The Marquess of Cake

by Heather Hiestand

  “Are you sure he’s coming tonight? We haven’t seen much of the marquess this week.”

  “Like Father, he’s a busy man,” Alys said. “We can’t expect him to entertain us when we are unexpected guests.” No matter what had passed between them.

  “You are right of course,” Rose sighed. “But it does lift my spirits to see such a handsome man, even if I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.”

  “We shall watch him tonight and see if he is more at ease around country landowners.”

  “Do you think there will be eligible men at the dinner?”

  “I do not know any more than you.”

  “I am sorry you’ve been cooped up here with me all this time. I know you prefer to be occupied in more active pursuits. You haven’t had a minute to yourself in days.”

  And well she knew it, but she resolved not to be selfish anymore.

  “Your health is my chief concern. But if you are ready now, we should go downstairs.”

  Forty minutes later a footman helped them dismount at Dickondell Farm. Michael did not join them in the carriage or ride alongside, so they entertained themselves by speculating about the family who had invited them. The house was a large, old pile of local stone, but inside was quite inviting and modern.

  “Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” exclaimed Mrs. Dickondell to Rose as they were ushered into the drawing room. She nodded politely to Alys and took Rose’s hand, patting it as she led Rose to a seat by the fire. “We’ve heard all about your illness, dear. I hope a bit of dancing won’t set you back any. I have three sons who are looking forward to it.”

  Rose smiled widely. “I’m certain I will be fine, thank you.”

  Alys was surprised not to see Michael at dinner, but their hosts didn’t mention him. She was seated next to the youngest Dickondell brother on one side, all of seventeen years of age, and an elderly deaf aunt on the other, while Rose carried on a brisk conversation with Mrs. Dickondell and the Dickondell heir, Clement.

  After dinner, the rugs were rolled up in the drawing room. The gardener and one of the stable hands, both talented musicians, were brought in to play alongside Mrs. Dickondell at the piano.

  Clement Dickondell spoke for Rose, the middle Dickondell brother took the hand of a fetching cousin who lived with them, and the youngest squired his fifteen-year-old sister, leaving Alys to perch on a chair on the wall, alongside the deaf aunt. She tapped her toes as a reel began, wishing Michael would appear so she might have a partner. But two hours of dancing went by. The aunt snored on Alys’s shoulder. Rose drank half a cup of tea between each dance to keep her wheezes at bay, occasionally sitting out to whisper with the heir by the fire.

  Rose was a palpable hit at the Dickondells’ house. Alys had never felt more like an old maid, and a ruined one at that. If her father thought there would be potential husbands to overlook her advanced age in the country, he seemed to be wrong. Perhaps word of their dowries hadn’t reached this part of the area. Certainly, the family did not treat her like she was in the market for a husband.

  At least they had been invited out, but surely they were expected to bring their host along.

  “I do hope his lordship feels better soon,” said Mrs. Dickondell, wiping her florid face with a handkerchief during a break.

  “Is he ill?” Alys inquired. “We did not see him today.”

  “I understood your sister was in fragile health. He probably did not want to overly tax her with visiting today.”

  “He has been most thoughtful,” Alys agreed.

  “I did expect to see him this evening, however. How do your families know each other, Miss Redcake?”

  She gave the simplest answer. “My brother served with the marquess’s brother in India.”

  “I see. And your brother?” Mrs. Dickondell paused delicately.

  “Was wounded, but he’s home safely now.”

  “Ah, that is good to hear.” The lady patted her hand. “We are cousins of the Shield family, to the third degree. I do love genealogy and have traced our family tree back to the royal House of Wessex.”

  “How fascinating.” Alys heard a guttural cough, and glanced up sharply to see Rose doubled over, holding her ribs. Her dance partner looked frantic. “I think it is time to order the carriage.”

  “Yes, of course.” Concern knotted the lady’s forehead.

  Alys wondered if Rose had lost her chance with the Dickondell heir. But she did not always sound so bad. If only she had danced less. The exertion had done it.

  When Alys had Rose home and in bed, sleeping with a warm flannel on her chest, she decided to go looking for Michael. After all, after what they’d done together, searching for him wasn’t any more improper.

  She found him in the library. He still wore boots despite the late hour. They were thrust in the direction of the fire. She’d never seen him slump before, but he did so now in his chair, with a piece of paper in one hand and a glass of some amber-colored liquid in the other.

  Spirits, as she could smell.

  In his lap rested a letter. She could just see an envelope peeking out from beneath it, with the words “On Her Majesty’s Service” in typescript.

  “It is with deep regret,” Michael said in an ancient voice, so at odds from his usual confident tone.

  “What?” Alys asked, dropping to her knees next to the chair so she could see his face.

  “That I write to inform you,” was all he said, in the same sepulchral tone.

  Alys clutched the shawl she’d wrapped around her sateen. Oh, this was bad. “Your brother?” she whispered.

  Michael continued inexorably. “Of the death,” his voice broke.

  “Of the death—” He bent his head.

  She put her hands on his knee. Her shawl fell around her, tangling in her skirts.

  “I should have made him come home,” he whispered. “My God, what a desolate place to die.”

  She blinked back tears. “What can I do?”

  “Everything changes now,” he said. “Everything.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” she said, wondering what he meant. His brother hadn’t been in England for a very long time, and Michael was the marquess, not his brother. So what would change, really, other than a chance of having Judah home again someday? His heart must be breaking at the loss, and he had to inform his mother and Beth.

  “Go to bed, Alys. I need to think.”

  She got to her feet and nodded. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she kissed his forehead, just a quick peck he could scarcely have felt before it was over, and ran out of the room to make sure the staff knew.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rose was too excited by her triumph to feel ill the next morning. By the time they went down for breakfast, out of respect to the household both in gray dresses and black shawls, the closest thing they had to mourning, the mirrors were already covered in black. The curtains were drawn and the clocks silenced.

  Michael was nowhere to be seen, but the housekeeper came in when they were finished eating.

  “His lordship would like to see you in his study, Miss Redcake.”

  Alys nodded, guessing it was time for them to leave. Since they had been at the Farm for nearly a week at least some new servants would have been hired, and cleaning done at her family home. Rose was better, even if their night at the Dickondells’ had ended somewhat badly. She left Rose with a cup of coffee and went to learn their fate.

  From the pure, pale color of Michael’s skin, she doubted he’d been to bed the previous night, but he smelled beautifully of mint and rosemary, and wore fresh clothing. The black band on his arm blended into the dark fabric, and his waistcoat was purest ebony.

  Even his hair had been slicked back with a pomade of some kind, blending the blond highlights into the darker hair. He looked forbidding yet utterly exhausted. Alone, but powerful. Desolate, but resolved.

  The onl
y sound came hissing from the gaslight sconces along the walls, necessary due to the pulled curtains. Perhaps it was their light that made him look so white.

  She twisted her hands behind her, thinking how her work-roughened hands didn’t fit into a place of such purity, such grief, such elegance.

  Too loud and healthy for this place she was, with her flaming hair and sturdy body. How had her father ever thought she’d fit into the country gentry?

  “Will you have a seat, Alys?” Michael asked with quiet formality.

  “No, you must be busy, my lord. I’ve started the packing, so we can return to my father’s house as soon as will be convenient.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Surely you don’t want us underfoot. You must have preparations to make. Is family coming?”

  “For what, Alys?” he asked.

  “A funeral?” she queried.

  He folded his hands across his chest and bent his head for a moment. “I am waiting for word. He may have been buried where he fell.”

  “Of course, I see.”

  “There is really nothing to be done now, except write letters.”

  She nodded. “You asked to see me. Can I be of assistance, then?

  Writing the letters? Are you going to go back to London to await word?”

  “No. It is Saturday. There won’t be anything to discover in London right away.”

  “I suppose not.” She waited, wondering why he’d sent for her.

  “Alys, in light of recent events, I feel I should make a change in my circumstances.”

  “How so, my lord?”

  “I realize this is a bit irregular, but then our situation has ever been that.” He scrubbed his face with his hands.

  Poor man, his head must be aching from sorrow and his overindulgence of the night before. “Indeed,” she agreed.

  He put his hands, palms out, toward her.

  “To be clear, as one must be in these circumstances, I wish to take you to wife.”

  Alys felt as if she’d been struck in the heart so forcefully that her hearing extinguished, to be overlain with a dull buzz. She sat abruptly.

  Had he really said those words? She put her hands to her breast. “To wife?”

  “Yes, I’d like to marry you, as soon as possible. Special license.

  Under the circumstances, you know. We shouldn’t wait six months or a year. What if you were already, well, expectant?”

  Alys felt her cheeks color. “You didn’t ruin me. I explained.”

  “I wish it,” he said firmly. “I like you, and it is really the best thing for you.”

  “Oh?” she said in a small voice so unlike her. Why did everyone seem to know what was best for her before she could decide for herself ?

  “And for me too, of course. I need an heir now.”

  “If I am expectant, of course you’d want the child,” she said, seizing on his reason, that bit of sanity. “Yes, of course.”

  “I can get a license from the local vicar. We could marry in as soon as a week,” he said. “That will allow our families time to arrive and for you to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “And if I discover I am not with child in that time?” she asked.

  “It makes no difference,” he said, the faintest of twinkles returning to his gaze. “We shall have other opportunities. But I think until then we should stay apart from each other, for propriety’s sake.”

  She colored again when she realized he’d planned to continue with her. When she had seen him so little over the past week she’d assumed he had experienced a moment of madness with her never to be repeated. It appeared the madness had all been hers. She covered her mouth with her hand, hiding the inappropriate smile that came with the realization that he hadn’t meant to be done with her. Her body would receive his glorious caresses again.

  “What say you? Shall I obtain the license? Are you willing to marry in a week?”

  “I wonder if I have a choice, unless you are willing to wait longer.”

  “You don’t want me?” His expression reverted to blank remoteness.

  She did not want to heap rejection upon mourning. Of course she wanted him, but marriage? She’d never thought it was for her. “I need time.”

  He stared at her. “I understand it is common for young ladies to refuse, or demur at first, but surely you realize you’ll never have a better offer than this.”

  She wondered if his arrogance came from his title, his money, or his own sense of worth. “Marriage was not in my plans.”

  “It most assuredly was in your father’s plans. He terminated your career. You are at his mercy.”

  She steeled her spine, angry now. “You are all but my third offer, my lord, in less than a month.”

  His eyes slitted. “I see. Then why the dalliance with me?”

  “You are not a gentleman for mentioning it.”

  “Then perhaps you are not a—”

  Thankfully, the next word didn’t come out of his mouth, but she knew what it was. Lady. She was not a lady. “I think it is clear what I am, my lord.”

  “Stop calling me that. My name is Michael. At least call me Hatbrook. We are friends, are we not?”

  She tried the name on her tongue, unfamiliar for all that he’d become “Michael” in her thoughts after they’d made love. “You are under great stress, Michael, and perhaps are making decisions that you will think twice about in the future. In giving myself time to make this decision, I give it to you as well.” She wanted his hands on her body, but the rest? The title, responsibilities she was completely unprepared for? The censure of his peers?

  “And that is all you have to say on this matter?”

  “For now.”

  He stood, his large body looming over her. “I am not satisfied.”

  In his dark clothing, with his distant expression, he looked dangerous for the first time. But this was her life. Her spine stiffened.

  “Why? Do you have some other candidate for this great honor waiting in the wings?” Another lover, perhaps? No, she didn’t even want to have that thought. She stood.

  A muscle in his cheek jerked visibly. “I did not plan for any of this.”

  Plan for what? He certainly hadn’t said he loved her. Plan for his brother’s death, obviously not. Oh, her head was in such a whirl.

  “I must go,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need to check on Rose.”

  He nodded. “I’ll expect an answer soon, but I can’t get the license until Monday at any rate. You have two days.”

  She turned and ran away, like the most abject coward. Rose was not in their room when she arrived. She knew she should look for her sister but she’d much rather fling herself on the bed and cry. What a mess she’d made of the proposal and she couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Rose would think the best response would be to throw herself at Michael’s feet and beg his forgiveness and accept him immediately. In her heart of hearts she knew that would be best. She wasn’t a fool. A little shop with her name above the door was hardly likely.

  She probably would be refused a shop lease. Maybe she should have accepted Lewis, but she didn’t love him. Or Popham. She couldn’t imagine offering her body to either of them.

  These thoughts stopped her cold in a hallway. Michael didn’t love her, but how did she feel about him? Passion, certainly. But nothing so strong that she had no trouble throwing away all her dreams of a career in favor of being his wife, no matter how elevated a position it might be.

  Was her mother at fault, for not filling her head with appropriately feminine dreams? No, she saw her father far more than her mother and all he’d wanted of her until recently was hard work. He had created for her the wrong dreams, the wrong goals. She could not change as quickly as he could. She had molded herself into the perfect Redcake daughter, but then the rules of the family had altered.

  She shut the door with a bang and went to look for Rose, finding her in the long gallery, hung with old fami
ly pictures interspersed with an alarming selection of ancient chairs.

  Rose’s profile looked gray. Alarmed, Alys took her arm, turning her from the Jacobean portrait she stared at. “You overexerted yourself last night. Come back to bed.”

  “Just after you left we had a telegram from Mother. She and Father and Matilda will be here Monday.”

  More complications. “Really, why? Did something go wrong with Matilda’s courtship?”

  Rose coughed. “I don’t know. You wrote and said I was ill, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’d have thought husband-catching was more important.”

  “Alys!”

  She sighed. “You’re often ill.”

  “But they thought I’d be better in the country.”

  “I suppose you are right. Perhaps they mean to see the condition of Redcake Manor for themselves. Now, come and lie down.”

  Rose complied and they spent the afternoon with their embroidery hoops. Alys rarely made a stitch, torn by her situation. She knew she had to marry if she was expecting, but if she hadn’t conceived eleven years ago, what were the chances now? When she thought about what her heart desired, it wasn’t life buried in the country, as a marchioness or not. She wanted the bustle of London, the satisfaction of hard work.

  Eventually, Rose threw down her hoop and Alys was glad to follow. “Do you think you could find a chess set?” Rose asked.

  Alys snatched the bell pull, glad for any diversion.

  Alys had expected Michael to send for her, but she didn’t see him at all during the next two days.

  “Shut himself away in his room, he has,” the housekeeper said when she inquired. “Grieving for his brother.”

  Or too embarrassed by his foolish proposal to see her. Alys wondered if he hoped she’d simply go away. Perhaps he was being courteous and giving her the time she desired.

  While Rose napped, she went for a long walk after services on Sunday. The bitterly cold air made her long for a shop to duck into, but of course there was nothing open. She didn’t know any of the villagers or tenants. If she married Michael she’d meet them, but not as their equal. Whom would she associate with? She was used to the close connection of her sisters, brother, and cousin, fellow employees. Would his sister live with them? No, she’d likely marry in a year or two, and Alys didn’t enjoy his mother. All together, marriage to him didn’t seem a pleasant proposition.