How to Master Your Marquis (A Princess in Hiding Romance)

by Juliana Gray

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She must know, then. She must realize that he knew she was a woman, and if she did . . . well, then what?

  Then he was in even more trouble than he’d imagined.

  Thump, thump. Footsteps in the hall outside.

  Hatherfield held his breath in his chest, held his lips against her temple, everything still and hot and waiting. A sense of crystalline expectation, the instant before the glass shattered.

  The door banged open against the wall.

  Hatherfield absorbed the flinch of Thomas’s body. She pressed herself into him, her forehead tucked against his jaw, both hands around his waist. His aroused flesh nestled in the hollow between her hips.

  He closed his eyes, the better to detect the movement of booted feet about the room. One man. Not urgent. He took a few deliberate steps and stopped. The floorboards creaked beneath the rug. A heavy shuffle, as he turned about. Perhaps picked up and examined Hannah’s discarded petticoats.

  After that first flinch, Thomas lay perfectly still. Not a whimper escaped her lips, not a ripple moved her muscles. Only her finger went on with its tiny up-and-down motions at his waist, as if to remind him that she was still alive, still there in his arms, making his skin mist and his heart pound. Her breath in his neck was steady and brave. Hatherfield might have thought she’d been hiding out from police in brothel wardrobes all her life.

  Who knew? Maybe she had.

  The floorboards creaked again. Slow, deliberate. Closer.

  Closer.

  Thomas’s finger stopped its caress and dug into his skin. Hatherfield thought he could hear the policeman breathing, heavy and rapid, through the clothes and the wood between them.

  Another step. A long pause. Another step.

  And then, in a rush, the boots thudded back across the floor and out the door.

  NINE

  Stefanie could not stop chattering as the Marquess of Hatherfield’s private hansom rattled through the London streets toward Cadogan Square. “I really thought I should slip on that last rooftop, with all the shingles missing. Really, people ought to take better care of their houses, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed.”

  “How fortunate you were behind me, instead of in front. You quite saved me. Of course, I’ve no doubt the gutter would have stopped me eventually, but it would have been an exceptionally bumpy ride in the meantime.”

  “Indeed.”

  Hatherfield spoke in exactly the same tone he’d maintained since opening the wardrobe door some half an hour ago, after a minute or two of massive silence in which Stefanie had been expecting his kiss at any instant, had been deciding what to do when it arrived. (Kiss him back, was her brain’s happy conclusion.) But the anticipated kiss had not, in fact, landed upon her lips. Only his body, heavy and hot, had lain against hers, with that steely bulge that made her want to crawl out of her own skin and into his, made her feverish and almost sick. Made her want to rub her hands and feet and body over every inch of his beautiful flesh, and especially those several thick inches pressed potently into her lower belly.

  She had contented herself with a single finger at his waist.

  Oh, all those feverish feelings, which had gotten her into such trouble before! They’d now returned at tenfold strength. Just sitting beside him now, she could hardly restrain herself from touching him. She should know better, she really should.

  Especially since Hatherfield thought she was a he.

  She went on speaking instead. “I hardly dare ask how you happened upon the establishment, and my room in particular, at exactly that moment. Followed closely by the police, I might add.”

  He roused himself a fraction. “The police were a surprise, in fact.”

  “And you?”

  “I was looking out for you, young man. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Stefanie straightened her shoulders. “I’m not in need of a nursemaid, your lordship.”

  “Aren’t you? You seem to have gotten yourself into a right mess on your own. What the devil were you doing in a brothel to begin with, for God’s sake?” he demanded, with a little more vim, which was decidedly better than all those grim and ominous Indeeds he’d been sporting before.

  Well, she wasn’t about to admit the truth. “Oh, you know how it is. Out with the lads for a pint or two, looking for amusement. Isn’t it obvious what I was doing?”

  “You were on the floor when I arrived, Mr. Thomas. Looking considerably discomposed.”

  “The lady didn’t suit me.”

  Hatherfield snorted. “I daresay not. That doesn’t change the fact that you were there, in that bawdy house, an innocent . . . young person, when you should have been safe at home in your bed.”

  “Safe at home? You sound like a dowager.”

  “You need a dowager, Mr. Thomas.”

  The words burst out. “No, I don’t! I’m not innocent. Not some damned lily-white virgin, after all.”

  The carriage slowed, making the turn around Hyde Park Corner. Hatherfield placed his large gloved hand on the edge of the door, as if to steady himself. When he spoke, his voice had returned to that grim tone of before. “I see.”

  Did he believe her, or not? She looked down at her hands, knotted together in her lap, atop the thick folds of her dreary black overcoat. Her breath exploded in a gust, and she realized she’d been holding it. She gathered herself and spoke defiantly. “Anyway, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have any amusement at all. I’m not the sort to lie quietly in my bed at night.”

  “No, I daresay you’re not.”

  “But you are.”

  Hatherfield’s hand hadn’t left the hansom door. He rubbed his thumb slowly along the edge. “You make me sound rather dull,” he said, a little amused.

  “I daresay you could use a little adventure, now and then.”

  His laugh sent a cloud of fog into the London night. “You’re adventure enough, believe me, Mr. Thomas. It will be hard going for me, tomorrow morning on the river.”

  “Well, it’s not as if you have to do it, do you?” Stefanie said. “You could stay home and sleep another hour or two.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” he said softly.

  “What, just for one morning?”

  The hansom jounced over a rut and came to a sudden stop, where the traffic had thickened in its mysterious London night way. Hatherfield sighed. “Little one, you wouldn’t understand. Sometimes there’s just one thing holding you to your sanity. One true and honest thing in your life, and the rest is all pretense and ceremony and the face one wears in public. The face one’s obliged to wear. So you have to escape somewhere, every day, or you’ll go mad.”

  The vehicle started forward again. Little one. Somehow it hadn’t sounded diminutive, in Hatherfield’s voice. Stefanie closed her eyes. “You’re wrong. I understand exactly what you mean.”

  A little pause, and then, “Well, maybe you do, at that.”

  “Anyway,” Stefanie went on quickly, because every one of these little pauses seemed to carry the weight of what had happened between them in that wardrobe, “Sir John thought my summary showed a great deal of promise.”

  “I don’t doubt it. You have an exceptional mind, Mr. Thomas.”

  “So I shall be working very hard indeed.”

  “I certainly hope so. Long hours, safe in those chambers of Sir John’s. I can’t think of anything better for you.”

  Stefanie frowned. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. I’m quite certain of it. You shouldn’t be let out at all.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not once.” Hatherfield sounded positive. “You should devote yourself entirely to the practice of law, with occasional breaks at mealtimes, to be eaten at your desk or at Sir John’s table in Cadogan Square. Or your room, more preferably. Yes, that’s the ticket. With a double guard at every door.”

  Stefanie folded her arms. “I’ve changed my mind. You are dull. Worse than dull, in fact. I think you’re in a
rut. And do you know what else I think?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I think you had fun tonight.”

  “Fun!” He laughed, a bit raspy this time, dark edged. “I suppose you could call it that. Fun.” He finished in a mutter.

  “So we’ll do it again, won’t we? Not a brothel, necessarily,” Stefanie added hastily, while a part of her brain was screaming, What are you doing, you idiot? He’ll find you out in no time, the game will be up, he’ll be furious, you’ll put the whole scheme in jeopardy, you’re mad! and the other part was jumping up and down, screeching, Yes! Yes! Delightful idea! More Hatherfield, please! More more more! “But some other outing. Something exciting.”

  “I have quite enough excitement in my life already, thank you.”

  “No, you don’t. In any case, if you don’t go along, I’ll simply have to go off on my own. And you know what scrapes I get into.” She looked back modestly at her fingertips.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I might.”

  The hansom turned into Cadogan Square. A rumbling sound filled the space between them, and Stefanie realized that Hatherfield was laughing. Well, chuckling. But an expression of amusement, in any case.

  The vehicle rolled to a stop. “Well?” said Stefanie.

  “I want you to return home directly after your work is finished, every day,” said Hatherfield.

  “But . . .”

  He held up his hand. “But. I shall invite myself to dinner, and then we’ll see.”

  Stefanie’s smile broke across her lips. She flung her arms around his shoulders. “Oh, you’re marvelous, Hatherfield! We’ll have such fun, I promise. You won’t regret it.”

  “I am quite certain I will come to regret it acutely. However, that’s of no consequence. Come along.” He swung open the cab door. “I’ll escort you inside.”

  “Escort me?”

  But Hatherfield’s hand was firm on her arm as she climbed out of the hansom. The touch reminded her again of that moment in the wardrobe, when his lips had pressed against the thin skin at her temple and hadn’t let go, and she’d felt as if she were drowning.

  The hand dropped away as they crossed the pavement to Sir John’s front steps. Hatherfield jumped in front of her and let the knocker fall, and the door was opened an instant later by one of the footmen.

  “Good evening, your lordship. Good evening, sir. Sir John is in the library.”

  “Thank you,” said Hatherfield, “but I believe I’ll be on my way.”

  The footman melted away. Hatherfield turned to face her. The light from the lamp cast a soft glow along one side of his grave and flawless face, and everything clogged in Stefanie’s throat, every word she wanted to say.

  “About the wardrobe,” said Hatherfield.

  “Yes! I . . .”

  “It won’t happen again, I promise. I am quite capable of controlling my baser instincts. You may rely on me, Thomas, to put your own interests foremost in the future.”

  Oh God, he was so beautiful, speaking to her in that grim voice, his blue eyes so terribly serious, his eyebrows set at a remorseful angle beneath the brim of his hat. Stefanie wanted to press her palms against those high cheekbones, to press her lips against that sensuous mouth.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Naturally, that would be best.”

  He reached forward and took off her hat. “I do want to apologize for . . .”

  “Why, James!”

  Stefanie and Hatherfield jumped like a pair of startled alley cats. Which, she reflected, as the wallpaper slid past her eyes, was not far from the truth.

  Lady Charlotte stood in the hallway, tiny and exquisite and tremulous, her wide eyes bright from the lamp on the hall table just before her. One hand lay upon the newel post, the other fisted into her skirts. The flawless hourglass curve of her waist seemed impossibly minute against the busy flocks of the wallpaper behind her.

  Hatherfield recovered first. He made a little bow of his head. “Lady Charlotte. Good evening.”

  She took a few steps forward. “We’re in the library. Do come and join us.” Her eyes were fixed on Hatherfield’s face, as if Stefanie didn’t exist.

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m up far too late as it is.” Hatherfield’s voice sent a distinct chill through the air.

  “We missed you at breakfast this morning.”

  “Family duties, I’m afraid, Lady Charlotte.”

  Her gaze slid at last to Stefanie. “I see.”

  Hatherfield lifted his hat politely. “You’ll forgive me, Lady Charlotte.” He turned to Stefanie. “Mr. Thomas. I shall see you both in the morning.”

  Stefanie forced her lips to move. “Good evening, Lord Hatherfield.”

  “Good evening, James.” Lady Charlotte’s voice rang out with authority.

  When the door had shut behind Hatherfield’s swinging coat, Stefanie turned and braced herself for the expected swing from Lady Charlotte’s elegant bat. “Your ladyship, I . . .”

  “Mr. Thomas. My dear Mr. Thomas.” Lady Charlotte’s face transformed into softness. She stepped forward and linked her arm through his. “You must come and join us. It’s the oddest thing. I feel as if you’re part of the family. Not a servant at all.”

  At nine o’clock sharp the following morning, the Marquess of Hatherfield followed the immaculate ebony back of a footman into the Duke of Olympia’s study on Park Lane.

  The duke, looking up from his desk, threw down his pen and rose with a broad smile. “Hatherfield! There you are. What a very great pleasure.”

  Hatherfield ignored his outstretched hand. “Olympia, you scoundrel. What the devil have you got brewing now?”

  Olympia waved his hand. “Coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “Coffee will do.”

  Olympia pressed his finger to a button on his desk. The footman reappeared. “Coffee for his lordship,” said Olympia cheerfully.

  Hatherfield stalked to the window.

  “Come now,” called the duke. “There’s no need for sulking.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m making bloody well certain I haven’t been followed.”

  “You’re perfectly safe here.”

  Hatherfield turned. “Am I? But that’s not the question, at the moment. What I want to know is this: Who is this Stephen Thomas, and why in God’s name have you dressed the poor lady up in men’s clothing and set her to work for Sir John Worthington, of all people?”

  “You find her position unsuitable?”

  “I beg your pardon. Have you gone mad?”

  “Not at all, not at all.”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in, come in,” said Olympia, and the footman swept through with a large silver tray, on which a large silver coffee service gleamed with the light of a thousand polishing cloths.

  Hatherfield folded his arms and glowered as the footman set out cups and saucers and creamers, with all due ceremony appropriate to the private study of the Duke of Olympia. In exactly those same movements had a footman—possibly the same footman—set out the coffee on Hatherfield’s first visit to this study, what was it? Four years ago, when he was just out of university. He’d received a note in his rooms, his brand-new rooms at the Albert Hall Mansions, a safe distance from Belgrave Square, and he’d looked at the thick paper blankly and thought, Penhallow’s grandfather? What the devil would Penhallow’s grandfather want with me? “My grandson Penhallow speaks highly of you,” the duke had said, once the first greetings had been exchanged and the first sips had been taken. “Your quick wits, your physical fitness, your sound moral character. I thought perhaps you might be willing to assist me with an important task. A discreet task, for which Her Majesty’s government would be deeply grateful.”

  Hatherfield looked out the window again and tapped his finger against his upper arm. The weight of the passing seconds drummed against his brain.

  The door closed at last.

  “Come now,” said Olympia. “Have your co
ffee, there’s a good chap.”

  Hatherfield stalked back across the room and snatched a cup. “Well? Her name, at least.”

  Olympia’s smile revealed a neat row of smug white teeth. “She is Her Royal Highness the Princess Stefanie, youngest daughter of the Prince of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, who—as I’m sure you know—was murdered two months ago, along with the husband of his eldest daughter, the Crown Princess.”

  The cup froze in Hatherfield’s hand, a hairsbreadth away from his waiting lips. He stared at Olympia’s teeth, while the world swirled around him. “Princess?” he croaked at last.

  “And my niece,” said Olympia. “My sister Louisa was Prince Rudolf’s first wife.”

  Hatherfield set his cup into his saucer and the saucer on the table. He selected a pastry from a flowered plate as fine as glass, popped it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, reached for his coffee. He took a sip, replaced the cup, and said, “Where are Her Highness’s sisters?”

  A flutter of the ducal fingers. “Elsewhere.”

  “Are they in danger?”

  “Obviously, or I should have left them in place in Germany.”

  Hatherfield drank his coffee. His brain was quite calm now, quite orderly. “And this is your plan? To keep the princesses safe by dressing them as young men and setting them loose, unattended, across England?”

  “But they’re not unattended, are they? You have been keeping my dear Stefanie in perfect safety.” The duke sat back in his chair and beamed.

  Hatherfield’s cup crashed in its saucer. “My God! You are mad! What if I hadn’t noticed Mr. Stephen Thomas was a girl, hmm? What if I hadn’t known a few tricks of your trade? What if I hadn’t bothered? The risk you were taking!”

  “I believe I calculated the risks well enough.” Again, the smile. “I trained you myself, didn’t I? I’ve kept you honed with the odd assignment or two. I know exactly where your skills lie, Hatherfield, and I had every possible confidence that . . .”

  Hatherfield stalked forward and crashed his fist on the desk, making the duke’s pens rattle in their holders. He said, between clenched teeth, “You will tell me everything you know about the danger facing Her Highness. You will not leave out a single detail. And then I, Olympia, I will tell you how I wish to proceed with the matter, keeping the young lady’s safety above all other considerations. All other considerations, do you hear me? You and your damned political intrigues.”