A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5)

by Bianca Blythe

  What he was doing was mad. He hadn’t spent seven years working for the British government, frequenting Whitehall, to act like a common criminal. He still had time to change his mind. If she wanted to flee, she could drive herself.

  The sound of a passing carriage drew him from his reverie, and Arthur quickly directed the horses onto the road and toward safety.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The tension in Arthur’s chest scarcely eased when they departed Antibes. The horses cantered over the steep slopes and sharp curves of the coastal route. The clomp of horses’ hooves seemed too slow, and he urged the horses to quicken their speed.

  Danger prickled through him. The place would be swarming with former soldiers trained to despise the English.

  Governmental ministers, something the country seemed filled with after Bonaparte’s various attempts at modernization, might also be prone to choosing this location to holiday.

  Finally, Arthur spotted a coaching inn and pulled his horses into it. When he peeked into the carriage, the women were fast asleep.

  This was the Madeline he’d expected: slight and dainty, beautiful even in her sleep. This was the Madeline the ton praised, holding her as a paragon to newer debutantes.

  The woman he’d met last night…she’d been a complete surprise. The Crown could have used someone like her during the war. Her fierce courage and sense of justice had astounded him.

  Bonaparte’s ambitions had been boundless. He’d sailed across the Mediterranean, as if anyone could possibly think Egypt near France.

  He’d stolen the best artifacts of that country, parading them across Europe. He wasn’t surprised that Madeline had been upset. Most women, though, did not take a problem into their own hands. Most women would have chatted about the unfortunateness of the art thefts when they tired of chatting about the weather.

  Her action had been the sort of thing he might have done, and he smiled.

  Madeline was like no other woman.

  No, he would not let her go to a prison. No matter how much it seemed in certain moments that she might be entirely deserving.

  Arthur knew his duty, and that duty was to protect her.

  Even if that meant marrying her himself.

  He cleared his throat, and Miss Costantini blinked up at him.

  “We can sleep for a few hours here,” Arthur said.

  She nodded solemnly. “Would you like me to wake her, my lord?”

  Arthur shook his head. “You need not worry.”

  Madeline must be frightened, rightfully so. He didn’t want to rouse her.

  He reached over the stairs and swept Madeline into his arms. At some point she must have removed the pins from her hair, and her golden locks dangled over his arms. Madeline’s long dark lashes swooped downward. Her mouth was parted slightly, and he adjusted his arms to better cradle her head.

  Miss Costantini followed them from the coach and toward the ivy-covered inn. The innkeeper smirked, perhaps amused by the sight of Arthur carrying one woman, with another one walking beside him, but thankfully he did not remark on it.

  “Do you desire accommodation?” the innkeeper asked.

  Arthur nodded. “Please. Two rooms.”

  “We have only one available.”

  Arthur hesitated. Perhaps they might find a more spacious inn elsewhere. But he didn’t want to disturb Madeline, and it would take a while for the horses to be changed. He had no desire to linger in France.

  “That will do,” he said.

  Fortunately the Côte d’Azur was not known for any stringent moral requirements, and the innkeeper led them to a room.

  He noted the faded furniture inside and the large bed in the center of the room. He looked around for a sofa or armchair, but there wasn’t one. Why should there be?

  “We’ll need other blankets,” he said.

  “Of course.” The innkeeper gave a quick bow and returned soon. Miss Costantini helped him make another bed on the floor, and he settled down on it.

  “Are you certain?” she asked.

  “Naturally.” He lay down. The thin fabric only lessened the feel of the floorboards slightly, and the faint pitter-patter in the room made him think that they were not the only beings in residence.

  “You have helped us so much,” Miss Costantini said gravely. “I will forever be grateful.”

  “I didn’t do it for your family,” he said.

  “No,” she smiled. “You did it for Lady Mulbourne.”

  She gave him another knowing smile.*

  Sun streamed in through windows, and Madeline shifted under her blanket.

  She blinked. It was troublesome that she didn’t recognize either the windows or the blanket.

  “You’re awake. Good,” Arthur said. “Let’s get going. I don’t want any harm to happen to my fiancée.”

  Fiancée?

  Madeline scrambled up, though the untightened rope mesh beneath the mattress made her ascent less elegant than normal.

  “Are you fine?” Arthur’s eyes softened.

  Prison. She’d been in prison.

  Everything from last night came tumbling back.

  But marriage—surely that had been a ploy to free her from imprisonment?

  “About yesterday—”

  “Please don’t worry,” Arthur said. “We’ll be out of France by the end of the day. I’ve written Percival and asked that Fiona and he to meet us in Venice for the wedding.”

  Wedding?

  “You sent the letter?” Madeline croaked.

  “Yes.” Arthur nodded. “Now, we have another day’s journey to reach Italy. I’ll feel much better when we cross the border.”

  Gabriella and Madeline followed him hastily down the stairs, and Arthur purchased some bread and cheese to take with them in the carriage.

  They really needed to discuss this marriage.

  Surely once they reached the border there would be no need.

  But there was no time. Arthur leaped onto the coach driver’s seat, and Gabriella and she piled into the darkened coach.

  “Actual cheese,” Gabriella murmured. She closed her eyes and bit into a crunchy baguette. “So delicious.”

  Madeline smiled. “They do have cheese in England.”

  “Not like this,” Gabriella said. “And to think—soon we’ll be in Italy.”

  Madeline laughed. It was difficult to ponder the pleasures of Italy, great as they may be, when also pondering Arthur’s words.

  He meant to marry her.

  Gabriella spread some cheese on another piece of the baguette and handed it to her. “Please.”

  Madeline shook her head. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Ah,” Gabriella sighed. “I suppose you’re waiting to partake in Italian cheese. Quite sensible of you. It is rather superior.”

  She opened the curtains to the carriage, and Madeline stared at the azure ocean. Below them boats, filled with merriment makers, bobbed over the waves. White sails flitted in the distance. It seemed difficult to imagine that the sea had until recently been the domain of warring navies.

  “Soon the scenery will improve,” Gabriella announced. “Once we cross into Italy.”

  Madeline laughed. “It will be difficult.”

  “My country will manage it,” Gabriella said confidently. “It’s so nice of Lord Bancroft to take us there. And he’s so bellissimo.”

  “Well.” Madeline shifted her feet in the carriage, and the back of her neck pricked.

  “You’re so lucky,” Gabriella mused, biting into her baguette. She smiled and brushed the crumbs onto her hand and flung them out the window. “But then you know that.”

  “Did he say anything to you last night?” she asked.

  Gabriella shook her head. “He was busy driving. We moved very quickly.” She paused. “But he did carry you all the way from the carriage to the room.”

  “Oh?” Madeline’s voice sounded too high pitched, even for her, and she coughed. “I thought it odd that I didn’t remember e
ntering.”

  “All perfectly explainable,” Gabriella said.

  “So are you looking forward to Venice?” Madeline asked quickly, desperate to change the conversation.

  “Naturally,” Gabriella beamed. She glanced at Madeline. “Not of course that I did not appreciate my time with you.”

  Madeline smiled tightly. She was happy for her. Truly she was. But it occurred to her that when they visited Venice, Gabriella would stay with her family, happy to have united them back with their heirlooms. Gabriella wouldn’t need to be a paid companion for a widow in a distant country. She would be with her family and would be praised for her role in securing the family’s heirlooms.

  Madeline’s heart pounded. Would she return to England with Arthur? A married woman?

  “Lord Bancroft has offered to marry me,” Madeline said softly.

  She didn’t think that Arthur could hear them speak over the rattle of the wheels, the crash of the waves against the shore, and the brisk breeze, but she wanted to make sure.

  “How wonderful.”

  It should be.

  At one point the thought of being his wife would have brought her more pleasure than anything else in the world, but now unease swept through her body.

  Madeline shook her head. “No. I don’t want to marry again.”

  And not to Arthur. Definitely not to Arthur.

  Arthur represented everything dangerous. The man had managed to break her heart as a debutante. Wouldn’t he be more dangerous now, as a husband? At least when she’d been a debutante she’d only seen him for a few minutes at a time, jesting with him as they danced the two dances each night that her chaperone permitted. Even that time, though, had not been solely dedicated to him. Dances always involved multiple people in order to form the requisite patterns.

  Would he always remind her that he married her to keep her out of prison? Would he leave her in Yorkshire for long periods of time as he spent time in London, with women he’d actually selected, and not one thrust upon him for fear of having their time in prison on his conscience?

  She sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time Madeline had been discarded. She’d told herself that she was marrying Lord Mulbourne for practicality, though perhaps she’d always expected some form of love to blossom.

  Gabriella’s eyes widened. “You really do not desire marriage? He is very handsome. And he is a marquess. That’s even more special than a baron.”

  Madeline’s smile wobbled. She’d been so proud of being a baroness. It had been something for her to cling to. And then her cousin Rosamund had married an earl, and her cousin Fiona had married a duke, and Madeline had felt foolish for taking such pride in her husband’s title.

  “He is perhaps acting nobly,” Madeline said hesitantly.

  “Are you with child?” Gabriella asked casually.

  “No. Of course not,” Madeline stammered. “Definitely, absolutely not.”

  Her skin burned.

  Gabriella shrugged. “You are a widow, my dear. I know the English are prudish, but I wouldn’t blame you for taking advantage of the handsome aristocrat traveling alone with you.”

  Madeline swallowed hard.

  “Or,” Gabriella said. “Vice versa.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that you’re quite pretty, my dear. You know that. And he has noticed.”

  Madeline’s heart thudded in her chest.

  “He might enjoy spending the week with a widow,” Gabriella continued. “If he has the sense of morals you claim he has, he might not want to bed debutantes. You don’t have an angry father to chase after him. And of course, you would actually know what you’re doing.”

  “That’s enough, Gabriella,” Madeline said sharply.

  Her companion’s eyes widened.

  “About Lord Bancroft,” Madeline specified hastily. There were some things she couldn’t discuss even with her dearest companion. “We really shouldn’t discuss him. H-he might overhear.”

  “Oh.” Gabriella laughed. “That’s true.”

  Gabriella began to chat merrily about the cheese. All her dreams were coming true, and clearly even Madeline’s uncharacteristic distemper couldn’t sway her mood.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When the coach stopped, Madeline approached Arthur as he waited for the horses to be changed. He gulped water from a pump outside and then splashed the liquid over his face. Beads of water dripped over his unshaven cheeks and glistened under the bright sunbeams.

  He still wore rumpled evening attire. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous, but he appeared magnificent. He’d flung his tailcoat off, and his shirt sleeves billowed in the breeze.

  He couldn’t look less appropriate, but the farmers stopping at the inn seemed much less taken in by the indecent manner the sun shone on his pantaloons, the thin material highlighting every curve of hard muscle.

  She averted her gaze from him quickly. No need to linger on symmetrical features or sturdy torsos. She focused her attention on the crumbling stone inn, shading her eyes from the sun.

  “Admiring the scenery?”

  “Er—yes. The inn is quite intriguing.”

  “Indeed?”

  She despised the glimmer of amusement that danced in his eyes. Men weren’t supposed to have blue eyes. They were supposed to have brown eyes, preferably one of the duller versions of that less than vibrant color.

  She approached him. Hesitation would not help her, no matter how much her heart seemed to desire to pitter patter in unusual rhythms in his presence as if it were practicing to be one of the overly romantic pianists common on the continent.

  He smiled when he noticed her. “Wanted to stretch your legs?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Somehow even that sound came higher than intended.

  Never mind.

  She surveyed the field, on the off chance she might see someone suspicious, but the few men in the area, dressed in leather breeches and sturdy shoes, seemed focused on chatting to one another over pitchers of ale.

  No excuses.

  This should have been a good thing, but broaching the topic of their possible marriage could not be a more unwelcome conversation topic.

  Perhaps she’d misheard him, and he’d descend into laughter.

  Marrying her of course would be ridiculous. Men weren’t prone to marrying women they couldn’t abide.

  She’d had a marriage for purely practical inclinations, and she was in no hurry to repeat it. She was a widow and afforded more independence than other women.

  “You told them we would get married,” Madeline said.

  He didn’t laugh.

  In fact he did the reverse—his face sobered, and he shifted his feet on the gravel ground in a manner that seemed almost embarrassed.

  “Oh,” Arthur said. “I am sorry about that. Admiral Fitzroy rather assumed you were my fiancée, and naturally I didn’t want to contradict him.”

  “I gathered they were under that impression.” Memories of Arthur’s lips on hers invaded her mind, and she glanced downward as if to feign interest in the ochre colored water pump. She inhaled. “But now that we are not being chased by angry Frenchmen—”

  “We don’t know that,” Arthur said seriously.

  Oh.

  “Well we’re probably not being chased by them.”

  “Hopefully not,” Arthur corrected.

  “Well, I just didn’t think that was still the plan. Anyway. I’m just surprised that you still want to—”

  “It’s not a question of want,” he said hastily. “It’s of duty.”

  She blinked. “You know what I am. What I did.”

  “The collection is complete now,” Arthur said. “Do you intend to move on to other jewel collections?”

  Madeline shook her head, and outrage coiled through her body automatically. “Of course not.”

  Arthur smiled satisfactorily. “Then we’re all set. I told Admiral Fitzroy I would marry you and I damned well will do so.”


  She blinked. “You should work on your proposal skills.”

  “Say yes, and I won’t have to.”

  The air seemed to thicken.

  “Look,” he said. “You do know how important he is? If he told a single member of the ton I was visiting you late at night… That I dragged him out of bed to rescue you—”

  “You did?”

  “I promised you I would take care of you.”

  “Thank you,” she said reluctantly. That had been nice of him.

  She was silent.

  “I’m sorry we won’t have time to get you a proper gown made,” Arthur said. “I asked Fiona in my letter to bring something for you.”

  “That’s nice.”

  He smiled. “I think you are more romantic that you let on.”

  “Nonsense.” She lifted her chin. “I am practical. Utterly practical.”

  The words came naturally to her. She’d used them many times before.

  She’d been proud to be practical and had even spoken dismissively of the more romantically inclined of her gender, who could often be seen circling the Serpentine or spotted under fruit trees in full blossom, as they quoted poetry, unconcerned about dragging the hems of their dresses over England’s oft-muddied ground.

  Practical women married the men their aunts and mothers found for them. Practical women knew their dreams should be sacrificed if it led to the greater happiness of their families. Practical women knew to find contentment in doing what was proper.

  There was more she wanted to say. Marriage shouldn’t be purely about convenience, should it?

  But she’d always told herself, and anyone she felt who might benefit from thoughtfulness in the area, that marriage should be for practicality.

  Arthur and she were suitable. And he was clearly convinced they needed to marry for her own safety.

  Since she cared about her safety as well, shouldn’t she take advantage of his offer?

  “Very well,” she said with a great deal more firmness than she felt.

  She strode away from him.