A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5)

by Bianca Blythe

  “I wanted to avoid France,” she moaned as the hull dipped and swirled.

  Arthur squeezed her hand. “Then we will travel through all the Germanic kingdoms and the Alps for our next visit.”

  She must have appeared confused, for he added, “I won’t compromise your safety.

  His dedication to her safety, while lovely, was not what had given her pause.

  “We’ll go to Venice again?” she asked.

  “Naturally. Can’t have you never seeing your best friend again.” He squeezed her hand, and for a moment she even thought he kissed her cheek. But then the door closed behind him, and she closed her eyes.

  Sleep had never been a more delightful thing, but eventually the ship docked in Dover. Arthur and she hadn’t discussed their living arrangements, and Madeline half-expected him to arrange a carriage to Yorkshire for her while he visited his St. James Square apartment.

  Instead he ordered a carriage to take them to London together.

  “I’m not sure if you remember, but I closed my townhouse in London,” Madeline said, just in case he intended to leave her at his apartment.

  “Oh?”

  “The servants favor Yorkshire, and I wasn’t certain when I would be back—”

  “You did tell me this before,” Arthur said, though he didn’t seem upset. “My memory is still intact.”

  “Splendid,” she said.

  “Your late husband managed to leave you quite well off.”

  “Perhaps.” She drew her legs toward herself.

  Money had always been a topic rife with awkwardness. When she debuted, she’d been armed solely with her appearance, which inspired the most praise from her parents, and the fact that her father hadn’t been completely exposed to be in deep debt.

  Unfortunately she lacked a title, and since she’d only visited the capital once before, she also did not know anyone. She played the piano steadfastly, reaching each note in the correct order, though not with the mysterious emotion for which other people were praised. Her singing was even less tolerable, and the hostesses of dinner parties had quickly confined her singing to songs done in groups, preferably large ones.

  The season had seemed like a competition, only one of far more importance than anything that young men of her age played on the village cricket field.

  She did not lack money. Maxwell had given her as much as the law allowed him to, though unfortunately he had not thought to specifically leave the paintings to her. Her books, An Introduction to Art History and An Introduction to Italian Art, had sold well. England was filled with people who desired to appear knowledgeable when faced with a centuries old painting or sculpture. Readers seemed to enjoy imagining musings on paintings from a baron ensconced in his manor home in Yorkshire, writing the occasional words of wisdom for peons.

  Maxwell had let her do with the funds as she wanted to, and after he’d died she’d published several books she’d claimed to have found after his death.

  Arthur tilted his head toward her. “I suppose Lord Mulbourne may have named you the recipient of his royalties in his will.”

  “Y-yes.” She moved her hand to her neck, smoothing her neckline.

  Arthur frowned, and she dropped her hand hastily.

  Perhaps she should tell him.

  Perhaps they were married and shouldn’t have such secrets.

  Perhaps—

  “I met Lord Mulbourne before,” Arthur said.

  “Oh?”

  “He never struck me as having much of an interest in art.”

  “Some people can develop such interests later in life,” Madeline said cautiously.

  “And some people always had them,” Arthur said.

  “I—I suppose that’s true.” Her heart beat nervously. She should tell him. But confessing her lie, her secret identity—she’d trained herself not to tell anyone. Even her cousins.

  “You were one of those people who always held an interest in art,” Arthur continued.

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “You’re very observant.”

  “You saw my poor attempt at embroidery.”

  He laughed. “Embroidery doesn’t interest you. Examining sculptures and paintings does though. I believe you were behind all of your husband’s work.”

  Her shoulders tensed, but she found herself nodding.

  “Does no one else know?”

  She shook her head. Words would come later, but now she simply struggled with deciding whether or not she was relieved the secret was out.

  “You let him take all that glory?”

  She drew her legs back. He didn’t understand. Her musings would never have been published under her name. If women wrote anything to be published, it tended to be for other women. “It was my best chance at getting the work out…and it was successful.”

  “You should be very proud,” he said gravely.

  She smiled tightly.

  “But Lord Mulbourne has been dead for several years now. Perhaps now you might reveal your identity.”

  “And cause a scandal?” She shook her head. “I don’t do that.”

  “You just steal jewels?” Humor was in his voice.

  Madeline wasn’t certain when he’d shifted from rage at her theft to a rather more restrained reaction, but she was certain she appreciated it.

  The coach swept through the Kent countryside. The wooden wheels rattled over stone bridges and glided more smoothly over the dirt lane. Thankfully it must not have rained recently, and the carriage arrived in London with all its wheels intact, an occurrence that seemed far too rare when traveling over the Yorkshire Dales. The sun shone brightly, and Madeline found herself blinking into the bright light that strewed in through the windows.

  “Let me draw the curtain for you,” Arthur said.

  “No—it’s nice.”

  He smiled, and she moved her gaze from the understanding flicker in his eyes to the long stretches of flat fields. Snowy-white lambs gathered near their mothers, leaping and dashing over the verdant blades.

  “There’s nowhere nicer than England,” Arthur murmured.

  They arrived in London late, and he introduced her to his very surprised servants.

  The apartment may have lacked the grandeur of a country manor where the bedrooms numbered in the double digits, but the sweeping marble floors and large windows proved delightful, even if Madeline smiled at the questionable shade of brown curtains. She settled down onto the bottle green couch that aligned imperfectly with the murky brown furniture.

  Arthur seemed confident when he told her that Admiral Fitzroy had believed their marriage, but Madeline wondered if it was true.

  She half-expected the admiral to call on them, armed with guards.

  But no one else was there.

  Only Arthur.

  The man seemed pleased to be back. “Do you like London?”

  “I adore it.” She smiled. “Though the country has its appeals, naturally.”

  “The problem with moving to London,” Arthur declared, “is that my apartment is too small for a wife.”

  Oh.

  He’s already regretting it.

  Madeline leaned back against the seat. The sofa’s velvet upholstery could not soften the blow of his words, despite their expectancy.

  “I can return to Yorkshire,” she said.

  His gaze seemed to intensify, and she hastened to add, “I can take the mail coach there.”

  “You want to do that?” There was a note of skepticism in his voice that made her naturally bristle.

  “I mean, traveling with many strangers is not one of my favored occupations, but no one can deny the speed of the mail coach…”

  He looked at her strangely, as if she’d said something entirely unexpected.

  Entirely…wrong.

  “I wouldn’t want to take your carriage,” she said. “But if you prefer—”

  His face was stony, and she drifted off. There didn’t seem to be any way to end the sentence without meeting his
continued displeasure.

  Evidently he did not approve of her taking his carriage.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “You informed my lady’s maid to pack my things?” Madeline asked him one day.

  “Indeed.” He smiled. How did she always manage to look so beautiful?

  “Admiral Fitzroy will return soon from Europe. Some distance from London would be beneficial.”

  “Oh.” She looked slightly less displeased. “Where are you sending me?”

  “Kent.”

  She frowned.

  “You complimented it on the journey. In fact…it’s not too far from Lord Rockport’s estate. Lord Worthing lives near there too.”

  “You desire them to keep an eye on me?”

  “It wasn’t an immediate concern, but naturally I wouldn’t reject—”

  Her face seemed to shatter. “When am I going?”

  He blinked. Did she imagine he might send her alone? “We are going tonight. That way we can reach it when it’s still light tomorrow.”

  “We?”

  He nodded. “Naturally.”

  Madeline still looked puzzled, but there was something almost adorable—or even utterly adorable—about the manner in which she tilted her head.

  He only hoped she would appreciate it tomorrow.

  He was tempted to tell her what he’d done.

  His title had come with an estate, but he’d sold his manor house early in the war. At the time he’d been living in Falmouth and had been happy to sell it to relatives of the late marquess. Cumbria has seemed far too remote, and a manor house far too large for him at the time.

  So a week ago he’d purchased another one.

  And three days ago he’d purchased an art collection with which to fill it.

  He only hoped he hadn’t been too hasty, and that Madeline did not prefer to return to Yorkshire, the home she’d shared with her late husband, a place filled with memories that didn’t include him.

  The next day they arrived at Rose Point Park.

  Spring was in full force, and poppies dotted the fields. The carriage wound past half-timbered and brick farmhouses.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” Madeline asked.

  Arthur shook his head. “Patience is a great virtue.”

  Madeline frowned at him, but she didn’t seem too upset and seemed to enjoy the sight of village children playing in the streets and clambering over the wooden fences to dash about in the long grass.

  Finally the carriage swept through ebony wrought iron gates, and Arthur pulled the carriage over. “Let’s walk the rest of the way.”

  They strolled through the parkland and came to a Tudor house. Ivy curled over the dark gray stone, and steep gables pointed cheerfully into the heavens. Fruit trees were scattered on either side of the drive, and they inhaled the scent of apple and cherry blossoms.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, and he found himself beaming.

  “Are we visiting one of your relatives?” she asked uncertainly.

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “No.”

  “Then—”

  He took her hand in his, conscious that his own was shaking somewhat.

  Please let her be happy.

  “That’s Rose Point Park,” he said. “Our new home.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded gravely. “I purchased it for us.”

  “It’s heavenly.”

  “There’s a garden behind the manor house,” Arthur said.

  “This is already perfect,” Madeline said.

  “I thought we could keep a peacock there,” Arthur said.

  “A peacock?”

  “Given your proclivity for embroidering them.”

  She laughed. “I believe they have a tendency toward squawking.”

  “Then let’s get a herd of deer.”

  “The gardeners will grumble,” Madeline said.

  “Then let’s not grow vegetables.” Arthur laughed and swung her around.

  Madeline’s legs flew over the grass, and her heart soared. The sun beamed merrily in the sky, crowning the clouds with its light.

  Arthur took her hand and they strolled over the path. The dirt lane turned to stone pebbles that crunched beneath their feet.

  Wooden doors loomed over them, and they ascended the steps.

  “I’m afraid the place is still shut.” Arthur removed his key. “The previous owners took their servants with them when they moved to a smaller home.”

  “I am certain some of my servants will be happy to relocate here.”

  “Splendid,” Arthur said, and they entered their new home.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “It couldn’t be any other way,” he said. “Not where you’re concerned.”

  She stared at him. The reflection from stained glass windows sparkled over her. Tapestries hung from long walls, and oriental vases shone over ornate sideboards.

  He cleared his throat and stepped away. “There’s quite a nice gallery inside.”

  “Darling,” Madeline murmured.

  Arthur led her through the corridor.

  He grasped hold of a handle and pulled a heavy door toward himself. Jeweled canvases seem to glow from golden frames.

  “But those are Maxwell’s pieces!”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  He’d had a bloody hard time convincing the man’s heir to part with them, even after brandishing substantial coin.

  But he’d been happy to spend the money.

  “Mind?” Joy emanated over her face. “But I adore these pieces. I missed them. I thought I would never see them again. Y-you didn’t need to do that.”

  “I wanted to,” Arthur said. “I thought it would be good if someone actually interested in art owned it. Someone who’d selected the pieces herself.”

  An unlit fireplace sat in the center of the room, and they stepped over lavish woolen carpets.

  Once the house was filled with guests and servants and perhaps, perhaps even family, the room would be magnificent.

  But as he gazed at Madeline it seemed as if the room could not be any more perfect, and the trickle of unease he’d experienced in London vanished.

  I’m happy.

  *

  Life had turned idyllic over the past few weeks, as if Madeline had ventured into one of the gilded framed pictures which adorned Rose Point Park’s gallery. She grasped her sketch book in one hand and strolled through the garden, stepping on the strategically placed stones.

  The wind flitted through the leaves of the chestnut trees, humming pleasantly, as the shadows flickered over the path. A rabbit peeked from underneath the hydrangeas, and other, more adventurous ones, hopped in the long grass.

  A twig snapped, and a deer darted over the field.

  Arthur hadn’t had to bring any deer to the manor house. A herd of them frequented the woods behind the estate, and Madeline took pleasure in seeing them.

  Perhaps she wasn’t in an actual painting, but Madeline was certain no artist could create a finer scene. The view must be as perfect as those devised by Poussin, and the compilation of roses and other floral notes must compete with anything the most dedicated Parisian perfumist might create. Still it was the reminder of Arthur’s lips upon hers and the manner in which his eyes flickered with seeming delight when he saw her that made her smile. Her heart swelled, as if she half expected to float away with the majestic clouds that sailed above her.

  Sometimes Arthur would stroll with her. He’d kiss her, and in the evenings they would make love.

  He continued to be so sweet, as if he truly cared for her. But he’d never told he loved her, and she certainly did not want to tell him, even though she’d long decided this must be love.

  Love must be the force that made her happy to see him, happy to be around him, and happy for him whenever he had a good day. If so, it must also be the force that made her worry whenever he left for L
ondon.

  She worried that she’d imagined tender gazes from his eyes, and that she’d confused the pleasure he took in her body with the fact that she was the only woman in the area, and certainly the only one to whom he was married. But more than that she imagined highwaymen accosting him and mail coaches rushing into his path, even though no man in the world could be better equipped than he to handle it.

  She shook her head.

  Perhaps her time in the French prison was making her imagine the worst.

  Life was certainly blissful, and hopefully this afternoon she would also succeed in sketching one of the deer. They’d been evading her all week.

  Something rustled behind her.

  It must be the deer.

  She beamed and turned toward the sound.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The horse trotted toward the now familiar elegant facade. Arthur tied it up outside and ascended the steps. The groom would likely notice it soon, but now he wanted to greet his wife.

  He entered the building, and called, “Madeline. Sweetheart?”

  The place was silent, and Arthur smiled.

  Of course she wouldn’t be inside. The day was beautiful.

  Footsteps rushed toward him, and he sighed blissfully. “You’re here.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Arthur recognized the voice of Madeline’s lady’s maid, though now it seemed imbued with rather more hesitancy than that to which he was accustomed. The blissful sensation dissipated, and he swung around.

  He was accustomed to seeing the lady’s maid move around confidently. She was young and had already attained the position of lady’s maid to a marchioness. She tended to wear her hair in elaborate, ever changing coiffures as if practicing for Madeline. This evening her coiffure still seemed complex, but strands of her hair were loose, as if she’d raked her hand through them.

  Arthur assessed her. Perhaps she’d spent the afternoon frolicking in the fields and was taken aback at seeing her master.

  Unfortunately the servant also bit her lower lip, and her eyes seemed rounded.

  Arthur’s earlier contentment transformed to worry. “Has my wife taken ill?”

  “No.” She frowned. “I mean…I don’t know.”