The Wild Marquis

by Miranda Neville

“Juliana,” he said softly. “You are being deliberately obtuse.”

  She stood and came around the table to stand next to him. “Don’t be a fool, Cain. Even if I am Sir Thomas Tarleton’s heir, I’m still not the right wife for you. I’m the widow of a bookseller, a tradesman, and I’ve lived by trade myself. It would be a ridiculously unequal match. Now that you’ve resolved your difference with your mother there’s nothing to stop you from finding an aristocratic bride. You need someone who can stand next to you as you take your place in the polite world. Help you take your seat in Parliament and work for all the good things you believe in. Someone who can present Esther to society.” Her hands clenched into fists at her side and her brow creased ferociously. “You don’t need me,” she concluded.

  “You’re quite right,” he said. “I don’t need you.”

  Juliana stared at him. He sprawled gracefully in his seat, regarding her with an unreadable expression on his face.

  “I don’t need you or any other bride. I don’t give a damn about taking my place in the ton, which consists of a lot of not very interesting people giving not very interesting parties. The last time I looked there were no women in the House of Lords, so I don’t think an aristocratic wife is going to be much use there. My aunt can bring out Esther and will be happy to do so as long as I foot the bills for her wardrobe. I don’t need to marry at all. I can do exactly as I want.”

  “I see.” She felt a fool. Here she was, making a grand renunciation, and he made it clear he had no intention of marrying her. Of course, the only reason he’d ever proposed was to help him become Esther’s guardian.

  “And what do you want?” She despised herself for asking.

  With the grace she loved to watch, he got to his feet. She was going to miss him horribly. She bent her head to look at the floor. His hands enveloped her fists.

  “Unclench them,” he said, and his smoky voice had its typical effect on her abdomen. Her hands unfurled and his thumbs massaged her palms. “Look at me.”

  His eyes burned while his mouth curved in a tender smile. Mesmerized, she stared at him, hope kindling in her heart.

  “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said. “I want to live with you for the rest of my life. I want to make love to you and then lie in bed and make silly jokes. I want to sleep with you every night and wake up and make love to you again, especially in the morning. I want to buy books with you and argue over them and not listen to you when you tell me I’m paying too much. I want to dress you in laces and silks in gorgeous colors, then remove them one garment at a time until I can see every freckle. I want you to stop my sister from dressing in purple. I want you to stand at my side as I return to my home and try to make peace with my mother. I want you to be the new Marchioness of Chase and the mother of the next marquis.”

  Then, just as he’d done the first time he proposed, he dropped down onto one knee. “My dearest Juliana. Will you do me the great honor of being my bride? Not because I need a bride or you need a fortune, but because I want to marry you.”

  She opened her mouth without any confidence in her ability to articulate a word.

  “Don’t say anything until I finish. There is only one reason I will accept no as an answer. That is if you don’t love me as I love you.”

  Somehow, despite the elation that threatened to paralyze her vocal cords, she managed to speak. “You fool, Cain. Of course I love you. How could I not?”

  “I can think of dozens of reasons, but I’m certainly not going to tell you what they are. Is this a yes?”

  She bent down to throw her arms around his neck and managed to tumble them both to the floor. “Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you.”

  A heated kiss that might have turned into something more was interrupted by Quarto, who objected to sharing the floor of the small room with two rolling human bodies.

  “Am I supposed to house that dog for the rest of its life?” Cain demanded.

  “You gave him to me,” Juliana reminded him, climbing off her betrothed husband to escape a butting bulldog head.

  Cain helped her to her feet. “Not only is he the most inept watchdog ever born, he has no idea of his proper place.”

  Quarto sat up on his haunches, panting, drool dripping from his huge pink tongue. “He’s a big, beautiful boy, and wherever I go, he goes too,” Juliana said fondly.

  Quarto, possessing some sense of self-preservation, refrained for once from growling at Cain. He was also saved from being sold into canine slavery as a ratter when his mistress paid him no further attention. Instead Juliana happily complied when Cain returned to his chair and pulled her onto his lap.

  “Let’s be married tomorrow,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have to.”

  “Very well,” she said. She sounded a little distracted.

  “I like it when you don’t argue with my suggestions. I trust this is how it will always be.”

  “Don’t count on it. I happen to be in an unusually agreeable mood today.” She held his face between her hands and kissed him on the lips. His heart thumped. “I love you,” she said.

  “When did you know you loved me?” he asked, a few minutes later.

  “In the vestry at Greatfield, when I found Amnon in the Bible and realized what a terrible injustice you’d suffered.”

  “It took you so long? I knew weeks earlier.”

  “Oh really?”

  “When I saw you in black velvet in the Berrys’ drawing room with that tiresome ass Gilbert looking down your dress. I wanted to tear him away, tell him, ‘She’s mine,’ and throw him out of the window.”

  Juliana laughed. “That’s almost what you did. Poor Mr. Gilbert. He was here earlier. The news spread around town in a matter of hours. He came to apologize for introducing me to Henry Tarleton.”

  “And so he should.”

  “I told Mr. Gilbert about the Combe books I had in my back room and he mentioned them to Sir Henry. That’s why he started breaking into the shop again to search for the marriage proof. Mr. Gilbert feels terrible about exposing me to danger. And of course he was very excited to hear that I am the granddaughter of two such important book collectors.” She lowered her chin and gave Cain a sly look through her lashes. “Mr. Gilbert is a single gentleman.”

  “And he can stay that way as far as you are concerned. I don’t want him anywhere near you.”

  Cain sounded jealous. Surely he couldn’t possibly believe that Juliana, or any other woman for that matter, could prefer Gilbert to him? And yet only a few weeks ago Gilbert had seemed a paragon of solidity, a bookman of discrimination and impeccable repute, a desirable contrast to the wild, unreliable, frivolous marquis. Beneath his confident manner, Cain wasn’t an arrogant man; neither did he possess exaggerated notions of his own worth. Quite the contrary. It was cruel to tease him.

  “I’m not interested in Matthew Gilbert. I just became betrothed to the best man I ever met.”

  “I could have sworn you agreed to marry me.”

  “Foolish! You are the best man.” It wasn’t easy for Juliana to articulate her feelings, but for Cain’s sake she made herself find the words. Leaning back, she held his shoulders, engaged him eye to eye. “You are the kindest person I know,” she said. “You protect women. You love your sister, your friends, even your mother. You possess uncommon intelligence and powers of perception. Without them I would never have found out about my parents. You are clever and witty and the best of companions. You have only to look at me with your beautiful eyes to make me want to make love to you.”

  During her recitation she saw a range of emotions in his face: uncertainty, turning into acceptance and gratitude, giving way to happiness, amusement, and a very Cain-like unholy glee.

  “And, most importantly,” she concluded, “you show promise of becoming an exceptional judge of a book.”

  “I’m glad to pass the most important test, but could we go backward a step. I am looking at you now.”

  He w
as indeed. And her bones were melting. She climbed off his lap and took his hand.

  “I have a bedroom,” she said.

  Chapter 30

  Although eleven o’clock had long passed, Lord Chase found his wife in the library, surrounded by the crates that had been packed by his servants in St. Martin’s Lane and carted around to Berkeley Square. She perched on the library steps, volumes piled on a large table in front of her. As usual she had a book in her hands. Also as usual her hair was falling down. Not as usual, she wore a clinging red silk evening gown that left a good portion of her upper anatomy uncovered and the remainder outlined in loving detail. His heart hitched at the sight. Dining with his fellow book collectors was enjoyable, but Cain hadn’t changed so much that he no longer preferred the company of women. One woman in particular.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, bending to kiss away a smut of dust on her nose.

  “What was decided?”

  He removed the book from her grasp, set it aside, and drew her to her feet. “After some discussion it was agreed to call our association the Burgundy Club, to honor the outrageous sum I had to pay to buy back my own property.”

  “Sounds like a drinking club.”

  “I have no doubt the membership will crack a bottle or two on occasion.”

  Juliana gave a derisive snort. “What else?”

  “Iverley wouldn’t relent. The Burgundy Club will be for men only.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and stroked her collarbone with his thumbs.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Juliana appeared less upset than Cain expected at the news that the society of bibliophiles, founded to celebrate the Tarleton auction, would be an all-male affair. Perhaps because he was doing his best to soften the blow by kissing his way from her chin to her breast. She arched her neck to give him better access.

  “I’ll resign,” he said, running his lips along the edge of the minuscule bodice, the pale skin softer than the adjacent silk cloth.

  “Of course you mustn’t,” she said a little breathlessly. “If you want to dine once a month with a group of foolish men, I’m not going to object. I can assure you that Esther and I are capable of amusing ourselves. Oh!” The last word was a reaction to his tongue dipping beneath the cloth and finding a tightly peaked nipple.

  “You are a prince among women and Iverley’s a fool.” The man had no idea how fine it was to have a wife. Of course Cain had the best wife in the world. He pitied all the men who weren’t married to Juliana.

  His right hand descended from the delicate sculpture of her shoulder over the warm swell of her breast and traced the arc of waist and hip. No other woman, he thought, was so perfectly formed.

  He found the junction of her thighs and pressed suggestively, drawing a gasp of approval. No other woman was so perfectly responsive.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she whispered as she pushed against his hand, “I’ll take care of Iverley. I have a plan.”

  No other woman was so perfectly ruthless.

  For a fleeting moment he wondered if he should ask what hideous revenge she had in store for Sebastian Iverley, who, for all his faults, had become a friend. Then she wriggled her hips and inserted her clever little hands under his brocade waistcoat. His stomach muscles tightened and he lost all interest in his fellow men.

  Lifting her by the waist he perched her on the edge of the sturdy table of pietro duro, picked up in Italy by some Godfrey forebear. The marble surface was chilly but, he knew from recent experience, they’d soon warm it up. One reason she hadn’t yet sorted through all the books was that he kept diverting her.

  “New gown?” he asked.

  “I bought it to match your carriage.”

  It slithered up her legs very easily, revealing silk stockings, matching red garters, and an agreeable absence of other undergarments. He liked the dress too.

  “I stopped in Conduit Street.”

  “You know you don’t have to buy your clothes from Mrs. Timms anymore.” He slid a hand between her thighs and found her hot and ready.

  “Her garments always have such an interesting provenance. I daresay you’ll be able to tell me who likes to dress his mistresses in red.”

  “I’m a reformed man.”

  “It’s only been a week,” she pointed out. “Oh! That feels good.”

  She stopped asking questions, thank God, and started to work on his buttons. But she kept emitting little appreciative sounds at his caresses, her eyes closed, and she made a pitifully slow job of it.

  He ignored her protest at the removal of his hand and concentrated on the fastening of his trousers. She fell backward till she lay on the table, next to a pile of books, propped on her elbows and giving him the come-hitherest look he’d ever seen. Only too ready to come hither with a vengeance, he’d never know why, at that particular moment, the title of a book should have distracted him.

  In later years he’d say it proved he’d become infected with bibliomania. Presented with a choice between his semi-naked wife and two volumes bound in dark blue morocco, for just a fraction of a second Cain’s attention fixed on the books. And that was enough.

  “What?” Juliana sputtered, not at all happy to find herself abandoned.

  Cain held a volume in each hand and frowned at the matching red spine labels. “Does this book always come in two volumes?” he asked.

  Juliana struggled upright and slid to the floor.

  “What have I created?” she cried. “When did you start caring about such things?”

  He handed her a volume and opened the other. She looked at the spine. Selected Sermons of the Northern Bishops, Vol. II.

  “What does it matter how many volumes of this incredibly dull book were published?” she asked, then realized. “Oh! This must be a Combe book. I don’t ever remember seeing it. It must have been misshelved months ago. I’ve just been unpacking a crate full of English topography.”

  “My mother was reading this book.”

  “It looks very boring.

  “Her copy was thin, and only one volume.”

  Juliana opened volume two and turned a few pages. “It’s extra-illustrated,” she said. Her heart began to race.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a fairly new fashion,” she explained. “A collector assembles material relating to the subject of a work. Engravings, portraits, letters, and documents. Then a binder makes a special, unique copy of the book, inserting the extra items. It’s very popular with titles like Southey’s Life of Nelson. A lot of dreary bishops seem like unlikely candidates for such treatment. But Miss Combe did have this fascination with church history.”

  Cain needed no further elucidation. Each of them began to leaf through his respective volume of the sermons.

  “There are documents here that must have been removed from the big folio volume,” Juliana said.

  “Here’s a letter from the Bishop of Durham about the appointment of a deacon. Fascinating.”

  “A marriage license issued by the Bishop of St. Asaph!” At once Cain was at her shoulder. “No, it’s not them. Some other couple. Keep looking.”

  She found it near the end of her volume: a record of the marriage of Julian Tarleton and Cassandra Fitterbourne on the 27th of March, 1795, at the Church of St. Cuthbert, Liverpool. The signature, attesting to the ceremony, was that of the performing minister, the Reverend Samuel Morland, who, according to a note added by Miss Combe, had the following year been appointed Bishop of Lancaster.

  “They really were married,” she said. Until this moment she hadn’t truly believed it.

  She looked at Cain, who regarded her with an expression of aching tenderness. His joy was all for her, for her happiness in discovering the final truth about her family. Wordless, he held out a hand for hers. Her heart swelled. Compared to her supreme good fortune in finding Cain the fact that she was no longer filia nullius seemed a relatively unimportant detail.

  “You’re as legitimate as I am,” he said. “Not that I care, b
ut I know what it means to you. Rich too.” He grinned. “Not as rich as I am.”

  “It’ll be better for Esther.”

  “Much better. You can bring her out next year and I can stop paying for Aunt Augusta’s clothes.”

  “And better for our children.” She and Cain hadn’t discussed offspring since their marriage, but given the regular pursuit of certain activities, their appearance seemed likely. She gave him a smoldering look, then cast a longing sideways glance at the table.

  Instead of taking the hint he kept hold of her hand and pulled her toward the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To bed.”

  “Why do we have to wait until we get upstairs?”

  “Because, Lady Chase, you have just become entirely respectable. I’ve never made love to an entirely respectable woman, but I’m told it needs to be done in a bed.”

  “Always?” she groused.

  He stopped and turned, framing her face in his hands, his irresistible smile slashing his cheeks. His eyes were oceans of humor and love, his voice a sensual fog that sent shivers through her.

  “Don’t worry, my love. I may be happily domesticated but I can safely promise I’ll never be respectable.”

  Author’s Note

  In 1809, Thomas Frognall Dibdin published Bibliomania, or Book Madness. Described as a bibliographical romance, the work is a semi-fictional conceit both celebrating and deploring the obsessive acquisition of books. I don’t know of any collectors who committed the crimes of my deceased duo, Tarleton and Fitterbourne, but there were a few driven to financial ruin.

  The Regency was a great era for book collecting. My Tarleton auction was inspired by the sale of the Duke of Roxburghe’s library in 1812. Prices at the Roxburghe sale reached previously unheard of levels. The record price for the Boccaccio, for which the Marquis of Blandford outbid Earl Spencer, wasn’t in reality broken until 1884. In fact Blandford, himself a sufferer from bibliomania, had to sell his library in 1819. Spencer won the Boccaccio this time, paying less than half the Roxburghe price. (To get Spencer out of the bidding at the Tarleton sale, I have him in negotiation to buy Blandford’s books. For the record, the collection went to auction.)