Making Merry with the Marquess

by Lorraine Heath

  Dedication

  In loving memory of my parents

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from An Affair with a Notorious Heiress

  Chapter 1

  A Letter from the Editor

  About the Author

  Also by Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  My Dear Readers,

  If you’ve read The Viscount and the Vixen, then you know how this story ends. As I was writing that book, however, I found myself wanting to share the Marquess of Marsden’s story with more than the snippets that appeared whenever he reminisced about his Linnie. I wanted to bring you the story of a love that was truly undying. Fortunately, my wonderful editor and Avon Books were willing to let me write a very different type of romance.

  If you haven’t read The Viscount and the Vixen, then I invite you on a journey toward a very special happily ever after.

  In either case, I hope you’ll enjoy reading this unusual love story.

  Wishing you waltzes in the moonlight,

  Lorraine

  Prologue

  Havisham Hall, Devonshire

  Early Fall 1834

  George William St. John, sixth Marquess of Marsden, ran so hard and so fast that he thought his heart might burst through his chest. In his dozen years upon this earth, he’d never hated anyone as much as he despised all the people who were talking, laughing, and carrying on as though nothing were amiss. Decked out in mourning black, reminding him of scrawny crows, they were all supposed to be as sad as he was, sad that his father was dead. Certainly they’d been solemn at the church and during the funeral procession, and the ladies were consoling his mother. But the gents were drinking his father’s spirits and having a jolly good time.

  It wasn’t to be tolerated. As he was now the marquess, he should make them stop. But his mother had told him that he had to be polite—even to his blasted cousin Robbie who had reminded him that he was next in line should George up and die. He had no plans to do any such thing, especially in the arms of a tavern wench as his father had.

  No one was supposed to know that tidbit of information, not even him, but he’d overheard the servants gleefully whispering about it. He didn’t like them either. All he wanted was to be alone. He slammed against the oak tree and let flow the tears that had been building ever since his mother informed him that his father was dead. They were accompanied by huge, gulping sobs that shook his shoulders and thin frame. He hated them, too. At the moment he hated everything, decided he always would.

  Gathering himself together, he swiped away the embarrassing dampness from his cheeks, inhaled a deep breath, and looked up at the sky. Or wanted to. The view of it was obstructed by the abundance of leaves, the bit of white muslin draped over a branch, and a pair of swaying legs. It was a stupid girl.

  “Hello,” she called down.

  “I wasn’t crying,” he blurted out, detesting that his voice sounded froggy and hoarse.

  “I know. Why don’t you come up?”

  His mother forbade him to climb trees, forbade him to do a lot of things. “I can’t.”

  “Are you afraid? Don’t be scared. You’ll like it up here.”

  It was embarrassing to have a girl think him cowardly. He was the heir. He grimaced. Not anymore. Now he was the marquess. He should be able to do what he wanted. So up he climbed.

  As he neared the branch upon which she was sitting, she scooted over to make room for him.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” she said, once he was settled. He wasn’t surprised she knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was.

  “Who are you?”

  “Linnie, the baker’s daughter.”

  From the village. He’d passed through it on occasion, but he’d never been inside any of the shops. His mother liked only London shops. His father, on the other hand, was apparently fonder of the village offerings, not that he’d ever taken George with him.

  “I’m eight years old,” she continued on as though her age were important, “and I’m never going to marry.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I don’t want to.” Taking a deep breath, she looked away from him. “It’ll be dark soon. I love the night.”

  He decided she probably loved everything, but then her father wasn’t dead.

  “You’re so lucky to live here,” she said. “It’s so pretty and your home is monstrously large. I like looking at it.”

  His mother didn’t fancy it, but then she didn’t fancy a lot of things. He didn’t think she’d even fancied her husband.

  “Do you want to talk about him?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your father.”

  He shook his head.

  She wrapped her hand around his. “It’s all right then. We’ll just sit here and be quiet.”

  And so they did. While the shadows began to lengthen and creep over the land, while the sun slowly slid beyond the horizon, while the breeze blew and grew cooler.

  “I have to go,” she finally said as twilight hovered, and he wished she hadn’t broken the spell that had helped him to forget his anger, and his sadness, and his worry.

  “Go on.” She nudged his arm. “Climb down.”

  Down. He hadn’t considered how he’d get out of the tree when he’d hauled up it, and peering down from his perch now, he realized how very far he’d climbed. The earth, the safety of firm ground, was miles and miles away. “I can’t.” His voice was an embarrassing squeak.

  “All right then, I’ll go first.”

  She scrambled lithely over his lap as though she feared nothing at all. When she reached the trunk, she stretched out her leg and balanced one foot on a lower branch before meeting his gaze, reaching out and squeezing his hand in reassurance. “Keep your eyes on me. I won’t let you fall.”

  It was stupid, but he believed her, believed she had the power to guide him down. So he followed, slowly, tentatively, inch by terrifying inch, looking down into her blue eyes while she gazed up into his of green—until his feet landed on the earth.

  “I’ll see you around!” she cried, and off she went, darting toward the road that led to the nearby village.

  With a measure of wonderment, he watched her go. He might be only twelve, but within the past hour, he’d fallen in love and he knew without question that one day he would marry her.

  Chapter 1

  Devonshire

  1847

  “I despise it when our mothers get conspiratorial,” the Duke of Ashebury lamented, lounging in a chair at a corner table in the Fox and Hare. “Who hosts a ball in the country on Christmas Eve? I’ve a good mind not to attend.”

  “They’d leave off if we were married, but we’re not.”

  “State the obvious, why don’t you, Greyling?” the Marquess of Marsden asked, although his focus was not entirely on the conversation. Rather he was watching the barmaid with the braid of blond hair circling her head, and the efficient way she swayed her slender hips to avoid wandering hands. He was having a difficult time tamping down his frustration and anger that anyone at all would dare touch her.

  “Tupped her yet?” the Earl of Greyling asked, garnering a heated scowl from Marsden.

>   “We are friends, nothing more.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t tup her. She works in a tavern. And from a certain angle, she’s rather fetching. Maybe I’ll have a go at her.”

  The fury that shot through him had him clenching his jaw until his words could merely slither out. “Only if you wish to lose your teeth.”

  “You can’t imagine she’s a virgin.”

  He not only imagined it, he was rather certain of it. Linnie, the baker’s daughter, was not without morals.

  Carrying four tankards, two in each hand, she wended her way between the tables, laughing as she went as though she was having a jolly good time. If she had a free hand, she’d no doubt be swatting at the gents who were bold enough to swipe at her backside as she passed. He was of a mind to break a few fingers, a few noses, a few jaws. Fiercely independent, she wouldn’t care for the direction of his thoughts. Still he felt an overwhelming need to protect her. She was far too naive to be working in a place such as this.

  With a saucy smile, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief, Linnie ambled up to their table, leaned over to present an innocent view of her cleavage revealed by the low cut of her bodice, placed two tankards in front of him, and one each before Ashebury and Greyling. “There you are, lads. Figured you were about due for another pint.” She winked at Marsden. “Smile, Georgie. It’s Christmas, and you look all grumpy.”

  “It’s not yet Christmas,” he groused. They had a week to go. His friends had arrived only that afternoon so they could catch up on the happenings in each others’ lives before the dreaded ball.

  “’Tis the season. Drink up now and be merry.”

  With a flourish, she spun on her heel and headed back to the barkeep to fetch someone else’s round, effectively dodging wayward hands. The later into the night they got, the bolder the men became. Animals all. It didn’t matter that some were aristocrats. They were behaving like heathens.

  “She certainly shows a familiarity when speaking to you,” Greyling mused, a teasing edge to his tone that irritated, but then it seemed everything tonight was irritating Marsden. “Are you certain you haven’t tupped her?”

  “Not that it’s any of your concern, but it’s not as though I’d forget it if I had.” On the contrary. It would be a memory he’d carry with him until he drew his last breath. It was an act he’d imagined often enough. He experienced shame every time he did but he seemed incapable of warding off the wayward thoughts. She was deserving of so much more than providing the spark for a man’s lustful fantasies.

  “Someone’s going to,” Greyling predicted, and Marsden’s ire rose.

  “She’s a barmaid, not a light skirt.”

  “Leave off, Greyling,” Ashebury ordered. He wasn’t shy about using his rank to order them about. It had been that way since Eton. “Besides, we have a more pressing issue to discuss: how to avoid the marriage noose. My mother wants my betrothal for Christmas, and she believes it will happen during the ball at Havisham. She’s counting on it as a matter of fact, as is yours and Marsden’s. They’ve practically advertised it as the evening that the Undecided Lords decide.”

  “The Undecided Lords.” Greyling scoffed. “Why must they come up with monikers for us? I am not in the least undecided. I’ve very much decided that I’m not going to marry before I’m forty.”

  “It’s because our fathers died rather young and left behind only one heir each that they worry.” Marsden picked up the tankard Linnie had left behind and downed a good portion of its bitter contents. “We must see to the bloodline.”

  Ashebury sighed. “Not a very romantic reason to marry.”

  “At least they’re letting us choose our bride,” Greyling said. “I’ve no doubt our fathers would have already arranged a pairing.”

  A scream followed by ribald laughter had Marsden jerking his attention back to the crowd filling the tavern. He saw Linnie sitting in a bloke’s lap, pushing on his shoulders while he seemed intent on planting a kiss on her mouth. Before he was even aware of it, he was halfway across the room with his hands balled at his sides. “Robbie!”

  The large, broad man looked over and grinned like an idiot who apparently didn’t recognize an avenging angel when he saw one. “Cousin!”

  “Release her immediately.”

  “We’re just having a bit of sport. She don’t mind, do you, love?”

  She shoved hard enough to nearly topple over the chair. “Let me up, you clod.”

  “First, give us a kiss.”

  “You’re going to be kissing my fist, Robbie,” Marsden declared with enough vehemence that those sitting at the table with his daft relation pushed back their chairs as though fearing they might be in the path of the blow.

  “Don’t be ruining the fun, Cousin.”

  Marsden moved in, wrapped his arm around Linnie’s waist, and extricated her from the oaf’s lap. “Off with you.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” A tart edge to her voice alerted him that he’d somehow managed to anger her with his rescue, or perhaps it was the command he’d given at the end. She’d never liked him ordering her about even when it was for her own good.

  Robbie glowered at him. “You’re not the king around here.”

  “No, I’m the marquess. This village and the villagers are under my protection.”

  His cousin rolled eyes as green as his. “This isn’t medieval England.”

  “My estate and land give me a responsibility. You are a guest at Havisham, and, therefore, I expect you to behave as a gentleman while you are in the area.” He didn’t know why his mother had invited his cousin to come for Christmas unless it was to remind him of who would inherit if he didn’t provide an heir. Robbie’s father had served as Marsden’s guardian after his own father died. His entire family had lived at Havisham. Marsden had never been so glad in his life as he was when he reached his majority and could kick the lot out. He’d settled a generous amount on his former guardian that had allowed him to purchase a small estate. He wished only that it was located farther away, preferably in another country.

  Robbie shoved himself to his feet. “What are you going to do if I’m not?”

  “I’ll flatten you.” God, he wanted to. He’d wanted to ever since he was six years old, and Robbie, three years his senior, had tossed him into a pigpen to wallow in the muck.

  Robbie glared at him, then looked past him, shrugged. “I was just having a bit of fun.” He dropped into his chair. “A concept with which you are obviously unfamiliar. But no matter. I’m content to merely drink.” He lifted his tankard and began gulping down the contents.

  Marsden didn’t quite trust him, but still he turned around and came up short at the sight of his two friends standing mere inches behind him.

  “I was hoping for a round of fisticuffs,” Greyling said.

  “We could take the whole lot of them out,” Ashebury assured him.

  “I think they’ll behave now.” And if not, then he and his friends would deal with them, which would be far easier than dealing with Linnie when the time came.

  Her swollen feet hurt and her back ached, but Madeline Connor simply put away the broom and rags she and the other lasses had used to clean up after the last of the customers left. She got in the queue, waited her turn, and smiled at the tavern keeper and proprietor as he placed the coins in her hand. Nothing she liked better than the tinkling of silvers and coppers hitting each other, even if it was only three of them.

  “’Night, Henry. See you tomorrow.”

  “Take care, Linn.”

  She snatched her cloak from a peg on the wall, draped it over her shoulders, and walked out into the cold night, her heart giving a little lurch as a man shoved himself away from the wall. Then she recognized him and her temper flared. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to walk you home,” the Marquess of Marsden said.

  With a roll of her eyes, she began striding up the street. “I get myself home every night just fine when you’re not about.”
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br />   “But I’m about now, and I know you’re upset with me. Do you fancy Robbie? Were you flirting with him?”

  If she were ten years younger, she’d smack him on the shoulder, but as it was, she merely scoffed. “No, he’s a buffoon. A drunk one at that. But I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t know why you have to work there.”

  “My da gives me a roof over my head for working in the bakery. The pub puts coins in my pocket so I can move to London and open my own bakery.”

  “London has enough bakeries.”

  She nudged her shoulder against his arm—hard—causing him to stumble. “Don’t spit on my dream.”

  Straightening, he tugged on his gloves when they already appeared to be snugly in place. “You won’t like London. It’s foul-smelling and crowded.”

  She could do without the odor, but an abundance of people suited her, because she could become lost, might never again see him. “You seem to spend enough time there.”

  “Not by choice. I much prefer it here.”

  Stopping, she leaned against a wall. It was late, no one was about except for a stray dog or two. “And why is that, m’lord?”

  He glanced around before stepping nearer to her. She held her breath, waiting for the words she longed to hear. Because you’re here.

  “It’s my home.” His voice, deep in the quiet, wrapped around her. She’d teased him unmercifully when it began to deepen, often cracking as though uncertain in which direction it wished to go: high or low.

  But now her heart tightened, squeezed, dropped to her toes. How could he not see that she loved him, that she couldn’t stay here once he married, and he’d be marrying before the next year was out if his mother had her way. Linnie knew all about the blasted ball and its purpose: to secure him a wife. She needed to be long gone before a beautiful noblewoman took up residence at Havisham Hall.