His Convenient Marchioness

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Hunt felt her go, felt the convulsions as she flew free. Control snapped and he surged up the length of her body and plunged into her, pleasure a dark god as her body tightened around him and she came again, gasping. He rode her through the storm, deep and sure, until his own consummation bore down on him. He thrust one last time, held deep and still, shuddering as release swept through him in a white-hot blaze.

  He hung there for a moment, shaking, then with a groan, let himself down, utterly sated, along the damp length of her body. Her arms came about him in welcome, and she murmured contentedly as he settled, her body giving sweetly under his weight. Some vague remnant of chivalry prodded him. He shifted, trying to ease from her, but she drew him back, sighing in contentment, pushing a sweat-dampened lock of hair back from his brow.

  ‘I’ll squash you,’ he murmured and compromised, disengaging and shifting his weight to the side. He pressed a kiss to her temple, absorbing the mingled spicy scents of hot, damp Emma and sex.

  ‘Mmm.’ Contentment breathed from her. ‘’pology accepted.’

  ‘What?’ He raised his head with a herculean effort. ‘Apology? Oh.’ He’d forgotten about that. He brushed tangled curls away from her face. A sleepy sigh was followed by a change in her breathing into utter relaxation.

  ‘Emma?’

  Somewhere deep inside a laugh shook him. She’d beaten him into sleep. Deciding to take that as a compliment, he tucked her closer. He could remain for a few minutes, loving the silky warmth of her against him before he had to leave for the unwanted privacy of his own bed...or he could take the risk and stay. Wake with her in the morning, look into sleepy dark blue eyes as he kissed her awake...still thinking about it he slid over the edge into sleep.

  * * *

  Gerald lay, battered and bloody, in his coffin. The eyes were open, staring. His brother lay dead, yet the corpse spoke...

  ‘It won’t work. My death won’t bring back Simon or Lionel. They’re gone.’

  ‘Gerald. I didn’t think that. I never wanted that! Listen!’

  ‘Too late, Hunt. I never did listen. You always said that.’

  The coffin lid was closing, changing into a gravestone...

  No! This time he would stop it. He wouldn’t let Gerald go. If he didn’t let the coffin close...

  ‘Gerald! Wait!’

  * * *

  ‘Hunt! Hunt!’

  He woke to Emma leaning over him, dark eyes frantic. ‘Hunt, are you all right? You were struggling and you called out.’

  He sat up, conscious of the usual headache and the terrible, all-consuming knowledge that he had failed Gerald. ‘It’s nothing. Just a—nothing.’ Damned if he’d admit to a nightmare like one of the children.

  ‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’

  Her worried eyes and sympathetic voice jabbed his pride. He was supposed to protect and reassure her. Not the other way round. And if he couldn’t remember that, then he had no business succumbing to the temptation of remaining in her bed all night.

  ‘I beg your pardon for disturbing you.’ He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side.

  She caught his arm just above the elbow. ‘Hunt, you didn’t disturb me.’

  He freed himself gently. ‘Excuse me, Emma. I should go to my own bed.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her eyes, far from being sympathetic and worried now, burned into him in the glow of the dying fire. And the time-worn excuse, that this was how a marriage in their world was conducted, withered on his lips. ‘Goodnight, Emma.’ He supposed it was something that he couldn’t even manage a decent mensonge pieux. He turned to leave.

  ‘Hunt, what happened to Gerald?’

  The gentle question stabbed him.

  He kept his back to her. ‘He died.’

  ‘I know. But Letty said something and you...you spoke his name. Called to him to wait.’

  Forcing out a silent breath, he started for the door.

  ‘Hunt?’

  There was only one honest answer he could make. ‘I killed him. Now excuse me, if you please.’

  * * *

  ‘Will there really be ponies, Mama?’

  Harry could think of nothing else and had asked the same question several times. They were to leave for Isleworth that afternoon.

  ‘Your Uncle Hunt says so.’

  Harry’s eyes were dreamy. ‘I wonder what colour mine will be. It might a chestnut, or a bay, or...or—’

  ‘Or a complete surprise,’ Emma suggested. ‘Why didn’t you ask Hunt when you went for that walk with him earlier?’

  ‘I did,’ Harry admitted. ‘He didn’t know. He just said that Lord Cambourne had chosen the ponies, so he was confident we wouldn’t get killed and that was more important.’ He looked thoroughly unconvinced by this view.

  ‘I see.’ Emma folded the small riding breeches that a maid had found in a storage trunk and placed them with the other clothes for Harry.

  ‘Were they Uncle Hunt’s once?’ Georgie asked. She was helping Bessie with her own clothes.

  ‘Belonged to his lordship’s eldest boy,’ Bessie said, folding a very small petticoat. ‘Like that little riding habit belonged to his daughter.’

  ‘But...they died.’ Georgie looked bothered by this. ‘Can’t we have our own?’

  Emma looked across. ‘Certainly. They are ordered. But they couldn’t be ready by today. So if you wish to ride before they are delivered to Isleworth in a day or so, you will wear these.’

  Harry looked uncertain. ‘Uncle Hunt doesn’t mind us wearing them?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Emma said. ‘Now, can I safely leave you two to finish here? Mr Barclay needs me in the library for a few moments to look through my letters. Georgie? Are you nearly finished?’

  Georgie, carefully placing Anna Maria in amongst her clothes, looked up and nodded. ‘Yes, Mama. And Bessie is going to check everything.’

  ‘That I am,’ Bessie said firmly. ‘You go, my lady. We’re all but done here.’

  * * *

  Would Hunt mind the children using those clothes if he knew?

  She couldn’t rid herself of that question as she hurried downstairs. The servants had simply produced the clothes. Rather as they had unearthed the soldiers Harry played with, several dolls for Georgie and a great number of books.

  She had no idea how Hunt would feel about Harry and Georgie using his own children’s belongings. He never spoke of them. At all. It was the servants who spoke of them from time to time, always fondly. Simon, Lionel and Marianne. About Gerald, Hunt’s half-brother and heir presumptive, very little was said, although she gathered that he had been of an age with Hunt’s eldest son, Simon, and had been raised as another son after his own mother died. But mention of Gerald was usually in reference to one of Hunt’s own children.

  Gerald’s folly got him murdered...

  I killed him...

  She didn’t believe for a moment that Hunt had literally killed his brother. But somehow Hunt blamed himself. And he had closed himself away. He came to her each night, made love to her with skilled passion, but left soon after. And he thanked her. She didn’t want him to thank her, as though she had passed the salt. As though what they did was for nothing more than the begetting of an heir. She wanted Hunt’s child. Not merely his heir. And she wanted Hunt, not just sex.

  Sex, she realised, even wonderful sex, did not necessarily mean intimacy. Hunt had made it clear that part of his life was out of bounds to her. And he kept busy with meetings, sittings in the House of Lords. Busy with managing his estates. Busy even taking Harry out for a walk with Fergus most mornings. Busy with everything but his wife.

  William Barclay looked up from his ruthlessly organised desk and smiled. ‘Good morning, Lady Huntercombe. You’ve just missed him. He’s stepped out for half an hour. I have your correspondence sorted.’r />
  He had arranged another desk for her by the fire. Emma sat down and started with the invitations. Most of them she would have to decline since they were leaving town. Those she marked with a D for Barclay to deal with. There were several letters from one-time friends who had heard of her remarriage. Those she set aside to take with her to Isleworth. One was from an elderly great-aunt, pleased to hear that Emma had repented and married to oblige her family. Emma grimaced. Typical Aunt Felicia. Better to respond to her immediately and get it over with. She glanced up at Barclay, busy with Hunt’s correspondence. Discreet, intelligent and observant, Barclay was the perfect secretary. And he’d been with Hunt for years.

  ‘Mr Barclay? You must have known Gerald Moresby. What happened to him?’

  Barclay sprinkled sand on the letter he had just finished and sighed. ‘Yes. I knew him before I knew his lordship. Gerald was at school with my younger brother and often came home with Reginald for holidays.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They were both a little wild, always in some scrape or other, although Reginald is settling down now.’ His smile was wry. ‘That was how I came by this position.’

  ‘Your brother settling down?’

  He chuckled. ‘No. Reg staying with Gerald for Christmas some years ago. His lordship’s old secretary was retiring and Reg mentioned me as a possible replacement.’

  ‘Well, that shows a very proper family feeling.’

  Barclay glanced over his half-spectacles. ‘I’m ten years older than Reg. I believe he described me to his lordship as a shocking old sobersides.’

  Emma bit back a laugh. ‘And?’

  ‘His lordship wrote, very kindly inviting me to call when next he was in London.’ He frowned. ‘But you asked about Gerald. He came down from Oxford—he was sent down, actually—and fell in with a bad crowd. Got badly into debt, tried to recoup his losses in a gambling hell and was in worse trouble when he couldn’t pay the fellow who had bought up his IOUs. The fellow’s bruisers came after Gerald when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to get his money.’

  ‘What?’ Emma’s stomach churned. ‘They killed him?’

  Barclay nodded, his face grim. ‘Yes. He died of his injuries.’

  Emma felt sick, but she had to know. ‘Were they caught?’

  Barclay hesitated. ‘I...yes. I don’t know much about that. His lordship did not confide in me. But Lord Cambourne helped him track them.’ He smiled. ‘I believe his lordship maintains silence because of Lady Cambourne’s involvement. That was how she and Cambourne met.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Shall I deal with those invitations for you, my lady?’

  Emma smiled. ‘Thank you. Yes. But is there some paper I may use for a letter?’ She would need to order her own paper and visiting cards.

  Barclay nodded. ‘His lordship keeps paper for his private correspondence in the top right-hand drawer of his own desk. If you do not require me I have some errands to run for his lordship. Ah, all the arrangements are in place for Austerleigh Park. The baggage and servants will go late this morning, and I have ordered the carriage at two o’clock for you and the children. It’s only about eight miles. Plenty of time before dark.’

  ‘And his lordship?’

  ‘Will drive his curricle down.’

  * * *

  Emma sat for a moment after the door closed behind Barclay. Her heart ached. How could Hunt blame himself for his brother’s death? Had Gerald not come to him for help? She would be shattered if Harry or Georgie got into some scrape and didn’t confide in her. But how difficult for a young man to admit to a much older brother that he was in over his head!

  She rose and went to Hunt’s large, rather untidy desk. She opened the top right-hand drawer. A stack of thick cream paper lay there. She drew it forward, surprised at the weight, and blinked when she saw the miniature lying on top.

  A fair-haired lady she recognised as Anne Huntercombe smiled up at her. In her lap a small girl nestled, golden curls confined with a simple blue ribbon. A slightly older boy, his mother’s arm around him, leaned close, his grin cheeky. Emma could see the likeness to Hunt in the dark hair and shape of the eyes. Another boy, taller, and even more staggeringly like Hunt, stood at his mother’s other side, his hand on her shoulder, a gesture that spoke of affectionate protectiveness. Emma’s breath caught at the intimacy. These must be Hunt’s children, Marianne, Lionel and Simon. And there was a fourth child, a third boy. He was very like Simon, although not as tall, and stood beside him, Simon’s arm around his shoulders bringing him into the group.

  Gerald. The half-brother included as a loved member of the family Hunt had lost.

  The memory of Peter’s death slashed at Emma, a wound that could never fully heal. She let the pain wash through her, accepting it. Memories could not be stopped and they held joy despite the grief. To stop those memories would have meant denying part of herself. Love could not exist without the risk of grief.

  But why was this picture hidden away? She looked at Hunt’s desk again. A second miniature stood there. A very young man with waving dark hair and a slightly sulky expression. His hand rested on the neck of a chestnut horse. Her breath caught. Hunt? She could see Hunt in the tilt of the head, the shape of the jaw and nose. But, no. The clothes were quite wrong for it to have been Hunt at that age. This must be Gerald, probably not very long before his death.

  ‘Emma? William said you were—What is that?’

  Her head jerked up at the sharp tone. Hunt, his face shuttered, stood just inside the door, hand still on the knob.

  ‘I was looking for notepaper,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ He closed the door. ‘It doesn’t look very like notepaper to me.’ His long strides brought him across the room and he took the painting from her grasp. Very gently he laid it back in the drawer and for one unguarded moment she saw pain breach the ice as he closed the drawer.

  ‘Why, Hunt?’ The question was out before she could think the better of it and she flinched at the renewed chill in his expression.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Why hide them away and leave Gerald out?’ She gestured to the portrait still on the desk. ‘That is Gerald, isn’t it?’ Despite the ice in his eyes, she laid a hand on his wrist. ‘Don’t put them away because of me.’

  He shut the drawer and with awful care nudged her hand away. ‘Perhaps, Madam Pandora, some things are supposed to be private.’

  She could accept that rebuke. She probably deserved it. But like Pandora, she couldn’t unopen the box. ‘I’m sorry, Hunt.’ She reached for his hand, but he stepped back and she let her hand fall. The rejection hurt more than if he’d struck her.

  ‘If you refrain from searching my drawers in future, no apologies will be necessary.’

  She took a careful breath at the lash of his voice. This was not about her. Wounded creatures could strike out. ‘I’m sorry for that, too. But I meant that I am sorry you lost them.’

  His mouth flattened. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not always. Sometimes it is only yesterday, or as far away as your last dream.’ She knew, the moment she had spoken, that she had said precisely the wrong thing. He had dreamed of Gerald the other night...

  ‘What would you know about it?’ he exploded.

  For a moment she could not answer. Something had lodged hard and tight in her throat. She choked it down. ‘Everything,’ she said softly. ‘Hunt, you could not have prevented smallpox. And Gerald chose his own path. If he did not come to you for help—’

  His expression silenced her as effectively as a blow. Hard. Bitter.

  ‘Is that what you think? That Gerald did not ask for help?’

  ‘Hunt—’

  ‘He did come to me. I refused him.’

  * * *

  There. He’d said it. And silenced Emma’s sympathy. He could imagine what she was thi
nking. What sort of brute would refuse to help his brother? Would send him away hurt and bitter? To his death.

  ‘You should go, Emma.’

  She hesitated. ‘That is truly what you want?’

  ‘Yes.’ It ought to be.

  ‘Then I’m sorry. And I wish with all my heart that you had not lost them.’

  Hunt watched her cross the room. Pain, as raw as his last dream, twisted inside him, mingled with shame. ‘You wish then that we hadn’t married?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Never that. Excuse me. I must finish packing.’

  He cursed as he realised that he’d nearly forgotten why he’d needed to speak with her in the first place. ‘I am very sorry, but we will need to put off our departure to Isleworth. There is some business that I should attend to first. A couple of committees I must attend, including one in an hour.’

  ‘I see.’ Her hand was on the doorknob. ‘If you do not object, Hunt, I will take the children to Isleworth this afternoon as planned.’ The pallor of her face tore at him.

  ‘By yourself?’ Anne had taken the children to Cornwall early when he had to remain in London. He had never seen them again. He wanted to roar a protest, but he swallowed it. ‘No, I have no objection. I will follow in a day or so.’

  Something unreadable flickered across her face. ‘If you wish. But if you find that you cannot, it is not of any consequence.’ She hesitated. ‘The servants—they found riding clothes for the children. Do you...do you mind?’

  For a moment he couldn’t think what she meant. ‘No. God, no. Of course not!’ How could she think that?

  ‘Then, Hunt...’ her voice was gentle, but distant as the moon as she opened the door ‘...put them back on your desk. They deserve better than to be hidden. Keep them all in the light.’

  The door closed. Gone. She was gone. Because he had lost control and driven her away. As he had driven Gerald away that last time. He sat heavily in his chair, gazing at his brother. He had driven Gerald away and he had let Anne go alone.

  I wish with all my heart that you had not lost them.

  He had wished that, too. Over and over, beating in him like a sore tooth. He had thought he still wished it. But it was pointless, something that could never be. Time could never be reversed. Even a clock could not be truly turned back. It had to go forward. And if you did manage to force Time itself back, would something break? The way a clock was damaged if you forced the hands widdershins? You could stop the clock, but even then, if you stopped it for long enough it wouldn’t work properly until someone mended and regulated it.