Tempting the Marquess

by Sara Lindsey

  “Olivia. Married,” Izzie repeated for good measure.

  “Just imagine how I feel,” Henry grumbled. “I still have trouble believing you are actually married.”

  James Sheffield, Earl of Dunston, Henry’s best friend and, as of a little more than a year ago, Isabella’s husband, laughed. “This isn’t proof enough for you?” he asked, gently smoothing the blond curls of the sleeping child cradled in the crook of his arm. As if she were aware she was the subject of conversation, Bride squirmed against her father’s chest and kicked her feet a few times before collapsing back into limp slumber.

  Henry smiled at his niece, but his happiness faded as James and Isabella exchanged a fond, intimate look that left Henry feeling as though he’d taken a bite of something unpalatable. It was, unfortunately, served up with distressing regularity.

  Henry set his teacup down on a spindly legged table that looked like it would splinter into pieces if he so much as breathed on it the wrong way. He shifted in his chair, praying it would continue to hold his weight. Was there some rule against drawing room furniture being sturdy? He’d heard women complaining that their husbands rarely left their studies, never realizing that the study was probably the only room in the house where the poor bastards could sit comfortably.

  Henry eyed James speculatively. “Speaking of your marriage, how’s that shoulder feeling, old friend? I believe we’re overdue for a round or ten at Jackson’s. There’s still that little matter of you seducing my innocent, impressionable younger sister.”

  James grinned. “Wish I could oblige you, but I think my days in the ring are past.”

  “It’s still bothering you?” Henry asked, honestly concerned. “Perhaps you ought to see a doctor.”

  James had been injured during his brief stint with the navy—a featherbrained undertaking that also made Henry want to beat him to a bloody pulp. At least, that was, when he didn’t want to hug him until his ribs cracked just to reassure himself his best friend was still alive.

  James shook his head, dismissing Henry’s concern. “I don’t need a doctor. There’s only a touch of pain when the weather turns inclement. Don’t fuss, Hal. I get quite enough of that from Izzie, and besides, it’s unbecoming in a man of your size.”

  Henry scowled. “Perhaps just one round? It’s not very sporting of you to deny me my rightful opportunity to blacken your daylights. Your shoulder should be fine. Outside it’s all blue skies and nary a cloud in sight.”

  James raised a brow. “In England the weather is always inclement.”

  “Henry Weston, don’t you dare think of fighting with James,” Isabella warned. “And, just so you know, I was the one who did the seducing.”

  Both Henry and James groaned in unison.

  “Hush, love,” James told his wife. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

  “The only reputation you need to be concerned with upholding,” Izzie maintained, “is that of the world’s most faithful husband and devoted father.”

  “And if he slips up? Then can I pound him into the ground?” Henry asked hopefully.

  “If he slips up, you are welcome to whatever is left once I’ve finished with him,” his sister agreed.

  James winced in mock agony. “You have nothing to worry about, my bloodthirsty little wench,” he promised her.

  “Then neither do you,” his wife retorted, a tender smile curving her lips.

  “Keep looking at each other like that and I’ll drag him to Jackson’s, war injury or no.”

  “When did you turn into such a prude, Hal?”

  Henry gaped at his sister.

  “It’s old age,” James explained. “Mellows a man.”

  “We’re the same age!” Henry exploded.

  “Why don’t you want to fight Olivia’s husband?” Isabella asked, obviously trying to distract him.

  Henry clenched his hands into fists. His other brother-in-law, the Marquess of Sheldon, was another man he should, by all rights, have been allowed to trounce. Any man who made one of the Weston females miserable was fair game in Henry’s eyes, and Sheldon’s behavior during his and Olivia’s betrothal had left a lot to be desired. That was all in the past, though, and Olivia had seemed disgustingly happy the last time Henry had seen her. “Has Sheldon done something deserving of a beating?”

  “Well, no, but Livvy told me”—Izzie dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“she might be with child!”

  “I’ll kill the bastard,” Henry stated grimly. He began to get up, ready to go and do just that, but Isabella waved him down.

  “You can’t tell anyone. I mean it, Hal. I promised Livvy I wouldn’t say anything, but I had to get your mind off this violent obsession with James. Livvy hasn’t even told Jason yet. She’s certain once he knows, he’ll bundle her off back to Wales.”

  “At least she’ll get into less trouble there,” Henry muttered.

  “Sheldon probably knows already,” James said. “Or he will soon. A man tends to notice when certain, ah, activities aren’t interrupted each month.”

  “It doesn’t have to be in the ring at Jackson’s.” Henry looked about thoughtfully. “This room would serve nicely.”

  Isabella rolled her eyes. “Livvy wants to wait until after Mother’s ball next week. Given that it’s supposed to be celebrating both our marriages, it would look a bit odd for one of the couples to be in absentia. Not that Livvy’s presence or my presence would make that much of a difference, given Mother’s real reason for the ball.” She gave Henry a meaningful glance.

  Henry looked at her blankly.

  Isabella sighed. “Honestly, Hal, have you learned nothing in all these years of being her son? What is our mother’s main purpose in life?”

  “To finish her book?” Henry guessed. Their mother had been working on a collection of essays about Shakespeare’s heroines for, well, forever.

  “Yes, but aside from that.” Izzie waved a hand, brushing aside their mother’s opus. “What is most important to her?”

  “Family,” Henry answered easily. “Us.”

  “Exactly. And what is her most fervent wish for all her children?”

  This was easy as well since Henry had heard his mother say it often enough. “To be as happy and fulfilled as she and our father are. Isn’t that the whole point of this ball—to celebrate you and Livvy having found happiness and fulfillment and all that namby-pamby claptrap?”

  “It’s not namby-pamby claptrap,” Isabella protested, with a besotted glance at James. “And yes, that’s the purported reason for the ball, but Livvy and I have already found what Mama wanted for us. So . . .” She gave him that meaningful look again.

  And again he had no clue what the devil she was getting at. “So?”

  “Honestly, Hal, I think you’re getting more dense with age. So Mama’s sights are going to turn to her children who have yet to find love.”

  Henry frowned. “Don’t you think the twins are a bit young for her matchmaking efforts? Lia and Genni are only, what, ten? Besides, they’re more interested in books than boys.”

  “The twins are thirteen. And as the books they are currently so enthralled with are romantic tales, I doubt they’re as immune to boys as you might think. When they were over last week, Lia spent the better part of the visit rhapsodizing over one of the grooms at Weston Manor. Still, I think the twins are safe for now, especially since Mama’s current project is well past marriageable age.”

  Henry tried to think of whom his sister was referring to. His mother had a soft spot for wallflowers and—

  “Lord, is she back to Miss Merriwether again? I don’t know why she bothers. The girl has been out for at least five Seasons now, and it’s not as if she’s penniless. The chit simply isn’t going to get—”

  Isabella set her tea cup down and got to her feet. She came to stand before Henry. “Not Miss Merriwether,” she gritted out, leaning over him and punctuating every word by jabbing her finger into his chest. “You!”

  “Me?” Henr
y laughed. “That’s preposterous.” He looked over at James, expecting to find him equally amused. James’s expression was somber. “You’re serious,” Henry said incredulously.

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised, especially since Livvy and I deprived her of matchmaking schemes and elaborate weddings,” Izzie remarked.

  Henry tugged at his cravat, wondering if it was possible that the temperature in the room had risen drastically in the past few minutes.

  “Until the twins are out of the schoolroom,” Isabella continued, “you are the only child Mama has available to try to marry off.”

  “But won’t this ball satisfy her desire for planning a grand event?” Henry asked, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

  His sister shook her head. “Whet her appetite, more like. No, the real reason for this ball is so Mama can look over this Season’s crop of debutantes with an eye to picking her future daughter-in-law.”

  “Stop tormenting your brother, love, and come see to your motherly duties. If I’m not mistaken, the princess here is past due for a feeding.”

  Perfectly on cue, Bride opened her eyes and gazed about. Not seeing the face she associated with food, a distressed whimper escaped her.

  Henry knew how she felt. He had a similar urge, only it wasn’t from a lack of motherly attention.

  Isabella gathered her daughter in her arms and moved toward the door. “No fighting,” she reiterated. “Just think how devastated Mama would be if you showed up to the ball with a black eye marring that pretty face.”

  Henry glared at her back as she swept from the room. If Isabella was right—and he had learned that Weston women were nearly always right—his mother was intending to see him standing at the altar by the end of the Season.

  Damnation. It looked like he was going to have to find a new sparring partner.