A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Relief surged through her, and her legs buckled.

  Lord Metcalfe’s lips twitched.

  “I-I accept.”

  “Good.” He pressed it into her hand, and her heartbeat quickened at the contact.

  “I don’t have a rose,” Miss Stonehutton said.

  Lord Metcalfe nodded. “You have not been kind tonight.”

  The American heiress pursed her lips. “I am an excellent candidate.”

  “That may be the case,” Lord Metcalfe said. “But you are not an excellent candidate for me. You were most unkind to Miss Carberry.”

  Miss Stonehutton flushed. “This is despicable.”

  Lord Metcalfe turned to the butler who’d been overseeing the drinks. “Can you please show Miss Stonehutton to her mother and explain the situation, Fletcher?”

  “Naturally, sir,” the butler said. “This way, young lady.”

  Miss Stonehutton scowled, but she followed the butler.

  The duke clapped noisily. “Most entertaining.”

  The guests’ faces remained pale, though the marquess’s face was turning a ruddy color.

  “I hope you can forgive this melodrama,” Lord Metcalfe said, shifting his legs over the floor. “Perhaps I was carried away. I simply wanted to be certain that everyone noted the importance of being kind. I hope I will not hear any more negative words about any of you. I want all of you to enjoy this house party.”

  “Nobody could possibly forget this,” Lady Henrietta said. “Mother did not mention this would happen.”

  “It was impromptu,” Lord Metcalfe admitted.

  He gestured to the dining room table. “Please sit down. The food is not finished.”

  “That sounds dashed good.” The duke dragged one of the footman’s chairs and plopping it at the front of the table. “Hope you don’t mind?”

  The footman shook his head hastily, and everyone sat down, pretending this dinner was like any other.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE FOOTMEN GAVE LORD Metcalfe and the Duke of Jevington new plate settings, and they soon moved on to the dessert course. Normally, Emma was fond of eating chocolate mousse, but her mouth felt dry.

  “Lord Metcalfe is excited to be here with all of you tonight,” the duke said, “and he is also excited to see which of you will win his heart and become his wife for all eternity.”

  Lord Metcalfe scowled.

  Evidently, he was not prone to romance.

  That was no surprise. Clearly, he wasn’t prone to doing anything good, and the only things that came naturally to him were lying and giving out damaging false information.

  There’d been no reason in the world he couldn’t have told her then who he was. After all, he could not expect to hide his identity from her the entire time here. He would have known he would have to eventually reveal himself, but because of some innate cruelty, some misshapen sense of humor, he’d misled her.

  “Now my dear Lord Metcalfe,” Lady Letitia said confidently. Clearly you were observing us. In secret. How terribly clever of you. Now tell us, did you come from a secret chamber? Or did some architect truly make a door from bricks?”

  Some of the women widened their eyes, evidently not expecting Lady Letitia to be so direct. She shrugged, no doubt conscious of her already lofty position. All of the women gazed at the marquess.

  The marquess cleared his throat and his cheeks reddened. “Well–”

  “What the marquess is trying to say is that the castle has many fine architectural features and that it is not possible to examine all of them,” the duke said.

  “Of course it’s possible,” Miss Carberry said. “It will only take a few seconds.”

  Emma stiffened and shook her head slightly.

  “Did you want to investigate?” Lady Letitia asked.

  “Er–no,” Miss Carberry said.

  Emma nodded. Miss Carberry gave an uncertain smile, no doubt grateful she’d said the correct thing.

  “Perhaps you are scared of the earthworms and insects you might find inside,” Lady Letitia answered.

  “Of course not.” Miss Carberry drew herself up. “Earthworms are not frightening. Neither are insects. Well, most insects.”

  “Good. Because you did pontificate on them with much enthusiasm as we were dining.” Lady Letitia turned to the marquess, conscious perhaps that she did not want to be labeled unkind. “Miss Carberry is most clever. She knows things I would never, ever think to study.”

  “A valuable trait,” Lord Metcalfe said gallantly, and Miss Carberry beamed.

  Emma hadn’t expected the man to behave with such chivalry. It was most unexpected.

  “You’re closest, Miss Carberry,” Lady Letitia said.

  Miss Carberry’s face paled, and the other women smirked.

  Emma wanted to alternatively squeeze her hand or drag her from the room.

  Instead, Emma rose. “I’ll look.”

  “You needn’t.” Miss Carberry’s voice quivered, and she darted a glance at the marquess.

  Emma gritted her teeth, preferring not to examine the marquess’s reaction, and strode toward the wall. If the marquess was going to be sending someone home, it should be her, not Miss Carberry. Emma moved her fingers over the wall, wondering if she’d somehow imagined Lord Metcalfe’s sudden entrance, after all.

  “I’ll show you.” Lord Metcalfe set down his spoon, and it clanged against the china, the noise unobscured by any chatter. He strolled to the wall and pressed a brick. After a second, the wall swung open.

  This time, Emma stared into the dim space and not at the splendor and unexpected presence of the marquess and duke. This time, she waited for her eyes to adjust, to examine the brick room. Perhaps it had once simply connected the kitchen and fireplace and had not been created for any nefarious purposes.

  Now, though, she noticed two chairs. They were proper chairs, not stools casually laid there. They had cushions. And between the chairs was a table, and on top of the table was a bottle of brandy.

  “What sort of place is this?” Lady Letitia asked. “My father would not condone this. You should apologize.”

  “Excuse me?” the marquess asked.

  “Apologize,” Lady Letitia reaffirmed.

  He looked at the guests, as if expecting them to protest.

  No one did, though some women became occupied with examining the tablecloth and china.

  “I’m sorry.” The marquess’s voice roughened, as if he was unaccustomed with apologies and not entirely certain of the process or value of them.

  The duke raised his eyebrows. “Astonishing.”

  The marquess shot his friend a scowl.

  “He was only watching us dine,” Miss Petunia Dunham said graciously. “It is not a typical activity that interests secret watchers.”

  “And I was observing you for the purpose of the marital games,” the marquess said hastily.

  “Naturally,” Miss Petunia Dunham said with an understanding smile. Her eyes gleamed, as if calculating that her understanding nature might place her higher in rank.

  “This is most unconventional,” Lady Letitia murmured.

  “We do not adhere overly to tradition,” the marquess said. “I believe in progress and efficiency. This might not be the normal way to find a bride, but I am convinced it is the correct one. I have given it much thought and have arranged a week filled with activities.”

  “I only mean to compliment your creativity,” Lady Letitia added hastily.

  Lord Metcalfe gave her a bland smile.

  “Let’s take champagne in the next room,” the marquess said, after everyone had finished dessert. “I’m certain your mothers will be eager to see you.”

  “And you,” Miss Gardenia Dunham chirped, and Lord Metcalfe smiled.

  The women rose and filed out, still casting astonished looks at the two men.

  Anger swirled through Emma. She slowed her pace until she was near Lord Metcalfe.

  “You lied,” she said dumbly, even though Ber
trand had schooled her better in etiquette than to offer up two-word sentences to marquesses.

  He arched his eyebrow in a slow, infuriating fashion. “Indeed.”

  “You led me to believe you were a valet.”

  “Spurred more by your mind than by me,” he said.

  She pressed her lips together. There was much she desired to say, but she was certain all of it was best left unsaid.

  “I was in my room, after all,” he said.

  “You were carrying clothes.”

  He nodded. “That’s true. I suppose carrying an overcoat would demand a certain athleticism only befitting a valet.”

  She scowled. “You’re mocking me. Besides, you could have corrected me.”

  “I wanted you to stop asking me prying questions,” the marquess said. “It worked. I didn’t think you would tell anyone.”

  “And why not?” Emma demanded.

  “Because you shouldn’t be admitting to anyone you were in my dressing room,” the marquess whispered, gesturing to the others.

  Everyone stared, and Emma realized the marquess and she were acting as if they had a greater intimacy than most acquaintances had who’d met one another a few minutes ago.

  Her heart thudded. “Forgive me, Your Lordship. I was hasty in my assumptions.”

  His expression firmed, as if he were modeling to be the bust of one of the Roman emperors scattered about the castle. A toga might appear ridiculous on others, but she had the distinct impression he would not appear out of place beside the idealized sculptures and portraits of Roman orators, officers and emperors.

  “My dear friend neglected to mention that every night, another chit will have to depart,” the duke announced in a booming voice.

  The marquess’s mouth dropped open and he turned toward the duke. “That is debatab–”

  The duke raised his hand as if the action might halt the marquess’s flurry of protestations. “It is an essential part of the process. Smaller gatherings will allow the marquess to better select someone.”

  Everyone shifted awkwardly in their seats, and Emma swallowed hard. She’d been relieved to not have been sent home, but the whole process would happen again tomorrow.

  She glanced at Miss Carberry. Her face was pale, and Emma nudged her shoulder with her own. “It will be fine. I promise.”

  Emma only hoped it was a promise she could keep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HUGH CAUGHT UP WITH Jasper and pulled him away from a tête-à-tête with a pretty brunette. “Why did you tell them I was eliminating someone?”

  “Because that’s how you’re going to find the best bride,” Jasper said, looking back at the woman.

  Hugh scowled. “You’re just saying that because you want a pool of eliminated women to comfort while their chaperones arrange transportation to their homes.”

  “Just because it’s beneficial for me, does not mean it’s not beneficial for you,” Jasper said. “The trick of good leadership is to ensure more than a single person is happy.”

  “Well, I am not happy about sending any women home early,” Hugh said. “And now I’ll have to announce that part was not true and I’ll appear ridiculous.”

  “More than inviting eight women at once to choose a bride?”

  Hugh’s cheeks flamed.

  “Look, I’ve heard the rumors. They seem to think alternately that you’re a rogue, or someone who can’t convince any woman to marry,” Jasper said. “More frequent competitions will be beneficial. The women will be compelled to really perform to their best abilities, and you’ll be able to spend time with the top contestants once people are sent home.”

  Hugh was silent. Blast it. Jasper had a point. The occurrence was so infrequent he’d assumed it to be impossible.

  Suddenly, he felt out of his depth. Finding a wife was a monumental task for anyone, and he’d insisted on condensing it.

  “Anyway, don’t worry,” Jasper said. “Even I know who you should send home next.”

  “You do?” Hugh asked.

  “Yes.” Jasper rifled through the sheets of paper on the candidates. “Miss Margaret Carberry. All that talk about earthworms. Quite ridiculous.”

  “You do realize I sent Miss Stonehutton home because she was unkind to Miss Carberry?”

  “Most noble of you,” Jasper said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Miss Carberry is highly unsuitable. How would you ever expect her to entertain guests? Dear Lord, can you imagine what Prinny would say?”

  Hugh didn’t want to think about the regent’s potential reaction, though he had no doubt it would contain a great many adjectives, all of them negative.

  “Not to speak of the reaction of the other Parliamentarian’s wives,” Jasper continued, with a rare scowl. “You’d never be able to get a single deal done. Not if you couldn’t count on a wife to entertain the other women. It would be ghastly.”

  People were staring. Lady Agnes, Lady Henrietta’s mother, was staring, and she’d been able to hear them.

  “Don’t be hyperbolic.” Hugh moved to a quieter corner of the room.

  “I’m not,” Jasper insisted. “Look. I admit that I didn’t understand what you were getting at when you developed these score sheets. But I understand now. There are certain requirements you have in a wife, ones that aren’t limited to how the chit fits in a dress or her mastery of the quadrille.”

  “You think Miss Carberry fits well inside a dress?” Hugh asked with a smile.

  “The only thing I’m concerned with is how women appear outside of their dresses, and I have no intention of investigating Miss Carberry. She’s plump, pedantic and she can return to Scotland.”

  Hugh heard a sharp intake of breath to his right. His stomach tightened, and he glanced to his side.

  There was Miss Carberry.

  Right beside him, though her face was rather redder than before.

  Blast it.

  She’d overheard Jasper.

  Damnation. He’d knowns Jasper shouldn’t be at this festivity.

  He couldn’t send her home now. Not like this.

  He moved his gaze to the grandfather clock. Perhaps there was time for another assessment. He’d have had a better sense of the guests if he hadn’t had to cut his dinner observation short.

  It was his fault Miss Carberry had spoken about earthworms. For some reason, she’d thought he was observing them.

  He glanced at Miss Braunschweig, but she was chatting with Miss Carberry. There didn’t seem to be any tension between them. On the contrary, they gave every indication of being close. How odd that these two women, one from Scotland and one from the Austrian Empire, had been able to meet and form a bond. Why else would Miss Carberry’s mother have insisted Miss Braunschweig join the house party?

  His gaze fell to the pianoforte.

  That’s it.

  He would have them play. They needed some joviality. All women liked music after, all. It was one of the few things he was certain about. Women were always offering to play all manner of instruments to demonstrate their technique.

  He cleared his throat. “Ladies. We will have some light entertainment now.” He gestured toward the pianoforte. “I want to hear all of you play.”

  Pleasure darted on some of the women’s faces, and he beamed.

  This was going to be nice.

  EMMA MUST HAVE MISHEARD.

  He wanted them to play the piano?

  She glanced at the others, but even Miss Carberry had a smile on her face.

  Fiddle-faddle.

  Everyone else knew how to play the piano. Emma had spent much time at house parties trying to hide the fact she did not play an instrument. She certainly did not play the piano. Pianos were large and expensive and couldn’t be transported from boarding house to boarding house.

  It had been relatively easy to feign being an aristocrat in Britain, even if there were many things about the country she despised.

  It helped most people didn’t know about Austrians. Even Austrian
s didn’t know much about the Austrian Empire. It had been formed less than a generation ago, spurred on by the need to make alliances to fight Bonaparte.

  But unlike the gentry here, and unlike the gentry in the Austrian Empire, Emma had never been taught any music.

  Lady Letitia glided to the piano and sat down gracefully. “I am happy to begin, Your Lordship.”

  “Excellent.” A smile brightened his face.

  She’d seen the marquess smile that way before. It had been when he’d met her. Evidently, he’d enjoyed deceiving her.

  Well.

  Let him smile.

  She rather wished he not smile so much. It made her wonder how much he would smile when Lady Letitia began to play.

  Lady Letitia would be trained, since unlike Emma, she actually belonged to the upper echelon and had grown up with money.

  In the next moment Lady Letitia placed her hands on the keys, and in the moment after that, she played. It was sonorous, soothing and everything splendid. Lady Letitia played angelically, as if one of the seraphs on the dining room ceiling had decided to switch places with her.

  Emma couldn’t compete with her.

  And unfortunately, the marquess’s friend had said someone else would be sent home early from the house party. How could she assist Miss Carberry if she was not part of it?

  She settled onto a settee, thinking hard. Perhaps she could feign illness. She certainly felt ill now.

  But he might very well pack her up if he thought she were sick.

  If only she’d learned how to play an instrument.

  Nervousness ran through her, despite the supposedly soothing sounds of Lady Letitia’s piano playing. Lady Henrietta played next, followed by the ivory clad Dunham trio.

  Talent enhanced by hard work emanated from the room. Music reverberated from wall to wall, and slowly even Emma allowed herself to forget that eventually she would be asked to perform.

  Finally, Miss Carberry strode to the piano.

  Emma stiffened. Did Miss Carberry play? Miss Carberry had expressed her fondness for translating Latin, but she hadn’t mentioned any particular admiration for the art of pounding piano keys with her fingers.