A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5)

by Bianca Blythe

  Her hands tangled her white apron. “She’s gone, sir.”

  “Gone?” Fear swept through him, moving with more speed than the most well engineered curricle.

  “I’ve been ever so worried,” she added.

  “When did she leave?”

  “Must have been just after breakfast. She went for a stroll in the garden and—never returned.”

  “Good God.”

  The day was still pleasant, but the sun was already setting. He’d been excited to pull Madeline outside to marvel at the tangerine and rose clouds that had set the sky ablaze.

  That inclination felt naive now.

  She’d left.

  He swallowed hard. “Did she take a bag?”

  Had she planned to go?

  “I didn’t notice anything missing, my lord.”

  “Please search.”

  Arthur despised the pity in the maid’s gaze. He felt like they were conspiring together, that only she knew that his wife had abandoned him.

  He thought about following her. Thought about rushing to Madeline’s room, seeing Madeline’s attire and jewels and art, and reassuring himself that she must be there.

  He wavered. He could search the gardens. Look under every bush and tree. Damnation. She couldn’t have hurt herself somehow, could she?

  He ratcheted his mind. There weren’t hidden ledges or thundering waterfalls on the estate, were there? Vicious lakes with slippery stones or bridges that collapsed when anyone attempted to stride over them?

  Or had someone gotten inside? There was a gatehouse, but with only one guard, it was hardly a paragon of fortification.

  Arthur didn’t think it needed to be.

  He strode toward the door.

  Letters flickered against the surface of the glimmering silver platter on which they were placed.

  He sighed, recognizing the hand of Admiral Fitzroy’s secretary. He didn’t want to hear from him. He didn’t care if the man intended to send him to Europe or the Caribbean, North Africa or North America. He didn’t even care if the man desired him in politics.

  He picked up the letter. Likely he should toss it in the fire. Unfortunately he would have to call a servant to light one, so tearing it in a multitude of pieces would have to suffice.

  He tore open the letter. Madeline’s name caught his attention, and he unfolded the letter and smoothed the creases from the paper.

  “I regret to inform you that your wife has been discovered to be behind the theft of the Costantini jewels. We have arrested her—”

  His throat dried.

  It was nonsense.

  Comte Beaulieu was not some advocate for the law. Or at least not any form of the law that applied to justice and improving things.

  He likely had her locked up in some hovel.

  No way would he stay silent. Madeline was his wife, no matter who they brought telling him he could have an annulment. Perhaps he didn’t have bloody sheets to flaunt like some paunchy medieval knight suspected of impotence, but Madeline was his. Perhaps there would be a child in nine months to prove it. But he didn’t want to wait to find out. He didn’t want any excuses to not be with her.

  I love her.

  Had he never told her that?

  The thought rose in his mind, as strong as any cyclone, as fear inducing as any French fleet pointing cannons at his ship.

  Guilt lingered in his body, merging with the faint sickness caught in his throat and settling in his stomach.

  Likely she was scared. Likely she was terrified. And he’d done absolutely nothing to alleviate any pain she might be feeling.

  Good God. Prayers had always been things he’d thought best to leave to ministers, but he wanted to sink to his knees and bow his head and beg—

  But there was no time. “I’m leaving,” he called to the maid and he rushed out the door.

  Arthur swung onto his horse and urged it into a gallop. Admiral Fitzroy didn’t have a house in the area, something Arthur had been distinctly happy about when he’d chosen the property.

  The horse trampled over blossoms that had fallen from the chestnut trees. Vague ponderings of roasting the chestnuts over the fire at Christmas seemed at once naive and a hopelessly precious dream to cling to.

  Finally the horse’s legs carried them from the estate, onto the lane, and—

  Arthur pulled the horse to a stop. It snorted, perhaps annoyed at the sudden halt to its exercise.

  If only he were certain in which direction to guide the gelding.

  The Dolphin.

  It was the only coaching inn in the district with decent accommodation, something which the admiral had a definite fondness for.

  Arthur directed the horse toward it. Soon his horse was once again galloping over the lane, stomping its hooves, and skillfully avoiding the odd puddle.

  Pink and purple slabs of color shimmered over the once cerulean sky. Lately sunset sightings had been causing him uncharacteristically sentimental musings, causing strange swellings in his chest area, but now the sunset just reminded him that time was dwindling.

  Arthur leaned forward on his horse. He attempted to concentrate on the rhythmic thud of the horse’s hooves and the sudden jolts whenever the lane inclined unexpectedly. That had always succeeded in keeping his mind focused in the past, whenever he was assigned to venture into enemy territory. But now all he could think of, all he wanted to think of, was Madeline.

  A wagon appeared in the lane before him, and he guided the horse to swerve onto the field and to join the road after.

  A farmer shouted angry things at him.

  It didn’t matter.

  The only thing that mattered was Madeline.

  She was the absolutely dearest person in the world to him. He’d loved her when he’d first come to London. She’d been the most elegant, most exquisite debutante in the entire capital.

  That hadn’t mattered.

  Arthur hadn’t even been a marquess. He’d marveled at her ability to have mastered etiquette, but it had been his conversations with her as they danced through the balls that he remembered.

  She’d been witty and vibrant, intimidated by the glitter and gleam of London. She’d been observant, noticing everything of interest. Some of the bluestockings prided themselves on their disinterest in London, but she’d been interested and intelligent, a truth made clear by the fact she’d become a renowned art scholar, even if she’d used her husband’s name.

  No.

  He didn’t want to see that vibrant, charming spirit crushed.

  Lord. I should have told her.

  He’d been too proud. He hadn’t wanted to remember how she’d asked him, through her uncle, to stop seeing her.

  He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself how he felt. And now—now it was perhaps too late.

  Finally he saw the inn appear before him. He scrambled off the horse, threw the reins to a surprised looking groom and asked him to tie the horse up, and then dashed inside.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Arthur stormed over the dark wooden floorboards of the inn. “Have you seen Admiral Fitzroy?”

  The other patrons stared at him. Perhaps his question had resembled a shout.

  “A man,” he said. “With the most beautiful woman in the world?”

  “Was she blonde?” one patron asked.

  “With eyes as blue as the Mediterranean,” Arthur said dreamily.

  The patron blinked. “Upstairs.” He frowned. “The nicest room is 203. Perhaps try that.”

  Arthur shouted a thank you, and barreled up the steps. His heart galloped, his legs burned, and he pounded on the door of 203.

  “Madeline? Darling?”

  A squeak sounded. It was so faint, the door was thick, but it was the loveliest sound in the world.

  “What on earth are you doing?” a voice shouted.

  He recognized Admiral Fitzroy’s baritone, and grinned.

  This was a start.

  He’d found her.

  All he had to do wa
s—

  The door was bolted, and he grabbed a side table and slammed it against the entrance until the door gave way.

  He rushed into the room.

  Madeline sat in a chair. Her hands were tied behind her. Her hair was wild, her perfect locks tangled, but she was still the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

  He’d been worried she might be transported off to some French prison in some unknown location or to New South Wales.

  But she was here. In this room. And soon—in his arms.

  He rushed toward her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Admiral Fitzroy shouted.

  Arthur didn’t hesitate. He still rushed to Madeline and cut off the ties.

  “I’m taking my wife back home,” he said.

  “But,” Admiral Fitzroy stammered. “She tricked you. She tricked us all. Didn’t you get my letter?”

  “Of course I did,” Arthur said. “That’s how I knew that you’d taken her.”

  “Your wife is a criminal.”

  “My wife was helping families who’d had their life savings stolen from them. Yes, what she did was illegal in France. But it was very much appreciated by the people she gave their savings back to.”

  “Still illegal,” Admiral Fitzroy said.

  “You think it was legal for the French to steal prized heirlooms?”

  “It was a battle, Carmichael. You know that. The rules are different.”

  “And in peacetime you get to make the rules that benefit you. Well I think that’s nonsense. As did Madeline. And I’m proud of Madeline for taking them back.”

  Madeline blinked.

  “I’m—I’m sorry I never told you that,” Arthur said.

  He kneeled beside her, smoothing her wrists. The skin was still red from the rope.

  “France expects us to send her to them. She can be tried in a French court, and perhaps if what you say is true—”

  Arthur laughed. “Don’t send her. France does not want to admit to anyone that they stole so much. Some stories are in their interest to minimize.”

  “But the people she stole from—”

  “Were wealthy before, and are still wealthy. They didn’t even pay for the jewels. They were given them.”

  “Well,” Admiral Fitzroy frowned. “That might be the case, but for Anglo-French relations.”

  “Blast Anglo-French relations,” Arthur said.

  Admiral Fitzroy’s eyebrows rose.

  Arthur didn’t care if he was shocking the man. He only cared about Madeline.

  “You realize you’re ruining any chance of a political career,” the admiral said.

  “I don’t care,” Arthur said.

  Madeline’s eyes widened. “You mustn’t—”

  “It’s fine, darling,” Arthur said quickly. “I think I’ve contributed enough to the British government over the years to earn a favor.”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “Perhaps the prime minister cares about the man who foiled assassination attempts on him.”

  Admiral Fitzroy shifted in his seat. “Well…”

  “I thought so,” Arthur said.

  “I am offering you the political career you told me you wanted, and you are throwing it away on a criminal,” Admiral Fitzroy said slowly. “You were not having a relationship with her. When you visited her cottage, you were simply following her from the scene of the crime. Do you really want to throw everything away? I am offering you an annulment. I urge you to accept it.”

  “I am happily giving it up for the love of my life.” He grasped Madeline’s hands. “Sweetheart, I love you. I—I should have told you before. I was scared. And so foolish. I—” He inhaled. “I understand if you don’t love me back but I just thought you should know.”

  Madeline squeezed his hands. “Darling, I love you as well.”

  Happiness soared through him.

  He pulled her into his arms and marched from the inn.

  “You’ll need to pay for the jewels,” the admiral shouted after him.

  “Show me their proof of purchase.”

  He could pay for them. If it was necessary, he would. Even if he had to give up every material thing in the world to do so.

  As long as he had Madeline by his side, in his arms, in his heart—it would all be fine.

  Clapping sounded as he descended the steps and the patrons cheered.

  “I have her,” he called out, and some of the patrons hollered enthusiasm.

  “I have him,” Madeline said, and right then before all of them she reached up and kissed him.

  More cheers sounded, and Arthur was consumed with happiness.

  *

  “You came for me,” Madeline said.

  “Naturally.”

  “And you gave up everything to do it.”

  Arthur stroked her hair, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “The only thing worthwhile for me to ever give up would be you.”

  “You have me,” she said again and they kissed.

  He lifted her up onto his horse and then he pulled himself up behind her.

  The horse trotted away from the public house toward their manor house and all the dreams they would have together.

  “I was so worried,” Arthur confessed.

  He pulled her toward him, trying to comfort her.

  Madeline shivered, even though the rare English sun had finally made an appearance and was beaming down on them in full force.

  “They took me,” she said. “Admiral Fitzroy’s men. They grabbed me in the garden and told me they would send me back to France.”

  “But I found you,” Arthur said.

  “Yes.” Madeline was silent. “When you said—that. Did you mean it?”

  Her cheeks flamed. She shouldn’t have asked him. She should have been content with the fact that he’d rescued her.

  When he’d come for her in France, he’d kissed her before Admiral Fitzroy and declared his intentions to marry her.

  Perhaps this had been the same: something to make the admiral release him, despite the possible fury of France.

  Perhaps he would still want to spend long weeks in London by himself, just as Maxwell had.

  But she still asked the question. She still asked if the statement that he loved her was true, because if it was—it was the most amazing thing in the world.

  And she would risk all sorts of humiliation if there was even a chance that that was correct.

  Arthur was silent, and her heart sped up.

  Then she noticed that he was stroking her waist. The gesture seemed tender, almost self-conscious, as if he were deep in thought.

  “Madeline,” he said finally. “Of course I love you. You are the bravest, most intelligent, most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed,” he said firmly, and this time he pulled her even closer. He flitted kisses over her cheeks and then she turned and he kissed her on her mouth and all was bliss, all was wonderful.

  “I love you too,” Madeline murmured. “I think I loved you my first season.”

  He stroked her hair. “Then you, my dear, are quite silly to have told your uncle you didn’t want me to court you anymore.”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t tell anyone that.”

  “But Sir Seymour—”

  She closed her eyes. “Never pay attention to anything that man says.”

  “He told me you couldn’t bear the thought of telling me yourself—”

  “So you left.” Understanding dawned on Madeline. Her heart tumbled downward, and she felt queasy.

  “Yes.”

  “You truly wanted to—”

  “I would have proposed,” Arthur said. “I loved you.”

  “To think of the years we wasted,” Madeline said.

  Uncle Seymour.

  He’d destroyed her growing happiness with his meddling. If only he hadn’t been in London that season. If only Arthur hadn’t taken her uncle seriously. If only she had
confronted Arthur, written him, instead of assuming his disappearance could be explained away by his masculinity, as the Matchmaking for Wallflowers articles warned.

  An unfamiliar rage coursed through her body, and tears prickled her eyes.

  She’d lost so many years with him. She’d spent so long being unhappy.

  “I’m so sorry.” Arthur squeezed her more tightly to him.

  She inhaled. “Let’s think of the years we have left.”

  After all, he loved her.

  The sun moved downward, casting everything in delicious pink and lilac light, as if all the world were celebrating with them.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The faint unease that had trickled through Madeline when they’d first moved to Rose Point Park dissipated. She didn’t heed any instinct to be careful of expressing her emotions to Arthur, even when they had breakfast together, and her lady’s maid had not dressed her in the elaborate manner most associated with a marchioness. For some reason Arthur never seemed to mind if she blinked sleepily at him as she gripped her coffee.

  “What are your plans for today?” Arthur asked one day.

  “Besides avoiding being kidnapped?”

  He grimaced. “I don’t think you should worry—”

  “I don’t,” she said firmly. “I saw the admiral’s face.”

  Arthur laughed.

  “But I have other plans.” She inhaled. Voice wobbling was unideal when making announcements. “I am going to stop discovering books written by the late Lord Mulbourne.”

  Arthur set aside his broadsheet. “Are you certain? Everyone seems to believe that you keep on finding new, perfectly written books in odd nooks from him.”

  She smiled. “If you can give up your career, I can certainly do the same for mine.”

  “I would never want you to do so,” Arthur said. “Though I am fully supportive.”

  “I thought you would be,” Madeline said. “I don’t want to hide behind his name anymore.”

  “Sweetheart,” Arthur said. “I am proud of you. People will be proud too.”

  She doubted the latter, though she still appreciated his confidence in her.

  Every time she attended a ball, every time she called on somebody’s house, she knew people would be thinking of her deception.