The Marquess' Angel_Hart and Arrow_A Regency Romance Book

by Julia Sinclair

  “I'm surprised Dickey still remembers me well for that.”

  The maid smiled. “It was more than we below stairs ever expected one of the quality to do.”

  Blythe smiled at her faintly. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

  As she made the familiar trek to the library, she wondered when something in her had changed. She had started acting the missionary to go have adventures, but somewhere along the way, she had gotten involved with the people of London, with the Abeggs, with their friends, with other men and women in London who saw the pain all around them and found themselves desperate to do something to fix it, or to at least alleviate it.

  She wasn't the girl she had been before, and there was a wonder to it. Everything was changing so fast, and to have this one piece change as well, the part that had always been something of a guiding star for her, that was alarming and pleasurable at once. Blythe felt somehow as if she were becoming more herself, and she thought back with a smile to what Thomas had said last night. She might have changed him, but she was changing herself as well.

  Tristan was behind the desk, a spread of papers in front of him. When she entered, he glanced up with a grim look in his eyes. “Shall I even bother to ask where you were last night?”

  Blythe felt an inexplicable moment of freedom fall over her. There was no longer a need for lies. As far as she could tell, the worst had already happened, and now she had to survive it. However, survival or not, she had never really been all that good at holding her tongue.

  Blythe lifted her chin. “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not. You are going to do precisely as you please, and it is all I can do to stop you.”

  I would like to see you try, Blythe thought darkly, but it would be pushing Tristan too far to hear her say it. Instead, she stayed silent, her chin lifted up defiantly, and Tristan shook his head. The disgust in his gaze was hard to bear, but she was going to give up mourning her cousin if it killed her.

  She thought he would lecture her or tell her there was another ball she was going to be required to attend, but the next words out of his mouth shocked her. “I have an offer for your hand. It is from a Gerald Forth, Lord Cottering.”

  Blythe stared at him. “Lord Cottering? I've only met him a few times.”

  “I suppose that is why he is so eager to seek your hand.”

  “Tristan!”

  “Do not expect me to be civil and kind when you insist on running all over the whole of creation at night! What is your relation to Lord Cottering?”

  “Tristan, I have none! I have only met this man a few times, and each time, we barely exchanged twenty words. You cannot believe that I will willingly engage myself to some stranger.”

  Tristan shot her a sardonic look. “Why not? From a cursory look, Lord Cottering is well-off, belongs to the right clubs, and has been looking for a wife to adorn his estate for some time. He's young but not too young, and he's popular. I fail to see a reason why you would say no.”

  Blythe wanted to tug her own hair out in frustration. “You cannot be serious. I don't know him. You cannot simply marry me off like this as if it were the Middle Ages! This is barbaric!”

  “It's nothing of the sort. May I remind you that when my father died, I became your guardian. That gives me certain rights and privileges, and I find myself damned tired of looking out for your best interests when you refuse to do the same.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Tristan slammed his hand against the desk, standing to his full height and glaring at her.

  “I'm talking about the fact that you do not give a damn about your reputation and that you are close to leaving it in shambles. I'm talking about the fact that you run roughshod over all of London, and with a single slip of the tongue, you could destroy any chance you have of a decent home and a decent husband. Do you know what the hell happens to women who run around in the night without protection?”

  “I know better than you do,” Blythe snarled.

  To her surprise, Tristan pulled back, eyes wide. “Blythe...?”

  “What?”

  “Did someone hurt you while you were out?”

  Blythe blinked. That was not the response she had been expecting. Tristan came around the desk toward her, and he approached her with a kind of caution, almost as if she were some kind of animal he was afraid he might startle off.

  The tentativeness of his motion stilled the fuming rage she had become almost accustomed to. He reached out to touch her shoulder before pulling back. "Blythe... if something has happened to you, if someone has hurt you in any way, I need to know."

  Blythe shook him off, standing and pacing away. She didn't know if she could stand his sympathy and misplaced worry any more than she could stand his rage.

  "No. Nothing has happened to me. If you stopped and asked me, you might realize that I am far more competent than you might fear. I'm fine. I always have been." A thought occurred to her, and she turned to glare at Tristan. "Are you asking because you do not want to sell Lord Cottering a bill of used goods? Are you worried about the family reputation again, Lord Parrington?"

  Tristan returned her glare with a stony expression, the sympathy and concern draining from it like water. "I think I liked you better years ago, when you were still happy and quiet. No. I wanted to make sure you were safe, but as you say that you are and that nothing terrible has happened to you, I see no reason to prevent your marriage to Lord Cottering. I think you two will make a fine match, so long as you remember your place and your temper."

  "No! Tristan, I utterly refuse! I will not marry the man!"

  "You don't have a say in the matter! You will marry him, before God and country, and that will be the end of it."

  She knew with a chilling certainty that he could enforce this terrible edict. It was well within his power to force her hand. She had known girls who had gone through this same ordeal.

  She opened her mouth to argue, and then she shook her head. "No, I will not waste more of my breath on you."

  Blythe heard Tristan call her name, once almost softly, and then again more angrily, but she was already running toward her room.

  If Tristan thought she was running back to her room to sulk, all the better. Let him think she was a foolish girl without a plan or without resources. She refused to be his prisoner, and soon enough, he would realize that for himself.

  * * *

  18

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  CHAPTER

  EIGHTTEEN

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  I've never quite understood how tedious women who are not Blythe are.

  The Sallings’ dinner party was a bright and lively affair, a small gathering with good food, good drink, and fair company. As the dinner went on, however, Thomas concluded it was largely designed as a way for the eldest Salling daughter to land herself a man, and that he was the fish for whom she had set his hook. She was a pretty girl, tall and blond with a vivid glint in her eyes. Before, Thomas would have enjoyed her company immensely, but now, he wondered if there was something empty about it, something that made him feel a little as though he were talking to a wooden puppet rather than a girl.

  "Of course, philanthropic pursuits are extremely important. I've spent some time working with the poor in the lower part of the city, and the things that I have seen... just terrible!"

  Thomas shot her a sardonic look. "Is that entirely appropriate for a young girl such as yourself, to be so involved with the lower class of people?"

  Doubtless somewhere in the city, wherever Blythe was, her palm was itching to smack him for saying such a thing.

  Miss Sallings only frowned a little before batting her eyes at him. "Well, that is truly for my husband to say whenever we are wed." She put a little stress on the last word, as if she wanted to make sure he remarked upon it. "I certainly hope the man I marry will be amenable
to keeping my good works up to some extent, but if he would rather I stay uptown, I will, of course, do so."

  "So, if your husband says you may, you will, and if he says you can't, you won't."

  The look she gave him was as charming and bright as all the other ones had been, but there was a certain doubt in them now. She was off-script and had no idea what he wanted to hear. "Why, I'm not a doormat, but if my husband tells me a thing, surely it is something that I must be inclined to obey, mustn't I?"

  Thomas knew he was being unfair. There was no reason to hold this chit to some impossible standard Blythe had set. Blythe set impossible standards just by being herself, and Miss Sallings was certainly not going to meet them.

  "I suppose you are right, Miss Sallings. Thank you for that insightful commentary."

  The dinner party continued, and Thomas contented himself with concentrating solely on the man seated on his other side, a rather confused older gentleman who nonetheless had some excellent stories about his time in the Americas.

  I do believe Blythe has changed me more than either of us could ever guess. This would have been at the very least enjoyable just a few months ago. Now it was terrible, and all he could think of was seeing her, being with her.

  Georgiana wasn't even at the party to make it bearable, and when dinner was over, Thomas committed the minor faux pas of pleading fatigue and skipping drinks in the library with the other gentlemen. Miss Sallings looked after him a little like an abandoned puppy, but he couldn't be too sorry to be away and in the coach on his own again.

  Just as they were drawing up to the house, however, he heard the coachman swear, and almost immediately after, a little knock on the door. Curious, Thomas looked out to see a young boy in ragged clothes being hauled up and away by the coachman.

  "I'm sorry, my lord, he must have come out of the bushes. Little brat must have wanted to reach in and make off with something from the coach."

  "I didn't! I was only trying to deliver a message."

  Thomas frowned. "James, let him down. A message?"

  "Yes, sir. A lady gave me a coin to give you a little scrap of paper, and she said you would give me another once you got it."

  "Bold lady, to make so free with my purse." Thomas said it with a grin, however, because he knew exactly who might do something like that. "Let's have it."

  The boy handed over a grubby piece of paper folded so many times he at first thought it was a pebble. When he opened it up, Thomas grinned.

  The piece of paper was written with two words, Parson Hollis, and underneath it was a detailed drawing of a key, the self-same key he had given to Blythe. The message was clear, and Thomas shoved it in his pocket. He pulled out a shilling for the boy, who waited with a hungry look in his eyes, and then paused.

  "What's your name?"

  The young boy blinked. He couldn't have been much older than eight, and he was running around the streets of London close to midnight. "My name, my lord? It's Christopher."

  "Very well, Christopher, I am going to give you this shilling because it was promised to you. Then I am going to have James here take you into the servants' kitchen, where they will give you a decent meal, and after that, if you agree to be good and honest and hardworking, we shall see about getting you a job. You will get the meal and the shilling regardless, but what do you think of the job?"

  The boy's face broke into a grin that rivaled the sun. "I would say yes, sir! I been looking for work for weeks now, and everyone else says that I'm too small and scrawny."

  "You'll fill out. James, did you get all that?"

  The coachman looked a little disgruntled over the turn of events, but he nodded. "Yes, my lord. Perhaps we could use him in the stables to muck out the stalls and tend to the tack. And if he can't handle that, I'll feed him to the bays."

  Thomas grinned. "Good enough for me, but best feed him up a bit so they'll have something to chew on. I'll let you look after the horses, and I'll take the dapple gray out tonight."

  In less than a quarter hour, the dapple-gray, a fine, bright mare who looked on her midnight outing with curiosity and pleasure, was bridled and saddled, and Thomas was astride her, cantering down the quiet street. As he rode, he whistled the first few bars of “Parson Hollis.” Funny, he had always thought it a rather insipid tune, but now he was beginning to love it.

  * * *

  The flat he had purchased for Blythe was in a quiet neighborhood not all that far from his own townhouse. There was a flower market nearby, and to Thomas’ surprise, it was still open. He gigged his horse up to a woman carrying two enormous baskets full of velvety purple blooms.

  "Closing late or opening early?"

  "Neither, my lord. We do not close at all. Plenty of the quality like to buy blooms when they go out visiting, and that can happen at all hours. If we're not selling, we're arranging and ordering and making sure everyone gets what they like."

  Thomas shook his head at the industry of the flower sellers, and after a moment of consideration, he purchased a large bouquet of fragrant deep purple blossoms. Blythe would likely say they were foolish and frivolous, but perhaps she would smile when she said it.

  When he knocked on the door of the flat, there was a moment of silence and then a soft rustle from the other side. Then the door opened, and everything in Thomas simply felt better, safer, happier, when he saw that it was indeed Blythe inside.

  She stepped back to let him in, and she stared at the purple flowers he pressed into her arms.

  "Why, Thomas, what is this?"

  Thomas grinned. "A present. I figured that whatever madness you were going to drag me off on tonight, we might as well start with something lovely. Do you like them?"

  Instead of calling him a fool, she smiled a little, burying her face in the blooms. For a moment, Thomas simply wanted to capture her like that, a small tendril of dark hair straying over her pale brow, a gorgeous hint of a blush on her cheeks. "I do. They're gorgeous. But I'm not sure I have anywhere to put them..."

  In the end, they found an old canister for flour nestled at the back of the small kitchen in the flat. The flowers looked surprisingly sweet in their impromptu vase, and Blythe looked at them for a long moment with an expression Thomas could not read.

  "Blythe?"

  "I'm afraid I have no adventure to take you on tonight, Thomas."

  "What, no orphans in need of rescue, no women who need to be brought out of Seven Dials?"

  "None at all."

  Thomas tilted his head at her briefly. "No mission at all? That's not much like you, angel."

  "Trust me, Thomas, I did not bring you here for no reason. Come with me."

  Bemused, he allowed her to lead him into the small sitting room at the front of the flat, where the hearth was lit and a delicate candelabra burned away on a small table. The light from the candelabra gave everything a rather romantic air, and Thomas was further confused when she indicated he should sit on the comfortable wing chair close to the hearth.

  "Blythe, what is it?"

  Instead of answering him, she stepped closer and, placing both of her hands on his shoulders, she leaned in. For a moment, he thrilled at having her so very close to him, and then he felt a shock run through him when her soft lips met his.

  A better man would have pushed her back and demanded to know what the hell was going on. A better man would not have kissed her without knowing what was going on in her mind, why she had brought him here at midnight, what was happening.

  Thomas liked to think he was a good man, but when it came to this one strange and passionate girl, that estimation had no choice but to drop. From the first moment her lips touched his, all he wanted was more. He wrapped one arm around her narrow waist, bringing her to sit on his lap. That still wasn't close enough, and his other arm came up to drag her closer to him.

  Instead of pushing him away, Blythe clung to him, and even that tiny motion was enough to make him moan into her mouth. When his tongue swept between her lips, they parted for him
willingly, and now he could taste her. There was something so delicious about being able to feast on her lips, to make a meal of all of her.

  Thomas held her steady with one arm along her back, but the other roved her body, stroking down her waist and her hip, shaping her dress against her strong legs. When he reached up one hand to cup a small breast through the fabric of her dress, she whimpered a little, breaking the kiss to rest her forehead against his.

  "Blythe, are you all right?"

  "Of course, I am. Don't... don't stop..."

  Something in her voice, some catch, some hesitation, made him pause. "What is it?"

  "Don't you want me? Don't you want this, Thomas?"

  "That feels like some kind of trap, angel. Of course, I do. I want you like I want water on a hot day. The question is, what do you want?"

  "I want this."

  This time, her voice broke a little, and the desire kindling between them received a dash of cold water. He took several breaths to steady himself and then pulled her back a little. She was still sitting in his lap, but he touched her chin, making her look up so he could clearly see her face.

  "Blythe... what's the matter? You send me a message telling me to meet you here, and you act so very strangely, and now you say one thing and your body is telling me another."

  Most of the time, Blythe was brimming over with passion, with the need to be up and doing. Now Thomas saw something icy and controlled in her gaze, something that shook him to the core. He had never seen her look more like a Carrow than she did right now.

  He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, making her look him in the eye. "Angel, what's happened? What's going on?"

  "Tristan has decided that it is time for me to marry."

  A surge of pure rage lanced through him. If Tristan Carrow had been standing before him just then, there was a good chance Thomas would have struck the man down. There was no sense to it, no rationale, no mercy at all. The idea of another man even contemplating taking Blythe made his veins fill with ice. "To who?"