Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess

by Renee Ann Miller

  Somewhere in the house a distant clock struck twice.

  Two in the morning! She needed to get home. Mrs. Roth would be worried senseless. The housekeeper was the only member of Father’s staff who knew she’d traveled to Helmsford to listen to Beatrice Walker’s speech. Though the woman didn’t know Caroline was the journalist Mr. C. M. Smith. No one knew that secret. And if her chaperones for the season arrived in London and found her gone, cousins Anne and Charles might notify Scotland Yard, or worse send a message to Father in Paris.

  A snore broke the silence.

  Grasping the counterpane to her chest, Caroline’s gaze swung toward the sound. A plump, elderly maid, wearing a mobcap and starched pinafore, sat in a corner chair, her chin resting on her sizable bosom.

  Would the woman stop her from leaving? Best not to find out.

  Trying not to make a sound, Caroline slipped from the mattress. Her legs wobbled. She grabbed the bedpost, waited for the shaking in her knees to cease, then quietly dressed. Her fingers fumbled on the hook of her chatelaine at her waist. Her small coin purse was missing. She jabbed her hand into the side pocket of her gown. Her fingers curled around the small money pouch.

  Thank goodness. She needed the funds to return home.

  The maid let loose another snore. This one so loud the woman started, and her eyes fluttered open.

  Caroline stood like a pillar until the servant’s lashes drifted closed. On her tiptoes, she crept from the room and padded down the long, dark corridor. The residence seemed as vast as Windsor Castle. Ahead, moonlight shone through a Palladian window to highlight a wide curving stairway with a wrought iron banister.

  She set her hand on the rail and peered at the entry hall and front door below. The window sent light glistening off a black and white marble floor. She trudged down the steps. Partway there, a fine sheen of perspiration prickled her skin. Gripping the handrail tighter, she rested her cheek against the cool plaster wall.

  Nearly there. Just a few more steps.

  Her feet settled on the last tread, then the marble floor. Her toes curled against the cold stone. She lifted her hem. Where were her shoes?

  Oh goodness, her brain was muddled. She needed to return to the bedchamber, yet the stairs looked as daunting as Mount Vesuvius. A pair of boots stood by the front entrance. Too large, by half, but . . . She picked them up and grasped the door handle.

  Behind her someone cleared his throat.

  Heart beating fast, she wheeled around and clutched the boots to her chest.

  Several feet away, the stern-faced gentleman from the rally leaned idly against an open doorway. He wore no neckcloth or coat and the top buttons of his white shirt were unfastened. Light from inside the room spilled onto him, highlighting the muscled contours of his chest. He folded his arms over his torso.

  The movement drew her attention to the thick sinew exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. She’d never seen so much male skin. She jerked her gaze to his face. The subtle light amplified the bristles that shadowed his jaw and his black tousled hair.

  “Are you going somewhere, madam?” His regard settled on her bare toes, peeking out of her hem, before shifting to the boots she held. “Somehow I wouldn’t have taken you for a thief.”

  “I would have sent recompense once I arrived home.”

  “And home is in London?”

  She nodded, finding it difficult to speak as her mouth grew drier.

  “Did you intend to walk all the way there?”

  She shook her head, unsure what her fuddled brain intended. Surely, the cabby was long gone.

  “I assure you, leave now and you will have to do so, for there are no trains departing the station at this hour.” He stepped toward her, his stockinged feet soundless. Even without shoes, he was exceedingly tall, dwarfing her five-foot-five-inch frame.

  The absence of his scowl, along with the vitality of his chiseled, muscular body made him look younger than she’d originally thought, perhaps no more than thirty.

  As if the Earth shifted beneath her, the room tipped sideways. She braced a palm on the wall.

  “Do you feel dizzy?” The gentleman closed the short distance between them. One of his large hands curled about her elbow.

  Yes. Her surroundings were spinning as if she sat on a toy top. The boots slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor with a thud. As her legs folded beneath her, she felt herself falling.

  He swept her up and cradled her against his body, like one would a small child. “Careful. I’ve got you.” His voice held a soothing texture—an almost hypnotic cadence.

  “I need to leave.”

  “You need to recover. You can leave in a day or two, if well enough.” He climbed the stairs.

  She forced her weighted lids to stay open. “That will be too late. By this time next month, I shall be in a convent.”

  The motion of his feet moving up the stairs stopped. “You are to join a religious order?”

  When her stern Father found out about this he’d definitely send her to the nuns in Oxfordshire. She nodded.

  He continued up the steps.

  Caroline closed her heavy-lidded eyes. The stranger’s body thrummed with incredible strength. He could overpower her if he wished, yet a sense of safeness, which seemed to contradict the whole situation, drifted through her. She stopped fighting the grogginess that tugged at her and nestled deeper against him.

  * * *

  James peered at the woman sleeping in his arms. When he’d seen her standing in that unruly crowd, her cheeks flushed, her remarkable green eyes wide, he’d thought her quite lovely. But now, with her long brown hair flowing free, lovely seemed too weak a word. He studied her fair, unblemished skin, her shapely eyebrows, and her mouth, which looked warm and supple.

  A nun? Dr. Clark had said she’d asked for her veil. It all made sense. Bad enough when he’d thought her some governess in her drab black. Perhaps he should send Anthony to their home in London. If she hadn’t taken her vow of chastity yet, his brother might find her a challenge too hard to resist.

  How had a woman with temper enough to strike a man with her umbrella decided to join a religious order? And what the deuce was a nun doing at Beatrice Walker’s speech? Moreover, she’d tried to abscond with his boots. The only thing godly about her was her angelic face.

  As he moved down the corridor, she made a soft, feminine noise. Her palm slipped under his open shirt and skimmed up his bare chest.

  Blood pooled in his groin. Damnation, he’d been too long without a woman’s touch. He’d be lucky if God didn’t strike him dead over his body’s unsavory reaction.

  James opened the bedchamber door. The maid he’d tasked with keeping an eye on the woman snored loudly in a chair. Best not to wake the servant now. If anyone saw him carrying his young houseguest back to her bed, it would lead to a misconception.

  Quietly, he laid her down and pulled the counterpane to her chin. Straightening, he gazed about, then strode through the sitting room that connected this bedchamber to his. The room the woman slept in held too many memories of Henrietta. He’d not entered it since before his wife’s death.

  He closed the door behind him and stripped off his shirt. Fisting the fabric in his hand, he brought it to his nose. The soft scent of the woman’s rose-scented skin drifted off it.

  Perhaps both he and his brother should go away.

  * * *

  The following morning as the sun inched above the horizon, James prompted his gelding through the parklands of Trent Hall. Unable to sleep, he’d dressed and saddled his horse. Throughout the night, varied concerns had raced through his mind. Anthony, Nina, Georgie, and the woman had all fought for precedence. He understood his thoughts centering on his siblings—he wished to protect them—but why his houseguest’s health should disrupt his sleep, he wasn’t sure.

  Today, he’d insist she send a note to her family informing them she’d fallen and now recuperated at Trent Hall. He’d make sure she mentioned that he, Lord Hunt
ington, was in residence.

  That would send her family scurrying to Essex to collect her posthaste. The rumors that he’d murdered his wife reached far and wide. A family with strong moral convictions wouldn’t want their innocent female staying under the same roof as him.

  He increased the pressure of his knees against the horse’s flanks and the animal cantered to the stables. James leapt down and ran a hand over Thor’s neck. “Good boy.”

  A groom darted forward to take the reins.

  “Make sure you clean his hooves, Wilson, and give him a treat.”

  As he walked toward the house, James studied the hue of the early morning sky—a watercolor of blue and pink. Today promised to be pleasant with a cool breeze. He and his workmen would tackle the new ditches for his water system. Perhaps he could convince Anthony to join them. The hard work would serve his brother well. The lad couldn’t spend all his time acting the alley cat at the Hog and Thistle.

  Inside his residence, James tugged off his muddy boots and set them on the shoe mat. He strode to the stairs, relishing the early morning hours when all remained peaceful, before the bustle of servants and the complexities of life descended on him. At present, the servants were busy belowstairs. Not even Langley rushed forward to divest him of his riding coat. The butler knew better.

  Solitude would prevail for at least a few more hours. Only Georgie would join him in the dining room for breakfast. Anthony and Nina would eat their morning meal in bed.

  Though he loved his siblings, they tried his patience. Yet, he’d give his life for any of them. He wanted them to make wise choices, but most of all he wanted them to marry someone who loved them. Their futures wouldn’t be brokered for alliances, nor monetary gains. If he could do nothing else for them, he’d save them from that. Save them from what he’d endured—an arranged, loveless marriage. The family’s coffers were healthy again, and James would continue building them, insuring none of his siblings need marry for anything but love.

  He darted up the steps. As he headed down the west corridor to his bedchamber, raised voices whipped toward him.

  Who dared to raise such a commotion this early? Foolish question. There was only one other occupant in the west wing. He knocked on the door of the room next to his.

  “Yes.”

  He recognized the voice of his houseguest. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

  The maid who’d slept in the room clutched a pair of black ankle boots to her breasts like a long lost child, while the woman tried to pry them from her grasp.

  “What is this commotion?” he asked.

  Both gazes swung to him. The servant’s visage paled. The woman’s green eyes flashed with clear annoyance. Her light brown tresses shimmered like waves of moiré silk. She tossed the cascade over her shoulder and strode toward him, looking like an Amazon heading to battle.

  Chapter Three

  Caroline lifted her chin and marched toward the broad-shouldered male scowling at her. “Sir, if I am to leave I must have my boots.”

  The gentleman nodded at the maid.

  The servant who’d held on to them with the tenacity of a rat terrier handed them over.

  “Thank you.” Caroline moved to one of the chintz-covered chairs that graced the fireplace. The heat of the man’s gaze warmed her back. Ignoring him as best she could, she sat on the down-filled cushion, inched up the fabric of her black gown, and tugged on her ankle-high boots. With her head bent forward, a pounding echoed in her skull. She bit her lip and tried to distract herself from the pain.

  Blast! She’d gone through all this subterfuge to listen to Beatrice Walker’s speech, hoping to write a smashing article, and all she’d gotten was a megrim the size of China. As she sat back, perspiration moistened her skin and the warm air took on a chill, raising gooseflesh on her arms.

  “Will you get a cool glass of water and a breakfast tray,” the man said to the maid.

  The woman dashed from the room like a mouse with a cat on its tail. The gentleman must rule his household with an iron fist. The servant acted terrified of him.

  “Madam, you should be abed. You are in no condition to travel.”

  Perhaps, but if she didn’t return before cousins Anne and Charles arrived in London . . . Oh, she wouldn’t contemplate the consequences. “You don’t understand. I should have left yesterday.”

  His lips pressed into a straight line. Brushing his dark riding coat back, the man set his fisted hands on his hips. “I realize you have some dire urgency to return to Town, but Dr. Clark feels rest is in order. Surely there can be no harm in delaying a day or two?”

  She opened her mouth.

  He held up a hand. “You have slept in my house. Raised havoc at an hour when no one should. Yet, we have not been properly introduced. I am Lord Huntington.”

  Drat! A member of the peerage. If Father didn’t know him, her cousin Edward, the Earl of Thorton, probably did, and Lord Huntington said his name as though she should recognize it. She’d heard it before, though she wasn’t sure from whom. Perhaps Anne had mentioned him in one of her long-winded letters while Caroline had been at Harrogate with her mother, or after Mama’s death when Father had sent her to live with her grandparents in Northumberland. For once in her life, she wished she’d paid more heed to her cousin’s gossip.

  He stepped closer, moving with a catlike grace. “Might I inquire your name?”

  She couldn’t reveal her surname. Couldn’t risk him finding out she was Reginald Lawrence’s daughter. Lord Huntington and Father might sit at opposite sides of the political table, and though her own views didn’t match her father’s, she didn’t want to give his foes ammunition and find herself faced with her sire’s wrath.

  “Madam, your name?” he repeated.

  “Ah, Caroline . . .” She peered about the room. Her gaze settled on a large mahogany wardrobe in the corner. “Miss Caroline Armoire.”

  He glanced at the furniture piece responsible for her moniker and cocked a brow. His lordship was no fool. For a long moment, he stared at her.

  Keeping her expression bland, she held his direct gaze.

  “Do you remember what happened last night?” he asked, his voice low, almost intimate.

  Last night? A scandalous image flashed in Caroline’s mind of the gentleman before her with his shirt unbuttoned. She recalled the sculpted surface of his chest and the way his skin stretched taut over muscle. Worse, she remembered his body engulfing her in sinful heat.

  God in heaven. Had she engaged in some impropriety with his lordship while under the haze of a medicinal tincture? She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I know what you refer to, my lord.”

  “You don’t recall?” Doubt heightened his tone.

  She shifted in her chair. Anne had relayed how intimacy between a man and woman could cause some discomfort. She didn’t feel different, except for the monstrous headache tapping against her skull.

  “Did we . . . Did we engage in a liaison?” Her cheeks warmed, and the last words left her mouth on a barely audible whisper.

  Lord Huntington’s lips twitched, and he smiled. It changed everything about his face. He looked almost boyish. “Miss . . . Armoire. I believe you misunderstand what transpired. We did nothing of an improper or salacious nature last night. You are a guest in my home—an injured woman. I wouldn’t take advantage of you.”

  “You mean we didn’t . . . ?”

  “No, I assure you we did not.”

  Caroline set a hand to her chest and released an audible sigh. Not ruined. Thank goodness. If Father found out, he’d demand Lord Huntington marry her, unless he was already attached. Which she doubted, since no mistress of the house called upon her.

  “Last night you wished to return to London. You became quite weak. It proves what Dr. Clark said. You must rest.”

  She pinched her eyes closed. Another memory floated forward. This one of her making her way down a grand spiraling stairway. Of leather riding boots clasped in her hands. Oh my, she�
�d tried to abscond with his boots. How wicked. “I fear the tincture your physician gave me put me in a fog.”

  “Do you remember anything?”

  “Bits and pieces.”

  He motioned to the chair across from hers. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He sat. “You also informed me you are to be a nun.”

  A nun? She bit back a laugh. Is that what she’d told him? What type of medicinal concoction had the physician given her? She shook her head, started to deny the absurd tale, and stopped. One couldn’t ask for a better identity. And as long as she never met his lordship again, it would work. “Yes, my lord, I’m to join the Sisters of . . . um . . . Providence next week.”

  He braced his forearms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. “Last night, you said next month.”

  “Did I? My head is still a bit foggy. Yes, next month.”

  “Then I see no reason for you to rush off. You must write to your family and inform them of your mishap. Make sure you tell them you are at Trent Hall and I’m in residence. One of my footmen will deliver it.”

  That wouldn’t work. She couldn’t send a member of his staff to Grosvenor Square—to the home of Reginald Lawrence. Unless she had it delivered to Mrs. Roth. She could always say the housekeeper was her aunt. No, no, still too risky.

  “I thank you, but I cannot stay. I must return.” She stood.

  His lordship followed suit.

  A sharp pain lanced across the back of her head. She stumbled forward.

  His arms wrapped about her, steadying her.

  She tipped her face up and found herself staring into dark, coffee-colored eyes and thick lashes that seemed at odds with his masculine features.

  For several heartbeats neither spoke. The room stood quiet. Even the birds welcoming the morning seemed to cease chirping outside the bedchamber’s windows.

  His palm moved up her spine, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “It seems, madam, you are forever in my arms.”

  Ignoring his comforting heat, she gathered her fortitude and pulled back.