Christmas Wishes: The Love of a Marquess

by Emily Williams

  “Ah, the curse of being in a beautiful woman’s company,” Matthew mocked, throwing back his own glass of whiskey. “You are lucky that you’re an earl with considerable wealth, or nobody would dance with you. What you need to do, my friend, is practice.”

  “Practice?” Charles echoed. “Practice what?”

  “You know,” Matthew began, getting to his feet. “Talking to a lady, walking with her, simply handing her a glass of refreshment—all of the things you seem entirely incapable of doing. Surely you do not want to remain persona non grata to all the ladies of the ton?”

  Charles opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again firmly. Matthew was right. Whenever he tried to talk to a beautiful young lady, his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, his voice becoming a rasping cough whenever he tried to speak. He had lost count of the number of ladies who had walked away from him mid-conversation. Thinking of walking, whenever Charles tried to tuck a lady’s hand under his arm, her closeness gave him such anxiety that he often tripped over his own feet. Charles closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the memories. He was a lost cause.

  “Remember the time you poured a glass of ratafia down Lady Weston’s bodice?” Matthew cried, chuckling as he recalled the scene. “She screamed so loudly that her father rushed in, ready to knock out whoever it was that was ravishing his daughter.”

  “I did get a black eye,” Charles said ruefully. “Her father was quite a strong man, as I recall.”

  Matthew let out a roar of laughter as tears now began to roll down his cheeks.

  "Then you stood on her precious little pug as you took your leave," he cried, filled with hilarity.

  "It was a small thing, and I could hardly see it," Charles cried, coming to his own defense. "I should not think that could be considered my fault."

  Despite himself, Charles felt a smile come over his face. He truly was too clumsy for his own good.

  After some time, Matthew grew quiet, still letting out the occasional little hiccup of laughter.

  “So,” Charles began, thinking seriously once more. “How do I practice all those things?”

  Matthew thought for a moment before saying, “Well, I suggest we find a lady of society who is not overly beautiful and who is not likely to ever marry—whether it be through circumstances or age, or lack of desirability.”

  Charles wrinkled his nose at the description, but Matthew hadn’t finished.

  “You can treat her as an acquaintance, get to know her, practice your conversation, practice your dancing, and take her for walks in the park.”

  “Fetch her a glass of ratafia,” Charles interjected, a grin on his face.

  “Exactly,” Matthew replied, holding back a laugh. “Then, considering you know you won’t ever marry the chit, you will be sufficiently improved to begin courting whichever eligible lady you choose.”

  “Wonderful!” Charles exclaimed, getting to his feet. “I really believe you have come up with a good plan, Matthew.”

  “Thank you,” Matthew replied, sweeping an overly exaggerated bow.

  “There is only one problem,” Charles continued, raising an eyebrow.

  “Oh?”

  “We need to find such a lady.”

  Chapter 3

  Martha stepped into the ballroom, trying to hide her rising nerves. Of course there were a few subtle glances thrown her way, but she did her best to ignore them. At first, she'd been filled with hope as she began her quest for a proper gentleman, but she'd soon learned that her stepbrother would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Various rumors were now the topics of gossip, ranging from her being compromised, all the way up to her bearing an illegitimate child and causing the death of her father, due to his grief over her wayward ways. Everyone in the ton now knew that she now had no dowry, but again, there were numerous stories as to how that came to be.

  Martha forced her hands together, intertwining her fingers to stop them from trembling. She would hold her head high and show society a brave face, one that did not intend to be pushed into a corner by Gerald. She had no other choice but to find a suitable gentleman, refusing to think of the consequences should she fail in her quest.

  From across the room, Matthew looked at Martha, and said, “That one.”

  "Where?"

  Having re-entered the ballroom, Charles followed Matthew's gaze to a dark-haired young lady, standing to one side of the ballroom.

  “She’s a wallflower!”

  Matthew shrugged, and explained, “So? She’s pretty, but not beautiful. Nothing like that red-haired woman over there.”

  Charles spotted the tall, beautiful young lady, who had piqued Matthew’s interest. The young woman’s auburn curls tumbled down her back as she moved gracefully across the dance floor. Matthew drew his attention away from the beauty and continued his conversation about the other young woman, sitting alone.

  “She is certainly not in her first fling of youth and, by all accounts, is not likely to ever marry,” he finished, keeping his eye on the black-haired woman.

  “You know her?” Charles asked, not taking his eyes from the lady half-hidden in shadow.

  “Vaguely,” Matthew replied, moving to pour himself another drink. “That is Lady Martha Larkson. Her father recently passed on and left his entire fortune to his stepson, Lord Crewe.”

  “I see,” Charles murmured. “She is out of mourning?”

  “Yes,” Matthew replied, taking a sip of his whiskey. “It has been over a year since her father died. Her stepmother passed on before him, by only six months, I believe.”

  “She has known great loss in such a short space of time,” Charles replied, his heart tugging a little as he studied the lady.

  “Don’t let her appearance fool you,” Matthew said, putting his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “I know that soft heart of yours. Rumor has it that she has been compromised and the man responsible ran off with her dowry.”

  “Ran off?”

  “Apparently, she found a way to give it to him, believing him to be the great love of her life. She gave him both her dowry and her body, and now look at her. Left with nothing.”

  “I see,” Charles replied slowly, not sure that this Lady Martha was someone he wished to get to know. “Are you sure she’s the right one, Matthew?”

  "Yes, yes," Matthew replied, hastily. "There could be no greater match for our little plan. Besides," he continued, "if the rumors are true, she will have no qualms about accepting your attentions. It is not as if she is going to be able to muster any form of attention from any other eligible gentleman."

  Charles nodded, throwing back another whiskey for good measure. “Very well,” he replied, fixing his eyes on the lady. “I’ll do it. Wish me luck, Matthew.”

  “You don’t need any,” Matthew replied, slapping him on the back. “It’s a match made in heaven.”

  Martha tried not to look at the two gentlemen staring at her, hating that she did not know what rumors they had heard. She could feel her face heating as they continued to study her, and, with nowhere to go, she could only sit and look anywhere but in their direction. She saw Suzanne, her friend, smiling at her and waving a little in passing, with Martha nodding back. Ever since the rumors had begun, her friend had been forbidden by her parents to be in contact with Martha, and besides, Gerald would have refused her entry. It had been a cruel blow. Suzanne had been Martha's only true friend, and her loss was hard to take.

  Still, it was clear that Suzanne herself didn't believe the rumors, clearly determined to ignore her parents’ demands. Martha smiled sadly as she saw Suzanne being quickly reprimanded for daring to wave at Martha, but a stoic expression had come over Suzanne's face, and Martha knew what that meant. Suzanne was ignoring every single word that came from her mother's mouth, standing by her friend. Even though she remained hidden against the wall, blending into the shadows, Martha felt the warmth of her friend's loyalty. It meant the world to her.

  “My lady.”

  Startled
by his voice, Martha turned to see a sandy-brown head of hair bowing in her vague direction. Not knowing what to say, Martha waited until the man finished bowing, which seemed to take a lot longer than any other gentleman of her acquaintance. When he finally rose, Martha was humiliated to recognize one of the gentlemen from across the room, who had been staring at her so intensely.

  “My lord,” she replied stiffly, turning her head to look further down the room. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  Charles fumbled for a moment. “I did not think propriety was of great consequence, given the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?” Martha turned on the man, her eyes angry. "What circumstances, my lord? You have heard some rumors about me and immediately believe them to be true? Whether or not you wish to stick with propriety is not my concern, but I shall not speak to you until we are properly introduced. Do I make myself quite clear?”

  Charles opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The lady had turned into a spitfire, her face matching the color of her red dress. This had not gone to plan.

  “My lady...” he mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

  She still held him in her furious gaze, and he could almost feel the heat of her wrath. He hastily bowed before turning on his heels and practically running across the room. It didn’t help that, as he did so, he tripped over another gentleman’s boot and went flying across the floor, knocking an entire tray of ratafia out of a footman’s hands which, of course, went all over him.

  Charles closed his eyes and wished the ground would swallow him up. Instead, all he heard was the sound of sobbing as the lady he had been running from quickly left the room. Of course, immediately after that came the sound of the assembled crowd’s raucous laughter.

  Chapter 4

  Gerald came sauntering into the drawing room, perching himself on the arm of the chair where Martha was sitting.

  “You were not able to find a suitable gentleman last evening, dear sister? What a shame.”

  “Gerald,” she replied, attempting to rise, but Gerald held her arm firmly. “Only five more months until your birthday, my dear,” he continued, his tone light and airy. “You do know that with every passing day, the likelihood of getting that land grows even stronger?”

  The hand that did not grip her wrist closed in on the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, Martha struggled against the pain as his hand tightened on her neck.

  “Enough, Gerald,” she replied, once more attempting to get to her feet. “I shall find a gentleman soon enough, despite your best efforts.”

  “My efforts?” Gerald sounded surprised. “I do not know to what you are referring, Martha dear.”

  Tearing herself from his strong grasp, knowing she would have bruises to show for it, Martha struggled to her feet. “You know full well to what I am referring, Gerald, and it matters very little. I shall find an eligible gentleman by my birthday.”

  Gerald’s response was cut short by the arrival of the butler.

  “Pardon me, but you have a visitor, ma’am. Forgive me, two visitors.”

  The butler handed Martha their cards.

  “Don’t think for a moment that these two are eligible gentlemen,” Gerald snapped. "I'm sure they have simply heard that you are looking for a lover and are keen to get into your favors."

  He sneered as he stalked from the room, leaving Martha completely alone.

  She took a breath, seeing the look of sympathy on the normally stalwart butler’s face.

  “Thank you, Mr. Frederick. Please, show them in.”

  He nodded and left the room, giving Martha a few moments to compose herself. She had no idea who these gentlemen were and was worried that there was truth to her stepbrother’s words.

  "You!" Martha got to her feet the moment the two gentlemen entered their room, not responding to their hasty bows. "How dare you call upon me! After your behavior last evening, I thought I made myself perfectly clear."

  "My lady, please, I must speak for my friend." The tall, dark-haired gentleman swept another bow, taking her unwilling hand in his. “It was I who put such thoughts into his head and, as we are now aware, these things are clearly untrue."

  Blushing furiously, Martha tugged her hand away, her chest heaving as she struggled to control her temper.

  “They are most certainly not true, and if you have come here with such thoughts in your head, you must take your leave immediately.” She took a breath, knowing she needed to speak plainly, and said, “I have not been compromised, I do not have an illegitimate child living in Scotland, and I am certainly not looking for a lover. The terrible rumors are untrue. Do you both understand?”

  “Perfectly,” the dark-haired man said smoothly, seating himself. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  Stuttering for a moment, Martha collected herself. “Certainly not. I shall do so myself.”

  After ringing for tea, she seated herself gracefully, trying to calm herself down. Gerald’s cruel actions and words had pushed her almost to a breaking point, and the appearance of the gentlemen from last evening had been the last straw. Whilst she should not have spoken so plainly—or so loudly—Martha was relieved that the gentlemen were not under any false pretenses.

  "I am afraid I did not catch your name last evening," she began coolly, turning her gaze onto the brown-haired gentleman who, as yet, had not spoken a single word.

  “Ah…em….me? Oh, yes, me….uh, I am...I am Lord Green," he stuttered, reaching out his hand so she might place hers in his own. After a moment, she did so, watching as he bent over it, swaying a little as he bowed too deeply, but managing to right himself before he toppled over completely.

  “And you are…?”

  “I am Lord Hoskins, at your service, my lady,” the dark-haired gentleman replied, not bothering to get to his feet. “Forgive my lack of manners, but I am a little under the weather after last night’s frivolities.”

  A knock at the door sounded the entrance of the tea tray, and Martha got up to pour.

  “Excuse me,” Lord Hoskins said abruptly. “I shall be back in a moment.”

  Astonished, Martha watched him go, turning questioning eyes onto Lord Green.

  “I hope that you are not here to once again make mention of any rumors you have heard about me,” she said, flushing once more.

  “No, no, no, not at all!” Lord Green replied, his face also going a deep red. “I can assure you, that is not the case at all.”

  “Very well,” Martha replied, as she finished pouring the tea and adding one sugar, as directed by Lord Green.

  It seemed that he was able to speak perfectly well when her back was toward him, but should she face him or look him in the eye, he turned into a blubbering wreck. What was wrong with the man?

  “Here,” she said, handing him the cup and saucer.

  “I thank you,” Charles replied, reaching for it carefully. Despite his best efforts, his shaking hands refused to hold the cup still, spilling tea all over the pristine carpet.

  “Oh no!” Charles cried, just as Martha cried out the same, both dropping to their knees at precisely the same time.

  It was most unfortunate that Charles then managed to knock his forehead against Martha’s, stunning her with a sudden blow. Even worse, as he got to his feet to help her up, he stood on her fingers, making her cry out.

  "My lady, I cannot apologize enough," he cried, reaching for her hand.

  Martha, dazed and in a fair amount of pain, gingerly reached for his hand, allowing him to pull her up. Charles tugged her far too hard and far too fast, slamming her against his body as they stumbled back, right into the table which held the tea tray. Managing to regain his balance, he held her tight against him for a moment as they both tried to regain their composure.

  Charles was filled with shame and embarrassment, looking at the destruction around him. The table holding the tea tray wobbled a little more before settling, the china clinking in protest. He had no idea what to do in this situation, realizing how
improper it was for him to be holding Lady Martha in such an intimate embrace. Yet, something within him refused to let her go, her presence soothing and comforting him.

  Martha blinked hard, trying to work out what exactly had just happened. Her head ached, and her fingers were sore, but that all seemed to fade away as she was simply held by the gentleman who had caused her pain in the first place. He was tall, but not too tall, his arms wrapping around her securely, his chin gently touching the top of her head.

  “Are you all right?” Charles asked, a little gruffly, surprised that he managed to get the words out so clearly.

  Martha nodded, her face turning into his neck as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She didn’t know what she was doing, encouraging him to remain like this knowing that her stepbrother, or Lord Hoskins, could return at any time.

  The man is a buffoon, she thought, a clumsy oaf who has just spilled tea everywhere, almost knocked you out, and then trod on your fingers. Why, then, are you enjoying his embrace?

  Regaining her sense of decorum, she reluctantly took a step back, out of his embrace.

  “Oh.”

  Martha saw Lord Green wince as he looked at her. Whatever was the matter? She touched her forehead gingerly, realizing how badly it hurt.

  "I believe you are going to have quite a nasty bruise, my lady," Charles said, guilt-ridden. "I cannot apologize enough."

  Martha closed her eyes. A bruise to her head would just be another way for her brother to tell more lies about her; she was sure of it. On top of that, her head began to throb, and she moved to ring the bell for the maid, wincing with each step.

  “Please, sit down Lord Green, before you do any more damage.”

  Charles sat silently, feeling useless. The maid entered and, with a word from Martha, tidied up the mess Charles had made, before bringing Martha a soft, cool compress for her tender head.