How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  “They deserve it,” he replied, making common cause.

  She gazed at him. Roger struggled not to say the wrong thing and ruin all. If only there was a way to tell what people were really thinking.

  “I suppose I’ve gone mad,” she said. “But…very well. I’ll elope with you.” She laughed.

  Elation flared through him. He felt like shouting for joy. But not wanting to do anything that changed her mind, he simply nodded.

  They turned their horses to the northwest.

  Thirteen

  Some hours later, two irate gentlemen arrived at the gates of Chatton Castle. They were uninvited, though not altogether unexpected. Roger’s mother received them. Arthur stood at her side, in his most impressive Lord Macklin guise.

  The large fleshy one waved a piece of crumpled paper in their faces. “Are you aware of this outrage?” he demanded.

  They’d had their own note with the startling news of Roger’s runaway marriage and were prepared. But Arthur saw no reason to make it easy for these rudesbys. “Outrage?” he repeated, as if the word was a social gaffe.

  The thin, sour fellow, whose face reminded Arthur of someone, glared at Lady Chatton. “Your son has behaved like an utter blackguard. Lost to all propriety, he has lured our sister-in-law into conduct unbecoming a lady.”

  “That really doesn’t sound like Roger,” said Arthur.

  The larger man reddened. “They have eloped, sir! I rode up to Coldstream myself and confirmed the story. The idiots there had no idea where he’s taken her off to.”

  “Somewhere comfortable, I’m sure.” Arthur said it partly to goad the man and saw that he’d succeeded admirably.

  Their uninvited visitor swelled and reddened further. “You are impertinent, whoever you may be. I don’t see how this concerns you.”

  “You’re not acquainted with Lord Macklin?” said Helena. Her manner was a consummate combination of surprise and pity. She turned to the earl. “These are the husbands of my late neighbor Fairclough’s daughters. Mr. Symmes and Mr. Gissing. I met them at their weddings.” Her tone implied they were the barest of acquaintances.

  “Ah.” Arthur nodded. “I see now. We did hear that Miss Fairclough had fulfilled the dying wish of her father and married Lord Chatton.” He emphasized the title.

  “We have no evidence of such a wish,” snapped Symmes. “Fairclough left no instructions on that subject.”

  A fussy man, Arthur thought, realizing that this was young John’s father. That was why he looked familiar. Fleetingly, he felt sorry for the boy. “Well, Miss Fairclough—or, I should say, the new Marchioness of Chatton—would know best about that.” Arthur watched the title sink in. “As I understand it, she was eager to fulfill her father’s dearest wish.”

  “By eloping? And causing a scandal?” asked Gissing.

  He was a blusterer, Arthur noted. He probably got his way quite often, with people who were intimidated by a looming figure and a loud voice. Fortunately, there were no such people present. “Scandal?” Arthur repeated. “I believe they married privately in accordance with her father’s wishes.”

  “Everyone hereabouts knows how he felt,” Helena said. Her raised eyebrows emphasized that they were strangers in the neighborhood.

  Arthur hoped they hadn’t heard Roger’s reckless talk about his first wife’s death. Or about the letters. He had the sudden sensation of walking a tightrope over the lair of a couple of snapping beasts. He found he rather enjoyed it.

  “You are condoning this outrage?” Symmes said to Roger’s mother. “How can you?”

  “I’m extremely fond of Fenella,” she replied. “I think she will make an admirable marchioness.”

  Arthur approved her repetition of the young lady’s new title. Surely the advantages of the match would sink into these fellows’ hard heads soon? If they could care about anything but their own consequence.

  “We’ll disavow the thing,” said Gissing. “A runaway Scottish marriage! We’ll drag her back here and—” Seeing the others’ expressions, he fell silent.

  Helena drew herself up, the very model of a peeress depressing pretentions. “If they say they are married,” she began. “And I say they are married, I cannot imagine who would question the fact. Or spread malicious gossip that might harm the marchioness’s whole family. Who would be so mean-spirited?”

  “One would be forced to contradict that kind of rumor,” added Arthur. “And discredit anyone spreading it. Among the people who matter.” He brought the full weight of his personality to bear on their unwelcome guests.

  “I don’t see what right you have to interfere,” said Gissing.

  It was difficult for him to give up blustering, Arthur noted. Intimidation was obviously a pleasure as well as a—usually—successful ploy for him.

  But now Symmes plucked at his sleeve.

  “Lord Macklin is a good friend of our family,” said Helena. “He is certainly not interfering. Indeed we appreciate his support as he is acquainted with everyone.” Her tone implied that her visitors, on the other hand, were not, and that they certainly were interfering.

  “We’d better go,” muttered Symmes.

  “It is rather late,” said Helena, adding a jot to their transgressions.

  Gissing glowered at them. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he growled. Turning on his heel, he stomped out. Symmes followed, with one uneasy look over his shoulder.

  “Do you think Mr. Gissing will make trouble?” said Helena when they were gone.

  “I think his colleague will convince him to let the matter rest. And Gissing will calm down once he has no one before him to bully.”

  “Attempt to bully,” said Helena. “That was masterly.”

  “Your handling of your obstreperous guests, you mean?”

  “Yours.”

  They exchanged a smile.

  “What do you really think of this marriage?” she asked him. Not for the first time. “The match and the…imprudent way of it,” she added.

  “I think it has every possibility of success.”

  “And yet a distinct danger of failure,” she said.

  “We must see if there is anything we can do to prevent that.”

  “Which would be?”

  “There are these letters. They should be dealt with.”

  “Yes.”

  “Our recent visitors don’t seem to have heard about them.”

  Helena nodded. “With no friends in the neighborhood, they had no one to tell them.”

  Arthur nodded. “Still, best to put a stop to it.”

  “But can we?”

  “I have an idea we can try.”

  Helena gazed up at him with admiration. “You really are the most complete hand, aren’t you, Lord Macklin.”

  He laughed at her use of this uncharacteristic expression. “Let’s wait and see how I do before we say that.”

  * * *

  Fenella and Roger shared a supper of roast mutton and vegetables at an inn on the banks of the river Tweed. They drew no sidelong looks or whispered comments, as Fenella had half feared. No one took any particular notice of them. “We’re married,” she said to Roger.

  “We’re married,” he agreed.

  “Actually.” She looked at the ring on her finger. Roger had purchased the gold band from an enterprising jeweler near the Scottish end of the Coldstream Bridge. Apparently others arrived at the border without this important item. But did they also lack so much as a hairbrush, she wondered. Perhaps so, as she and Roger had found a shop offering personal necessities as well. It had been embarrassing and rather thrilling to stock up.

  “My…not-friend researched the matter thoroughly. Definitely a binding marriage.”

  “So I have eloped. I am married. And I’ve stolen Mr. Larraby’s horse.” Emotion bubbled in Fenella’s chest, str
uggling to escape in a laugh. She was…glad? Or perhaps this was what insanity felt like.

  Roger smiled at her. “Borrowed, surely? We’ll have the animal taken back to him.”

  “Or shall I purchase it, out of sentiment?”

  He looked a question.

  “The mount that bore me to my wedding. To live in my stables ever after.”

  “Well, if you like,” Roger began.

  Fenella’s laugh burst out. “No, no, he must go back to Mr. Larraby. He’s a perfect slug, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll find out where they’ve taken Lightfoot and buy her back for you.”

  Her throat grew tight at the fact that Roger had remembered her loss and at the idea of having her favorite mount back again. She had to clear it before she could speak. “I’d like that. Thank you.” She heard hoofbeats outside and couldn’t help pulling back from the window. “I’m sure Gissing came after us. He wouldn’t have been able to resist. I hope he won’t find us.” She would defy him if he did, of course. But she’d prefer not to. She’d had enough of his bluster to last her the rest of her life.

  “He’ll find no one to tell him which way we went,” said Roger.

  “But several people saw us ride out of Coldstream. You spoke to them.”

  “To provide each of them with a liberal encouragement to forget our existence.”

  “You bribed them?” Fenella cocked her head. “You’re rather good at this, aren’t you? Perhaps a bit too good? One would almost think you’d eloped before.”

  “Not me.”

  “Your nefarious nonfriend?”

  Roger spread his hands and shrugged. “I had no notion what a loose fish he was until that incident. He had a plan all written out, including the bribes, and at the end, a list of what he would do with the girl’s money when he got his hands on it.”

  “Clearly you were right to save that young lady from his clutches.”

  “No question. Why did he think I would help him?” Roger shook his head as he refilled their wineglasses. “That was one of the most offensive things about his scheme.” He sipped his wine, set down the glass. “Ah, it’s probably best to stay up here for a few nights.”

  “So my brothers in-law can recognize that I’m properly ruined?”

  “Adjust to the fact that you’re married, say,” he replied.

  The reality of her situation had come home to her when she said it out loud. Fenella put her hands to her reddening cheeks. “What will Reverend Cheeve say? He always joked about presiding at my wedding. And Mrs. Cheeve? She will…wallow in being shocked.”

  “Had a thought about that,” said Roger.

  “About the vicar’s wife? Oh, and Mrs. Patterson. She’s such a model of rectitude. What will she think?” Fenella let her hands drop to her lap. “We’ll have to face the colonel at that wretched pageant. And the stares of the whole neighborhood.” She rested her head on her palm, weighed down by this vision. “We’ll be a regular raree-show. After those letters, too.”

  “I’ve thought of something we might tell them. The whole pack of gossips.”

  Fenella looked up. “What?”

  “That we came up to Scotland for the wedding because of your grandmother. As she’s your favorite relative. Not saying outright that we were married at her place. No lies. Just talking of her and letting people assume that we were. She’d have to agree, of course.”

  “But my sisters’ husbands will have been ranting about an elopement. Gissing especially. He doesn’t care who hears when he starts ranting.”

  Roger nodded. “That’s a ticklish bit. We’d have to shrug it off without directly contradicting. Awkward bit of family friction. Don’t care to speak of it. That sort of thing.”

  “The servants at Clough House will certainly corroborate that,” she said.

  “Or anything else you’d like them to say.”

  “True. Oh, I’ll be able to look out for them now.”

  “Certainly you went to your grandmother before. Did it again.”

  “My invariable habit,” said Fenella dryly. “When in doubt, run away.” But as the idea sank in, she grew more and more enamored of it. “We’d have to go and see Grandmamma.”

  “Right.” For the first time, Roger looked apprehensive. “Don’t suppose she’ll be pleased with me.”

  “Or me. But when she hears the whole story, she’ll…understand. I think she will. I don’t say she’ll approve, but she has always been ready to help me.” Fenella marveled that she hadn’t thought of this plan herself. She’d been too unsettled by the changes in her life. “You are brilliant.” She reached out and put a hand over his on the tabletop.

  He turned his hand over and laced his fingers with hers. Their eyes met and held.

  They’d grown so accustomed to suppressing any feelings about each other, Fenella thought. It had been a matter of honor, and quite right, too. She’d been careful not to acknowledge so much as a spark of interest, and she knew he had as well. Caution had become habit.

  That wasn’t necessary any longer. Indeed, it wasn’t advisable. They were married. She could let her hand rest in his. She could look at him, admire the strong lines of his face, meet his eyes and not immediately glance away. She could kiss him, as she had at the raspberry thicket. And more. A shiver of excitement shook her. She could let go. Not here in the inn parlor, of course, but…later.

  A different kind of heat rushed through her, a flush of attraction, not embarrassment. Or perhaps both. The change was new, to both of them. It made her head spin. Unless that was the desire in his gaze, seeming to tremble in the air between them. The skin of his hand was hot under her fingertips.

  “I’ve, ah, engaged two rooms here,” he said finally.

  “Have you?” He would get tangled up in words now, Fenella thought. As he did. She decided to let him. For a while. The muddle was so endearing.

  “So that you don’t… I wouldn’t want you to… This was all very sudden… That is, of course there is no pressure for you to—”

  Fenella took pity on him. “I understand you.”

  He looked relieved. “We can wait as long as you wish. Naturally.”

  “We’re married.” Her sisters liked to mock her ignorance of physical passion, though of course she knew the mechanics from the farmyard. Their sly insinuations made her believe there was much more to it than that. There was the matter of legality, too. She wanted no questions about the validity of the marriage. But that wasn’t the main thing, Fenella thought, noting the yearning in Roger’s eyes. He was remembering their flurry of kisses in the grass. She had no doubt about that. Because she was as well. His touch had made her tremble. “We should stay together.”

  “Are you certain?” He wanted to take her assent and sweep her off to the bedroom. That was obvious. His longing practically scorched her. But he was too chivalrous.

  She couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “If you would rather stay in two rooms—”

  “No! I was simply—” He stopped, visibly gathered his wits, smiled. “I wouldn’t rather. Not in the least.”

  They went upstairs together. The bed took up most of the space in the inn chamber. They were left standing close together near the door.

  All her life, a woman was told never to be alone with a man, Fenella thought, not to allow herself to be touched or compromised in any way. And then, between one day and the next, after a brief ceremony, all those strictures flew out the window for the sake of one man. She was directed to be freely intimate with him, with no practical experience of what to do. If the woman was lucky—and here Fenella considered herself very lucky indeed—she had some clue that she would welcome her husband’s caresses.

  Roger bent his head, then went still, as if poised for a signal of her wishes. Fenella looked up to meet his lips. The kiss began tentatively, lengthened, melted into heat. They relaxed
into it, drew back, then resumed. He slid his arms around her and pulled her closer. She felt the contours of him all along her body. His kisses, the touch of his hands, seemed to vibrate through her entire being.

  When they parted the next time, they were breathing faster. Fenella’s clothes felt unbearably constricting. She untied her stock and tossed it aside, unbuttoned the bodice of her riding habit. Roger shed his coat and neckcloth in one swift motion. He looked strong and handsome in shirtsleeves. “Shall I pull off your boots?” he asked.

  It was odd how one became more polite as a situation grew more awkward, Fenella thought. She sat on the bed and held out a foot. He removed one riding boot, then the other. “Thank you,” she said. She stood as he sat down to tug off his own footwear.

  Fenella unfastened her long skirt and let it fall. Her petticoat followed, and she stood in her shift, not certain where to go from there. She had no nightgown, and she was not ready to stand naked in the inn bedroom.

  Roger had slipped out of his buckskin breeches. His shirttails were almost as long as a nightshirt above his bare legs. He went to pull back the coverlet and sheet, then extended a hand as if he offered to help her into a carriage rather than a bed.

  She took it and climbed in. He joined her. For a moment, Fenella hesitated. It was so new, to lie here with only two thin layers of cloth between her and a…husband. He was her husband. Between one day and the next. Then Roger bent and kissed her again, and the flame of sensation drove all thoughts right out of her head.

  Their last garments were soon discarded. Through long, fiery kisses, Roger’s hands explored the contours of her body. Fenella enjoyed his touch. She urged him on with somewhat inexpert caresses of her own. Knees and elbows were negotiated. She opened to him and moved from maid to wife.

  And yet part of her held back. She was happy to be married to him. She didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong in agreeing to their scrambling wedding. It wasn’t that. She didn’t regret her choices. She certainly didn’t wish herself back home. She didn’t understand what plagued her. She only knew that something kept her a little separate, detached, not wholly there. Was it because she’d made a bargain with her vows? Or because her wedding had been so different from anything she’d ever imagined? No new gown, no celebration, no family present, and she’d had scarcely an hour’s preparation to grow accustomed to the change in her circumstances. Among strangers.