How to Manage a Marquess

by Sally MacKenzie

  Well, yes, perhaps that was overstating the case. The tangle of ivy had definitely contributed to the situation. And, on further reflection, he did have to admit the animal had distracted the Boltwood sisters at a crucial point, averting certain discovery.

  “All right, what do you want?”

  The cat stood and began walking toward the Spinster House. When Nate didn’t immediately follow, it stopped and looked back at him.

  “Merrow.”

  It was losing patience.

  And he was losing his mind. Cats didn’t have thoughts. They ate and slept and took up space.

  This one looked very determined.

  “Very well.” He glanced around to be certain no one had witnessed this bizarre conversation before starting down the hill. Thankfully, everyone was still at the party and likely would be for hours to come. It was early yet, and there was a full moon tonight so late-night revelers could find their ways home—or back to London.

  That’s what he’d thought to do after the ceremony—go back to Town. Or he could stay at Cupid’s Inn. Loves Castle was large, but sharing it with the newlyweds didn’t feel right. He should have asked Alex his plans.

  He followed the cat across the road, but when it turned down the walk to the Spinster House, he paused.

  He wasn’t suitable company for anyone at the moment, particularly Miss Davenport. It would be best if he went back to London at once. He’d done what he’d come to do—he’d supported Marcus and wished him well. He’d even kissed the bride. Now he was free to take his depressed and depressing self away.

  He looked up to see a few threatening clouds off in the distance. Yes, the sooner he departed, the better.

  He continued down the walk toward the inn.

  “Merrow!” The cat jumped out of the bushes and attacked his boot.

  “Good God, cat, leave my footwear alone.”

  It let go, but it planted its rump in the middle of the pavement and . . . well, it really looked as if it was glaring at him.

  “You’re not going to let me go back to the inn, are you?”

  The cat licked its paws.

  Nate took a cautious step to the side to go round the animal.

  The animal hissed.

  “I can get past you if I want to, you know. I can certainly outrun you.”

  It showed its teeth.

  “Oh, very well. I suppose I should say good-bye to Miss Davenport.”

  He retraced his steps and turned up the walk to the Spinster House, the cat following close behind.

  * * *

  I’m the Spinster House spinster.

  Anne perched on the edge of the worn red settee in the Spinster House sitting room and stared at the one painting gracing the wall: a hunting dog with a dead bird in its mouth.

  I should take that down. It’s quite, quite ugly.

  She stayed on the settee.

  She’d toured the entire house. It was rather ugly, too. No one had spent much effort on it in years, if ever. There were many changes she should make. After all, this was going to be her home for the rest of her life.

  Ugh.

  She blew out a long breath and considered the painting again.

  Maybe I’ll keep it there. It seems appropriate somehow.

  She’d been so nervous and excited when it had come time to draw lots, her stomach had felt as if a flock of birds were fighting over a crust of bread in there. So she’d been slow to react. But Jane hadn’t been slow. She’d darted her hand out and made her choice at once. Anne had been left to take the lot she’d rejected.

  The winner.

  She propped her chin on her hands and studied the poor painted fowl’s glassy eye. Jane had not been happy—and for one insane moment, Anne had contemplated letting her have the house anyway.

  Idiot! Thank God she’d quashed that misguided impulse. With Eleanor now at the Hall, she needed this house far more than Jane.

  She looked around at the beamed ceiling, the pale yellow walls, the dark, carved oak paneling—and the mirror over the mantel, which reflected her glum expression.

  She forced herself to smile.

  Blech—that was worse. She looked like she was wearing some garish mask.

  She shifted on the settee and heard the springs creak. It was so quiet. She would have said Davenport Hall was quiet—before the boys arrived, that is—but it had never been this quiet.

  Where’s Poppy? I could use some companionship.

  If she wanted companionship, she should go over to the hall and join the celebration. Perhaps being around happy people would improve her mood.

  Though she’d be careful to avoid Jane.

  And Lord Haywood.

  Mmm. He’d looked so handsome, but so stern, in church earlier, standing by the duke as the duke said his vows. Had he left for London yet?

  She closed her eyes. Oh, God. I might never see him again.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  She jumped. Who was that at the door? Perhaps if she ignored them—

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  She sighed and forced herself off the settee and across the room. It was probably Papa come to see why she wasn’t at the party.

  She threw open the door.

  It was not Papa.

  “Oh.” She stared at Lord Haywood as Poppy darted past her feet. The marquess looked oddly uncomfortable.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Wilkinson said you needed me?”

  A very hot need exploded from her womb outward. She was quite certain her face turned bright red. Why would Jane say such a thing?

  She must have said that last bit out loud, because Lord Haywood cleared his throat again and tugged on his waistcoat.

  “Well, then. My mistake. I’ll just be—”

  “Merrow!”

  Poppy suddenly reappeared to wrap her front legs around Lord Haywood’s ankle.

  “Good heavens! What has got into you, Poppy?” Anne had never seen this behavior before, not that she’d spent a great deal of time around cats.

  Lord Haywood shook his leg, but Poppy held on. “Can you get your cat to release me, Miss Davenport?”

  “She’s not my cat, Lord Haywood. I might have won the Spinster House, but Poppy is not part of that bargain.” She couldn’t help herself—she giggled. It did look rather funny, Lord Haywood having a cat attached to his leg. And his expression—it was a mix of horror, distaste, and, she thought, resignation.

  “She’s not biting you, is she?”

  “No, but I fear my fingers would not fare well should I try to forcibly detach her.” He stopped moving his leg and sighed. “I’m afraid for some reason the cat wishes me to visit, Miss Davenport. I’d decided not to bother you, but when I tried to continue down the walk to the inn, it expressed its extreme displeasure.”

  Poppy laid her ears back and hissed. How very odd.

  “Well, then I suppose you had better come in before blood is drawn.”

  The moment Lord Haywood crossed the threshold, Poppy released him, but this time she stationed herself at his heels.

  “She’s not going to let you change your mind, you know,” Anne said.

  “Clearly.”

  Anne closed the door—and found herself standing very close to the marquess. She could smell his eau de Cologne, the wool of his coat, him. The air vibrated between them—

  Or would if he were paying her any attention. He was still watching Poppy.

  “Are you afraid of cats, Lord Haywood?” She hoped she didn’t sound as . . . annoyed as she felt.

  “No. This one, however, seems possessed by a demon.”

  Poppy yawned and stretched—but when the marquess took a step toward the door, she hissed and arched her back.

  “I see. Well, since you’re here—and it does look like Poppy wants you to stay here—shall I show you around?”

  “Very well.” He stepped farther into the room, being careful to give Poppy a wide berth.

  “There’s a door into the garden, you know,” Anne whis
pered as they headed toward the back of house, “if you’d prefer to—”

  She heard a snarl behind her.

  Lord Haywood laughed. “No, I think I am confined here until your cat allows me to leave.”

  “Poppy is not my cat.” What could she do with the man in the interim?

  What we did during the storm at Banningly Manor . . .

  Good Lord, no! Where had that shockingly inappropriate thought come from? And in the Spinster House, of all places! Isabelle Dorring must be turning in her grave—if she had a grave to turn in, that is.

  “There’s a harpsichord in the room over here.” That’s right—the man was a musician. It would be no trouble at all to keep him occupied until Poppy deigned to let him leave. “Would you like to see it?”

  He grinned—and she caught her breath. His unguarded smile completely transformed his face.

  “Harpsichords are out of fashion now,” he said, “but my grandfather played, so I grew up with one. I’d quite like to see it—and try it out, with your permission, of course.”

  “Of course. I’d love to hear you play.”

  She led him into a pleasant room with books and a desk—and the harpsichord.

  “I’m afraid I’m sadly out of practice.”

  “And I have no idea if it’s in tune. I’m not musical, as I think I’ve told you. But the Duke of Benton—who married Miss Franklin, the spinster before Cat—was musical, and he was here rather frequently, though of course given the fact that Miss Franklin was increasing when they wed, I suppose he didn’t spend all his time playing the—”

  She pressed her lips together. Lud, I didn’t really say that, did I?

  “Ah.” Lord Haywood gave her an intent look before turning to the instrument.

  He sat down as if drawn to a magnet. His face stilled, his long fingers hovered over the keys, and then he began to play.

  Music filled the small room with beauty and passion and grace.

  Anne curled up on the window seat to listen, and in a few minutes Poppy came in and hopped up next to her. She even allowed Anne to stroke her.

  Oh, lud. Silly tears welled up.

  It was only because of the music. She had nothing to cry about. She was the new Spinster House spinster. She was independent. She was free.

  She was lonely.

  No, that wasn’t it. She liked being alone. She didn’t need people around her to be happy.

  She just needed this person. Lord Haywood. Nate.

  Poppy butted against her hand, and she started petting her again.

  She wanted Nate’s fingers to move over her the way they did over the harpsichord’s keyboard, with confidence and skill, to play her body just as he had at Banningly Manor. More, she wanted him to feel for her what he clearly felt for the music—passion, dedication, desire—yet tenderness, too.

  She felt all those things for him.

  She loved him. Not for the silly things so many Society girls looked for in a husband—wealth, title, social power. Not even for his handsome face and strong body, though those attributes were certainly appealing.

  No, she loved him for his gentleness with Stephen and Edward; his friendship with Eleanor; his loyalty to—no, his love for the Duke of Hart, whom he’d tried so long to protect and whose marriage he’d come to witness even though he thought the union was tantamount to suicide.

  But most of all she loved him for his kindness to her. He could have laughed at her and mocked her when she’d been so frightened during those thunderstorms, but instead he’d comforted her.

  Well, he’d done rather more than comfort her that night at the Manor.

  She loved him—but did he love her? And would he consider marriage now that his cousin had wed?

  Nate’s fingers finally stopped. The resulting silence was not calm and companionable, but tense with longing, at least on her part.

  Poppy looked up at her as if to say, Go ahead. Tell him you love him.

  Anne looked at Nate and her heart twisted. What did a cat know about the human soul? Nate was suffering. Of course he was. He thought Marcus was going to die. He didn’t need to be burdened with her declaration of love.

  But she had to say something. The silence was getting rather oppressive.

  “Do you still blame me for your cousin’s marriage?”

  Poppy yowled in an odd, almost-disgusted sort of way, jumped down, and, tail high, walked out of the room.

  * * *

  “Hmm?” The music had done what the sun could not—begun to dispel the heavy darkness in his heart and allow him to feel again.

  “I said, do you blame me for your cousin’s marriage?”

  That’s right—he’d meant to apologize to Miss Davenport for his rudeness when he’d arrived in Loves Bridge.

  “No. I did blame you, but I was wrong to do so.” He glanced up at her briefly. “You didn’t force Marcus into Catherine’s bed.”

  The curse did.

  His fingers jerked, filling the air with a dissonant chord.

  He stared back down at the keyboard. Pain, and yes, fear coiled inside him.

  Perhaps being numb was better.

  “I only wish . . .”

  Anne was at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Perhaps marrying for love will break the curse. And I do think the duke loves Cat.”

  “Yes.” He clenched his teeth, his eyes still on the keyboard, though what he saw was Marcus’s face. “I wish I knew now what was going to happen . . . then.” Waiting was going to be hell, and the closer the duchess got to delivering her child, the harder it would be.

  He felt so bloody powerless.

  He was so bloody powerless.

  Anne’s fingers tightened on his shoulder and he looked up.

  She was biting her lip. Was she worrying about him?

  Something warm threaded through him, causing a bit more of his frozen, dead heart to come back to life. Worry meant caring, and caring meant a connection.

  He wasn’t completely alone.

  She looked away. “Would you like to see the rest of the house, Lord Haywood?” she asked, rather too brightly. “I should point out, though, that Poppy has moved on. It might be safe to slip off if you’d rather.”

  No. He didn’t want to be alone again so soon.

  “I’m quite sure the cat will hunt me down if I even consider departing without its explicit approval, Miss Davenport, so I’d better take the tour. I value my boots and my skin too much to risk further enraging your feline friend.”

  Anne laughed. “Very well. This way.”

  She showed him the sitting room with its tired, outdated furniture and its hideous picture of a hunting dog carrying a dead bird. She showed him the kitchen. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and looked into a small bedchamber and a cluttered storage room. There wasn’t much of interest.

  Or perhaps the problem was he was far too interested in her swaying hips, slim waist, and soft, golden hair.

  His heart might not be back to life, but his cock certainly was. Not that he would act on the heat rising in him, but he cherished it anyway. It meant he was alive.

  “And this was Isabelle Dorring’s room,” Anne said.

  They’d found the cat. It was sprawled in the middle of the bed.

  Where Anne would sleep.

  His cock went from pleasantly interested to hard and stiff. It urged him to scoop Anne up, toss her down on the bed, and have his wicked, wonderful way with her.

  The cat stared at his crotch, sneezed, and then proceeded to thoroughly lick its own private parts.

  “That’s all there is to see, Lord Haywood,” Anne said, smiling. “I’m certain Poppy will excuse you now”—she turned to look at the cat—“won’t you, Poppy?”

  He had no idea how the animal managed it, but it looked at him with utter disdain, as if he were the most annoying, idiotic creature ever placed on this earth.

  Perhaps he was.

  Was Stephen right? Had Anne missed him?
r />   More to the point, should I ask her to marry me?

  She might say yes.

  Or she might say no. He wasn’t certain he could bear it if she did.

  The cat yawned so wide, it looked as if it risked dislocating its jaw.

  The animal was right. Fear served no purpose here. He truly had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  Anne laughed. “See? Poppy doesn’t care if you leave.”

  Do you care?

  He must have said the words aloud, because her eyes widened.

  “Ah.” She bit her lip. He watched her lovely throat move as she swallowed. “N-no. I mean y-yes. That is . . .”

  Her voice trailed away as he cupped her jaw. He should ask her father’s permission first. That would be proper.

  To hell with propriety. The only permission that mattered was Anne’s.

  And perhaps the cat’s, but it must have approved, because it jumped off the bed, though only to leap up on the chest of drawers nearby. It blinked at him. One wrong move on his part would likely earn him a pair of clawed boots.

  He looked back down at Anne. She was waiting.

  He gathered his courage.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Anne’s eyes widened. He thought he saw her begin to smile, but her expression turned serious so quickly, he couldn’t be certain. She stepped back out of his hold.

  He’d hoped she’d say yes and fall into his arms—and then they could fall into that lovely bed. He’d dreaded she’d say no and send him away.

  Of course Anne did neither. Instead she asked a question he wasn’t ready to answer.

  “Why?”

  Tell her you love her.

  Did he love her? Was that what this painful thawing of his heart was about? Or was it merely lust or infatuation or desire for a family, because he felt those, too.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve compromised you.”

  Idiot.

  She shook her head sharply. “No, you didn’t.”

  He would plow on with it, adding stupidity to stupidity. “Yes, I did. I spent that night at the inn alone in a room with you.”

  Tell her you love her.

  I need her. I want her. But do I love her? I can’t lie about such a thing.

  “Not alone. Remember Stephen and Edward?”

  “But the gossip—”