How to Manage a Marquess

by Sally MacKenzie

  And he was staring at her.

  “Stop looking at me.” She turned her back, scooped up her shift, and pulled it over her head.

  “Why? You were looking at me.” He laughed. “And I like looking at you. You’re beautiful, Belle.”

  “You shouldn’t say such a thing.” She put on her stays.

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  She heard the mattress creak. She looked around to see him walking toward her. He was so completely at ease in his nakedness. And speaking of beauty . . . William might be close to forty, but he looked as if he were still in his twenties.

  “You’re looking at me again,” he said.

  She forced her eyes from his stiffening cock to his handsome face. “No, I’m not.”

  “Liar.” He leaned forward to kiss her and she—

  She pushed him away. She had to get dressed. “If I’m not at the library on time, people will wonder. And they’ll talk. They’re already talking. The Misses Boltwood—”

  He put a finger on her lips. “Where is my brave Belle of last night? You didn’t worry then about what people would say.”

  Yes, but that had been last night. In the harsh light of day, she saw things differently.

  “It’s a small village, William. I can’t lose my reputation.”

  “I know.” A frown creased his brow as he watched her fasten her dress. “Does this mean last night—and this morning—can’t happen again?”

  Her body rebelled at the thought. It might be daylight, but it was still very hard to think rationally when one had a very naked man in one’s bedroom. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Do you want me here again?”

  “Y-yes.” God forgive her, but she wanted that more than anything else in the world.

  He grinned, his smile blinding her. “Then we shall be discreet. I’ll come at night, slipping in the back door, and I’ll leave that way in the morning—after today, before the sun is up. No one will be the wiser.”

  She should say no, but how could she give up a pleasure she’d just rediscovered? A starving woman couldn’t refuse to eat, could she?

  “You can be that discreet?”

  “I can.” He laughed. “And if anyone asks, I’m giving you music lessons.” He leered at her roguishly. “Only the instrument I’ll be playing will not be the harpsichord.”

  His words plucked at the strings connecting her breasts to her womb.

  She clasped her hands tightly together, willing the seductive vibration to stop.

  It wouldn’t.

  I should say no.

  She couldn’t force herself to do so.

  “Then, yes. All right. Come—” She swallowed, her mouth dry with yearning. “Come tonight and every night.”

  * * *

  Belle spent the next few months in a haze of desire. At first she was terrified she and William would be found out, but soon their meetings became a game. They’d nod politely when they passed on the street during the day and then fall into bed together at night.

  When she was alone in the lending library, scruples raised their ugly little heads. She worried about the past, about the child she had lost, about whether she should tell William—no, about when she should tell him.

  And she worried about the future. The Spinster House would feel unbearably empty once William went back to London. And he would go back. He had to remarry. His brothers had only daughters, so the dukedom still needed an heir.

  Oh, God. William with a new wife—

  The pain was so intense she could barely breathe.

  But past and future faded from her thoughts when she was with William. Then she lived only in the wonderful, seductive present.

  Until one day in early May. She was sitting in the deserted lending library looking over one of Miss Hutting’s stories when the door opened and William walked in with another man. William never came to the library. And he looked very . . . tense.

  Oh, God.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I help you?” She tried very hard to keep her voice steady.

  “Miss Franklin, I’m afraid I’ve come to impose on your good graces once again,” William said. His voice was tense, too.

  “Of-of course, Mr. Wattles.” She glanced at the other man.

  William started as if he’d just remembered he had a companion. “I beg your pardon. This is Mr. Morton. He has just ridden down from London to tell me that my father is gravely ill.”

  “Oh, Wil—” No, she must not use his Christian name. “Mr. Wattles, I am so very sorry. I take it the illness is quite sudden?”

  William’s mouth tightened. “My father has long maintained he lives at death’s door, but Mr. Morton here assures me that he has finally put one foot over the threshold.”

  The man frowned. “My lord—”

  So he knew William’s true identity. That’s right; Morton was William’s secretary’s name.

  William cut him off. “Yes, you are correct. I shouldn’t say such things about my father, but as you know, he has bid me rush to Benton more times than I can count.” He looked back at Belle. “So, Miss Franklin, may I ask you again to let my pupils know they will have to miss their lessons? I hope I’ll not be gone more than a sennight—a fortnight at the very most.”

  A sennight? Or a fortnight? How can I bear even one night without William in bed beside me?

  “Of course. I will be happy to do so, Mr. Wattles.”

  “I’m sorry—” William’s eyes held hers as if he wanted to say something else, but then he looked away. “I’m sorry to put you to the trouble of notifying my students once more.”

  “It’s no trouble.” Not being able to comfort him or even acknowledge they were more than mere acquaintances was harder. She forced herself to smile. “I do hope you find your father much recovered when you see him.”

  “My—” Morton caught himself. “Sir, we had best be off. I assure you, your brother was very insistent we make haste.”

  “Very well. Good day, Miss Franklin. And thank you again.”

  Then William turned away, and he and Mr. Morton were gone. The door closing behind them sounded so final.

  She missed William terribly that night. The bed felt very empty, even though Poppy decided to join her in it. She slept poorly, and when she woke, she was tired and achy. And her stomach was unsettled. Very unsettled.

  She dove for the chamber pot.

  “Ugh. I guess it’s a good thing William isn’t here, Poppy. I wouldn’t want to make him sick.” She opened the window and dumped the pot’s disgusting contents out onto the overgrown garden. When she turned back, Poppy was staring at her.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be better shortly.”

  She did feel a bit better as the day went on. At least her nausea abated. She was still tired, and her breasts still felt swollen and sore. She needed William’s hands on them, that was all. His touch would cure her. And she’d sleep better with him beside her.

  That night she resorted to pleasuring herself, but the physical release, when it came, only made her feel lonelier.

  And then, in the morning, she dove for the chamber pot again. Not that there was much to come up. The thought of food hadn’t been particularly appealing for a while and making supper the night before had seemed like too much trouble . . .

  Oh, God.

  She’d felt this kind of tiredness and nausea before.

  No. No, it couldn’t be.

  Her legs gave out, and she sat down on the chair abruptly. Fortunately, Poppy had just jumped down to the floor so Belle didn’t land on her.

  She stared at the cat. The cat stared back.

  “I’m thirty-seven.”

  Poppy blinked at her.

  “That’s too old to bear children.”

  Poppy scratched her ear and then regarded Belle again. She did not look like she agreed with Belle’s assessment.

  Poppy was a cat. She knew nothing about a woman’s body.

  “Well, it’s too old for me to bear
children. The women in my family aren’t especially fertile.”

  The “women” in her family consisted of one woman—her mother.

  When was the last time I had my courses?

  She thought back—

  Dear Lord! Her stomach twisted again. Now she remembered. She’d been so happy last month when her flow was light enough that it hadn’t kept William from her bed. She’d thought it odd, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Gift horse, indeed. The gift had been something else entirely.

  Someone else.

  The room started to spin.

  She put her head down between her legs and tried to breathe slowly.

  Don’t panic. If I’m increasing—and I’m probably not—I’ll likely lose the baby as I did last time.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. No! I can’t lose William’s child again.

  But I can’t have a baby out of wedlock.

  What am I to do?

  Don’t panic.

  She took a deep breath and sat up. When a woman got older, her courses became irregular and then stopped. That was probably all it was. There was nothing to worry about. Things would sort themselves out soon. It was very unlikely she’d conceived.

  She looked at Poppy.

  “It’s all right. Everything will be all right. William need never know.” Tears leaked from her eyes and she slapped them away. “Nothing has to ch-change.”

  Even she heard the desperation in her voice.

  She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed until she threw up again.

  She was very late opening the lending library that morning.

  * * *

  William sat at his father’s bedside and stared at the wall. This could not be happening. In a few moments, he’d wake in Belle’s bed and discover it had all been a nightmare.

  His father’s breath rattled in his throat, but he still struggled to speak. “Albert? Oliver?”

  What should I say?

  “They are here.”

  “Where?” His father searched the room’s shadows.

  “Downstairs.” Not a lie.

  His father’s eyes turned to him, their question clear. But he couldn’t answer it. He couldn’t bear to send the old man to his grave with such tidings.

  “They are . . . ill.” They were dead, having crashed their curricle into a tree rushing to their father’s side. “Rest and get better. Then you can see them.”

  He put his hand on his father’s, and the touch seemed to calm the old man. The duke closed his eyes, and his breathing became less labored. Perhaps he would sleep now.

  No. His father’s eyes flew open once more. “Albert? Oliver?”

  Oh, God. I can’t bear to say it all again.

  “I’m here, Father.”

  This time when the duke’s eyes met his, they sharpened. “William?”

  “Yes, Father. I’m here. I shall not leave you.”

  Some of the confusion and, yes, panic, left the duke’s face. His hand turned and his fingers grasped William’s.

  “William.” The duke’s lips pulled into a faint smile. And then his grip loosened and all the color drained from his face, turning it white as chalk.

  He was gone.

  “Your Grace?” The physician slipped into the room.

  “I think he’s dead, Boyle.” William swallowed. Damnation, where had these bloody tears come from?

  The doctor came over to the bed, looked at the duke, and nodded, confirming what William already knew.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.”

  William almost laughed. “He can’t hear you, Boyle.”

  The doctor looked at him. “I know that, Your Grace.”

  “Then why are you—oh, God!” Boyle was addressing him.

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He couldn’t be duke. He’d never planned to be—no one had ever planned for him to be duke.

  And he wasn’t yet, thank God.

  “My sisters-in-law might be pregnant, you know.”

  “Yes. However, given the ladies’ advanced ages and the fact that they both have, regrettably, suffered miscarriages the last few times they’ve attempted to add to their families, I think it highly unlikely.”

  “Oh.”

  Bloody hell, this cannot be happening. I was never supposed to be duke.

  The doctor blew out a long breath. “I hope you will not take offense, Your Grace, but I must tell you that I have found in my years of practice shocks such as the ones you have just suffered can have serious consequences.” He met William’s gaze directly. “It is not a good thing to bury your feelings. I do hope you have someone you can confide in, someone upon whose support you can rely.”

  Belle. Oh, God, if only Belle was here now.

  A longing so intense it took his breath away twisted his heart.

  “Thank you, Doctor. I shall consider your advice.”

  The next afternoon, William stood on the portico and watched the coaches carrying his brothers’ wives—now widows—and their daughters as they bowled up the drive. The ladies had stayed at an inn on the road from London while Albert and Oliver had pressed on through the storm to Benton. They did not yet know of the terrible accident. It fell to him to tell them there would be not one but three funerals.

  He watched the coaches pull up and the bevy of females tumble out, their bright clothes and happy chatter so at odds with his dark news.

  The chatter stopped the moment his sisters-in-law saw his face.

  “What is it, William?” Helena, Albert’s widow, asked.

  Veronica, Oliver’s widow, looked around. “Where are our husbands?”

  “I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.”

  “An accident?” Veronica looked at Helena.

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Helena looked at him. “Are our husbands . . . are they going to be all right?”

  “No.” He swallowed. “They’re dead.”

  The women and girls stared at him in silence while the meaning of his words sank in, and then the floodgates opened.

  God, it was terrible, almost worse than when he’d come upon the wreck itself. Then he’d felt shock and despair, but at least he’d been able to do something—calm the horses and carry his brothers’ bodies up to the house. Now he could only stand by awkwardly and wait for the emotional storm to subside.

  He’d never been close to his brothers, so he’d not been close to their wives or daughters. He didn’t know what to say to them besides assure them he would see they were properly provided for.

  The following days were just as bleak.

  First he had to bury his family. He’d admit to taking out some of his frustration and anger on Belle’s father. When the vicar insisted that the death of such exalted personages demanded a lengthy eulogy, William had told him quite clearly that he was duke now and the man’s living depended on pleasing him. There would be just a simple, short service.

  And then he had to deal with everything else that went with the title. The butler, the housekeeper, the head groom, the estate manager; they all came to him for direction. Fortunately, his father—or, perhaps, in later years Albert—had seen to it that those positions were filled by capable people, so all he needed to do was tell them to carry on. Still, there were many moments when he felt he was literally being crushed by the weight of his new responsibilities.

  And he missed Belle. It was a physical ache, not just in his groin, but in his heart, too. Every night he lay alone in bed, wishing he had her to talk to and hold and, yes, bury himself in.

  He hadn’t written her. He’d wanted to, but whenever he managed to steal a moment to try to put pen to paper, his mind went blank. There was too much to put in a letter, and it would cause gossip if he singled her out that way. The Boltwood sisters were already sniffing round her suspiciously. He had to protect her. Her reputation would be shredded if anyone discovered the particulars of their relationship.

  So day after dark day went by until he’d been
away from Loves Bridge almost a fortnight. That was the longest he’d said he’d be gone. Was Belle wondering why he hadn’t sent her word? She must know he couldn’t do so without causing talk. He needed to see her to explain. And he had his pupils to consider, too, though of course he couldn’t continue to teach music. Mrs. Hutting must be getting quite anxious about Walter’s lessons—and about her daughter’s wedding. In a moment of weakness, he’d agreed to play for Miss Mary Hutting’s nuptials.

  He was mulling this over one morning, standing alone in the library, when the door opened and his sisters-in-law came in.

  “I hope we don’t intrude,” Helena said.

  Of course they intruded, but he couldn’t turn them away. “Not at all.”

  “We have something we need to discuss with you,” Veronica said, her jaw firm.

  Both ladies looked extremely determined. And they were both clutching their handkerchiefs.

  Damnation.

  “Please, sit down.” He waited for them to settle into their chairs before taking his place behind the desk. He felt the need of a large wooden structure between them.

  Helena leaned forward. “William, I know you will not wish to discuss this now—”

  Oh, hell.

  “—but I’m afraid I must raise it.” She looked at Veronica, who nodded, urging her to continue.

  Helena swallowed and then cleared her throat. “Veronica and I are quite certain neither of us is increasing. Therefore, it falls to you to consider the succession.”

  Helena was correct. He did not want to have this conversation—now or ever.

  “We should have spoken of this years ago, perhaps,” Veronica said, dabbing her eyes, “when we realized it was unlikely either of us would give our h-husbands a son.”

  “But what would have been the point?” Helena blew her nose. “You were married to that horrible woman. Albert lived in terror that she would conceive during one of her drunken orgies. Can you imagine? Some bounder’s son would one day become the Duke of Benton.”

  Of course he could imagine it. He had imagined it. He’d eventually concluded that Hortense was either barren or had learned how to prevent pregnancy.

  “But now you are free,” Veronica said, “to marry again.”