by Jane Goodger
More Historical Romance from Jane Goodger
Marry Christmas
A Christmas Scandal
A Christmas Waltz
When a Duke Says I Do
The Mad Lord’s Daughter
When a Lord Needs a Lady
JANE GOODGER
eKENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Miserable Marquess
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Copyright Page
The Miserable Marquess
“It’s said he never smiles. That he is one of the most miserable men in all of Britain and that his heart—if he has one—is the size of a pea.” She held up her thumb and index finger to show just how small his heart was.
Graham, at first horrified, let out a sharp, and rather rusty, laugh. “Do tell me more.”
She smiled, her full lips looking incredibly enticing at the moment, so Graham forced himself to look into her eyes. They were changeable eyes, green and gray and blue in a field of golden brown. “It’s said—I overheard Miss Wright talking with her mother about Lord Avonleigh—that he will marry the very first girl he smiles at. Not a polite smile. A true smile.”
He hadn’t heard that one. “Truly? That’s what they say?”
“That and the part about him not having a heart. He’s known as the Miserable Marquess.”
“He has a heart,” he muttered. “Somewhere.”
“Of course he has one,” she said. “He simply has never used it.”
Chapter 1
“I’m dying.”
At her mother’s words, Katherine Wright let out a small, silent sigh as she looked at the crowded beach from their suite in the Grand Hotel. Brighton was nothing like Newport. There was nothing genteel or stifling about this famed holiday spot. It was crowded with what her mother called riffraff. It was raucous and loud. It was . . . wonderful.
“I am dying,” her mother insisted, removing the cool compress from her forehead and placing it directly over her eyes. “I was led to believe Brighton was the place to go. The place. Charles Dickens used to holiday here.”
“That was twenty years ago, Mother. And I rather like it. It’s so alive. And one cannot find fault with the hotel or its clientele. It’s all so very charming. Those bathing machines. Really,” Katherine said, looking at the line of small covered wagons that quality women used to change in before bathing out of view. She’d used one just yesterday, curiosity overcoming her. She’d carried her bathing outfit in a satchel, climbed aboard, and changed while the wagon was pulled by a very sad-looking horse, approximately fifteen feet into the water. The driver waded into the water and, with a small splash, dropped a set of stairs. She’d stepped carefully down into the cold water, her slippered feet sinking only a bit into the hard-packed sand. The wagons were in place so that no male eye could spy on a woman while she wore her bathing costume. After a bit of wading, she hauled herself out and was done.
How different from that holiday two years ago she’d spent at her grandmother’s home in upper New York when, wearing nothing but her shift, she’d run full-tilt off a broad, flat rock and into the cold lake water with a joyous scream. If Mother had known, she would have fainted. Even there, in that silly old wagon, her mother stood diligently by making certain no man glimpsed an ankle—or worse, perhaps the curve of her calf—as she stepped down the ladder.
Her mother had not joined her, but waited in the bathing machine, complaining about the odd smell in Brighton.
“It’s the sea,” Katherine had said. “I think it smells rather nice.”
Katherine turned from studying the bathing machines to look at her mother. She did look rather awful. She’d suffered from megrims for years, but these bouts seemed to be coming more frequently of late—and just when it was time for her mother to do something she didn’t care to do. Today, they’d planned to walk along the pier. The English called it promenading; Katherine simply loved the way the English made everything seem just a bit more special. It was a glorious day, and Katherine ached to go out and join the throngs.
“So many people. Who are they all? I can tell that they’re not all the type of people I was led to believe would be in Brighton. I can hear them from here. Close the window, dear.” Elizabeth Wright was a good woman, Katherine knew, but she was a terrible snob.
It was true that Brighton attracted an eclectic crowd, and Katherine was beginning to suspect Lady Haversly, who was giving Katherine entrée into society this fall, had simply wanted the pair of them out of her hair for the summer.
“They take the rail here, I’m told,” Elizabeth said. “Droves of them escaping the city like rats.”
Katherine gave her mother a look, even though the older woman’s eyes were still covered with the compress. “I do wish you weren’t always such a snob, Mother.”
“You’ll be glad when you’re a duchess,” Elizabeth said smugly.
Katherine took a bracing breath. She didn’t want to be a duchess or a marchioness or even a baroness. She wanted to go home to New York City and attend school as she’d always planned to do. What was the point of all that studying she’d been forced to do if not to prepare her for a university education? When she’d broached the subject with her mother, she might as well have announced that she planned to become a prostitute. It was then she realized, with a slow build of horror, that all her lessons in language, philosophy, and European history were simply to prepare her for her life as a peer. It had been a well-orchestrated and carefully planned operation—and Katherine almost admired her mother’s ability to stay focused on the prize all these years.
“Money is crass, dear. But having a title, that is something you cannot buy. I only wish my own mother had done for me what I have done for you.”
It hadn’t occurred to her mother that waving her dowry in front of an impoverished peer was tantamount to buying a title. And it also hadn’t occurred to her that if Grandmamma had married her mother to a title, Katherine would not have existed—at least not in her present form.
“I’m going to my room to read,” Katherine said. “I hope you feel well enough to attend supper. I hear the Duke of Monmouth will be in attendance.”
That perked her mother right up. “A duke, you say?”
“ ’Tis only a rumor.” Made up by Katherine about a title that had ended with the infamous Duke of Monmouth’s beheading in the sixteen hundreds. She pushed away the twinge of guilt she felt for lying to her mother.
Elizabeth sagged back down into her pillow, grabbing the cool cloth from her head. “If he is in attendance, I will simply have to endure the pain. It is an opportunity we cannot miss. A duke. Now, that would make everything perfect, would it not? Though I did rather have my sights on the Duke of Penfrey. He’s supposed to be so handsome and have such a lovely home in London.”
Katherine looked at her mother with amused exasperation. She drove Katherine to distraction, but she loved her mother with all her heart. “Yes, it would be nice, wouldn’t it?” she said softly.
She walked over to her mother and gently replaced the compress, then kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you
tonight then, in our little dining room. At eight?”
“Unless the duke is here,” Elizabeth said softly, already sounding as if she were drifting off to sleep.
“Unless the duke is here,” Katherine said, then tiptoed from the room.
“Oh no, miss. If you get caught, it’s my job that’ll be lost.” Clara, Katherine’s loyal maid and partner in crime, didn’t look even a tiny bit worried. Her eyes danced with excitement. Such a bad maid, she was. Katherine grinned.
“That won’t happen, Clara. Mother cannot dismiss you because I will not allow it.” She looked in the mirror and smiled. She looked so . . . ordinary. Just a girl going out for a stroll. She’d pretend to be looking for someone on the beach, but in reality she would be gloriously alone with no one hovering about, no one keeping an eagle’s eye out for any untitled gentleman who might dare look her way.
Yesterday, for the first time, she’d donned her maid’s skirt and shirtwaist and a smart little hat with a jaunty blue feather, and walked along the beach all by herself. For an entire ten minutes. It had been glorious and perhaps the most frightening thing she’d ever done. To feel the wind against her cheeks, to pause and watch the children play, to wonder what the sand would feel like between her toes. She’d bought a bit of fried dough laden with powdery white sugar that she’d never seen before in her life. It was heaven in her mouth.
And she was going to do it all again today.
“What if your mother finds out?” Clara hissed rather gleefully. Honestly, a proper lady’s maid would go scurrying off to tattle on her. But not Clara.
Katherine shrugged as if she didn’t care, but of course she did. She didn’t want to upset her mother, truly, but she also didn’t want to spend the day staring at the four walls of her room again. She didn’t know what had come over her when she first looked out at Brighton Beach and saw all those people, all that activity and chaos. She stood there and felt the strangest impulse to be impulsive. This trip had not been well planned, not at all. They had expected to be in the midst of titled ladies and gentlemen, but instead found themselves surrounded by no one of import. Truth be told, Katherine was relieved. They only needed to stay in England for the Little Season and then they could go home. That meant she could be sleeping in her own bed by Thanksgiving. She missed her younger sister terribly and was simply biding her time until they could return to New York.
Despite the lure of her rather large dowry, no titled gentleman had given her even a passing look except a rather loathsome viscount whom even her mother found extremely disagreeable. The Wrights were wealthy, but they were not part of the New York elite, that nouveau riche group of shipping magnates and steel barons who ruled society in New York. No, the Wrights were on the fringes of that group. And while her mother dreamed of becoming close friends with the Vanderbilts and their ilk, Katherine knew that eventuality was unlikely and truly didn’t wish for it.
Though her mother dreamed of a title, Katherine knew her mother would never force her into a marriage she found disagreeable. Instead, and this really was so naïve and sweet of Mother, she hoped a titled gentleman would actually fall in love with her daughter. From what Katherine had seen of titled gentlemen thus far, she felt she was fairly safe from that fate. Everyone was so very English, and she was so very American. She didn’t see anyone other than a desperate man being interested in her at all.
Katherine was about to step from the room when Clara stopped her. “Oh goodness, I almost forgot,” she said, hurrying from her bedroom to a small sitting area. “A letter from your sister.” Clara thrust the thick packet in her hand, giving her another cheeky grin.
Katherine smiled again, tucking the letter into her pocket before slipping out the door and into the thickly carpeted hall. They were on the sixth floor and Katherine didn’t want to wait for the lift, so she headed toward the massive square staircase, taking the time to look down at the breathtaking view from above. She adored heights.
She took lively steps down and down until she reached the opulent lobby, its marble floor gleaming. She walked through the front door without drawing a single glance, for the moment enjoying the anonymity of appearing to look like a servant. She walked directly out of the hotel’s grand entrance and across the street to the soft sands of Brighton Beach, thick with people taking the waters, all dressed from head to toe in their finest bathing outfits. She walked along the beach toward the pier that jutted into the sea, dodged by small children who rushed to the water’s edge to collect water for their castles’ moats. Breathing deeply, Katherine let out a sigh of pure contentment.
“Miss?”
Katherine looked about for the small voice, but saw nothing—until she looked straight down and spotted a little head poking up from the sand, blue eyes full of mischief.
“Oh,” she said. “A sea nymph.”
That won her a giggle.
“I’m a little girl, not a sea nymph,” the girl said in her charming little English accent. Even though Katherine knew she was in England, hearing those broad vowels from a child made her smile.
“Oh.” Katherine hunkered down. “And what villain buried you in the sand like this? Shall I fetch the constable?”
Another giggle. “My brother,” she said. “And he only did as I asked. I buried him right proper yesterday. He got stuck.”
A bit farther down the beach, a little boy broke from his mother’s grasp and ran toward them. “I think your brother is here to save you,” she whispered, standing up to greet the boy and his mother.
“She almost stepped on me,” the girl announced.
“That is true,” Katherine said, with a laugh. “And now that I know you are in good hands, I’ll be off. Good-bye, little nymph.”
Her brother, nearly covered from head to toe in sand, was already helping his little sister emerge from the sand.
“Good day,” she said to the mother, who returned the greeting.
As Katherine was walking away, she heard the mother say, “She was an American lady. Imagine, all the way from America.”
Katherine smiled, knowing she’d never have become part of such a charming scene if she’d stayed in her room. The smell of fish and chips filled the air, and not far down, a small band was playing on a pavilion. Stalls with souvenirs and candy lined the beach, and Katherine dug in her pocket for a bit of change. The closest stall was filled with plates and tiny silver spoons with the words “Brighton Beach” engraved on them.
“I’ll take this,” she said, pulling out one spoon with a charming depiction of the pier. She tucked it in her pocket, liking the small weight of it there.
The beach was terribly crowded, so finding a place of relative privacy where she could read her sister’s letter was difficult. Finally, she settled on an old jetty near a tidal pool not far from the pier, her feet dangling just inches from the water. A tiny crab scurried along the smooth sand beneath the calm water of the pool, stirring up a small cloud of silt. “I’m afraid I’ve eaten quite a few of your relatives,” she said as she pulled out her sister’s letter.
Dearest Katherine:
It is so completely boring in the city without you here. And scorchingly hot. Yesterday, it was so hot I stayed all day in my room, not daring to move else I’d incinerate from the friction. I imagine you sitting on a terrace at the seaside, a cool breeze making you chilled, and forcing you to send Clara for a wrap. I imagine you eating ices and dipping your toes in the cold English water. Is it cold? Are you baring your toes? Father brought me to Central Park; I fear I’d made quite a nuisance of myself with my complaints. He’s been in boring meetings with Mr. Rockefeller since you’ve been gone. Father’s been very busy, and our trip to the park was lovely for both of us.
Aunt Beatrice stopped by last week with Cousin Jake. He’s become so tall. Or perhaps I am shrinking?
Katherine laughed softly aloud, and unthinkingly placed the page beside her to continue reading. Her poor sister made it sound as if New York was shockingly miserable, but she knew
her Lucy was rather dramatic—as most fifteen-year-olds were prone to be. Poor thing. It did sound awfully hot in New York. And she was enjoying a cool breeze at the moment.
A cool breeze that lifted the first page of her sister’s letter off the jetty and floated it like a tiny boat in the tidal pool. “Oh drat,” she said, glaring at the page. She reached for it, but the page drifted tantalizingly out of reach. Perhaps if she leaned just so, with one hand grasping a post, her feet planted just at the water’s edge, she could just . . . about . . .
“Oh,” she cried, as her grip on the jetty pole slipped and she began the inevitable headfirst fall into the shallow water.
And then “Oh!” again, as a strong hand gripped her wrist and pulled her back to safety. She looked up into the most beautiful male eyes she’d ever seen in her life. His eyes, an almost preternatural shade of gray, were only partially shielded beneath a thick fringe of dark lashes.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, laughing, delighted to be saved by such a gallant and handsome man, who instead of laughing with her, frowned. His hand still gripped her wrist, warm and large, and when Katherine looked down, he immediately dropped it.
“Beg pardon,” he said, stiffly.
“I cannot, sir. For if you had not put your hand around my wrist, I would be in the water right now and quite miserable.” She grinned up at him, almost willing him to smile back at her.
“You’re an American girl,” he said, giving her a quick, impersonal look, which no doubt took in the fact she wasn’t quality—not even American quality. And in that moment, Katherine knew—she knew—that he was quality. From the tips of his shiny shoes, to his light woolen trousers and his fine linen shirt covered by an expensive, beautifully cut jacket, this man was quality. Perhaps even the kind of quality who had a title in front of his name. Oh drat.
Graham Spencer, Marquess of Avonleigh, knew the minute the girl in front of him realized, perhaps not who he was, but most certainly what he was, for her face lost its light. Her smile disappeared, and her eyes, sparkling not moments before, turned cold. He felt the loss of that light acutely, which was nearly as much a shock to him as his very presence on this beach.