Marquesses at the Masquerade

by Emily Greenwood

  “My father was a good man who was made a scapegoat for those who should have acted more nobly,” Rosamund said, her voice gaining strength. All those years ago, while everyone had vilified and mocked her father and called him a traitor, Rosamund and her mother knew that he had only done what was right and that he had paid the price for what others refused to see. Now was her chance to speak the truth that no one would listen to before. Perhaps no one would want to hear it now, though she believed Marcus would at least listen. His eyes had not left her, and she kept her gaze on him.

  “My name is Rosamund Shufflebottom, and my father was Captain Frederick Shufflebottom of His Majesty’s Navy.”

  “Silence, Rosamund!” her aunt said. “How dare you speak of our family’s disgrace?”

  “No, Aunt, I won’t be silent. I have been silent for too long,” Rosamund said, steeling her voice when it would quiver. “You have perhaps heard of the Shufflebottom Affair, which took place half a dozen years ago, my lord? With our family name being so memorable, I believe the news of my father’s disgrace spread even farther than it would have otherwise.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I remember the Shufflebottom Affair.”

  She nodded, swallowing down the lump of emotion pressing in her throat. “He was a captain in the Royal Navy, and he gave comfort to deserters from another Navy ship by taking them onboard when they were trying to escape pursuit. I’m sure you saw the mocking cartoons and the cries of traitor, the calls for him to be hanged.”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes on her. She couldn’t know what he was thinking, but at least he would hear the truth.

  “He was vilified, and my family was assumed to be of the lowest character. My father maintained that he’d helped the men because their captain was a cruel madman who’d had many sailors beaten horribly for minor offenses, three of them beaten to death. But no one would listen. He’d acted against his country, and that was all that mattered. He died of an apoplexy during the court martial proceedings. My mother died soon after of a broken heart.”

  “No one wanted to listen to him because he was wrong and a scoundrel,” Melinda said sharply. “He was an embarrassment to our family, as are you.”

  Marcus’s jaw seemed to turn to stone in that moment, and his eyes glittered with ice as they shifted to Melinda. Rosamund realized she was seeing the steely core at the heart of the man she loved, and she shivered.

  “Rosamund could never be an embarrassment to any family,” Marcus said in the kind of commanding tone a general might use in battle. His words had only begun to penetrate when he continued, “I see now how it was, Mrs. Monroe. Rosamund was orphaned, and you took her in because you felt bound by duty to do so. But you made her pay for it, didn’t you?”

  Melinda blinked rapidly several times. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.”

  “Quite simply that you must have treated her abominably. I knew of your daughters, but I never once heard of a cousin living with them. And that was because Rosamund was to remain hidden, wasn’t she?”

  Rosamund could only stare, comprehension beginning to dawn. He believed her, and he understood. Relief and happiness nibbled at the edges of her anxiety and made the corners of her mouth tremble. For Marcus to know and understand was everything she had so dearly wanted—or nearly everything. It would be enough.

  “Her family brought nothing but scandal to the rest of us,” Melinda said, her chin held high. “Her duty has been to lead a quiet, useful life.”

  “I’ll wager it was useful to you,” Lady Tremont said darkly. “And I’m in no doubt there’s more to the story of those pearls than you’ve described.”

  “Those pearls belonged to my mother and should be returned to me,” Melinda screeched. “Rosamund took them—”

  “Only because you forced me to surrender them when I came to your house as a girl,” Rosamund said, amazed her voice sounded as even as it did, but Marcus had given her strength. “They were given to my mother and were meant for the oldest girl in every generation. Which is, in fact, me.”

  Melinda wisely said nothing to this.

  “Nothing else to say?” Marcus said in that hard, marquess’s voice. “Never mind, I’ve heard enough. My housekeeper will see you out. Good day to you, Mrs. Monroe.”

  “But,” Melinda began, “your lordship, you’re not thinking to keep Rosamund Shufflebottom here as a servant. Mundie, come along!”

  “No, I’m not thinking to keep her as a servant. But she’s not going with you either,” Marcus said, and if Rosamund had been on the receiving end of that icy glare, she felt certain her knees would have been knocking together. Melinda seemed to shrink as the marquess’s dark blue eyes bore down on her. “Good day, ma’am.”

  Lady Tremont stepped into the hallway and could be heard calling for Mrs. Clark, but Melinda and her daughters were already leaving. As they passed through the doorway, Vanessa turned and gave Rosamund a hard look of the kind she’d dispensed many times, but this time Rosamund only smiled back. What did it matter what any of them thought? With any luck, she’d never see her aunt or cousins again.

  And then Marcus was at her side.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, all traces of the imperious marquess gone.

  “What could I say?” She realized, as he took her hands in his own large, warm ones, how much she was shaking. “The daughter of Frederick Shufflebottom is not a woman whom the Marquess of Boxhaven could possibly want to employ, never mind...” She blushed as he gently placed a fingertip over her lips.

  “The daughter of Frederick Shufflebottom is a firebrand for justice and the finest woman I know.”

  He waited, as if to see whether she had truly heard what he’d said. “Marcus,” she said, her heart in her throat, “your words mean so much to me. But—”

  “I don’t want to hear anything that starts with ‘but,’ Rosamund. I love you, and I don’t care if your name is Shufflebottom, Fingerpuller, or Jellyleg.”

  He loved her? Could it really be? Her lips started to tremble, but she managed to say, “Do you know a lot of people named Jellyleg?”

  “What I know is that you haven’t yet said whether you love me.” He kissed her, and her heart swelled with such happiness that she thought she might burst.

  “And I think,” he continued, “that you very likely have a ridiculous idea that I need protecting from the likes of scandalous you.”

  “You’re a marquess,” she said seriously. “You can’t consort with a scandalous woman.”

  “On the contrary. I’m a marquess, so I shall do exactly as I like. And one of the things I should very much like is for everyone to know that your father was the sort of patriot of whom this country ought to be very proud.”

  “Oh, Marcus.” Tears of joy filled her eyes. “This all feels too good to be true.”

  “And yet it is true.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But I can’t tolerate another moment of suspense. Do you love me, Rosamund?”

  “Yes, Marcus, yes!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “With all my heart.”

  They held each other for long moments, and then he leaned away so he could look into her eyes. “Then say you’ll be mine. Will you marry me, Rosamund Shufflebottom?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, I will, Marcus!”

  After quite a lot of kissing, they found themselves on the divan with Rosamund curled up in Marcus’s arms. She realized that someone, likely Lady Tremont, had discreetly closed the door to the drawing room at some point.

  He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Shufflebottom certainly is a memorable name.”

  “It is, and yes, I was teased about it as a child.”

  “Poor you. So... Poppy.”

  She smiled. “Yes, Poppy. My middle name is Penelope, and my parents called me Poppy as a nickname.”

  He nodded. “When you first walked into the room and saw your aunt, I began to put it together. But I think in some way, I always knew. From the minute I met you on
the street, after you rescued Socrates, I felt something every time I looked into your eyes. I hope you know that you put me through an appalling time, thinking I was enchanted with one woman while I was falling in love with another one.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said, kissing him a number of times and reveling in the fact that now she could kiss him all she wanted, whenever she wanted. She cupped his cheek, her expression turning serious. “Though I had my own appalling time, knowing who you were and believing you could never be mine. Never mind knowing that you loved the memory of me pretending to be someone I wasn’t more than you liked the real me.”

  Marcus gave her a mock stern look before his expression turned serious. “But Poppy was you. Her clothes weren’t what dazzled me: It was simply her. Which is you, simply you, Rosamund Penelope Shufflebottom, soon-to-be Hallaway. I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and now you are truly mine.”

  “Oh, Marcus, I do love you,” she sighed.

  A muffled snort drew their attention to Socrates, whose presence had been forgotten, but who was now standing a few feet away, looking up at them.

  “He was being so uncharacteristically tranquil, I’d forgotten he was in here,” Marcus said.

  Rosamund cocked her head. “It almost looks like he’s grinning.”

  Marcus nodded. “Like he’s pleased with himself.”

  A moment passed, then Rosamund said, “He was a sort of matchmaker, when you think about how he brought us together.”

  Socrates yipped insistently, and his master gave him a haughty look, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the grin teasing his lips. “I don’t think I can tolerate too much smugness in a dog, but I suppose this is where I’m meant to admit I’m grateful that my mother gave me this creature.”

  “I think it is,” Rosamund said, laughter filling her eyes. And he kissed her again, laughing.

  “I am,” he said. “Oh, I am.”

  THE END

  A Note from Emily

  * * *

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you’ve enjoyed ONCE UPON A BALL, my own spin on the Cinderella tale and the first story in the Hallaway Family series.

  I’ve had such fun working with Grace Burrowes and Susanna Ives on this anthology collection! In addition to being wonderful writers, they’re both lovely people, and I feel pretty lucky to get to write Regency stories with them.

  My next release, now available for preorder, is A ROGUE WALKS INTO A BALL, which is the story of the Marquess of Boxhaven’s younger brother, Jack, whom readers meet in ONCE UPON A BALL. Visit my Books page for more information and ordering links. You can also subscribe to my mailing list while you’re there if you want to be alerted to my new releases (the only time I send emails).

  From one book lover to another, happy reading!

  Emily

  From A Rogue Walks into a Ball by Emily Greenwood

  * * *

  Sarah Porter knew that life was not fair. No sensible woman could reach the age of twenty-five and not know this in her bones, though Sarah had had particular and personal proof of this truth from a young age, in the shape of a nose that could not be ignored.

  She’d first begun to experience the effects of her singular nose when she was thirteen and it became apparent that her nose was growing far faster than the rest of her face. Her mother began to wring her hands when Sarah appeared at the breakfast table each morning, as though startled anew at the sight.

  “Oh, my dear, it’s your father’s nose,” Mrs. Porter would wail, her own button nose sitting unremarkably amid her fine features. “Why should you have been so cursed? If only there were something that could be done.”

  “Don’t pay it any mind,” Sarah’s father would sometimes be moved to counsel from behind his newspaper. “Having a prominent nose has never bothered me.”

  But as Sarah was to learn, large noses on men were not the same thing as large noses on women. And her nose was growing into the same shape and, she was dismayed to find as the years passed, nearly the same size as her father’s nose. What fate had given her was a hawk’s assertive beak, and the only question was how large it would ultimately be.

  Quite large, it turned out. Large enough that it was the first thing anyone noticed about her, and people were never shy about remarking on it.

  If people knew her family, the remarks were commonly expressed variations of “Oh, you have your father’s nose,” uttered in the tones one might use for a person who’d suffered a great calamity.

  Then there were the ladies who condoled with her: “I know just how you feel— my feet are far too big.” Since feet could be hidden, Sarah could rarely take comfort in such expressions.

  By far the worst were people who thought they were funny, and of these, the most disastrous was the shopkeeper who’d handed over Sarah’s purchase with a wink and said, “I nose you will like it!”

  Gideon Grant, the most handsome and popular boy in the village of Scarborough, had heard the comment, and he’d laughed uproariously. He’d followed her out of the store, chanting “I nose you will like it” after her as she hurried away, willing herself not to cry. For years after that, whenever he saw Sarah, Gideon found a way to use the hated “I nose” construction, saying things like “I nose you don’t want to get wet” if he saw her with an umbrella, or “I nose you live nearby” if he passed her on the street.

  By the time Sarah was sixteen, she’d decided that Gideon had done her two favors. The first was that his relentless teasing taught her to rely on herself. Sarah had always been clever, and she loved to read. She liked novels and poetry, but what she loved best were travel stories and maps. The allure of foreign lands, and the idea of an escape from the narrow world of Scarborough, helped her not to care about the likes of Gideon Grant.

  The other thing that Gideon’s teasing did was to demonstrate, in a way Sarah learned to accept deeply, that people who were attractive were generally shallow. He was helped in imparting this lesson by other mocking boys, and several of the lovely young ladies of Scarborough, who tittered appreciatively at the witticisms he uttered at Sarah’s expense.

  These lessons insulated Sarah from the, to her, entirely foreseeable disappointments once she was old enough to go to social events such as parties and balls, where she was an instant wallflower. And while she stood at the edges of dance floors and watched as the gentlemen’s eyes moved past her to rest on prettier women, she consoled herself with thoughts of Constantinople and Paris, of the olive trees of Italy and the fishing villages of Greece. She conjured daring schemes of how she might one day reach these places, and she mostly didn’t care that her nose made her a nobody.

  Visit my Books page to preorder A ROGUE WALKS INTO A BALL

  Only Unto Him

  * * *

  Susanna Ives

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Lord Exmore decided Miss Annalise Van Der Keer was beyond any hope. He, like the rest of Society, already knew her to be headstrong, ignorant, and silly. After all, he had warned his cousin Patrick away from the socially disgraced lady only days before. He and Patrick’s father agreed to send the impressionable young man packing to India, putting almost two continents between Patrick and Miss Van Der Keer. But now, as the woman in question stood in Exmore’s parlor in the late evening, having arrived with no hat, no gloves, and no chaperone, he realized that he had woefully overestimated what little sense the wild chit possessed.

  “What kind of hideous, unfeeling monster are you?” she blasted him when he strolled in to meet her.

  She brandished a crumpled letter in her hand. Her dark curls, wet from the rain, had escaped the mooring of her hairpins and were plastered about her cheekbones. Her enormous brown eyes were luminous with tears and hurt.

  “What the devil?” He had neither the time nor desire to be hospitable to the girl, who had been plucked far too soon from the schoolroom. “Where is your uncle? Does he even know you are gone?”

  Miss Van Der Keer had
come to London for the Season and had stayed in the home of her uncle, Mr. Harry Sommerville. His was a well-respected family that was a hairbreadth above middling. Annalise’s aunt was as silly as the young lady, but Mr. Sommerville was a serious, ambitious man, who brooked no nonsense. Annalise must have slipped from under her keepers’ noses.

  “You sent Patrick away.” Her girlish soprano voice cracked with emotion.

  He crossed to the side table, where a tray holding a decanter and several tumblers waited. He poured a glass of brandy and took a sip, letting his anger simmer down before he spoke. “If you are referring to Mr. Hume, he left England of his own free will.”

  Exmore did not lie to Miss Van Der Keer on this count. Patrick’s father had sent an urgent letter upon learning that his son had been caught in the snares of Miss Van Der Keer, who had made quite a name for herself in Society. The small age difference between Exmore and Patrick was such that Patrick regarded his cousin as a wiser older brother, rather than a disapproving father. Patrick had been easily swayed by his cousin’s arguments against a match with Miss Van Der Keer. Exmore, who had fallen in love and married young, had impressed upon Patrick the importance of choosing the proper wife for his station. Exmore had used his own wife’s superior characteristics as an example of an ideal wife for a gentleman: gentle, well-mannered, yielding, responsible, charming, and beautiful—all the attributes lacking in Miss Van Der Keer.

  Exmore had then stroked his cousin’s ego by saying Patrick had the makings of a great man. Patrick would prove himself in India, making a name and a fortune. Upon his return to England, Patrick would secure a better wife than Miss Van Der Keer could ever make him.