The Marquis' Kiss (The Marvelous Munroes Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  She rose at her usual time, changing quickly into her riding habit and dashing downstairs in hopes of locating a cup of tea before going to ride. She was surprised to find nearly everyone in the house in the dining room ready for breakfast. She raised her eyebrows at Thomas, who saluted her with his own teacup as she came up the table to take an empty chair next to her father.

  “Country house, country hours,” he said with a smile, nodding to the footman to serve her. She selected a thick slice of bread and began to slather jelly on it from the ceramic bowl in front of her. Farther up the table, Lady Agnes smiled in greeting, and Catherine nodded good morning.

  Lord Darton across from her managed a nod in place of a bow and quickly returned to his conversation with her father regarding the largest fish he had caught. His bragging, though languid, quickly bored her, and she hurried through the bread in hopes of escaping to her horse before her stepmother could catch her. Mrs. Munroe, conspicuous for her absence, was sure to scold that she would come to the breakfast table in her riding gear.

  “Would you like company this morning, Miss Munroe?” Thomas called from the top of the table. All conversation ceased, and every head turned in her direction. Margaret hastily swallowed her mouthful of bread to respond.

  “Company, my lord?”

  He waved toward her with his steaming cup. “You appear to be dressed to ride, an activity I believe you enjoy every morning at this time.”

  She smiled at him, but, before she could answer, Lord Darton cleared his throat. Heads swiveled in his direction.

  “I believe,” he said firmly, “that the gentlemen had agreed to go fishing.”

  Margaret’s smile froze on her face even as Thomas frowned as if annoyed to be reminded. She would have liked nothing better than to tell the fellow to take his fishing rod to the far end of the lake and forget the way home. Still, she did not want to deprive Thomas of the sport if he enjoyed it as much as her father did.

  “I’ll be riding every morning, as you noted,” she replied to Thomas. “I’m sure you can join me another time if you have a commitment to Lord Darton this morning.”

  “And I’m equally sure Lord Darton will not miss me,” Thomas said, eyeing Court as if he dared him to deny it. The viscount faced him for a moment, then turned his gaze to his plate with an ill-disguised frown. “Besides,” Thomas added, “I believe Lord Darton had expressed an interest in a carriage ride about the area. Catherine, if you wouldn’t mind obliging him?”

  Catherine started, eyes darting between the young viscount, who looked willing, and her brother, who frowned at her sternly. It put Margaret in mind of a similar look she had seen often enough on her stepmother’s face—it usually meant Margaret was supposed to do something for propriety’s sake that she personally found disgusting. Did Thomas seek to occupy the viscount while he was busy with Margaret, or was there something brewing between Catherine and Darton? She liked Catherine enough to hope the latter was not true.

  “I regret I cannot accompany Lord Darton this morning,” Catherine said quietly, rising hurriedly. “Miss Munroe asked me to go riding with her, to show her the various paths about the estate. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better change.”

  Darton rose hurriedly and bowed as she dashed past him. Standing, he eyed Thomas. “Then surely we should let the ladies enjoy themselves,” he said as if in challenge. “You will be free to join Mr. Munroe and me on the lake.”

  Thomas, ever the good host, managed a tight smile. “Yes, so it appears.” He turned to Margaret, blue eyes troubled. “Another time, my dear?”

  “Certainly,” Margaret said graciously, wishing her stepmother had been present to see the polite facade she put on. She would much rather have had Thomas show her about, and she didn’t like having to agree to Catherine’s lie about inviting her to ride. But she could sense fear and loathing from the girl regarding Darton and was not about to abandon her to the fellow’s dubious charms. She finished her breakfast without having to do more than smile at witticisms and went down to the stable to wait for Catherine.

  The girl was a while in coming, and her puce velvet riding habit looked as if it had never been worn. Certainly it was cleaner, less crushed, and thicker than Margaret’s, which was beginning to show its wear despite their maid’s industrious attempts to refurbish it. The groom had saddled a small, dainty mare with a dappled coat, carefully helping Lady Catherine into the finely tooled sidesaddle. Margaret felt a little like a warrior maiden from some Norse myth riding Aeolus beside the girl.

  Catherine rode stiffly and slowly, bouncing in the saddle despite the even gait of the horse. Aeolus was soon champing at the bit and straining on the reins, ready to run. Margaret held him in check with difficulty, not because of his strength but because she too longed to run along the stony tracks that led over the hillside above the house. Catherine, however, seemed content to plod along, pointing out the lake, the village beyond, and the towering mass of Coniston Old Man. Aeolus let out a snort of contempt, and, not long after, both Margaret and Catherine sighed in unison. The irony of it struck Margaret, and she laughed out loud, the sound echoing off the slate hills around them.

  Catherine hung her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Munroe. I shouldn’t have said I’d come. Thank you for not calling me on the story. I know you do not like to lie.”

  “That I do not,” Margaret confessed. “And for my reward, I’d like to know why I had to. What is it about Lord Darton that so disgusts you?”

  “But I sensed you did not like him either,” Catherine replied, rising her head in the first defiant act Margaret had seen.

  “I cannot stand the fellow,” Margaret agreed willingly. “He is an over-confident upstart with more ambition than sense. That does not signify. Why don’t you like him?

  “Oh, I suppose he is a decent fellow, in his own way,” Catherine conceded grudgingly. “Thomas seems to like him well enough.”

  “Why, I cannot imagine,” Margaret intoned. “But that is beside the point. If you do not dislike him, why do you avoid him?”

  Catherine picked at the saddle in front of her. “It…it is difficult to explain.”

  “You know I prefer the direct approach,” Margaret encouraged her. “Say it straight out, and we can have a good laugh or a good cry, if we must.”

  Catherine took a deep breath as if about to plunge into icy water. Margaret waited for some horrible story about the fellow having taken advantage of her.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  Margaret grit her teeth to keep the smile in place. Aeolus sensed the tightening in her body and trotted forward. She reined him back beside Catherine.

  “My, but people like to ask me that question,” she replied.

  Catherine colored. “I did not mean to pry. I meant in general, with any of your suitors.”

  “Of whom there are legion,” Margaret teased, relaxing. “In love, eh? Well, yes actually.”

  “Oh, good,” Catherine said with a sigh. “I’m so glad because Aunt Agnes never has, you see, and Thomas is a man and doesn’t have the same feelings.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Margaret quipped.

  Catherine did not seem to understand her attempt at a joke. “Just so. I simply must talk about it to someone, or I shall swoon!”

  Margaret eyed the woman riding next to her. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with Viscount Darton.”

  “No!” Catherine declared, so ringingly that the mare shied. She guided her back to Aeolus’ side with difficulty. “No, only please do not tell Thomas. I could never love Lord Darton. I’m already in love with someone else.”

  “Really?” Margaret asked, fascinated. “Who?”

  Catherine turned to gaze at her, deep blue eyes drilling into Margaret with surprising intensity. Margaret stiffened her back.

  “If I tell you, you must promise not to breathe a word of it.”

  “Let me guess,” Margaret said with a sigh. “Thomas knows nothing about the fellow, and, if he did, he would disap
prove.”

  Catherine nodded. “Most certainly. He is completely beneath me. Socially, that is,” she hurriedly amended when Margaret scowled at the high-handed statement. “He is French, you see, and common born. But there does not live a more noble, gentle, sweet soul, I am convinced.”

  “And he is willing to marry you should your brother cut you off without a cent?” Margaret asked, suspicion rising. She had heard too many similar stories from the young ladies at Comfort House, only it was generally those girls who were deemed socially inferior.

  Catherine sighed, tears pooling in her expressive eyes. “He has declared he cannot marry me at all. He is urging me to accept Lord Darton because the viscount can take care of me in the style to which I am accustomed. Oh, as if that mattered!”

  “Then Viscount Darton has already offered for you?” Margaret asked with a frown, thinking of the fellow’s rather boorish attentions.

  “Not yet. I have been able to hold him off. But since Thomas arranged for us to be wed…”

  “Thomas did what?” Margaret cried. Aeolus kicked up his heels and sprinted forward. This time she let him run a few moments before pulling him in and turning him back to Lady Catherine, who had reined in her own horse.

  An arranged marriage? How could he be so old-fashioned, so cold? Did he value love so lightly? Did he expect no feeling in his own marriage? Was that why he refused to kiss her? She forced the whirling questions aside and returned to Lady Catherine, schooling her face to impassivity.

  “You didn’t know?” Catherine asked.

  Margaret shook her head.

  “And it shocks you?”

  Margaret could only nod.

  Catherine sighed. “Thomas said it was only me who thought one should hold out for love. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one.”

  “No,” Margaret replied sadly, “you’re not.

  “But it is still hopeless,” she continued. “Thomas will never let me wed Christien!”

  Margaret licked her lips, forcing herself to rise to the challenge. “Just how big of a social gulf are we discussing? Is he a farmer? A laborer?”

  “Heavens, no!” Catherine cried defensively. “He is an artist. He paints the most expressive pictures. I’ll show you the one he did of Aunt Agnes. It’s as if he illuminated her soul.”

  “So, he has a profession, if a chancy one,” Margaret acknowledged. “And he obviously has your love. Are you sure you would be comfortable living in a set of rooms in London, say in someplace as unfashionable as Seven Dials?” She watched Catherine for any sign of concern over living in one of London’s roughest districts, but the girl nodded with greater animation than Margaret had ever seen.

  “Certainly,” she insisted. “You have seen me, Miss Munroe. I take no delight in high Society. Time to think, perhaps to read, would be most welcome.”

  “There’ll be no servants,” Margaret warned. “You’d have to cook and wash and clean on your own. And if you have a child, there’ll be no governess or nanny to step in when you tire of playing.”

  “I would never tire of Christien’s child!” Catherine cried. “I recognize I have much to learn, but I can do it, if it means being with Christien.”

  “Then,” Margaret replied, “tell that to Thomas.”

  Catherine quailed, paling. “But I can’t! He would never understand.”

  Margaret was beginning to think the girl was right, but her belief in truth was stronger. “You are going to face the contempt of half the people in London,” she told her sternly. “If you cannot tell a brother who loves you, how do you expect to hold your head up in public?”

  “But he’s so set on Lord Darton.”

  “He isn’t marrying Lord Darton, you are,” Margaret insisted. “The practice of arranging marriages is so old-fashioned as to be barbaric. The best thing you can do is to tell Thomas straight out, just as you did with me.”

  Catherine shook her head, tears falling. “Is there no other way?”

  “None,” Margaret replied sternly, though the girl’s pitiful face was nearly her undoing. “Your brother is an honorable man, Lady Catherine. Even he would not expect you to marry where you do not love. Certainly, he would not marry under such circumstances.”

  “Then you are certain he loves you?” Catherine asked, choking back a sob. “He will understand my plight because he is in love as well?”

  Margaret tightened her fist on the reins. “That I cannot promise. I do not know his mind. But if he answers you otherwise, please tell me. You see, I believe in the principle I am asking you to uphold. If Thomas does not, it is better I know now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The visit was not going nearly as well as Thomas had hoped, and he was the first to admit that his hopes had not been overly high. He had thought managing his guests would be a challenge, but he quickly found that the only way to survive was to divide and conquer.

  Certain pairs were virtually impossible. Lady Agnes and Mrs. Munroe could not be in each other’s company for more than five minutes before Mrs. Munroe was either livid or in tears. However, Court seemed to find Mrs. Munroe interesting. Thomas could not understand how they found conversational topics of mutual interest, but find them they did. And that was to the good, for Catherine still could not abide his company and spent her time with either Aunt Agnes or Margaret, although she would settle for Mr. Munroe in a pinch. Lady Agnes plainly preferred a spirited debate with Mr. Munroe but was happy to strike sparks off Margaret instead. By carefully coupling his guests, he was able to keep the peace, at least part of the time.

  His own peace, however, remained elusive. First there was the matter of the attack. He had managed to slip away for a few hours to visit the physician in Hilton. Trained in the famed Edinburgh school, the fellow could have demanded a high price in London but had chosen the quiet Lake District for its beauty. Dr. Cranwell had interviewed him, asking him a number of questions about his activities, his sleeping patterns, and his meals. As was the practice of the learned gentlemen from Edinburgh, he did not touch Thomas, but the swift delivery of questions was just as probing.

  “Nothing you have said would make me believe your heart is weakening,” the physician insisted. “Unfortunately, nothing you have said would lead me to another source of the attacks. Point to where you felt the pain.”

  Thomas pointed, feeling the fool bothering the man with what was surely some minor ailment. Cranwell’s heavy brows drew together in a frown, and he scribbled something on the paper he held before him.

  “Have you heeded my advice?” he demanded. “Have you curtailed activities that might cause your heart rate to increase unduly?”

  “I never thought of my life as boisterous,” Thomas replied, “but yes, I’ve tried not to do anything out of the ordinary.”

  The physician consulted his paper again. “I hear you have been courting,” he said to the parchment. “Is that going well?”

  Thomas tried not to flush. “I do not see how courting signifies.”

  “Don’t you?” Cranwell raised his gaze to study him, and Thomas felt his cheeks heating. In fact, he felt exactly as he had when his father had caught him fingering the bridle of his lordship’s prize hunter and dreaming of daring exploits. Neither dreaming of riding to the hounds nor dreaming of marrying Margaret was a heinous crime. He straightened his back and met the physician’s gaze straight on.

  Cranwell didn’t fluster. “Scowl all you like, my lord. It is plain by your reaction that this courting is a matter of concern for you. The red in your face tells me your heartbeat has quickened just thinking about it. It is quite probable, my lord, that it is the matter causing these attacks.”

  “Ridiculous,” Thomas replied with a shake of his head. “Surely modern medicine has progressed beyond the romantic notion that troubles in love result in a physical trouble of the heart.”

  “Do not discount the old stories,” the physician said. “I’ve seen healthy young widows die within weeks of their husbands from no other ca
use than their hearts were breaking. I’ve seen other robust fellows keel over at their tables in a choleric fit because they had held in anger for too long. My advice to you, my lord, is to finish this courtship of yours as soon as possible. One way or the other, it could ruin your health.”

  –

  Thomas had cause to remember the fellow’s words in the days that followed, though he could not lend them much credence. Plenty of other things made his heart beat faster—in annoyance—and he did not succumb to an attack. For one thing, Court continued to try to charm Catherine, yet she avoided him whenever possible. Court, on the other hand, often used her absences to advantage, badgering Thomas about his support to the amendment.

  “The Prime Minister fears to bring it to the floor,” he confided when Thomas demanded to know why he was so fixated on the measure. “Liverpool is concerned that if we lose on such a key piece of legislation, Breckonridge might call for a vote of no confidence. This could open the door for the Whigs to seize power. We cannot let the liberals control the government.”

  “Certainly not,” Thomas agreed. “But if the Prime Minister is so concerned, then he is right to hold up the amendment. Compromises can still be achieved that would make the bill more palatable to both sides.”

  “Compromises,” Court sneered, and Thomas blinked at his vehemence. “Compromises will only weaken the measure.”

  “Or strengthen it,” Thomas said quietly. “I think I understand your passion on this one, old fellow. It is your first bill. But there is no shame in compromising, if all win.”

  “An easy statement, DeGuis,” his friend returned sharply though Thomas could see the viscount was considering his words. “Your political career is not at stake.”

  “Neither is yours if you will but see it,” Thomas corrected him. “There will be other opportunities to make your mark.”