“Please, Lion. Let me try.”
“Please will not work here, Charlotte.”
“Pretty please. I helped Reeve and Olivia get together, and that did not turn out so badly.”
Lion growled low in his throat. He bound her tightly against him, his mouth ravaging hers, taking what he needed and offering her a promise of more.
“Please, Lion.”
It was her own plea she whispered this time, but as he picked her up and headed toward the door, the words on his lips were the answer she had sought.
“Very well, Charlie. You may try matchmaking one more time.”
Chapter 1
“I will never marry. Ever. you, of all people, must know why.”
“We must forget the past, Marcus, and plan for the future.” Alastair, sixth Duke of Blackthorne, sat with shoulders ramrod straight, his back a precise three inches from the wooden slats of the chair behind his desk in the library. Seeing him, one would have thought Alastair was the soldier rather than Marcus.
Alastair entwined his fingers in a single, white-knuckled knot and placed them in the center of the polished walnut surface. “You must marry and breed an heir, Marcus. Otherwise, Blackthorne Abbey will pass eventually to that imbecilic fop Albert and be dissipated by his excesses.”
Captain Lord Marcus Wharton, on leave of duty from the Prince of Wales’s own 10th Royal Hussars, contemplated the plea of his elder brother as he took a sip of brandy. He slouched down in the cushioned chair across the room in a way he knew irritated his brother, and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “If Cousin Bertie inherits, it means both of us are dead. Why should we care what happens to these moldy old stones when we are gone?”
“Consider, if you please, Regina and Rebecca.”
“You can, and I am certain will, leave your daughters with substantial trust funds to provide for their needs,” Marcus said.
An awkward silence ensued this brief discussion of Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca. From almost the day of their birth eight years before, the twin girls were rumored to be the daughters, not of the Duke of Blackthorne, but of his younger brother, Lord Marcus. The gossip was fueled by numerous drunken declarations made by Penthia, Duchess of Blackthorne, herself and had not ended even when Her Grace died in a fall down the stairs these three years past.
The two brothers had never discussed the subject. Marcus, because he knew the truth, and Alastair, Marcus suspected, because he was afraid of discovering it.
It had not helped matters that Alastair maintained a proper English reserve toward his daughters and left them entirely to the care of a series of nannies and governesses. Marcus, on the other hand, spent long hours in their company when he was home. He played with them, took them for rides on the Blackthorne estate in Kent, and generally enjoyed their existence.
Because of Penthia’s accusations, the relationship between the two brothers had become painfully stilted over the years, until Marcus despaired of ever restoring their former closeness.
Lately Marcus had resorted to more and more outrageous behavior in the hope of rousing his brother from his self-imposed exile at Blackthorne Abbey. But his blackened reputation had served only to increase the reproving slant of his brothers brows. Alastair, once as much in love with life as Marcus, had thoroughly retreated from Society, and showed no inclination to rejoin it.
“Blackthorne Abbey is your inheritance,” Marcus said at last. “You may guard it however you will, Alastair. But I will not have my life dictated by the necessities of duty. Or the capriciousness of a woman.”
Marcus had no intention of getting caught by parson’s mousetrap. As a single gentleman, second son, and soldier, he had no obligations to anyone but himself and the men under his command. He had observed firsthand what havoc loving a woman could wreak on a man. He had seen the sober relic that duty—and a disastrous marriage—had made of his brother and vowed not to repeat Alastair’s mistake.
Call him a care-for-nothing, a scoundrel, a rakehell if you would, but Marcus liked his life the way it was. If his reputation made him less of a catch on the marriage mart, then so much the better!
Marcus knew precisely why he had been invited to a late spring house party at the country manor of the Duke and Duchess of Braddock. And why his brother was so insistent that he attend. At least a half dozen young misses and their doting mamas were sure to be in attendance with one thought in mind: to provide him with a leg-shackle.
Marcus dismissed the threat that a bevy of eligible misses presented to his single state. He had enough Town bronze to know precisely how far he could take a flirtation before eyebrows rose. He occasionally took one far enough to cause a gasp or two, simply for his own amusement. But after Bonaparte’s escape from Elba in March, which made further battles on the Continent a serious possibility, Marcus was not in the mood to play such games.
He had decided to avoid the matchmaking occasion entirely by pleading family obligations. Marcus had cut short a delightful bout of drinking, assignations with demi-reps, and gambling with his best friend, Major Julian Sheringham, in London and journeyed to Blackthorne Abbey, only to encounter his brother’s obstinate insistence that he must attend the party and find a wife.
“I will go, if you will go,” Marcus said finally, providing a condition he was sure his brother would not meet.
“Very well.”
Marcus sat up abruptly. “What did you say?”
“I have been looking forward to some shooting with Braddock,” Alastair said, the first hint of humor gleaming in his eyes. “I am glad you decided to join us.”
“Touché,” Marcus said, raising his brandy glass in a toast, conceding defeat to his brother. As he savored the mellow liquid, he smiled. With a duke on the platter, Marcus doubted whether the matchmaking mamas would even notice a side dish such as him. He laughed and said, “When do we leave?”
“As soon as your batman can repack your bags. The twins and I have been ready to leave anytime this past week.”
Marcus set the empty crystal glass on the ivory-inlaid chess table beside him, shaking his head at the way he had been so neatly maneuvered. “You planned to go all along?”
Alastair nodded. “Our hostess particularly asked if Regina and Rebecca could be present, and it was not possible to send them alone. They have not been on their best behavior of late.”
The door to the library opened with barely a sound.
His instincts honed by years of battle in the Peninsular Wars, Marcus was immediately on his feet, his eyes searching for the potential source of danger.
The twins stood in the doorway.
They were attired identically in white muslin shifts with matching pink bows holding their black curls back from their faces. Or would have been if Regina’s hair was not losing its bow and the knees of her white stockings had not been smudged with dirt.
Rebecca did not have a single black curl out of place, but she was easily identifiable to Marcus by the worried look on her face. She stood frozen, her wide, long-lashed blue eyes focused warily on the formidable figure behind the desk.
Regina ignored the duke and raced toward Marcus. “Uncle Marcus! You’re here!”
“Reggie, be care—!”
She leapt, and Marcus caught her in midair and pulled her to him in a quick, ferocious hug. He shifted her into the crook of his left arm and extended his right hand to Rebecca.
“Becky?”
Rebecca gave the duke, who had risen but remained behind his massive desk, one last, cautious glance before she bolted toward Marcus. He swept her up and pulled the two of them close in his embrace, inhaling the scent of honeysuckle in their hair as it brushed his face, loving the feel of their childish arms around his neck, and the burble of their excited chatter in his ears.
Marcus gave them each a smacking kiss on the cheek and said, “It’s good to see you both looking so well.”
“We missed you,” Becky said.
“I missed you, too,” Marcus replied, fight
ing the lump in his throat at the accusing look in her blue eyes—the eyes that so resembled his and not his brother’s, which were gray. He had promised her he would not be gone long, but it had been nearly a year since he had come home to Blackthorne Abbey.
However bad a wife Penthia had been, both girls missed their mother, and they did not know how to break through the duke’s reserve to make of him a comfortable father. Nor did Marcus, for that matter.
Remembering Alastair, he met his brother’s gaze and saw the longing there. He yearned to say They want to love you. Let them love you. But he could not.
“Regina. Rebecca.”
At the sound of the duke’s stern voice, the girls turned to look at him.
“That is no proper way to greet a guest.”
It was precisely the greeting Marcus could have wished for—and he was no mere guest. But he knew better than to contradict Alastair. He set the girls back on their feet and stood, his heart in his throat, as they curtsied formally and said in unison, “Welcome home, Uncle Marcus.”
“Better,” Alastair pronounced.
Rather than bowing in return, Marcus bent down on one knee and once more gathered them into his arms. “Give me another hug,” he croaked through his swollen throat. But he had not needed to ask. They already had their arms around him.
When he looked up again, Alastair was gone.
Two days later, Marcus was on his way to Somersville Manor, the Duke of Braddock’s summer home in Sussex. He rode with his batman, Sergeant Griggs, alongside a carriage that contained the twins, but no governess, and without the company of his elder brother.
Alastair had entered the immense bedroom in Marcus’s private wing of Blackthorne Abbey early the day before and stood at the foot of Marcus’s bed—which Henry II, once King of England, had supposedly slept in—waiting for him to awaken.
Marcus’s head was still pounding too loudly from the port he had overindulged in the night before to hear his brother’s footsteps on the carpet, but some subconscious warning soon had him sitting bolt upright on the feather mattress.
The first thing he laid eyes on was the grisly image carved into the footboard. A knight on a rearing horse had cleaved another knight nearly in half with an ax. The agony on the dying knight’s face was terrible to behold.
Nausea rolled in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed his throbbing head in his hands to keep it from falling off his shoulders.
Alastair cleared his throat.
Marcus carefully opened his eyes again, wincing at the pinpoints of sunlight streaming through the moth-eaten black velvet curtains. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I must travel to London immediately to speak with my solicitor,” Alastair said. “Some confusion has arisen about my hereditary right to Blackthorne Hall, the most profitable of my Scottish estates.”
Marcus rubbed the sleep from his bleary eyes and tried to focus on Alastair. His brother was already dressed for the journey to London in somber colors that matched his temperament. “This is not a ruse to avoid the Braddock party, is it?” Marcus asked suspiciously.
“Unfortunately, no,” Alastair assured him. “Look for me within the week. Will you take care of the twins for me until I join you?”
“Like they were my own.” Marcus bit his unruly tongue, but it was too late. The damning words were out. Anything more he said would only make the situation worse. And yet he felt the urge to say something. “Alastair—”
“I have no doubt Regina and Rebecca will delight in your company,” Alastair said curtly. He nodded stiffly—an irritated duke’s version of deference—and left the room.
Marcus groaned. What had provoked him to drink so much? What had made him say exactly the wrong thing to his brother, something guaranteed to inflame a never-quite-healed wound?
It must have been the sinister spirits that haunted Blackthorne Abbey. Sometimes he could hear them moving about at night within the stone walls. Not that he would have admitted such a thing, even under torture. There were no such things as ghosts or evil spirits. But it was easy to understand why others believed the Abbey was haunted.
The east wing of the Abbey, which included the chapel, had been ravaged in some past century, and only a few rooms were still used. The rest was decaying, the crumbling walls damp and moldy the whole year round. Curtains put up by some recent generation of Blackthornes were steadily rotting, revealing glimpses of the mullioned windows.
Once upon a time, Marcus had planned to make extensive renovations. But that was before Penthia had leveled her accusations.
Now he rarely stayed for more than a night or two at Blackthorne Abbey. When he did, he needed alcohol to dull his senses so he could sleep. He told himself it was the macabre carving on the bedstead that kept him awake. And the ghosts in the walls. But he knew it was memories of Penthia coming to this room. To this bed.
Marcus reached for the bottle of port on the side table. He needed something to take the foul taste from his mouth. And to give him the courage to face two energetic little girls who were bound to chatter like squirrels the whole way to Sussex. To be truthful, he would enjoy conversing with the twins and making them laugh—once his headache had passed. Until then, thank God, their governess would have the care of them.
He should have known it would not be that easy.
The twins’ governess, Miss Balderdish, had exited the traveling carriage immediately after entering it when Reggie’s garter snake slithered across the toe of her polished black shoe. She had refused to return even when Marcus held the snake before her in his hands, proving it no longer inhabited the carriage.
“It is perfectly safe, Miss Balderdish. You may get back in now.”
Miss Balderdish quivered in place on the cobblestones at the front door to Blackthorne Abbey. “There is no telling what else those children may have hidden among the seats,” the pasty-faced woman steadfastly maintained. “You will have to find someone else to stay shut up with the two of them in such close quarters. It shall not be me!”
Reggie had not looked the least bit repentant.
“Really, Uncle Marcus,” Becky said in her best grown-up voice. “Such a to-do over a harmless little snake.”
“What else have you got in there?” he said.
Two cherubic faces smiled out at him. “Nothing.”
He leaned his head inside the carriage. A mewling sound issued from a leather traveling case snuggled close at Reggie’s side, and something was scratching inside a wicker basket at Becky’s feet. He opened his mouth and shut it again. He really did not want to know.
Marcus turned to his batman, who stood holding the reins of both men’s horses, and said, “You are not afraid of snakes, are you, Sergeant Griggs?”
“Not me, Captain.”
“Find a place for this, will you?” He handed the snake to Griggs. Griggs did not mind, but the two horses took serious exception to the presence of the snake.
Marcus’s Thoroughbred gelding tore free and bolted, while Griggs’s mount reared and trampled a lovely bed of daffodils that graced the cobblestone drive.
It took only half an hour to recover the Thoroughbred. It would take another growing season to restore the daffodils.
When they were ready to leave at last, Marcus stood at the carriage door and said, “I suppose you two can manage without a governess for the afternoon’s journey, since you have me and Sergeant Griggs.” He was certain there would be more female help available once they arrived where they were going. “But I expect both of you to be on your best behavior.”
“We will be, Uncle Marcus,” they chorused happily.
He should have known better than to believe them.
They stopped no less than four times before the first change of horses, twice for lemonade and twice for the necessary. On the fourth stop, at the White Ball Inn, a bare fifteen miles from Blackthorne Abbey, the contents of the leather bag—a highly agitated orange, black, and white cat—escaped into the barn.
Reg
gie stubbornly refused to get back into the carriage until the missing cat was located. Becky sided with her sister.
“We will have the innkeeper find your cat and keep her here until we can return for her,” Marcus cajoled in an attempt to finish the never-ending journey.
“You cannot really intend to abandon Frances, Uncle Marcus,” Becky said. “What if it were me or Reggie who was lost. You would not continue the journey until we were found, would you?”
“That would be a different matter entirely.”
“You cannot love us more than we love Frances,” Becky said.
Marcus shot his batman a beseeching look.
Griggs grinned and shrugged. “She has a point, Captain.”
“Frances is in the family way,” Reggie informed him. “What if she needs us?”
Much to Marcus’s chagrin, by the time they found Frances in the far reaches of the stable, the scroungy calico cat had already delivered one solid black kitten and another that was orange with a white nose and three white paws. It was clearly impossible to remove the cat from her nest before she was finished delivering.
Marcus was not quite certain he should have allowed the two girls to watch the birthing, but they squatted down inelegantly, but reverently, in the straw at Frances’s side to observe. He had no choice but to join them.
By then, a trip that should have taken an afternoon had stretched into something more. Marcus stood to leave, with the thought of securing rooms for the night at the inn, but Becky grasped his hand and pulled him back down beside her.
“Frances might need you, Uncle Marcus.”
He was not sure exactly how he could have been of any earthly help to a pregnant cat, but Becky’s grip on his hand precluded leaving.
“Griggs!” he called.
The sergeant appeared at his side with an ale in hand and hung a lantern on the stall where the cat had settled. The circular yellow glow kept the growing dark at bay. “I got us rooms for the night, Captain, and arranged to stable the horses. Figured we wouldn’t be leavin’ right away.”
After the Kiss Page 2