How to Manage a Marquess

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Of course you are. You’ve been playing for almost an hour.” She turned to smile at Nate. “And you, my lord, have played even longer. I must tell you again how beautiful the organ sounded in church today. Mr. Hutting and I so very much appreciate having a musician of your caliber help us celebrate Mary’s wedding.”

  “I’m happy to be of assistance, madam.” A polite lie. Since Marcus had insisted on being here, Nate had had no choice but to come, too.

  He glanced around. Where was Marcus?

  “Yer right about that, Mrs. Hutting.” Mr. Linden slapped Nate on the back with enough enthusiasm to send Nate lurching forward half a step. “Never had the pleasure of playing with a fellow as good as ye, milord.” He grinned, showing several missing teeth, which, he’d explained earlier, made whistling easier.

  Nate smiled back. “You’re an excellent fiddler, Mr. Linden. I’ve quite enjoyed myself.” Which was true. The ton looked a bit askance at aristocratic male musicians. Normally his only opportunity to play for an audience was at house parties where the guests were dragooned into performing to pass the time after supper and before bed and where most of the people in the room only pretended to listen, being either half asleep from overindulging or busy planning their next bedroom assignation.

  “The music’s not over, is it, Mama?” A flushed and slightly anxious-looking young girl came up with two younger boys—twins—behind her.

  “We want to dance some more!” one of the boys said.

  Nate smiled. Their dancing had been more like jumping and spinning, but they’d clearly been enjoying the music.

  “Lord Haywood and Mr. Linden are just taking a rest, children.” Mrs. Hutting looked hopefully at him and Linden. “Could you begin again in, say, half an hour?”

  “Of course.” Linden laughed. “That is, I can. Don’t know about this young fellow. London lords may not have as much stamina as country farmers.”

  “Ha!” Nate grinned at that. “I can outlast you, sir, even if you try to play all night.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Mrs. Hutting had turned away to give instructions to one of the servants and answer an elderly gentleman’s question. She must have caught only part of their conversation, because when she turned back, she sounded a bit harried.

  “Oh, no, I am not asking either of you to play all night. I—oh.” She glanced over at her husband, who was making faces at her as if he was in desperate need of rescuing. Since he was talking to Lady Penland and her daughter, Lady Uppleton, he was indeed in need of immediate help, though if Nate remembered correctly, Lord Penland was the vicar’s older brother.

  Not that being related to Penland made the situation any more bearable. Likely it made it worse.

  “If you’ll excuse me?” Mrs. Hutting hurried off.

  Linden snorted. “The vicar’s fancy relations don’t come to the village much,” he said, walking with Nate to get some ale. “By Jove, I thought all the London nobs were like them ’til I met you and yer friends.”

  “That’s right. Nate here is the best of good fellows,” Alex said, appearing on Nate’s left and clapping him on the shoulder.

  “That he is. Finest piano player I’ve ever had the pleasure to play with.” Linden slapped his knee and guffawed. “’Course the only other fellow I know who plays the darn thing is Luntley, the village music teacher, so I wouldn’t be getting too proud of yerself, milord.”

  Linden grabbed a pint and a plate and drifted off to talk to a group of local men.

  Nate glanced around the room again. He still didn’t see his cousin. “Where’s Marcus?”

  Alex shrugged. “I think he went outside. Here, have some ale. And the lobster patties are quite good. I wonder if Hutting had them brought down from London?”

  Damnation. Nate looked at the food with regret. He was hungry—and thirsty. “I should go after him.”

  “Why? He’s probably only in search of some fresh air”—Alex snorted—“or the jakes.” He handed Nate a pint. “I think he can manage that all by himself.”

  Nate took the ale automatically. “You don’t understand.” Mmm. The ale smelled very good. He took a sip. It tasted good, too.

  “I understand that Marcus is chafing under your constant surveillance, Nate. He’s a big boy. He can live his own life.”

  Nate picked up a lobster patty and took a bite to keep from retorting. There was no point in arguing with Alex. He didn’t believe in Isabelle Dorring’s curse. But at least Miss Catherine Hutting, the one woman Nate most feared Marcus might misbehave with, was a level-headed female, a dedicated spinster—the Spinster House spinster!—and she’d already declined Marcus’s marriage offer. Marcus should be safe on his own for a while.

  He hadn’t seen Miss Catherine Hutting in the room, either, but then it must be uncomfortable for her to be around Marcus when her refusal was so recent. And having her extremely annoying aunt, Lady Penland, and the woman’s equally annoying daughter in attendance could not improve matters.

  And, well, her sister had just got married. Even a dedicated spinster might feel a little out of sorts with all the attention being showered on the girl.

  It was too bad. Marcus had seemed genuinely sad that she hadn’t accepted him. He’d still been a bit low this morning. But it was for the best. Thirty was too young to die. He and Marcus and Alex would return to London in the morning, and Marcus could put this all behind him.

  Nate frowned. Neither Marcus nor Miss Hutting would have been put in this awkward position if Miss Davenport hadn’t engaged in a bit of gossip. This was as good a time as any to have it out with her. And there was also the matter of her father’s odd behavior before the ceremony. Where was she?

  Being tall was a distinct advantage in a crowd—he had a good view of the room. Ah, there. He spotted a blue dress and blond hair over in a corner. Amazingly, Miss Davenport was alone.

  “Excuse me, will you, Alex? I need to speak to someone.”

  * * *

  Oh lud, Lord Hellwood was coming her way.

  Anne looked longingly at the door to the churchyard. She’d like to dash outside.

  But she couldn’t. The door was across the room. And even if it were right next to her, she couldn’t use it. Jane had given her strict instructions to keep Lord Hellwood occupied inside. They’d both watched Cat flee and the duke follow her out of the room. It was in their—Anne’s and Jane’s—best interests to prevent the marquess from interrupting whatever might be happening between those two.

  And they had great hopes something was happening. Cat might have turned down the duke’s proposal—Cat’s mother had not been silent about her daughter’s cabbage-headed refusal—but it was clear Cat had feelings for the man. Look how she’d run when the duke had approached her today, straight into her annoying cousin, Lady Uppleton.

  Only a fool would think the duke had offered for Cat out of duty. He’d been staring at her during Mary’s wedding as if she were his salvation—which perhaps she was. If he loved her and married her, the curse might be broken.

  If there was a curse, of course.

  However, it was unlikely Lord Hellwood would view the matter in quite the way she and Jane did.

  Courage! He’s almost here.

  Anne looked at the door one last time. Then she grasped her hands tightly together, took a deep breath, and willed her heart to stop leaping about in her chest as she forced her lips into a smile.

  “Lord Hell—”

  The marquess’s right brow arched up.

  Lud! I can’t begin by insulting the man.

  “Lord Haywood, I must tell you how much I enjoyed your playing, both on the organ in church and here on the pianoforte.” Perfect! Men love being flattered. We can spend the next few minutes until Mrs. Hutting urges him back to work talking about his musical skills. “You are very talented.”

  Lord Hellwood smiled briefly. “Thank you, Miss Davenport. I do my best. Now, as to why I’ve sought you out, I’m afraid I have a bone to pic
k with you—well, two bones, actually.”

  Oh, Lord, she could not be faced with the only modest man in the ton. “It must take hours of practice to be able to play so well.”

  He frowned at her, clearly annoyed by her attempt to distract him but too polite to say so. “Yes, but I enjoy practicing.”

  He enjoyed the drudgery of going over and over a piece and memorizing it? She’d noticed he’d not used any written music.

  “I hate it,” she said. “Or, I hated it. I don’t even attempt to play anymore. I must tell you I was quite the bane of Mr. Luntley’s existence. He was the Loves Bridge music teacher even when I was a girl. Oh, I like the idea of being able to play the pianoforte—I would never attempt the organ—and I’m very impressed by people who can play, especially as well as you do. Envious, really. But I don’t have the patience or desire to spend the hours and hours it takes to master a piece.”

  She smiled at him. He was looking a bit dazed by her chatter.

  “I can sing, though, but only for my own amusement. I get very nervous when I have an audience. I suppose that’s what amazes me the most about people who perform. You looked so calm and in control when you played. Doesn’t it bother you to have everyone watching you? Do you ever lose your place or have your mind go blank? Truthfully, I think my hands would be shaking too much to press the keys.”

  She paused. She’d run out of breath and things to say. Surely now he would hold forth about musical performance. She’d done everything she could to get him talking: flattered him, fawned over him, admitted her inferiority, asked him to share his superior knowledge. She should be able to stand back and listen to him drone on until it was time for him to resume playing. It was certainly what the other men of her acquaintance would do, even if they didn’t have such a lofty title—or any title at all.

  Apparently, Lord Hellwood was not like the other men of her acquaintance.

  “Miss Davenport, I would be happy to discuss musical performance at some other time. What I wish to know now is why you spread rumors about Miss Catherine Hutting when you promised not to.”

  Oh, blast. There’s no way to escape this.

  “I didn’t promise anything.” She was very certain about that. “And I didn’t spread rumors.”

  Lord Hellwood’s brow arched up again, blast it.

  “Well, not precisely. I did tell Jane, and we might have said something within the Boltwoods’ hearing—”

  “The Boltwoods!”

  “Shh, not so loud. Do you want them to hear you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “We are off in a corner, Miss Davenport, and the room is loud with other people’s chatter. The Boltwoods will not hear me.”

  They were in a corner. Why wasn’t someone coming over to join their conversation? More to the point, why wasn’t Jane coming over to rescue her?

  Because Jane was too busy conversing with Lord Hellwood’s friend Lord Evans, that’s why. Well, Jane could easily steer the earl in this direction. If only Anne could catch her eye . . .

  No hope of that. Jane had now turned her back, likely intentionally.

  “But you have a very deep and carrying voice, my lord.”

  Lord Hellwood pressed his lips together, but when he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper—which turned out to be even more unsettling.

  “As you can imagine, Miss Davenport, I was not best pleased when I arrived yesterday to discover the duke had felt compelled by rumors to offer marriage to Miss Hutting, rumors that you started.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Both his brows went up. She didn’t see him move, but she felt as if he were looming over her.

  She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Yes, well, but Cat turned the duke down and no one is shunning her, so no damage was done.” Though she hoped something was happening now. Neither Cat nor the duke had returned. They might not be together, but if they were . . .

  She and Jane might have another chance at the Spinster House.

  “Yes, thank God, which is why I’m not throttling you.”

  She lifted her chin, though she was shaking inside. “I hope you would never offer a female violence, Lord Haywood.”

  He reared back as if she’d slapped him. “Of course I wouldn’t. Why would you think I’d do something so dastardly?”

  “Because you just said you would.”

  “I did no—oh, you mean about throttling you? That, Miss Davenport, was an example of hyperbole. Though . . .” This time, he definitely stepped closer.

  She stepped back—and bumped against the wall.

  She was trapped.

  No, she was in a room with the entire village—except Cat and the duke. If she screamed, everyone would come running—and it would be a dreadful scandal.

  She must remain calm. She need only keep Lord Hellwood occupied for a few more minutes. Surely Mrs. Hutting would come looking for him soon and shoo him back to the pianoforte.

  She took a settling breath and inhaled Lord Hellwood’s scent—and remembered precisely in far, far too much detail what had happened in the Spinster House garden.

  He was scowling again. “Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly annoying, Miss Davenport?”

  That’s right. He hadn’t wanted to do any of the things they’d done in the garden. His male instinct had taken control of his actions. He didn’t care about her.

  “No.”

  “Well, I am sure they are merely too polite to say so.”

  “Which you are not.”

  He inclined his head. “I believe in plain speaking.” His brows angled down. “You do understand how serious the situation is, don’t you? It’s literally a matter of life and death.”

  He was not going to be happy if he ever discovered she’d seen both Cat and the duke leave the room. But they hadn’t left at the same time, so they might not be together. And she’d had nothing to do with their departures.

  “You mean that silly curse? No one believes in that.”

  He was looming over her again.

  “I do. The duke does.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for it.”

  She might have heard his teeth grinding. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Right, then. Fortunately it doesn’t matter. No permanent harm was done, and now Miss Hutting is happily established in the Spinster House. The duke and Lord Evans and I return to Town in the morning.”

  Excellent. The sooner Lord Hellwood leaves, the sooner I’ll stop feeling this odd fluttering in my stomach.

  That was her head talking. Her heart had sunk down to her slippers.

  He cleared his throat and looked at his hands briefly. “The other issue I wish to raise with you concerns us more closely.”

  Lud, she was an idiot. When he said us her heart did a foolish little dance. Stupid! There was no connection between them. None at all. “And what would that be?”

  He frowned at her. He was always frowning at her. “I was quite, er, surprised, that your father went out of his way to introduce himself to me before the wedding and that he said he knew you and I had met before.”

  Surprised? She’d been so shocked she’d thought she’d faint dead away for the first time in her life. “I suppose he just assumed our paths had crossed.”

  The marquess had a very penetrating gaze. She glanced around the room to avoid it.

  Mr. Linden was on his second, if not his third, glass of ale, but then his fiddling often became more inspired the more alcohol he consumed.

  “That is not what you suppose at all. You turned an interesting shade of greenish-white when he mentioned our meeting—in a rather significant fashion, I might add.”

  What had Papa meant by it?

  “You are imagining things.” If she looked Lord Hellwood in the eye, he’d know she was lying. She smoothed her gloves with great attention. “Perhaps the lighting in the church misled you.”

  He snorted. Eloquently. “Did you mention meeting me at the inn the day His Grace posted the Spinster House notices?�
��

  “No, I didn’t, though I did tell him I’d met the duke.” How do you like that, Lord Hellwood? “He’d already heard from the vicar that His Grace had arrived in the village.”

  “Then the only other time we encountered each other was—” He scowled at her. “You didn’t say anything to him about our activities in the Spinster House garden, did you?”

  A lovely surge of anger cleared any remaining romantic cobwebs from her brain.

  “Of course not. I’m not a dunderhead.”

  And Papa hadn’t known about it, at least when she’d got home that night, because he’d suggested Lord Hellwood as a possible husband. What would the marquess think about that?

  She raised her chin. “I assure you that if I’d told my father what happened in that garden, this would not have been the first time you’d met him. He would have chased you all the way to London and dragged you back to meet me at the altar.” She raised her chin higher. “Not that I would have agreed to marry you, of course.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If word of what occurred in the garden got out, your reputation would be ruined. Honor would compel me to offer for you.”

  She sniffed—in derision, of course. “Set your natural male instinct on your bloo-blasted honor. It will tear it to shreds and you can go happily back to London unencumbered by such inconvenient feelings.”

  He gave her a very odd look, a mélange of anger and annoyance and frustration and perhaps something else. “You cannot believe I would leave you to your fate.”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she merely raised what she hoped was an expressive eyebrow. If she was being honest, she’d admit she didn’t know how she felt about that interlude in the garden. Some odd mix of mortification and excitement. But she definitely didn’t wish to marry this man simply to appease his conscience.

  He was scowling again.

  “You best take care or your face will freeze that way.”

  “What way?”

  “This way.” She touched her finger to the deep V without thinking—and then snatched it back. Did anyone see me?

  She glanced around.

  Jane was smirking at her, but no one else was looking her way.