How to Manage a Marquess

by Sally MacKenzie

  Ugh.

  And if—when—Papa married Mrs. Eaton, Anne would have to turn over all control of Davenport Hall to her, after almost a decade of making the household decisions herself. That thought had been so distressing, she’d considered marrying anything in pantaloons just to have a home of her own.

  But then she’d thought what must happen when the pantaloons came off.

  She shivered—and not with anticipation. Not that she knew precisely what happened in the marriage bed, but she had a general idea. And even if a woman’s marital duties were no more demanding than shaking a man’s hand, that would be too much. She’d yet to find a male she wished to spend five minutes with, let alone a lifetime.

  She looked back at the Spinster House. It would be spacious for a woman living alone.

  She’d not given the place much thought before. She’d been only six when Miss Franklin, the current—no, the former—spinster had moved in. Miss Franklin had been very young at the time. Everyone expected her to be the Spinster House spinster for forty or fifty or even sixty years, if she enjoyed good health. So when Papa had taken up with Mrs. Eaton, Anne hadn’t thought the house might offer a solution to her problem.

  But just days ago, to the surprise and shock of the entire village, Miss Franklin had run off with Mr. Wattles, the music teacher, who had turned out to be the son of the Duke of Benton and was now, with his father’s passing, the duke himself. Even the Boltwood sisters hadn’t sniffed out that story, and they were almost as accomplished at ferreting out secrets as Lady Dunlee, London’s premier gabble grinder.

  Which all meant the Spinster House spinster position was open again. The Almighty—or possibly Isabelle Dorring—had answered Anne’s prayers.

  But Jane and Cat want the house, too.

  Jane Wilkinson and Catherine Hutting were her closest friends, Jane a little older than Anne, Cat a little younger. They’d grown up together, giggled together, shared confidences, cried on each other’s shoulders. Cat and Jane had comforted her just the other day when she’d told them the sorry tale of Papa and Mrs. Eaton. She would do anything for them.

  Except give up my chance at the Spinster House.

  Speaking of Cat, was that her voice she heard? She glanced across the road, up the hill to the vicarage—

  Good God!

  Her jaw dropped, and she blinked. No, she hadn’t imagined the scene. Cat had just darted into the trysting bushes—and the Duke of Hart had gone in after her!

  Her thoughts raced. What should she do? Run for the vicar? No, Cat might be ravished before she got back with him. Scream? That would only have people rush to help her.

  I’ll have to save Cat myself.

  She took a step toward the vicarage—and stopped.

  Wait a minute.

  Cat led the duke into the bushes, not the other way round. In fact, the duke had hesitated, as if he wasn’t entirely certain joining Cat in the foliage was a good idea.

  Perhaps he was the one who needed rescuing.

  Anne stared at the shrubbery. It had been several minutes, and neither Cat nor the duke had emerged. There was no screaming. The branches weren’t thrashing about. Clearly no one was struggling to get free.

  Which could only mean they were doing something other than fighting in there.

  Heavens! There was only one reason a couple went into the trysting bushes, and it wasn’t to discuss the weather.

  Excitement bubbled up in her. If Cat married the duke, there would be only two candidates for the Spinster House: herself and Jane.

  But Cat didn’t want to marry. She wanted to live on her own and write novels.

  Or maybe she just didn’t want to marry Mr. Barker, the stodgy farmer Cat’s mother had been throwing at her head these last few years. The duke was nothing like Mr. Barker. He was handsome and wealthy. And he didn’t have an annoying mother living with him. If Cat married the duke, she’d have time and room to write as many novels as she wanted. She could—

  “Miss Davenport.”

  “Ack!” She jumped several inches above the walk. Dear God, the Marquess of Haywood is at my elbow.

  Her heart gave an odd little jump as well. And why not? The man presented a very, er, pleasant picture. With the strong planes of his face, his straight nose and sculpted lips, he could be a Greek statue come to life. Any woman would find him attractive.

  Not to mention his warm hazel eyes seemed to look straight into her soul. When he’d opened the door for her at the inn the other day, she’d had to clench her hands to keep from brushing back the lock of brown hair that fell over his brow.

  He’d been so serious then, so unlike his friend, the Earl of Evans. Lord Evans had laughed and flirted, but when Lord Haywood had spoken—just a few polite words—odd tendrils of warmth had curled low in her belly. Even now, though his tone had been rather harsh, his voice sent excitement fluttering through her.

  “I didn’t see you approach, my lord.” Anne mentally chided herself for how breathless she sounded.

  At least the man hadn’t noticed. Or perhaps he had and it annoyed him. His brows slanted down farther.

  “You didn’t see me because your attention was elsewhere.”

  He sounded disapproving. Well! She wasn’t the one engaged in scandalous behavior.

  “Indeed, it was. I was quite surprised—shocked, really—to see His Grace bringing his London tricks to Loves Bridge, exploring the vegetation with a marriageable female.”

  Lord Haywood’s mouth flattened into a hard, thin line, his aristocratic nostrils flaring. “Miss Davenport, I—”

  “Merrow.”

  His frown moved from her to the large black, white, and orange cat who’d appeared at their feet. “What the—?” He pressed his lips together, clearly swallowing some less-than-polite comment. “Go along, cat.”

  The cat sat down and stared at him.

  “That’s Poppy,” Anne said to fill the oddly strained silence. “She lives in the Spinster House.”

  The marquess transferred his glare from the cat to Anne and then back to Poppy.

  “Now what’s the matter with the animal?”

  “What do you—? Oh.” Poppy was behaving rather strangely. She’d arched her back, hair standing all on end, and was hissing. But it wasn’t the behavior in the vicarage bushes that she was objecting to. It was something down the walk toward the inn.

  “I think the Misses Boltwood are coming this way,” Anne said.

  Poppy must agree. She yowled and darted toward the Spinster House.

  “Blo—” Lord Haywood caught himself again. “Blast. I just encountered them headed the other direction.”

  “Well, I suppose it might be another set of elderly ladies. They are still too far off for me to be certain. In a moment I’ll be able to—what are you doing?”

  The marquess had grabbed her hand and was tugging her in the direction Poppy had taken. She dug in her heels and tugged back.

  “Oh, good Lord.” The marquess gave her a very exasperated look. “I’m hauling you out of harm’s way, of course. Perhaps they haven’t seen us yet.”

  Sadly, a part of her wanted to go with him, but the more sensible part urged her to resist. Vanishing into the trysting bushes with a man was bad enough, but going inside an empty house—with bedrooms and beds!—was far worse. “Lord Haywood, the Spinster House is locked.”

  “I know that. I’m following the cat into the garden.”

  She’d just come from the garden. It made the trysting bushes look like a few small shrubs. “The garden is completely overgrown.”

  “Precisely. The vegetation should hide us nicely.” He pulled on her hand again. “Hurry along, will you? Do you want those gossips to find us together?”

  An unmarried man and woman conversing in public by the village green wasn’t at all remarkable, but with this man it suddenly seemed shocking. And it was true the Boltwood sisters could weave a tale that made sitting in Sunday services sound sinful.

  All right. If she was
being completely honest, the thought of going into the wild Spinster House garden with Lord Haywood was surprisingly thrilling. Silly, really. He looked like he was more likely to throttle her than kiss her.

  She stopped resisting and let him pull her toward the garden. She would have heard if the ton considered the marquess dangerous. All anyone ever said of him was that he’d dedicated his life to keeping his cousin single—to the point of remaining single himself—and thus safe from Isabelle Dorring’s curse.

  Oh.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t mention she was hoping the duke would marry Cat.

  Chapter Two

  Thank God Miss Davenport had stopped resisting him. The thought of dealing with the Boltwood sisters again, with all their waggling brows and annoying innuendo—oh, Lord, no.

  And it wasn’t just his comfort he was thinking of. Certainly Miss Davenport would not appreciate the salacious suggestions the old ladies were sure to make about the two of them.

  He followed the path the cat had taken along the side of the house, past a decrepit lean-to, and through a gate.

  “Mind where you step,” Miss Davenport said from behind him.

  “What?” He looked back at her.

  “I was just here, you know. The path is rather—ack!”

  Her feet must have got tangled in the ivy that was running amok over almost every inch of ground. She pitched forward.

  He caught her, but her momentum overbalanced him. Clutching her to his chest, he scrambled to regain his footing, but the ivy—and the blasted cat, who chose that moment to dart past—defeated his efforts. They went crashing backward into an overgrown bush.

  “Oof!” All his breath rushed out as he landed on the ground—and Miss Davenport landed on top of him.

  At least he was able to break her fall.

  “Oh dear. Are you all right, Lord Haywood?”

  All right? He would be all right if he could only get some air, but his lungs were flattened. He blinked up at her.

  Their trip through the shrubbery had knocked her bonnet off and sent her pins flying. Her lovely blond hair tumbled down around him, curtaining them in an illusion of privacy. Her eyes were wide, her lovely mouth open. If he could move, he could cup the back of her head and draw her close enough to kiss.

  Which would be a colossal mistake.

  “Say something, my lord.”

  “Uh.” A bit of air—filled with her scent—managed to make its way through his nostrils.

  She smelled wonderful. He shifted slightly—and realized her legs had landed on either side of his. Her feminine part was cradling his male bit.

  Fortunately his body was so focused on trying to breathe that his cock hadn’t yet stood up to greet its visitor.

  He should lift Miss Davenport off him. He would, as soon as he could get some air into his lungs.

  Miss Davenport wasn’t waiting for him to recover his breath. She began thrashing about. Since she didn’t look alarmed by his proximity, he surmised she was merely trying to extricate herself, but her skirts were impeding her efforts.

  And her knee was within an inch of ensuring he never sired any children.

  He clamped his hands on her arse to hold her still.

  “Lord Haywood!”

  Mmm. She had a lovely rounded arse. He’d like to stroke—

  “Lord Haywood, release me immediately!” She wriggled, trying to free herself, and his cock responded to the lovely friction with predictable enthusiasm.

  She froze. Oh ho, so she recognized that sign of male interest.

  “Lord Haywood,” she hissed, “if you don’t release me at once, I shall scream.”

  At least he could finally breathe again. He opened his mouth to tell her he would gladly let her go—well, perhaps not gladly—if she would only be careful where she put her knee, but she was already opening her mouth, getting ready to—

  “Did you hear something, Cordelia?”

  The Boltwoods!

  “Come on. Let’s go look in the garden.”

  Zeus, it would be disastrous if those two old gossips found them in such a compromising position, and if Miss Davenport screamed, they would definitely be found.

  This called for quick and decisive action.

  He pulled Miss Davenport’s head down as he rolled them deeper into the vegetation.

  * * *

  One moment she’d been inhaling, preparing to scream, and the next, her mouth was covered by Lord Haywood’s and she was under, rather than on top of, him.

  Oh, God. Panic roared through her and she tried to buck him off, but he was far too heavy. It was like trying to move a slab of rock. Perhaps she could free her mouth—

  No. When she tried to twist away, he trapped her head with his large hands.

  She would get free. She squirmed again and—oh, dear Lord. Something long and hard and heavy was pressing insistently against her leg. She’d swear it was even bigger than it had been a few moments ago.

  She might be a virgin, but she was also twenty-six years old. She’d been out among the lecherous men of the ton and been forced to discourage more than one overenthusiastic, often inebriated suitor with a knee to his jewels.

  But none of those male organs had been as big as this, she was quite, quite sure.

  I’m going to be ravished with something resembling a marble pillar! I must—

  She must stop panicking and think. How could she free herself?

  Perhaps if she stopped fighting, he would think she’d given up and let down his guard. That would be her opportunity to escape.

  She willed her body to relax—and realized Lord Haywood wasn’t trying to force himself on her at all. Yes, he had her pinned to the ground, but he wasn’t moving. And while his mouth was covering hers, that was all it was doing. He wasn’t trying to kiss her. In fact, he was scowling!

  When he saw he had her attention, his face started to perform an interesting series of contortions. He stared at her, waggled his brows, and then shifted his eyes left and then back to her and then left again. He must be trying to communicate something. What—

  Oh. Now that her heart wasn’t pounding in her ears, she heard it, too—or, rather, heard them.

  “This garden is a terrible tangle, Gertrude. Do watch your step. There is ivy everywhere.”

  “Yes, indeed. Poor Miss Franklin—or Miss Frost, that is—certainly didn’t try to keep this up.”

  “She’s the Duchess of Benton now.”

  Miss Gertrude Boltwood snorted. “Yes. Fortunately she’ll have an army of gardeners on Benton’s estates to attend to things for her.”

  Lord Haywood had freed her mouth. Now he lowered his head to whisper by her ear. Mmm. He smelled very nice. And his breath tickled.

  “Just be quiet and lie still. I think we’re hidden.”

  He thought they were hidden. He didn’t know.

  Of course he didn’t know. The Boltwood sisters were only ten feet, if that, from them. They could turn at any moment and see them. Her blue dress didn’t exactly blend into foliage.

  She moaned.

  “What was that, Cordelia?”

  Lud! Miss Gertrude had heard her. The Boltwood sisters would—

  “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” Lord Haywood muttered and then his mouth came down on hers again just as Poppy brushed past them.

  He wasn’t scowling this time and his lips weren’t still. They were firm, but gentle, as they brushed back and forth over her mouth.

  This time he was kissing her.

  He was far more adept at the matter than any of the other men she’d been kissed by. He didn’t slobber over her like an overfriendly dog or grind his mouth against hers so she feared for her lips and teeth. He didn’t make her feel as if she were the last pastry to be devoured, either.

  He made her feel hot and breathless and reckless. Her heart thudded in her ears so loudly she barely heard the Boltwood sisters.

  “What was what?” Cordelia asked.

  “I thought I h
eard something in the bushes.”

  “I didn’t—oh!”

  There was a rustling sound as if the ladies were dancing in the ivy.

  “Merrow.”

  “Oh!” That was Cordelia again. She laughed. “It must have been the cat you heard, Gertrude.”

  “I suppose so.” Gertrude sighed. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything to see back here, and I don’t wish to break my neck in this ivy.”

  “No, indeed. Let’s go home and have a nice cup of tea, with some of that delightful French cream.”

  The ladies were leaving. As soon as they were gone, Lord Haywood could stop kissing her.

  Lord Haywood’s tongue slowly traced the seam of her lips and her thoughts scattered. His thumb stroked her cheek. Ahh—

  Her jaw relaxed, and his wily tongue slipped into her mouth.

  She forgot all about the Boltwood sisters.

  She’d been kissed only once this way. Viscount Lufton had surprised her in the library at some interminable house party, backed her up against a bookcase, and shoved his tongue down her throat. She’d gagged and slammed her knee up between his legs.

  She had no urge to do Lord Haywood violence.

  His tongue slid over hers, exploring, teasing, inviting her to . . . do what? Something dark and exciting.

  She threaded her fingers through his thick brown hair as she stroked her tongue tentatively over his. He made a low sound of encouragement, and his tongue moved more boldly. It was everywhere, filling her and then retreating. She followed it, crossing over into his mouth. His thumbs stroked her jaw.

  Something dark and exciting was already happening. Her breasts ached to be free of her stays. Heat pooled low in her belly. No, even lower. Her most private place felt swollen and empty.

  She’d always thought the procreative procedure sounded terribly embarrassing and uncomfortable, but she suddenly understood its attraction.

  Lord Haywood had lifted his body to take his weight off her. He was only an inch above her, but it was too far. She arched her hips to press against the lovely long, hard bulge in his pantaloons.

  It felt wonderful.

  He must have thought so, too. His tongue thrust more urgently into her mouth while his hips began to pulse against her. Oh! His movements caused the, er, excitement to wind tighter and tighter.