The Marquess's Final Fling
Christmas Belles, Book #4
Cerise DeLand
Copyright © 2019 by Wilma Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise DeLand
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7330794-2-6
W. J. Power Publisher
Designer: Wicked Smart Designs
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Your Invitation to the Marsden Christmas House Party
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
AUNT GERTRUDE’S RED HOT CHRISTMAS BEAU
Who is Cerise DeLand?
Also by Cerise DeLand
Your Invitation to the Marsden Christmas House Party
The Countess of Marsden invites you to her house party! Seven nights and days of frolic, gossip, dancing…and match-making for everyone!
That includes her three nieces and many of her guests.
But does that also include…dear me…her butler and…oh, my…Gertrude herself?
The Marquess’s Final Fling
The Marquess of Tain has always obeyed every social rule. Obeyed his father. Remained faithful to his two departed wives. Been a devoted father. An expert steward of his lands and investments. But this Christmas, he’ll throw convention to the wind. He’ll seize the chance of his lifetime—and invite himself to a house party where he will woo and wed the only woman he has ever loved.
No matter the cost.
Lady Penelope Goddard has always followed every social convention. Married her first husband because her father ordered it. Married her second—and her third—because they were…well…charming. And she had no skills to make a living for herself. This Christmas when she attends her cousin’s house party, she is shocked to find her long lost love there. He’s seductive, intent on kissing her senseless. She chuckles when they’re discovered in the ladies’ retiring room, and the library, and the stairwell.
But will she marry him?
When she knows she can never give him the one gift which she never was capable of giving her three husbands. And which she cannot give him.
Chapter 1
December 21, 1815
Brighton, England
Among the Marquess of Tain’s peers, marriage was a contract based on money, status and bloodlines. This rule was one they’d been taught from birth. If Theo didn’t like it, it didn’t mean he hadn’t abided by it.
So as he gazed upon the woman whom he’d dismissed years ago in favor of this rule, he understood the importance of what he had lost and the significance of what he now would attempt to regain.
As a lord of the Realm with more than four hundred tenants to look after and three times as many acres of land to administer, Theo understood the value of taking care of the people and property for whom he was responsible. His minions tended his land, his animals, and grew the grains and vegetables that sustained them all. He ran his investments in iron smelting with a diligent hand. His sacred duty, some might say it was to be fair and dedicated. His practical duty, he would declare it was in fact. If man did not survive on bread alone, he prospered well by having more than the essentials of a good life. But after the death of his second wife more than a year ago, Theo had examined the ramifications of his marital choices. His marriages had been the ilk society blessed. If his existences with both ladies had not been idyllic, he accepted that with a cool maturity that put the lie to youthful naïveté. Just as he had devoted himself to his tenants, so too would he devote himself to his own happiness. To that end, he had sworn off a third marriage. His choice had been firm and he was not a man to change his mind quickly or without forethought. He was committed. Then he began to read of another death, another marriage ended. And he changed his mind. Altered his plan: He would not make any decisions to care for anyone else unless they cared for him in an equal and full measure.
The beauty he gazed upon had been one such person. He’d met her briefly at a house party like this one. He talked with her, enjoyed laughing with her, discussed farming of all things—and after more than twelve years, had never found her equal in any other woman.
To admit that to himself was an honest declaration. He was not in the habit of lying to himself. Never had been. To admit that aloud to anyone else of course would be blasphemy. It would be misinterpreted because, by many measures, he had loved his two wives. He certainly loved his two daughters who survived each woman in turn.
But this lady with her jovial manner and her lively enjoyment of others no matter their titles or riches had always been the one by whom he’d measured all others. If he would still do that after these next few days, he’d call himself fortunate, if not farsighted.
With an assurance—or perhaps arrogance—borne of training from the nursery to the rigors of dealing with his indomitable father, he strode toward her. With a bland smile on his face, he would continue the lie she and he had created that they had only ever been blithe acquaintances. To others at this party, his greeting would appear to be a beginning for them both. Whether she still cared for him, whether he saw in her all he found in her when he was a callow nineteen, it was still vital that he discover her character once again and learn if she might ever regard him with the passion that was once theirs twelve long years ago.
“Allow me to present the Marquess of Tain, Lady Goddard?” Their hostess for this Christmas house party was the venerable Countess of Marsden. A lady of social standing, she was a lioness among the haute ton. Her parties were legendary for the variety of attendees and the joy each guest proclaimed they enjoyed afterward. Though the lady had not opened her home to such a grand affair as this in more than a year, she did so now with the intention to brighten this Christmas season to celebrate the end of the wars. A friend of this lady whom he’d favored above all others, the Countess also knew what few ever had. He and the lady he stood before were once deeply in love.
Tain would help her with the ruse, by Jove. As he did himself. He smiled broadly, taking the hand of the lady he’d once adored the moment she’d laughed with him.
“I am honored, my lord.” Lady Penelope Goddard sank in a gracious curtsy. Did she cast her dark brown eyes downward in demure courtesy—or did she hide her surprise at his presence?
“As am I, my lady.” He pressed his lips to her gloved hand. Her cold gloved hand. Desire to warm her all over ran through him like hot brandy. He wanted the rest of her supple body beneath his mouth. His hips. His skin.
She rose and locked her gaze on his in shock and curiosity. “We did not know you would attend.”
Was that true? The Countess had not taken the opportunity to inform Penn that he had invited himself? He could have kissed their hostess then and there! “I had no idea myself until a few days ago.”
“You were free?” she asked, her head tilting, long ringlets of dark blonde caramel hair dancing around her rosy cheeks.
“Free.” He savored the word that denoted why he was here at this party. Why he was in such a rush. Why he had done the unthinkable, the unacceptable, and sent a letter to the Countess of Marsden to ask—hell, he would have begged if necessary—to be invited to her eight-day Ch
ristmas revels here in her house. “Yes, more free of any engagements than I have ever been.” Since last I wished to be engaged to you.
“How wonderful for us all,” said Penn with that little lisp between the girlish gap in her front teeth.
She was thirty years old, a year younger than he, but she could still lure him with her happy charm and her mellifluous contralto. My God. What an exquisite creature she was. As finely boned as when he’d first met her, she had fuller cheeks and a disconcerting wisdom to her fathomless dark eyes. She was very fashionably dressed, too. The gold gown she wore gave a sheen to her skin that reminded him of a Greek goddess. In the drape of her gown, she moved like water. He allowed his wayward eyes to skim, but briefly, the line of her décolleté. Her bosom was definitely fuller than when she’d been eighteen. His blood heated. Her breasts were lovely orbs he’d pay grand homage to, if only she’d permit him.
“I assure you,” he told her, “the honor is mine.”
The Countess moved aside as another of her house guests came forward to greet her.
He offered Penn his arm. “Perhaps you could introduce me to others?”
She laid her hand on his forearm with an assurance she’d not possessed at age eighteen. “Of course. Then you will excuse me as I promised the Countess I’d help her with the introductions among so many here.”
“Certainly. When you’re done taking me around, you may leave me with Lord Riverdale. I do know him well.” He gazed down at her, his heart clutching at her confusion at seeing him here. But when at last she had finished her introductions and they strolled toward Riverdale, he felt relief wing though her body.
“Penn—” he appealed to her before she let go of his arm. “Please talk with me. Later in the—”
“No.” She stepped nearer his friend and smiled at that man. “Lord Riverdale, I do believe you are acquainted with this good gentleman?”
“Tain!” Riverdale clapped him on the back as she murmured excuses and fled him all too soon. “Good to see you! Or is it?” his friend and neighbor asked on a sour note. “A problem with the lady?”
A bigger one than I anticipated. “Certainly not, Riverdale. How are you?”
Chapter 2
Tain! Tain! Penn rushed from the salon where the Countess of Marsden’s guests mingled. She needed to escape to the ladies’ retiring room to catch her breath. Her sanity!
This was the first evening of that grand lady’s house party and all her guests were atwitter as she received them. It was a perfect moment to gather her wits and plaster a glowing smile on her face.
But where was the retiring room this time? The Countess moved it for every new event. Hmm.
She glanced about.
Was that the butler? Yes!
Penn hurried toward him. But at once she paused. He was a fine looking fellow and he stood, talking to an earl’s daughter as if…as if he were arguing with her. As if they were…friends?
Dear me! How could that be?
Penn hurried toward him, her skirts tangling about her legs. “Do pardon me, but what have you designated as the ladies’ retiring room?”
He blinked as if she asked where was the moon. “In the Chinese parlor tonight.” He inclined his head toward the far end of the hall.
Penn smiled her thanks and whirled only to catch her shoe on the edge of the carpet.
He shot out a hand to steady her. “Careful! I thought I’d ordered that carpet tacked down. My apologies, Lady Goddard.”
“Not necessary.” She’d been tripping over things since she was a child. Her mother had said it was because she rushed everywhere and never knew where she was going. Well, Mama, you were wrong. I always knew. Much good it did me.
No matter. An old problem with no new solutions. She hurried onward, picking up her skirts and heading for the Chinese room at the end of the hall. She thrust open the door and entered, shutting it behind her with a firm click of the latch. Panting, she put a hand to her bosom.
She listened. No others were here. She had silence. Serenity. Good.
She shut her eyes and there Tain was, dancing before her. In all his virile, impeccable, formidable glory.
What was he doing at this party?
Tain. Darling Tain. Terrible Tain.
She swallowed hard against the shock, the delight, the pain of seeing him again.
Crinkling sounds had her turn toward the folding screen in the corner.
Mice? She shivered, hoping not. The Countess kept a spotless household.
Penn’s only worry was Tain. Not mice. A hand to her brow, she breathed deeply. One. In. Slowly in. And then out. Slowly, slowly out.
She sagged against the back of the door. How was it that Tain was here? The Countess was her friend, her dear friend, and she had not told her Tain would attend. But then in truth, perhaps that lady had had no chance. Penn had arrived late this afternoon and gone straight up to her assigned room to change her clothes for this first night of the party. She must not attack the Countess for failing to tell her.
The door gave. A woman knocked. Once. Twice. Urgently!
Oh, hell. Penn wanted no company, not yet. She needed time to fix on a brave mask for the rest of the evening.
The guest fiddled with the handle of the door. Once. Twice.
Very well. Penn whirled and swung it wide.
But when she saw who stood there, she stared at him, gave the door a grand shove and said, “Go away.”
He stuck a foot between the door and the frame. “No.”
“I can’t talk. You know I can’t.”
“Of course you can.” He entered, shooting his cuffs and smiling at her, all compassion and suave blond Viking confidence. The man was her worst nightmare, her every Austen hero, her nemesis.
“This is the ladies’ retiring room.”
He raised his head, grinning at the ceiling, then at her. “You are a lady. And I am retiring here with you.”
Did someone gasp?
No. He muddled her thinking. Penn shook her head. My heavens, he looked so delectable this close. His eyes, so luminous. His lips. So firm and ripe and… “You must leave.”
He got that devil-may-care look on his face that she could draw in her sleep. “We’re alone.”
“We shouldn’t be.” Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She had promised herself when her last husband died that she would not think about Tain ever again. Not think about him, not talk about him, not go anywhere she might meet him. No, never. It wasn’t wise. Nor had it been fair to her or to her three husbands to yearn for Tain or dream of him. She’d been married three times to three wonderful men. Each time before her nuptials, she’d wished her groom were Tain. And part of her—superstitious creature that she was—believed with her mere wanting, she had cursed her marriages.
“Why not?” he asked in that bass voice that rivaled the lure of gods. “We can talk. No harm to it. We’re at a party.”
“We’ve always been at parties! Why is it we’ve always been at parties?” She groaned.
“Not always. There were other times—”
“I’m aware!” She threw up her hands. “ Of all the times!”
He beamed at that. “You do remember. Marvelous. But no one has ever known that we met!”
“Yes,” she said, absorbing the delicious sight of him, tall and blond and oh so sure of himself. “We’re so very good at deception.”
“We never planned not to be noticed.” He stepped near to her, very near, so near that his cologne of some exotic fragrance flared her nostrils, soothed her soul, but not her desire to put her hands all over him. “You are a feast for my eyes, dear Penn.”
“Oh, you are a devil, Tain.” Where was her backbone? Her brain? Why did she always lose her wits around him? “You must not compliment me so.”
“I will. You are incomparable, my dear.”
“A term for a younger woman, Tain.”
“Children,” he murmured and flowed so near, his body’s heat enflamed her own. “I pre
fer you, my dear.”
“Old as I am?” She had to taunt him to distract herself lest she go up on her tiptoes and taste his perfect lips.
“Mature is the word.”
She snorted. “But you are as handsome as ever. And what in hell are you doing here? And dear me, where are my manners? I must convey my condolences. I am so sorry for your losses. Your wife. Your mother.” She’d not seen him anywhere in more than a year and a half. His mother, the Duchess of Harlow, had passed away a little more than a year ago. When last they’d talked and laughed and gazed upon each other with cow’s eyes, his second wife was still alive. Soon after that, she’d died in childbirth. So had her baby. His second wife. His fourth child. She ached for him, his grief, his never-ending bouts with death. Like she who had had her own. Three. Her three husbands were gone to their Maker. She shivered inside, chilled at the loss of the good men she’d married.
“Thank you, my darling,” Tain crooned as he slid his hands up her arms and drew her against him. And then he cradled her close, so close. Her nipples bored into his black wool coat and hardened—and ached. “It’s heaven to hold you. How are you, really?” He pulled back, but his big strong hands cupped her cheeks. “You never grow older. Only more beautiful.”
She pressed her head back against the wall to examine him. He was an angel to say so, though she knew he was the one who deserved her own praise for his looks. “You are kind. And looking well yourself. Despite your recent bereavement.”
His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “I am here to resume my normal schedule. My formal period of mourning is long since over.”
The Marquess's Final Fling: Christmas Belles, Book #4 Page 1