by Joan Smith
“You must speak to the duchess, but I doubt she will pay a reward for her diamonds, as you stole them in the first place.”
When he replied, his voice had lost its softness and become impatient. “Have you suddenly lost the use of your wits, woman? Duchesses and diamonds have nothing to do with it. I have abandoned my life of crime as you recommended.” His hands closed possessively over hers, drawing her closer to him. His dark eyes devoured her. “The reward I have come to claim is—you.”
A tide of trembling joy surged inside her. She looked at him uncertainly and felt any future with him was impossible. He was too handsome, too dashing, too rich, and titled besides. Every heiress in the room would be after him. “But you’re a lord!” she said.
“And you are a lady. I hope to make you my lady, Marianne. You know I love you. Will you marry me?”
“How can I marry you?” she asked angrily. “First you are too low—a common felon, and now you are suddenly a lord. Why can’t you be a vicar or a—a clerk or some such thing?”
He considered this absurdity a moment. “I was a soldier for a few years. Will that do?”
“You were probably a general,” she said with another accusing look.
“A colonel was the highest rank I made. My dear, this is mere quibbling,” he said with a shake of his head. “I am me, whatever title Society hangs on me. You know me better than most. You have seen the worst of me. Let me show you the better part.”
“You must marry an heiress. Fernwood is falling apart, and I haven’t a sou to my name.”
A glinting smile flashed out. “We know how to take care of that, don’t we? The roads will be thick with well-inlaid folks returning home from this wedding.”
“John! You mustn’t even think of it!”
A well-feigned frown furrowed his brow. “Without a good woman to keep me on the right path, I fear I shall be lured back into that dangerous life.”
After a pause she said, “Is Fernwood very derelict?”
“Falling apart,” he lied.
“Really?” she said, smiling. “And the rents?”
“Every sou goes to pay off the mortgages. We shall have to live on my officer’s half pay.”
“I am rather good at slumping,” she said consideringly.
“So I have observed. You have even skimped on giving me an answer.”
“I should hate to think of you falling back into that dangerous life.”
“Then you’ll just have to marry me, won’t you?” he said reasonably.
He palmed her cheeks with his warm hands, forcing her to look at him. He gazed into her eyes, glowing with hope and happiness. “Won’t you?” he repeated in softly caressing tones, as his lips grazed hers.
Ripples of pleasure coursed along her veins. She tried to answer, but with his lips nibbling at hers, she managed only a soft “Mmmm ...”
“I’ll take that for a yes,” he murmured, and drew her into his arms for a long, deep kiss.
Marianne felt her heart pounding against his hard chest. The masculine strength of him surrounded her, turning her knees to water and her blood to flames as his hungry kiss savaged her heart. An answering strength grew in her to match his need. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tightly. One hand moved higher and she ran her fingers through his crisp hair. How had she thought she could settle for a modest vicar or a dull clerk? This was life! This was love! Highwayman, soldier, lord—what did it matter? He was John, he loved her, and she loved him with a fierce, consuming passion she had never imagined herself capable of.
After a long embrace he released her. “I take it that was a yes?” he said huskily.
“Yes, John,” she whispered.
“No ifs, no buts?”
“No. I’ll marry you. I trust you, John.”
“What a consummate strategist you are. How can I misbehave after that—or want to? And now we shall waltz.”
“I can’t waltz. I told you. I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you can. Just follow my lead,” he said and brought her back to the ballroom with his hand holding her elbow in a possessive grip.
When he took her in his arms, she found the waltz magically easy. Their bodies were in harmony, moving together as effortlessly as a pair of swallows soaring in the blue. The trick was to not think but just abandon yourself to the music.
When the waltz was over, he returned her to the duchess.
“About time,” Her Grace said. “My sister and I are ready to go home, Marianne. Say thank you to Lord Fortescue. Don’t forget you are to call on me tomorrow, Fortescue.”
“I shan’t forget, Your Grace.” His eyes turned to Marianne. “I look forward to it.”
Sir Gervase soon joined them at Grosvenor Square.
“Young Fortescue caused quite a stir at the wedding,” he said when they were settled in before the scanty fire in the grate with a cup of cocoa.
“Who was he standing up with when you left?” the duchess asked.
“He left when I did. He has opened his house on Manchester Square, as he was expecting some servants to arrive. The debs were disappointed at his leaving. He didn’t stand up with anyone.”
Marianne smiled to herself. He had stood up with her. When he asked the duchess for her hand, she would cease being nobody. After half an hour’s discussion of the wedding, Gervase left and the sisters went up to bed.
As Marianne helped Her Grace undress, the duchess said, “I always knew Macheath was a gentleman. Did I not say so? Not a Fitz-Matthew as I thought, but a Fortescue. They are some kin, I believe. Odd he turned highwayman, for they were saying at the wedding that Fernwood is not mortgaged at all. He is pretty well to grass. It would be the war that gave him such fantastical notions. The right lady will settle him down. I shall arrange for him to meet some debs. I saw you looking very pleased with yourself when you were dancing with him, Marianne. You must not go getting any notions he cares for you. Don’t fret about it. I have not forgotten your tour of London. Sir Gervase has kindly offered to show you St. Paul’s and the Tower.”
“Lord Fortescue has offered to show me London,” Marianne said.
The duchess’s eyebrows rose an inch. “Has he, indeed? That was kind of him. It is a mark of respect for myself, and perhaps to sweet-talk you into silence about his other life. Give those logs a shake, will you? This room is like an icehouse.”
Marianne applied the poker to the grate and returned to her room, where she lay in bed for two hours before closing her eyes. She didn’t care if Fernwood was a palace or a shambles. She would be there with John, and whatever sort of life awaited her, she could handle it.
* * * *
When he called the next afternoon, he had a private word with the duchess. Her face was white with shock when she went abovestairs to speak to Marianne.
“You will not credit what I have to tell you, Marianne,” she said. “I have just been speaking to Macheath.” In her excitement, the old name came out. “He wants to marry you. You see what happens when you have the good fortune to be associated with a duchess. No doubt it was your proper behavior that attracted him. I have trained you well. I shall miss you,” she said. Not a word was said about the possibility of Marianne refusing him.
“I offered to have the wedding at Bath,” she continued. “He seems to think Fernwood would be better. His mama is poorly. She does not care for travel. I have no patience with invalids. She is still a youngster—sixty-something, I believe. If he got a special license, you could have the wedding while I am here—close enough to attend, I mean. As you are like a daughter to me, I should hate to miss your wedding. I always said we would find you a beau in London, did I not? I have done pretty well for you, if I do say so myself.”
“I think I have done pretty well for myself, Your Grace,” Marianne replied pertly. She was through with truckling and pulling her forelock.
The duchess gave her a rebukeful look, but when she spoke, her tone was more respectful. “We must have a good talk bef
ore the wedding, Marianne. There are things a young lady must know. Marriage is not all parties and new frocks. It has its duties as well.”
“I am more familiar with duties than parties and new frocks, ma’am, as you know.”
“So you are. Run along, then, before I change my mind. First he steals my diamonds, then my companion. What next?”
“Why, I think he has already stolen a corner of your heart, ma’am.”
“Minx!”
Marianne ran downstairs to see John standing alone in the gloomy purple saloon, an elegant silhouette etched against the window. He was examining a small vermeil snuffbox. She took it from him and slapped his wrist.
“None of that, sir. You are a reformed thief.”
He drew her into his arms, smiling tenderly. “Remind me why I reformed,” he said, and took his reward.
Copyright © 1998 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (0449287920)
Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is
coincidental.