To Marry a Marquis

by Melinda Hammond

  'You would not know his leg had been so badly broken last winter,' she marvelled, watching him perform a lively gavotte with his fiancée. The music stopped and she joined in the polite applause. I was so pleased when Arabella wrote to tell me they were betrothed. I am sure –'

  She broke off, staring across the room. A hush had fallen, and all eyes were fixed upon a golden-robed figure standing in the doorway. Ros was aware of the blood pounding in her ears and if it had not been for her husband's supporting arm she thought her legs might have collapsed beneath her. She glanced at him.

  'Elliot?'

  He patted her hand. 'Trust me, my love.'

  Mrs Lythmore paused, pleased with the effect of her late arrival. She was magnificently attired in a gown of gold lustring with a matching turban and nodding gold plumes. It had cost a pretty penny, but she had thought it worthwhile to invest in a new gown for Lady Ashby's ball. Invitations had not been so plentiful recently, but she had come back to Town after spending the summer with Harry Granthorpe at his Sussex estate to find Lady Ashby's gilt-edged card waiting for her. Never before had the doors of Ashby House been opened to her, but Sir James had always been thick with the Marquis of Ullenwood: this could only mean one thing. Elliot had tired of his little ingénue and wanted her back.

  Now, surveying the hushed ballroom, the surprised faces, she felt a moment of triumph. It was fashionable of course to make a late entrance, and she had always been at the height of fashion. She ignored the cold stares of Sir James and his future bride and made her way toward the marquis. She hardly noticed the pale little figure at his side. Why should she? After all, she was a nonentity.

  Barbara Lythmore curtseyed to her hostess, who offered her the slightest of nods, then she moved on to the marquis.

  'Good evening, my lord.'

  'I was wondering if you would have the temerity to attend.' Lord Ullenwood's tone was cold and he deliberately turned away from her to say to his wife, 'Come, my love. I believe it is cooler on the terrace. Let me fetch your wrap for you.'

  The snub was unmistakable. Mrs Lythmore's eyes blazed with fury but she kept her smile and turned towards the other guests. Every way she moved they turned their backs on her, refusing even to acknowledge her presence. Only Sir James and his fiancée, little Bella Tomlinson, remained facing her.

  'You should know, madam,' said Sir James, his voice carrying quite clearly around the room, 'that your exploits in France have become legendary while you have been out of Town. Oh, don't blame Ullenwood,' he continued as she cast a fulminating glance towards the marquis, standing with his wife on the terrace. 'It was the Ambassador who informed us of your, ah, privileged standing with Bonaparte and his ministers. Such news was shocking enough, madam, but to lay information against your own people, that is unforgivable.'

  'Aye,' muttered someone nearby. 'Shameful.'

  'But I did nothing – it is a lie!' she cried desperately.

  A figure came forward from the crowd and she found herself facing Lord Whitworth.

  'An ambassador must of necessity have many contacts,' he said slowly. 'Did you think I should not discover who had denounced a loyal Englishman and his wife?'

  The murmurs were growing. Mutterings of 'shame' and 'traitor' became louder.

  Lord Whitworth continued. 'His lordship has informed me that he does not wish to pursue the matter, which in the circumstances is very generous of him. However, it might be in your own interests to remove from Town for a while.' He added with heavy emphasis, 'For a long while.'

  Mrs Lythmore looked around her, searching the crowd for a friendly face. There was none: even Harry Granthorpe turned his shoulder. With a shriek of annoyance, she picked up her skirts and fled from the room.

  Silence followed her departure, then a gradual return of conversation. Lady Ashby instructed the musicians to strike up and moments later the couples were dancing again. James and Arabella came out to join Rosamund and her husband on the terrace.

  'Did you see the whole?' demanded Arabella.

  'Yes.' Rosamund sighed. 'I found it quite chilling.'

  Arabella glanced back into the ballroom and shook her head.

  'And now, everything is as it was. Almost as if it never happened.'

  Rosamund looked up at the marquis.

  'Did you plan this, my lord? If so, it was quite reprehensible of you.'

  'No, my dear, I did not exactly plan this. Let us say rather that I suggested she should be invited. Only a woman of immense conceit would have turned up.'

  'Almost, I am sorry for her,' murmured Rosamund as Sir James and Arabella wandered off into the darkened gardens.

  'Do not be. Bad enough that she should seek to harm me, but her treatment of you demanded some retribution,' said Lord Ullenwood. 'This, I think, was just. She may find it hard to persuade a man to become her protector now.'

  'Oh, I would not be too sure,' murmured Rosamund. 'The best of men can be such fools over a pretty face. History bears this out: Helen of Troy, Delilah, Lady Macbeth.'

  He pulled her into his arms. 'And does history show us that men can become besotted with their own wives?'

  Her eyes twinkled but she replied very gravely. 'Decidedly not, my lord.'

  He hugged her closer.

  'Well then, baggage,' he said, his eyes glinting menacingly, 'I think I shall have to be the exception that proves the rule!'

  *** The End ***

  © Melinda Hammond

  Melinda Hammond lives in the Yorkshire Pennines and has been writing her romantic adventures for many years. She also writes as Sarah Mallory for Harlequin Mills & Boon

  To find more about Melinda Hammond and her books

  please visit her author page on Amazon

  or visit her website at

  www.melindahammond.com