The Marquess Meets His Match

by Maggi Andersen

  “Her ladyship said she left you a note, my lord. Perhaps your valet has it?”

  Dread rising in his throat to choke him, Robert ran upstairs, seeking Fenton. He found his valet at the clothespress sorting through his stocks.

  Fenton turned. “I’d better have those boots, my lord,” he said with a grimace.

  “Never mind that man, do you have a note for me?”

  “Yes, I do, my lord.”

  Fenton hurried to the bureau and snatched up the note. Robert scanned it quickly. The formal tone of the letter revealed little of her thoughts or emotions. He crumpled it in his hand as he paced the room. But he knew her state of mind all too well; had been aware of it for some time. Kate had wanted something from him. But for some obscure reason, he’d been unable to give it. She had wanted his love. He uttered a string of curses under his breath as he forced himself to face yet another truth. He had been angry in one way or another since the will was read. Did he want her to suffer as well for his past hurts? A prickle of shame ran down his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck to try to eradicate it.

  Robert pivoted on his heel, filled with a new sense of purpose. Might something wonderful come from all this even now? He had to try.

  His valet waited, looking expectant. “Pack my trunk, Fenton. For a lengthy stay in Cornwall.”

  “Best remove those muddy boots, my lord. And change your clothes before you catch your death.”

  Fenton’s mind ran along one track. But he was right; he couldn’t visit looking like he’d lost his senses, although he’d come close to it. He fell into a chair and held out his foot for the valet. Fenton straddled his leg and pulled. “Do you wish a bath drawn, my lord?”

  “No time for that. Bring a basin of hot water.”

  In fresh clothes, Robert left his chamber and descended to the salon. The days grew dark earlier now, and the candelabras had been lit. A fire burned in the grate. He pulled the bell and poured himself a whisky to settle his nerves before he left. The drink warmed his insides as he sipped it but failed to ease his angst as he stood before Kate’s portrait. How regal she looked, like the true marchioness she had become. Gainsborough had captured all those qualities Robert had resolutely ignored. Her calm good sense as well as her beauty. He had thrust away her every attempt at affection, spurning her concern for him, and her loyalty. What a fool he’d been. The door opened and the butler entered. “I require the phaeton, Hove.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Hove cast an approving glance at the portrait. “Lady St. Malin looks very fine, doesn’t she, my lord?”

  “She does indeed. Was my lady accompanied in the coach?”

  “Yes, my lord. I took the liberty of sending two of the footman and ensured they were armed.”

  Robert nodded. “You did well, Hove. Tomorrow, I leave for Cornwall at first light.” Robert turned and left the room, he was filled impatience to be gone. But first he had something he must do.

  Robert drove his phaeton to Portman Square. He had a lot to do to start putting things to rights and would begin with his mother. It troubled him when Kate said his father had left her penniless. He wished he had known that sooner.

  As his horses trotted gracefully along the cobbled roads, unwelcome memories came to plague him. He tensed as his mind returned to his school days at Harrow. It all began not long after his father had died when the lads returned from holidays. Robert had remained at the school, still grief stricken and missing his father.

  His mother visited to explain that her new husband considered it best if he didn’t come home for the holidays as they were settling into the new house and beginning married life together. Robert was asked if he understood. He said he did. But he hadn’t. His father had always taken him fishing at their country estate when he was home from school, and they’d ridden and hunted together. Naturally, some boys returned from holidays having heard about his mother’s marriage. And a few months later, when one of them discovered she was enceinte, it traveled around the school like wildfire.

  Francis Braithwaite and the duke’s son, Clarence Brougham, stated it was not good ton, and decided to make an example of him. The torture began. Beatings where it didn’t show. They woke him at night to stand in a cold bucket of water while demanding Robert say that his mother was a harlot. He’d refused, sobbing at the rear of the sport’s pavilion where no one would find him, while taking his punishment and waiting for it to end. But then when two of them held him by the ankles from a second story window, he’d cracked. She’s a harlot isn’t she, the boy’s chanted. Say it or we let go. And Robert had said those words. He’d hated himself for it ever since. Couldn’t look at his mother without remembering the fear.

  He’d wet himself and was in danger of falling when the master found them. Of course, the duke’s son only got a few whacks of the cane, and Braithwaite not much more. But Robert was left with the knowledge he was a coward, and he’d begun to fight to prove he wasn’t. He learned to handle himself well, his father would have been proud of him. But those years were tough. It wasn’t until he attended university that it all changed. He’d taken up boxing and excelled at it, and he did well at mathematics. But the stain remained in his soul.

  Robert sighed. He was prepared to eat crow for Kate’s sake and attempt to repair the rift. But he’d be damned if he’d fall upon his stepfather’s breast and beg forgiveness. He grinned bitterly at the thought. There was only so much his fierce little wife could make him do.

  He walked into the salon to find his mother drinking sherry with her husband. What a cozy pair they made. He tried to ignore the reaction he always experienced, like a knot pulling tight in his solar plexus. Should he not have got over all this by now? He bowed. “Mother, Charlesworth.”

  His mother rose and hurried to him. “Robert.” She tenderly put up a hand to touch his face.

  Robert bent and kissed her cheek, painfully aware of how much she’d changed. “Sit down, Mother. I believe I’ll have a drink as well.”

  Lord Charlesworth beckoned to the footman. “Brandy?”

  “Please.”

  When they’d settled, Robert took a breath. “Kate accuses me of being a poor son. A poor husband as well, but that’s between her and me. I’m here to improve matters in our relationship, should you agree.”

  “Agree? Oh, Robert.” His mother balled a handkerchief in her hand, her eyes misty.

  Lord Charlesworth nodded stiffly.

  “It is time to consign our differences to the past, not to be spoken of again.” Robert took a fortifying swig, tasting walnut, almonds, and vanilla, the hallmarks of the best French brandy. “I know I’ve not acted well.”

  “No, you haven’t.” Lord Charlesworth frowned. “But I’m sure we can put that down to immaturity.”

  Robert could still feel rage toward this man. It heated his gut, and he opened his mouth to retort. But then he remembered Kate. To win her love, this must be done. He took another swallow. “I will always remain fond of my mother, Charlesworth,” he said carefully. “I understand her needs and wish her and my siblings to be a part of my life. But the truth of it,” he couldn’t resist adding, “is that you did not want me as part of yours. After you married my mother, and particularly after your first child was born, you wished me to the very devil.”

  “Robert,” his mother gasped.

  “And I know for a fact that you swayed Millicent Burrowdale’s father against my suit,” Robert continued ruthlessly. Lord Charlesworth’s self-righteous expression didn’t alter. He still believed he’d been right, damn him. In Charlesworth’s opinion, Millicent, a merchant’s daughter, was not suitable.

  Robert still suffered a prickle of anger, even though when he’d met Millicent recently, he found her surprisingly shallow and rather dull, and he hadn’t liked that she’d flirted with him in front of her husband.

  “The girl was well beneath your touch,” Lord Charlesworth said, still with that smug look Robert disliked so much. “And I felt that you needed guidance i
n the matter. Past history now though.” He took his wife’s hand. “My concern is for my dear wife. Anything to make her happy.”

  Perhaps the man, fatuous as he was, spoke the truth. Robert had puzzled over what his mother saw in Charlesworth after being married to his father who had been an active member of parliament and a most imposing personage. But who was he to judge? He glanced at his mother and clamped his lips on the accusation that she had not stood up for him, nor taken his side when he desperately needed it. He now understood how easy it was to make a mistake. No one was infallible, least of all he. He accepted how torn she must have been.

  Robert put down his glass and rose. “Then we are in agreement.” He went to kiss his mother’s cheek, then he shook Charlesworth’s hand. “I plan to spend time with Kate in Cornwall. When I return, my wife and I shall call on you.”

  “She is a wonderful young woman, Robert. I like her very much.”

  “I do, too, Mother. I know you will be kind to her. She is deserving of your love.”

  There was something in her gaze he hadn’t seen before. She treated him like a man and no longer her recalcitrant child of ten and four. The age he’d been when all this began. He suffered a swift and painful desire to make her proud of him.

  Robert left the house, relieved, and lighter somehow. He took up the reins, tossed a coin to the young boy who had held them, and drove home. It was easy to like Kate. In fact, he loved her. Funny, when he admitted it to himself, he didn’t suffer even a twinge of anxiety, just a surge of urgency to be in Cornwall with her. She had undertaken that hazardous journey alone, without even her maid to accompany her. He drew in a deep breath. God keep her safe.

  Chapter Twenty

  In the afternoon of the third day, tired and desperately unhappy, Kate arrived at the castle. With two footmen riding shotgun, the trip proved uneventful, despite Hove’s fears. At the sign of the warm stone edifice, memories assailed her. She had left here with so much hope and now returned defeated.

  The carriage entered the cobbled courtyard, and a footman jumped down to assist her. James hurried to welcome her, closely followed by Felix, who jumped up at her with a joyful bark.

  James bowed. “Lady St. Malin. We received no word of your coming.”

  “No. I’m remiss, James.” Kate returned his warm smile. “It was a hasty decision. I found myself in need of rest and fresh air. London is exciting, but it does drain one.”

  “We have plenty of fresh air here, my lady,” he said with a grin.

  “Send the coach back to London tomorrow. I have no need of it, but his lordship may.” She wondered as she said it if she would ever return to London.

  “It shall be done, my lady.”

  In her old chamber, Kate removed her hat and perched on the window seat. Although it was autumn and cool, the grass remained green along the shore, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. All the colors seemed brighter here. After the gray skies of London, it looked like heaven. She listened to the slap of the waves on the shore and wished she was able to enjoy it with a light heart. Gulls soared above the waves, their mournful cry echoing her feelings. The sea’s briny smell wafted in on the breeze, and tears gathered at the back of her throat.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Come in.” Kate quickly wiped her eyes.

  “My lady?”

  “Rebecca. I’m pleased you’re still in service here.”

  Two footmen followed her in, carrying the trunk. They bowed and left.

  “Shall I attend to the gowns before they crease, my lady?”

  “Yes, please.” Too tired to move, Kate sagged in a chair watching the girl’s brisk movements. She dreaded being alone with her thoughts.

  James knocked at the door. “Do you wish a tray brought up, my lady?”

  “No. I’ll have it in the library, thank you, James.”

  “I’ll have a fire going in a trice and alert Cook. Mrs. Beacham will want to prepare one of your favorite meals.”

  Kate swallowed. “Thank you, James.”

  From the long library windows, shadows slanted across the meadows in the setting sun. A branch of a maple tree, it’s leaves a fiery crimson, scratched against the leaded panes. Kate sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her. Felix jumped up and settled beside her. She fed him half a ham sandwich which was gone with a snap of his jaws.

  While stroking the dog’s silky head, she thought back to when she’d first met Robert, standing with an arm resting on the mantel, one long leg crossed over the other. With the advantage of some distance between them, it became clearer why it had all gone so wrong. She’d made mistakes she admitted. But might he not have forgiven her? She’d tried so hard to be the graceful wife he wanted. She bit back a sob, and Felix licked her hand.

  Robert had approved of how she dressed, he’d said so on the way back from Bath. And she couldn’t fault his generosity. She’d never had to ask for money, or trinkets, or beg him to take her anywhere she wanted to go, despite him often being tired from handling his affairs. He’d never complained about her behavior in society, either, although she’d erred badly on more than one occasion.

  Yet, he hadn’t loved her. She’d been prepared to turn herself inside out to please him, but if he wanted a tall, fair, and slender beauty like Lady Arabella Elphinstone or Millicent Borrowdale, she could never be that. She was too short and rounded, her hair more brown than fair. And her behavior, for she was seldom submissive, would not have pleased him. She lowered her chin and gazed at the fire. No sense in wishing for the impossible.

  Another thought crept in. Might she have expected Robert to be more like her father? Papa had been an orator, and keen to express his feelings. Robert was a man of few words. People were different, did it really matter?

  Might she have been entirely unreasonable to wish for a husband to act like a romantic knight of old? The picture of Robert standing beneath her window serenading her, brought a reluctant grin to her lips. But he’d fought for her honor, which at the time she’d failed to appreciate. But after Southmore’s disgraceful treatment of her at Vauxhall, she was grateful.

  That night, Kate slept deeply, but woke unrefreshed. She’d dreamed that Robert came to take her in his arms. It weighed heavily on her heart to find herself alone. During the morning, she wandered the shore accompanied by Felix, adding a few pieces of driftwood to her collection and wondering where life would lead her. Did an unbearably lonely future await her? Surely Robert would not leave things this way. He would come to some decision and need to discuss it with her. This thought only served to make her more nervous. She knew little about legal matters but knew divorce was difficult to obtain. Didn’t Lord Brown have to appeal to parliament for a divorce? And nonconsummation was not grounds to obtain it.

  Kate returned to her chamber and began fashioning a new piece of driftwood. Her busy hands soothed and distracted her. But would her sad heart ever accept the inevitable?

  *

  In the phaeton, with his groom beside him on the box seat, Robert rested a boot on the footrest and tooled his horses along the country road. The phaeton was not as well sprung as the St. Malin coach, and he’d been forced to stop more often to change or rest the horses. It was no good trying to hurry things along. He must be patient, but patience was not something inherent in his nature. And even his newfound maturity didn’t seem to help—he smiled sourly, Charlesworth would always rub him the wrong way.

  Robert spent two nights staying at the same inns where he and Kate had slept in separate chambers. He should have been gentler and more patient with her and started them off on the right footing. But he’d thought only of his own needs and getting back to Anastasia! He gritted his teeth and had difficulty equating himself with the thoughtless man he’d been. How much time wasted!

  He cursed under his breath, forced to admit that Charlesworth had been right. He’d been an immature fool and needed to learn his lessons. He only hoped the punishment would not be too severe, and his sweet wife wou
ld forgive him. Would she look at him with her soft eyes full of love ever again? When both innkeepers informed him she’d stayed in their inns on her journey south to St. Malin Castle, he grew easier in his mind.

  At the end of the third day, in the fading light, they entered the shadowy Cardinham Woods where the trees grew close together. Two highwaymen galloped from the trees. One raised his gun and fired, the bullet whistling past them and echoing through the woods. His groom, Joss, held the reins, and pulled the plunging horses to a stop.

  “I’ll have the portmanteau,” one of the two said, his face half-hidden by a bandana. “You and your groom step down.” His pistol flicked between Robert and Joss, while his companion watched on, his gun smoking.

  Heart racing, aware of the pistol in his pocket, Robert and his groom obeyed the highwayman’s order. Joss pulled down the portmanteau from the back seat and dropped it on the ground.

  “I’ll have anything of value on your person.” He waved his gun motioning them forward. “And make it fast. I can retrieve them quite easily once you’re dead.”

  The rogue’s firearm was leveled at Robert’s chest, as the other man reloaded. They were going to be shot. “Hit the ground,” Robert murmured.

  Robert and Joss dived and rolled in different directions. The leader fired, the shot missing Robert, biting into the ground near his foot. Pulling the pistol from his pocket, Robert came up in a crouch and fired.

  The highwayman crumpled to the ground. His horse whinnied and galloped off into the woods. The other highwayman let out a string of curses when he saw his companion dead.

  With no time to reload, Robert sucked in a breath as the robber took aim at him and fired. Robert managed to jerk to the side to avoid a ball in the chest, but hot lead entered his shoulder, burning like fire. He was vaguely aware of the man riding off. He groaned. Would he live to tell Kate he loved her?

  Joss fell on his knees beside him. “My lord, are you…?”