A Gentleman and a Scoundrel (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Norma Darcy

  “He doesn’t mean it. He’s bluffing.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” cried Louisa, pulling a strand of hair from her mouth that had been blown there by the wind.

  “Of course I think it. Do you honestly think Crowborough would see any daughter of his married to such a man? Don’t be such a goose, Louisa.”

  “But what if he isn’t bluffing?”

  “He is.”

  “But what if he isn’t?”

  “Then there’s nothing for it, you’ll have to marry me,” declared Nicholas gallantly.

  Louisa bit her lip, swiping away the tears in her eyes. “Oh but, Nicky, you don’t really wish to be married to me, do you?”

  “What a shabby thing to say! Of course I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I’d sooner marry you than see you sacrificed to a man who would make you miserable, at any rate.”

  Louisa ripped a petal from the rose in her hand and tossed it into the stream and was silent. That wasn’t quite the answer she was hoping to hear. She watched the water take the bright red petal and suck it into a long dance as it tumbled over the rocks and was eventually lost from sight.

  “Well you might at least sound pleased about it, or grateful at least,” complained Nicholas.

  “I am grateful. But I wouldn’t want you to do anything you didn’t really wish to do.”

  “I do wish to,” he insisted. “The question is do you want to?”

  “I am fond of you, truly I am…”

  “But?”

  “And I don’t wish to be like those horrid females who are forever changing their minds, but…but I think that you don’t really love me. Oh don’t look so sulky, Nicky! I meant no insult. But I think you are as much in love with Caroline Hinchcliff as you are with me.”

  “Unjust! Since when have I mentioned her name to you?”

  “Never,” she replied with a smile. “And that, I think, is the problem. If you were completely indifferent to her you might have spoken of her given that you danced with her twice at one ball and have spent a good deal of time in her company. But you told me she was only reasonably pretty when everyone knows her to be a great beauty. Oh don’t be cross, dear, dear Nicky! I am not in the least bit upset, which I think means I cannot have been in love with you very much at all, can I?”

  “I suppose not,” he replied, sulkily stubbing the toe of his boot against the rock she was sitting on.

  “And I really think that I should release you from our engagement. Noble as it was, I don’t think you really meant to offer for me at Vauxhall, did you?”

  He shrugged, looking up at the sky and the threatening black clouds that were beginning to gather. The breeze stirred the tails of his coat and the ribbons of Louisa’s bonnet and dandelion seeds flew past them like flakes of snow. A storm was coming.

  “So what now? You’ll marry Malvern I suppose,” said Nicholas, eyeing the clouds with misgiving.

  “I? Marry Malvern?” she demanded, immediately firing up. “I will not!”

  He blinked at her and spread his hands. “What did I say?”

  “Why does everyone assume that just because he is a Duke that I will fall at his feet? He is old and serious and dull and I don’t like him above half,” she said crossly. “I would rather marry Mr Biggleswade than him!”

  “Who?”

  “Oh never mind! I have a headache.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And when you have stopped being such a goose and have decided that you do wish to be married to Malvern after all, be sure and let me know. Come on let’s go in. I just felt the first raindrop and I think it’s going to blow a storm.”

  * * *

  The storm raged loud and lustily through much of the morning, hurling shards of much needed rain at the windows and lashing the ground with hailstone the size of ice cubes. Lightning struck the fence at the boundary with the moor and rendered it into matchsticks. Within two hours the storm had blown itself out leaving a wake of destruction behind it.

  “I think Louisa must have argued with Malvern,” Emma said, setting a stitch in her embroidery. “The reason is unclear but all I do know is that everything is at an end between them. Malvern could hardly wait to have his curricle bought round before he was off and he would not stay for luncheon before he left. I don’t think I ever saw him so vexed. As soon as I saw Louisa’s face I knew that they had argued.”

  Her father gave a snort of disgust and flung his book down upon his desk. “Not exactly a surprise. Your sister could start an argument in an empty room.”

  “Yes, she is a little excitable…”

  “A little?”

  Emma glanced over at him. “She thinks Malvern is too serious for her. She’s young and her head is full of romance novels.”

  He stood up and walked away to the window and looked out at his brother-in-law’s parkland, bracing his hand high against the casement. “She thinks anyone over thirty has one foot in the grave and anyone who has a brain is dull.”

  Emma smiled. “I hope she changes her mind. I heard that you were thinking of the Earl of Marcham for her instead.”

  Lord Crowborough turned around to face her at that with a short laugh. “Robert Marcham? Do you really think I would choose that loose fish for my daughter? God help us. He’ll whip her into shape alright. If you think she and Malvern fight like cat and dog…you will hear the fights she and Marcham will have in the next county. The man would gamble away his own grandmother if he thought he’d make some money out of it. Well, my dear, you wanted excitement at Haymarsh and now you have it. A notorious rake in the family will make us a hit with our neighbours, will it not?”

  “Do you know him then?”

  “Marcham? A little. Malvern knows him better than I. They have neighbouring property in Worcestershire―” he broke off as a thought occurred to him. “Oh lord, that will set the cat amongst the pigeons, won’t it? Jasper would be neighbours with Louisa as Marcham’s wife. Poor Jasper.”

  Emma sank back into her chair. “Can we not do something?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “But only think! Poor Malvern. How humiliating for him! To have the woman who he was destined to marry living right next door as another man’s wife.”

  “Humiliating? That’s certainly one way of putting it,” he said, leaning his hips against the window sill, his back to the glass.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would imagine that humiliation would be the very last of his feelings on the subject. He’s about as deeply in love with your sister as any man I’ve ever seen.”

  “He never shows anything but the utmost politeness to her as he does to anyone. I have never seen the look of the lover about him when he is with her.”

  “That, I suspect, is the problem,” her father replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Louisa is romantic and Malvern ain’t. If I know anything about ladies, she’s waiting for him to sweep her off her feet. And she can wait in vain for that to happen. Malvern’s more likely to offer to show her how to feather a corner than offer her pretty compliments.”

  “Feather a corner?”

  “Driving to an inch, my dear. Our Duke is never happier than on the seat of his curricle.”

  “I must do something,” Emma said, contemplating the carpet at her feet. “I know Louisa likes him. I know it. All she needs is a little push.”

  He put his head on one side, watching her with a smile playing about her lips. “Shall I invite the Earl of Marcham to stay, my dear?”

  She looked at him, knowing what he was thinking. “Do you think he’d come?”

  “No, I think he’d find it intolerably dull. But if Louisa were to think he was coming…”

  * * *

  In the event, the Earl of Marcham had no intention of visiting the neighbourhood of Foxhill or even journeying as far south as London and was settled to stay at his house in Worcestershire for the foreseeable future.

  This was ju
st as well, as Lord Crowborough never wrote to him. He picked up a folded tailor’s bill and pretended that it was a letter from Marcham; a faint smile touched his lips as he waved the paper in the air and looked under his brows at his youngest daughter.

  “He will be here next Friday,” said he, lying glibly. “If he can tear himself away from the Faro table at Whites for long enough, that is.”

  Louisa blinked. “He’s coming here? But I thought you were going north to see him?”

  “I was,” replied her father. “I saved myself the bother of a northward journey by writing to Marcham in London. I heard that he was staying there with friends and wrote him to come to us for a few days before he journeys north again.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought Marcham had any friends,” muttered Nicholas gloomily into his wineglass.

  The Earl threw the letter down upon the table. “It appears he does have some friends. But for how long they remain his friends is another matter.”

  “But…oh but sir, is it certain?” cried Louisa.

  “Of course Your engagement with Nicholas is at an end and you have refused Malvern so I am running out of options. You must marry someone, you know. Marcham is not so very bad…at least he’s not as bad as he was…he has sobered with age. I believe he still intends to wed someone, if only he can find a willing bride of rank who is not too fussy where he has been.”

  Louisa went white. “But he…he’s debauched…and a drunk…and a womaniser. He is not as young as…as…some people.”

  Crowborough contrived to hide a smile. “Malvern isn’t exactly a saint, you know.”

  Her eyes flew upward. “I was not talking about Malvern,” she said crossly.

  He bowed his head. “No, of course you weren’t. Apologies. I misunderstood you.”

  “Yes, you did. And I wish everyone would stop mentioning his name every five minutes.”

  “Whose name?”

  Louisa rolled her eyes. “Malvern’s.”

  “Oh…I didn’t think I was mentioning his name every five minutes,” commented her father.

  “You are all of you doing it. If I’m not hearing about his wealth and his estates, then I’m hearing what a fine gentleman he is, and his kind, polished manners. And if it’s not that then it’s how handsome he is, or how clever he is or it’s how he can turn a four-in-hand upon a sixpence. On and on it goes until I am thoroughly sick of hearing about him.”

  “I see,” murmured his lordship.

  Mr King raised his eyes from his contemplation of the floor and fixed the Earl with a knowing look. “Don’t rise to it, Louisa. He’s roasting you.”

  “My dear Ned, I am doing nothing of the sort,” replied the Earl with an amiable smile. “It is the Lady Louisa who is fixated with the Duke of Malvern.”

  “I am not!” said that young lady, bosom heaving. “I care not if I never see him again.”

  “The rate you are going, you may well have your wish,” responded her father.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Why merely that Malvern is shopping for a wife. He tells Mr Ashworth here that he is taken with a Miss Thomas.”

  “A Miss Thomas? And who, pray, is she?” demanded Louisa, turning her eyes upon Marcus Ashworth.

  “Dark haired chit,” responded Nicholas promptly, before his brother had time to respond. “Swimming in blunt, squints like a ferret. And built like a―well, let’s just say that he wouldn’t need a pillow at any rate if he were to marry her.”

  “Nicky, please do strive for some manners,” said his brother in pained exasperation.

  “Does he mean to have her then?” asked Louisa, ignoring this, her voice brittle.

  “I have no idea. You will have to ask Jasper,” replied the elder Mr Ashworth.

  “Does he love her?” asked Emma, lowering her embroidery.

  “Who knows?”

  “Well, I wish him happy,” said Emma, dropping her eyes back to her needlework. “He once told me that he loved a young lady but was honour bound to wed a Munsford instead. Well, as that is not now going to happen he is free to pursue the dearest wish of his heart.”

  “Do you think a gentleman should pursue the wish of his heart then?” Mr Marcus Ashworth enquired from the other side of the room where he had appeared to have lost interest in his book.

  “If he is able to and it causes no harm to others…yes.”

  “And if the wish of his heart is distasteful to the object of his desire?”

  “He should at least tell the object of his desire of his feelings.”

  “I see. And if those feelings are not returned?” asked Mr Ashworth. “Surely the gentleman is open to a certain degree of humiliation at the lady’s hands?”

  Emma briefly met his eyes once again. “Certainly there is that risk. But then she would at least know how he feels and would be able to act upon the knowledge if she returns his regard. If he does not tell her then she may pass through life thinking that he does not care.”

  “Can we stop talking about Malvern?” cried Louisa.

  “We weren’t talking about Malvern,” said Nicholas, examining the candlelight playing on the claret in his wineglass.

  “Weren’t we?”

  “No,” said Nicholas. “And if you would stop thinking that the only subject of conversation in this house is you and Malvern, we would all be eternally grateful.”

  Louisa gasped. “I do not!”

  “You do too. Every conversation we have ends up with you leading it back to your damned Duke,” he insisted.

  “Oh Nicky, hush,” said Emma gently.

  “Well she does and it’s getting on my nerves.”

  “He is not my Duke!” said Louisa hotly.

  “More’s the pity. You’d do us all a favour if you would just throw yourself at his chest and have done with it.”

  “Throw myself at him? I will not. I would rather marry Marcham!” she declared.

  “Good,” said her father with promptitude. “Then can I write and tell Marcham that he is most welcome here next Friday?”

  Louisa’s lip trembled and she fled and the door slammed behind her.

  “Oh Lord,” groaned Nicholas, staring at the door through which she had departed. “How much longer do we have to put up with this?”

  “Patience Nick,” said Mr Ashworth softly.

  “But she’s starting to irritate me.”

  Emma smiled as she selected a length of pink embroidery silk. “Then it’s a good job that you and she didn’t make a match of it.”

  “Lord yes, I should have murdered her within a week. If I hear Malvern’s name one more time I swear I’ll…well, it would be un-gentlemanly of me to say what I’ll do.”

  Mr Ashworth met Emma’s amused gaze across the room. “Poor Nicky,” he soothed.

  “Don’t you ‘Poor Nicky’ me! You aren’t the one who has to put up with her moping around all the time.”

  “But you do it so well, Nicky,” said Emma, her eyes dancing.

  “Oh quiet the pair of you.” He stood up abruptly. “Hang it all, I suppose I had better go after her or she’ll be in a fit of the blue devils until breakfast. And have you actually thought what will happen when Marcham does not turn up next Friday?”

  Mr Ashworth smiled faintly. “It won’t come to that.”

  “Oh won’t it? How do you know it won’t?” demanded Nicholas.

  “Trust me, Nick.”

  “Hmm. That’s what you said that time when I took your advice over Annette Ellis. She gave me a black eye that lasted a whole week. No, Marcus, I do not trust you one little bit! Right, I’m off to bed and I’ll look in on Miss Misery Mumps on the way. Goodnight all.”

  * * *

  Nicholas Ashworth sent his eyes heavenward, pleading for divine intervention. He was standing in the door of the Lady Louisa’s bedchamber watching her packing at alarming speed and with no degree of skill. “You can’t leave now, it’s the middle of the night,” he said, exasperated beyond meas
ure.

  “Oh no?” cried Louisa with a hard triumphant smile as she flung her unmentionables into a bandbox. “Just watch me.”

  “Louisa, be reasonable.”

  “Me?” she repeated. “I am not the one who has invited Marcham here against my wishes to view me as if I were a mare in a stud farm.”

  “Well hardly that. Look, for God’s sake, you don’t have to marry the man.”

  “No…you’re right, I don’t and will not.”

  “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “London.”

  “London? Why?”

  “Because there is work to be had there. I can find a post as a governess and support myself and then I need not marry anyone I don’t wish to,” she said, picking up her hairbrush and adding it to the pile.

  Nicholas banged his head against the doorframe in exasperation. “And who do you think is going to employ you as a governess? Only twenty and an expert on the novels of Mrs Radcliffe.”

  Louisa poked her tongue out at him. “Twenty-one and I am good with Sophie’s children. I have taught them their sums.”

  “That does not make you governess material. You don’t want to be a governess, do you?”

  She sniffed. “No, but I do like children.”

  “And I like horses but I don’t want to be a stable hand,” he said, goaded. “Lou, you ninnyhammer, why don’t you go and marry Malvern and have your own children?”

  “I don’t want to marry Malvern,” she said crossly, folding a nightdress.

  “The hell you don’t. You have been miserable ever since he left.”

  “I have not!”

  “You’re in love with the man. Admit it. Go to Stoneacre and get him.”

  “I? Go and get him? Why should I?” she demanded.

  “Because if you don’t, he will marry Miss Whatshername in a fit of pique.”

  “Miss Thomas.”

  “Yes precisely.”

  “Swimming in blunt you said.”

  “Well, perhaps not swimming―”

  “And big bosoms.”

  Nicholas ran a finger around the collar of his shirt as if his neckcloth was too tight. “I say, Lou, it is not modest of you to talk of such things―”