth it. She wanted to face the future by his side, protecting and being protected. Her conviction was total, no room for doubt.

  Could she defeat Honoria? Fear clutched at her, her throat tightening, but yes. Yes, she would dare anything for Ben.

  Sir James cleared his throat. “While you are discussing among yourselves, I would remind everyone the decision is in my hands. Actually, not that, either.” He touched his napkin to his mouth. Until now, he’d been busy eating, letting them argue. “The decision is ultimately the King’s, although he will allow the authorities to guide him in that.” In other words, he would tell Parliament his decision and they would take his advice, and so would the King. So he was right the first time. The decision was his, based on what he learned here.

  “Of course.” Ben conceded the point. “We will do everything we can to help you in your decision. At present, certain documents are missing, and unfortunately the parish register is also absent. Corroboration one way or the other appears to be difficult to obtain.”

  To put it mildly. Someone had gone about ensuring any records of the second marriage between Ben’s parents did not survive. The strongest suspect was Louis, and had been from the beginning, but tragically, Louis was not with them any longer.

  Who would want to do that? Who had the opportunity, and the desire?

  “May I make a suggestion?” Angela joined in the discussion. Giving up all pretense at eating, Lord Marston placed his silverware neatly on his plate and watched her, his dark eyes intent on her lovely face. Everyone in town knew Lord Marston pursued Angela, but he had little chance of winning her. However, a cat may look at a king.

  As if oblivious of the earl’s regard, Angela continued. “I have seen disputes rip families apart and create useless and expensive court cases. These kinds of cases drag on for years and benefit nobody but the lawyers. If you can agree to allow Sir James’s decision to be final, I think you will all lead much more productive and lucrative lives.”

  “What about Lord Hardwicke?” Ben asked.

  “His opinion is out of our hands, but I am confident the Lord Chancellor will accept my recommendation on the matter,” Sir James put in.

  The cool dose of common sense came as a relief to the argument, which was becoming more heated. A dispute over succession was ripe for the courts. Answering it could drain the estate of any value it had left, reduce the tenants to utter poverty, and create a wilderness of a lovely house like Cressbrook.

  The new marquess would have years of hard work ahead of him merely to restore the house and the estate. While Ben could do it more easily, William could also achieve it, given more time to build the income back to what it had been.

  Ben met William’s direct gaze. “I believe we can agree to that.”

  Tight-lipped, William nodded.

  * * * *

  Dorothea had been longing for bedtime for hours. But after dinner at four, the ladies retired to the drawing room and gossiped. She chose not to take part, but sat with Angela and discussed politics. Anything but her marriage and the inheritance problem, which seemed no nearer a solution than it was when she first arrived at the house.

  Or the suspicion that a murderer could be in this house. Even in this room. But nobody would touch her here, in full view of the guests.

  Tomorrow she would make a last search in the library, but until then she’d put the problem to the back of her mind. And if she couldn’t find anything substantial, she could say she had done her best. Sir James might as well toss a coin.

  Usually someone would play something, the harpsichord or a flute, and someone else would sing. But not tonight. In deference to Lady Honoria, the lid of the harpsichord remained closed. Dorothea answered Angela’s questions, and in return touched on the subject of Lord Marston.

  “He is one of many admirers,” Angela admitted.

  “But you aren’t as hard on him as you are on most of your suitors. I’ve seen you barely giving the time of day to them. Or rather, giving them the office. You seem to know precisely what will irritate them the most.”

  She flicked open her fan and struck a shy pose. “Well, I don’t like to boast, but running a bank gives me an ability to better understand people. I make a study of them, that is all.” She stared down at the flowers painted on her fan, traced a rose with the tip of her finger. “Doing that to Lord Marston would be like kicking a puppy.”

  Dorothea choked back a laugh. At least, she nearly did. “He’s built like a boxer. What makes you think he would respond badly?”

  She shrugged, as if careless of what she was saying. But this seemed different. Was Angela finally falling for a man? “He is more sensitive than most people suppose.”

  And she cared? That was passing strange. Angela refused to become attached to any man. She’d developed flirting into a fine art, knowing exactly when to withdraw, and when a man was safe enough to befriend. The passionate ones she tended to ease away from. But not Lord Marston, who made his interest obvious to anyone who cared to look. He gazed at Angela as if the sun shone out of her eyes.

  “But he is not wealthy.”

  “No, he is not.” Her sadness came through in her words. “I cannot consider him. But then, I refuse to consider anyone. I don’t see how I can trust any man with my fortune. So many women are disappointed once the first flush of marriage has passed.” Her lips compressed, and she gave a slight shake of her head. “That is not to say your marriage won’t be a roaring success. You both know what you want.”

  In a month? But now was not the time. Already people were listening. The light hush around her told her that. “Of course it will. I have no idea what the future holds, but I am excited for it. Did you catch the news of Lord Abercrombie’s daughter eloping with that actor?”

  Her firm change of subject started up the inconsequential chatter again. Unimportant to her, but no doubt of vital importance for the gentleman’s daughter. But the juicy gossip had moved attention away from Ben and herself, so that was good. No doubt as soon as the word of Louis’s death got out, it would start again. Yet another reason for seeking a swift solution to the murder. If they could discover the perpetrator, then it could be presented as a complete story, and without speculation, it would die quicker.

  But a murder. She would be forever associated with it. Angela was wise to insist that William and Ben accept Sir James’s decision without dispute. Nobody would gain from prolonging it in the courts, except for the gossip sheets.

  Lord Abercrombie’s daughter, a beauty who made her debut last season, had run off with an actor. Dorothea knew no more than that, but the chatter kept the ladies busy until the gentlemen entered the room.

  Ben came over to her immediately, and she made room for him on the sofa she occupied, while Angela murmured something and left them. Her brother smiled at her from across the room and lifted his tea-dish in a silent toast. Warmth enveloped her. The people she cared most about were all here.

/>   Her husband handed her a dish of tea and although she didn’t want it, she sipped it, wishing she could leave. At one point Ben leaned over and murmured, “We may make our excuses at ten. Not long now, my love,” causing a rosy flush to rise to her cheeks.

  His low chuckle told her he would be up to no good. She was on edge, waiting for the excuse to go upstairs without making her purpose too obvious. They would know for sure what she was doing and who she was doing it with. That made her unaccountably nervous and edgy.

  Even more when he murmured in her ear, “I can’t wait to get you upstairs. I don’t know if I have the patience to disrobe you.”

  The thought of what he might do made her squirm, and not merely in embarrassment. She wanted him very much, and her body was waking to him now the hour was creeping closer. But she could hardly turn and beg a kiss from him. Or more. She wanted his hands on her. Those broad fingers had given her more pleasure than she’d ever known in her life. The fingers currently toying with his half-finished tea, turning the gilded pink porcelain around in its deep saucer, had given her bliss.

  Leaning forward, she put her dish back on its saucer. She didn’t want tea. Something stronger would be more welcome, but tea was an after-dinner ritual that had to be completed. Usually she enjoyed it, but today it only increased the fluttering in her stomach.

  “Lady Abercrombie is threatening to disown her child,” he drawled, as if he was actually interested. He gave every indication of being so, except that when Dorothea leaned back once more, he moved a little closer to her, as much as her skirts and his wide coat would allow. Close enough for his heat to transmit to her and for her to get a whiff of his essential masculine aroma, so faint it was more of an extra sense, something felt rather than experienced.

  “The girl was always willful,” Lady Honoria said. “During her first ball she declared she would be married before the year was out. Although I doubt her parents had this in mind.” She sniffed and fumbled for her handkerchief. “I have been thinking of asking my mother to visit.” She sent William a speaking look, her gaze pleading. “You would not object?”