Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  “Beware,” Helen said. “You cannot stay long. Be certain you are home and changed to avoid arousing suspicion. The carriage will be ready to take you home. I suggest you use your time wisely.”

  Marigold nodded. “I can never thank you enough for this.”

  “Nonsense, my girl. I wish I could have done this for you all along. Now, affix your mask.” Helen passed a proper one to her. “I will have to enter through another door, so it seems I never left.”

  The carriage arrived at the house, and a footman handed Marigold out and escorted her to the door. He took the beautiful pelisse Helen had given her, and she approached the ballroom. Think of the adventure she told herself, knowing Douglas would encourage her to do so.

  Two footmen opened the doors, and immediately Marigold was bombarded with light and sound. Thousands of candles lit the ballroom, brighter than anything she had seen at home during the night. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the flames, and crystal chandeliers glittered from the ceiling. The highly polished white marble floor gleamed beneath Marigold’s slippers. There must be hundreds of people packed into the otherwise spacious ballroom. Small groups here and there talked and held champagne flutes. Over their shoulders, Marigold could make out dancers and an orchestra. She stood rooted in place. Where should she go? What should she do?

  “Here you are, dear,” Helen said between breaths. She must have nearly run to reach the ballroom before Marigold. “Let me introduce you to some friends.”

  They approached a group of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, and Marigold’s knees trembled. Would they see through her mask and facade?

  “This is a visiting cousin, Ella St. Andrews,” Helen introduced her to three countesses and earls.

  Marigold heard steps approach from behind.

  “Grandmama, I should like to meet your new friend.”

  The voice sounded much like Douglas’s, but it could not be…

  “Certainly!” Helen took her hand.

  Marigold turned to face the newcomer. His size and broad shoulders matched Douglas’s, but he wore a mask.

  “This is a cousin, Ella St. Andrews. Ella, meet my grandson, the Duke of Inverness.”

  After the customary bow and curtsy, the Duke smiled down at Marigold. “Miss St. Andrews, I would very much like to have the honor of dancing with you. Are you available for the next?”

  Marigold wanted to run, to flee from this room with all its strangeness. She had only wanted to come in order to see Douglas, and now she understood it would be impossible to find him. Even if she could, she was now dressed to blend in with the gentry and would be conspicuous if she slipped away. Helen pinched her arm.

  “Yes, your Grace,” Marigold squeaked, and silently thanked Augusta for her rushed dance lessons.

  As she approached the dance floor on the Duke’s arm, a hush fell over the room, and every eye was drawn to them.

  “Why are they so quiet, Your Grace?”

  He nodded at the orchestra leader, who struck up a waltz. Marigold sighed. While considered scandalous by some, the waltz had considerably fewer steps to remember and a slower beat. If she did not wish to step on the Duke’s toes, a waltz was the safest choice.

  “Because I have rarely danced tonight and because, like me, they find you beautiful.”

  Marigold blushed. “Please, Your Grace. No compliments, I feel awkward enough.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I do not like to be made a spectacle.”

  “And dancing makes you one?”

  The Duke led her through a turn, and she had to catch her breath before replying. “It is when no one else dances. They still stare.”

  “Do you regret my asking you to dance?”

  He appeared genuinely concerned.

  “No,” Marigold answered truthfully. As much as she knew she loved Douglas, she had always wanted to experience a dance, and it was not disloyal to do so. Realizing what she had just admitted to herself nearly brought her to a halt.

  “Are you well? Is something wrong?” The Duke searched her face, his kind, blue eyes full of concern.

  “Forgive me,” Marigold whispered. “I am well. It has been a long day and...and I did not expect to come.”

  “Indeed?” His Grace smiled. “What had you expected to do instead?”

  She could not confess to him she was a scullery maid. It was possible he knew Helen had brought her, but it was equally plausible he did not, and would toss her aside on the dance floor. Marigold thought quickly. “I spend a great deal of time tending to my cousins and reading.”

  He led them through another turn. “What are you reading now?”

  Marigold blushed. “Perhaps I should not say.”

  “Would you lie to a duke?”

  Marigold chuckled, surprised at how comfortable she felt with him. If Helen truly meant to be a sponsor to her, she hoped to meet the Duke on occasion. “Are you demanding a lady tell her secrets?”

  “Touché.” He grinned. “If I were to miss a ball to read, it must be for some scintillating adventure.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, then leaned in to whisper, “Don Quixote?”

  Marigold gasped as the music came to an end. How had he known? Perhaps he did know her true identity, and he had purchased the books for Douglas. The Duke brought her back to Helen’s side.

  “I greatly enjoyed our dance, Miss St. Andrews.” He bowed over her hand and kissed it. Immediately, chatter filled the room.

  “As did I, Your Grace.” Marigold curtsied.

  “You looked absolutely splendid out there,” Helen said. “Such a striking couple you made. Now, Douglas, I believe your next set is with Lady Adeline.”

  When Helen said his name, Marigold’s eyes leapt to the Duke’s. He was watching her. While she told herself Douglas was a common Scottish name, too much fit to be a coincidence. His eyes, his frame, his voice, his demeanor—all matched her Douglas. The Duke knew the books she read and how to put her at ease. Douglas Randolph never seemed to work but had access to riches.

  Oh no. No, this was awful. Marigold’s heart slammed into her chest and heat crept over her body followed by a cold wave that made her feel faint. She remained stationary, but the room spun. He was the Duke. And he could have nothing to do with a scullery maid. Nothing honorable, that is, and no matter how much she loved him, she would never be his mistress.

  Was Helen truly her godmother or was this all a ruse? Dress up the scullery maid and bring her to the house before taking her upstairs for the night. Or would she even be given that much consideration? Probably a secluded room or closet would serve just as well.

  Breathing fast, the room threatened to spin her out of control. Douglas—no, the Duke of Inverness—continued to stare at her. He had nothing to say for himself and seemed immune to her suffering. Around her, others began to notice. “Forgive me, I am unwell,” she murmured, then bolted from the room.

  ***

  Douglas took a step forward to chase after Marigold. This was not how he wanted her to learn about his title.

  “Inverness.” Sir Stirling approached. “One of Chastity’s sisters saw her home. Who was that you danced with?” Other guests took a step closer, and Sir Stirling lowered his voice. “It is not fair if you are working on your end of the bet, and yet Miss Kincaid did not arrive. I brought three gentlemen for her to meet.”

  “Who?” Douglas demanded as jealousy rose.

  Sir Stirling lifted his chin in the direction of a small group of men a few feet away. Douglas had met them earlier. Mere misters from middling origins and estates. Two he knew by reputation: one, a gamester; the other treated his mistress like a princess. The third appeared sickly. Was this the best Sir Stirling could muster? Marigold deserved so much more.

  She deserved better than him, too, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. Douglas shrugged off Sir Stirling’s hand and stalked after Marigold.

  “Douglas!” his grandmother called and hurried after him. “You have forgotten your
set.”

  He glared at her. He wanted to be angry with her and yet thank her at the same time. Did she suspect his feelings for the lass? How did she even know Marigold? Was this all a plot to make Marigold seem inferior? If so, he could not regret his grandmother’s actions, for it brought him an untold joy to see Marigold’s eyes light up during their dance as she took in their surroundings.

  “I intend to calm your guest,” he answered.

  Grandmama lowered her voice, “She had to leave soon, anyway.”

  “Then I will call for a carriage.” Seeing his grandmother’s face, he sighed. “You gave her yours.”

  “Well, if you would act like a proper gentleman and have your own—”

  Douglas raised a brow. “I will act like a proper gentleman when I have a proper wife. I need to see Marigold now.” He motioned to Sir Stirling.

  Grandmother whispered, “Marigold will not make you a proper wife.”

  “Then we will be improper together.”

  “Yes?” Sir Stirling said, after pushing through the crush.

  “Is your carriage still ready?”

  “I saw no reason to send it back when I would need it soon enough.”

  “Good. May I use it?”

  “And leave your own ball?” Grandmother gasped.

  “Why not? I believe you did, madam.”

  Grandmama blushed a little but smiled.

  “Come, follow me,” Sir Stirling said and motioned toward the foyer.

  In a matter of minutes, Douglas was being jostled in Stirling’s carriage. The coachman pulled up to the Kincaid’s front door, but he walked to the back. Creeping open the kitchen door, he peeked inside.

  “Marigold?”

  He was greeted with a fist to the jaw and was slammed against a wall. “What the devil?”

  “I’ll be the one asking questions!” a young man yelled. “What did you do to her?”

  Being no stranger to a thrashing, and this one rather weak, Douglas recovered his senses fast enough. “Who?”

  “Marigold! She came in sobbing and will speak to no one.”

  “Let me see her.” Douglas pushed against the man.

  “I will not let you in. I know who you are.” The man scanned Douglas’s evening clothes. “You have used her and discarded her!”

  “Would I be here then?”

  The would-be-protector paused. “Then you care only to convince her to return to your bed.”

  Douglas raised his fist to strike. “Apologize for your insult to her or meet my fist.” How could this whelp think that of her? He was through trying to be nice. “Take me to Marigold, or I’ll lay you out.”

  The man gulped. “I never meant to insult her.”

  “Did you think saying she would debase herself in such a way was a compliment?”

  “I imagine few would refuse a duke.”

  “That is where you are wrong about Marigold.” Douglas paused, assessing the man. Everything about his demeanor screamed he had more than friendship on his mind. “Which is why you are all wrong for her. I intend to offer her the world, but I am certain she intends to refuse. She does not want the life of a duchess, but she would beat me with a skillet if I suggested anything less than marriage.”

  “I would,” Marigold replied from the kitchen’s open doorway. “I still might. Let me through, Jack.”

  She had removed her mask and ball gown, returned to the scullery maid he loved. Her eyes were red rimmed, and tear streaks marred her face.

  The footman stepped aside and let Douglas approach her. “I deserve it,” he said. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “What should I forgive?”

  “I kept my identity a secret. I never meant to fall in love with you.”

  Marigold’s breath hitched. “You love me?”

  “Aye, lass.” He reached for her hands. “You are the most beautiful, pure, gentle woman I have ever known. I was helpless before such goodness, even as I do not deserve it now.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, and he dropped to a knee, still holding her hands. “Before you, I am not a duke, but a man in love, risking his heart and pride to know if his affections are returned.”

  “They are,” Marigold whispered. Then, squeezing his hands and meeting his eyes, she said in a stronger voice, “I do love you. Do you love me enough to forgive me for doubting your honor?”

  “With all you have lived through, your doubt was only natural. Do you love me enough to become my wife?”

  “A duchess?”

  Douglas shook his head. “My companion in life, in all that it hands us.”

  “Including a dukedom.” She laughed.

  “There is that.” He chuckled. “For a time, it was all I could see and think about, and it terrified me. With you, however, I see so much more for my future. For our future. Will you marry me?”

  Marigold stared at him for a long moment. Every second that passed, he grew more and more assured she would refuse him. God, how would he live without her now that he had found her? Would she have him if he gave up the title? He would in a trice, if legally possible. As it happened, he did not know who his own heir was. He had been told it would take months or years to research.

  Suddenly, Marigold’s inscrutable face broke into a radiant smile. “Only if you promise me adventures,” she said with tears shimmering in her eyes.

  “Any adventure you want. Is that a yes?”

  Marigold nodded, and he rose. Pulling her into his arms, he fused his mouth to hers, delighting in her every taste and moan.

  “Marigold Kincaid, you hussy! Unhand the Duke!”

  Chapter Eight

  All of Marigold’s joy at Douglas’s proposal evaporated when she heard the shrill voice of Priscilla. They turned to look at their intruder and Douglas immediately pushed her behind him.

  “Lady Kincaid, how pleasant it is to see you,” Douglas said in cultured tones.

  “And how unexpected it is to see you,” Priscilla snapped. “Sir Nicholas!”

  Priscilla stepped aside and allowed her husband to enter.

  “Now we see the real reason why you have been skulking around my house.” Nicholas flicked a disgusted look at Marigold. “Did you get her with child? I’ll need compensation for losing my maid.”

  After a lifetime of abuse, Marigold expected to feel shame at his words. Instead, she felt strength radiating to her from Douglas. She knew the words were false and she did not have to shrink away from Nicholas ever again.

  Douglas made no move, standing as still and strong as a brick wall. “No, I have not impregnated your cousin. I have asked her to marry me, and she has accepted. She will be leaving immediately.”

  “No!” Priscilla screamed. “Nicholas, you cannot allow her to leave.”

  “There is no reason to fear,” Nicholas reassured his wife. “I am her legal guardian, and you cannot take her or marry her without my consent.”

  “I wonder why you are so insistent upon keeping her in your home, Sir Nicholas. Did you know that I have asked around and no one has seen Miss Kincaid in years? They believe her an invalid or dead.”

  “This is not your concern,” Marigold’s cousin said with a steely look in his eye. “You would not want your past to become known, would you?”

  “I know who I am, sir, and I am unashamed.”

  “Are you now?” Nicholas laughed. “Son of a prostitute, member of a child gang of footpads, vagrants, and card sharks?”

  “I know who I am,” Douglas said softly.

  Marigold peeked around him and placed her hand in his. He startled and looked down at their joined hands. She squeezed his hand, and a small smile crossed his face.

  “And right now, I am the Duke of Inverness, and you will allow us to pass.”

  Pulling Marigold along, he shoved past Sir Nicholas and Lady Kincaid and led them upstairs. Her relatives shouted abuses behind her the entire time. Augusta ran to gather Marigold’s cloak while Edith pouted near the door. Once downstairs again, they were abou
t to leave when someone knocked on the door. Everyone silenced, and when no one moved to open the door, Douglas opened it.

  “Stirling,” he cried in astonishment. “Grandmama and Mr. Russell. What a surprise.”

  He stepped aside. Without looking at the master of the home, Douglas invited them into the drawing room and performed introductions.

  “We have pertinent information regarding Miss Marigold Kincaid,” Mr. Russell said.

  Marigold noticed Priscilla and Nicholas tense and stare at the folio he held. However, in the presence of the dowager duchess, they reverted to civility and invited everyone to sit.

  “Marigold Kincaid is an heiress,” Helen said.

  “That’s a lie!” Nicholas shot out of his chair.

  “We have documents that prove it,” Sir Stirling said.

  “How—how?” Marigold asked.

  Helen came to sit next to her. “I explained earlier that your mother, Mary Burns, was my niece.” She turned to Douglas. “I did not lie when I called Marigold a cousin. My brother-in-law was many, many years older than your grandmother and died before your mother’s birth.”

  “You cannot prove that she is related, then,” Nicholas said. “A woman like that could have taken any man.”

  “Robert and Eleanor were devoted to one another, despite the age difference. My husband could not countenance the idea of their marriage, so they intended to flee to America. Robert died before they could leave, and Eleanor went on alone.”

  “Then you have no case!”

  “I have located Lord Robert Randolph’s will.” Malcolm pulled out a packet of papers from a folio he held. “He names the child of Eleanor St. Andrews his heir, and left her this house as well as ten thousand pounds.”

  “How do we know that Mary Burns was the daughter of Eleanor St. Andrews?” Priscilla demanded. “She merely arrived in Inverness with my brother-in-law.”

  “Because I have her baptismal certificate from New York”—Helen motioned to Mr. Russell, who withdrew several papers and laid them on a table—“as well as the marriage certificate of her mother and Frederick Burns three months before Mary’s birth. A birth that occurred mere days after Eleanor arrived in America.”