The Marquess’s Hand_A Regency Romance Novel

by Rosie Wynter

  “You have a talent for answering questions, Lord Wareham,” Rosalie replied. “Somehow you manage to turn your every answer into a most pleasing compliment. I can see now why so many of the married women here seem eager to abandon their husband’s side for the opportunity to talk to you instead.”

  “Perhaps,” Wareham replied. “I hope, however, that you do not think I give such compliments lightly.”

  Rosalie pursed her lips at that remark and failed to answer. As she looked ahead of her, something caught her eyes and caused her to stiffen. She did not know if the Marquess had noticed it, but she had to assume he had. His gaze followed hers to a nearby herd of grazing cows. A milkmaid was sitting on a stool, milking one of the herd and giving a mug of the warm liquid to a young girl with bright blonde hair. The girl and her darker-haired father were unmistakable to Rosalie, and she found herself suddenly unsure what she should do. A sensation of guilt threatened to overcome her, along with a powerful wish not to be seen on Lord Wareham’s arm by the gentleman and his daughter.

  Wareham’s eyes naturally followed Rosalie’s to the pair standing by the cows. He took a sharp intake of breath and squeezed her arm in a manner that Rosalie assumed was meant to be reassuring. “Perhaps it would be best if we turned about and re-joined the party.” He spoke in a low tone but quickly corrected himself, as a reassuring smile forced its way to his lips. “I do not think it would be wise to keep you to myself for too long. Your aunt is a formidable woman, and I would not wish to trespass on her good side by abusing the privilege of walking you about the park.”

  Rosalie bit her lip and turned her head away from the unmistakable form of Mr Farrell and Abigail. She felt like some night-time thief scuttling about, trying to remain unseen. Still, she did not wish for Mr Farrell to see her with the Marquess, and an equally strong part of her did not wish Lord Wareham to learn of her association with Mr Farrell. She did not answer him verbally, but wheeled about and allowed herself be led quietly back down the path. As they walked silently, she concentrated on not turning back towards Mr Farrell.

  Silence reigned between the two as they made their way back towards their merry group of picnickers. Before they were close enough to be spied by Lady Lynch and the rest of the group, however, Lord Wareham once again drew Rosalie to a stop. Daringly, he took her hands in his as he turned his whole body to face her. His emerald-green eyes gazed into hers enquiringly, seeming to search out the answer to a question he had not even asked yet. “Before we return to the party, I must ask if you would permit me to call on you the day after tomorrow, as I requested. I promise to give you a full account of all your attractive qualities should you agree to see me. I can also promise a pleasant adventure through London’s most exciting districts, places I am sure your aunt would not think to take you in search of a husband.”

  Rosalie had been quite distracted by her confused feelings after sighting Mr Farrell. Still, the Marquess cut through her ruminations like a knife through an envelope. All of a sudden, she became completely entranced by the sensation of the handsome man’s fingers entwined with hers, his eyes boring into hers as though she were the sole object of interest in the world to him. “I would be honoured. I shall ask my aunt as soon as we return to the party.”

  Wareham laughed. “No need to rush. I shall speak to her myself, before you depart. In such matters, it is better manners for the suitor to ask permission of the relatives.”

  “Are you my suitor, now?” Rosalie asked, a girlish smile spreading across her face as she easily returned to her innocent flirtation with the man.

  “Well, that is entirely up to you, Miss Curtis.” Lord Wareham certainly was daring. Their first walk out together, on only their second meeting, and Rosalie felt as if she was somehow the man’s entire world. It was an intoxicating feeling, and she revelled in it. Her earlier determination to find fault with the man, in order to disappoint her aunt, had vanished. Rosalie had not even noticed the moment when her desire to distance herself from the Marquess had disappeared.

  On returning to Grosvenor Square, Rosalie noticed the look of amusement on her aunt’s face. Lady Lynch had been unusually silent on the journey home, not making any mention of Lord Wareham or revealing what had passed between herself and the man when he had cornered her for a private word as the party had begun to disperse. Rosalie knew exactly why her aunt was holding back. She wanted to force Rosalie to make a confession, to admit that she had taken a true and genuine interest in the man, just as her aunt had predicted she would. As they walked up to the drawing room and the lady’s servants hurried to make tea, Rosalie gave in to her aunt’s wishes. There was no sense in prolonging her agony, especially when her aunt had won the right to crow the moment Rosalie had accepted Lord Wareham’s invitation in the park.

  “I am going to assume that Lord Wareham asked your permission to escort me around the city the day after tomorrow?” Rosalie tried to keep her voice even and casual, not wishing to suggest there was anything special or noteworthy about the matter.

  “Yes, he did indeed.” Lady Lynch took her seat and settled down. She seemed to take an inordinate amount of time adjusting her position in the chair and fluffing a cushion, obviously stalling for time to increase Rosalie’s anticipation.

  “So, did you give him permission?” Rosalie knew she was sounding impatient but no longer cared. She could not play her aunt’s games, so reasoned she may as well give up trying.

  “I told the man I was quite heartbroken that he would wish to undertake such a pleasant day out without also begging me to join him. I demanded to know, at once, if my age was finally catching up with me and if my beauty no longer captured his heart, as it had in the past.” Lady Lynch wore a cat-like smile on her lips, and Rosalie found it impossible to tell whether the woman was speaking truthfully or just playing further games with her.

  “Did you really say such shameful things, Aunt?”

  “Of course, I did.” Lady Lynch answered defensively, actually frowning at her niece, as if insulted. “These are not the Dark Ages. I may have no inclination to find a gentleman to replace my dear late husband, but that does not mean I do not appreciate the occasional compliment thrown my way. Lord Wareham has always been quite liberal in providing such flattering remarks, and I am quite loath to think I might see you robbing me of such attention.”

  Rosalie found herself slightly unsettled to think of her aunt flirting so blatantly with a man half her age and an object of interest for her niece. She tried not to get sucked into her aunt’s odd behaviour and pressed to the only part of the conversation that mattered. “But did you agree to let me step out with him?”

  “Well of course I did,” Lady Lynch said at last. “Once Wareham assured me that his fascination with you is born out of the striking resemblance you bear to me in my youth, I was convinced to accede to his wishes. Still, I hope for your sake that his words had no real truth to them. Otherwise, you must be sure to keep him well away from your sister Grace as she is the very essence of me in my youth.”

  Rosalie pursed her lips, feeling as if she was being toyed with by her aunt at every turn. Now the woman was actually trying to arouse her to jealousy. “I am sure your forcing him to compliment you made him say something he did not mean... I would not be so proud of earning such praise through coercion.”

  Tea was brought in, and Lady Lynch gratefully took her cup from the servant, not seeming at all moved by her niece’s criticism of her. “You really must not be so mired in your own sense of piety. It doesn’t suit this new century. Lord Wareham has a good reputation, but he is quite open and generous in his praise of others. I have always found his flirtations quite charming, actually. He does wonders in building the confidence of others who might otherwise be lacking in self-esteem.”

  Rosalie frowned to hear this. Of course, she was quite aware that the man enjoyed a good rapport with other women, from studying his exchanges with them in their last two encounters. Even so, such innocent flirtations as he might giv
e other women were one slight black mark against his name. It was quite unfair. She had gone out that day to find a blemish on Lord Wareham’s character which she could use as an excuse to cast thoughts of him from her mind. As things had transpired, she had found her blemish on his character but also found much that she liked in the man. She liked his daring personality, the way she herself felt impulsive and a little reckless in his presence.

  Almost out of nowhere, Rosalie suddenly leaned forward and looked at her aunt with conviction in her eyes. “As my next meeting with Lord Wareham is not until the day after tomorrow, I would like to make my call on Mr Farrell and his daughter tomorrow.”

  Lady Lynch blinked, and she seemed to deflate slightly at her niece’s words. “Really? I had hoped your time with Lord Wareham would have cured you of your interest in that man.” She took a somewhat agitated sip of her tea and shrugged her shoulders. “Seeing as nothing seems to cure you of your fascination with Mr Farrell, I will allow it. To be clear though, I am only doing this for my own peace of mind. I am quite tired of that man creeping into our conversations. I can only hope your next meeting with Lord Wareham will help banish your lingering regard for that erstwhile gentleman.

  CHAPTER 16

  A sense of trepidation overtook Rosalie as she walked down Harley Street, looking for the correct address for Mr Farrell’s home. Although she was very insistent on following through on her promise to the man and his daughter, Rosalie found herself dragging her feet as she left her aunt’s home. She had made excuses to delay her leaving all through the morning, and after she had stepped out of the door, she had reminded herself several times that there was a good chance Mr Farrell would not be at home. It confused her that she both wanted to see him and didn’t, simultaneously. Her feelings towards the man were even more ambiguous and confusing than those she held for Lord Wareham. Indeed, her fascination with that other gentleman had only served to further muddy the waters of her emotions, leaving her wishing that she lived in a world where she had met one or other of the gentlemen and not both.

  After she had rung the bell beside the large black door to Mr Farrell’s property, Rosalie stepped back and looked up to the windows. She half hoped to find no signs of occupancy from within. However, within a moment, a small head crowned with a tangle of golden curls was pressed to the glass and the figure started to bang on the glass excitedly. Rosalie smiled up at Abigail. It was not a contrived or false smile. The girl’s innocence and vivacity would always earn a true smile from Rosalie. Still, the realisation that Mr Farrell was at home and that she would now have the opportunity to speak to him alone and uninterrupted had her nervous.

  She had expected a servant to open the door to her, but instead, it was Mr Farrell himself who answered the call. He blinked twice at the sight of her. He looked out onto the street, his eyes sweeping down both sides. Rosalie knew what he was doing. With his tattered reputation, he was making sure that no one of note saw her standing in his doorway. This cloak and dagger response was somewhat depressing to see, and Rosalie took no joy in being seemingly smuggled into the man’s home.

  “Miss Curtis, you came!”

  As Rosalie crossed the threshold and Mr Farrell closed the door, she found herself assaulted by young Abigail, who threw herself recklessly into Rosalie’s arms. “I promised you I would call, did I not?”

  “You did.” Abigail clutched at Rosalie’s right hand and immediately began to pull on her arm. Clearly, the young girl already had an itinerary planned for her.

  Rosalie looked to Mr Farrell, uncertain if she should resist the young girl’s pull or not. It felt wrong for her to indulge Abigail’s whims and pay Mr Farrell no heed at all. As ever though, the man was the epitome of a doting father and just smiled encouragingly at Rosalie.

  “I believe my daughter is going to give you a very thorough and informed tour of the house. Please only go as far as you are willing to go with her. I will tell the servant to make some tea in the meantime.”

  Rosalie was led on an uneven and strangely paced tour of Mr Farrell’s home. Though she was essentially following Abigail in order to indulge the young girl, Rosalie found herself quite fascinated to take this intimate peek into the life of the mysterious Mr Farrell. As she looked at the bookshelves and the works of art that lined the walls, Rosalie could not help but feel each artefact was some clue as to the man’s true character. The bookshelves were lined predominantly with books on medicine and the human anatomy, most likely relics of Mr Farrell’s father. There were a few works of fiction on display, but the rest of the books all seemed to be related to history and geography. A good few books seemed to involve the Americas, and Rosalie remembered that this was where Mr Farrell had made the bulk of his fortune.

  In the drawing-room, a beautiful pianoforte sat in a far corner, and Abigail was quick to show off her skills at playing. She was somewhat clumsy with her fingers and could only manage slower, simpler tunes. Still, for only seven years old, she had some talent, and it was likely she would be quite accomplished by the time she matured into adulthood. Rosalie sat next to the eager child as she played, offering encouraging smiles every time Abigail’s eyes drifted to her. It was quite obvious that the girl was hoping for praise, and Rosalie was more than happy to boost the young girl’s ego.

  Still, as Abigail muddled through her repertoire of memorised pieces, Rosalie could not help but let her eyes wander away to take in the rest of the room. One thing caught her eye in particular, as she scanned the space: a small portrait that hung inconspicuously in the corner. The subject of the painting was a woman with blonde curling hair quite similar to Abigail’s, but with brown eyes instead of the child’s green. The eyes of the subject seemed to stare out from the canvas, watching the child as she played. The resemblance between the woman in the small portrait and Abigail was striking indeed, and Rosalie was left with a distinct feeling that she was looking at none other than Abigail’s mother, the mysterious serving girl whom Mr Farrell had married and who was rumoured to have died shortly after delivering Abigail into the world. It was not a particularly brilliant work of art. There was something amateurish about the portrait, and Rosalie wondered if perhaps Mr Farrell himself had been the artist responsible.

  Rosalie was so struck by the image she quite failed to notice that Abigail had stopped playing. Her mind was filled once more with mounting curiosity about the truth regarding Mr Farrell’s scandalous falling out with Lady Hargrave and her family. Her aunt had hinted that Mr Farrell’s relations with a servant had been emotionless and base in nature, but the presence of this crude portrait seemed to suggest some definite feeling on the part of the gentleman. Rosalie could not imagine Mr Farrell taking the time to have the woman painted, nor displaying her image in his home if he had cared nothing for her.

  “Miss Curtis, did you like my playing?” Abigail pulled on Rosalie’s dress, trying desperately to win back her visitor’s attention.

  “Yes, it was very good,” Rosalie answered somewhat failing to mask her distraction. “Tell me, Abigail, who is the woman in that picture there?”

  Abigail turned her head to look at the picture and shrugged her shoulders straight away. “I don’t know. Stay here. I am going to find some of the stories I like to write, and you must see my own paintings too.”

  Rosalie was disappointed that the child had not shown even the slightest hint of interest in the portrait. It must have been a by-product of her youthful exuberance, but Rosalie wondered how the young girl had not looked at that picture before and not noted the similarities that lay there.

  As Abigail shot out of the room in search of more things to show her guest, Rosalie stood from the piano stool and walked over to the picture. She stared at it closely, taking in all the aspects of the woman’s face, wishing she could fathom out her story from the brush strokes. All that sprang to her notice, though, was the brown eyes of the woman.

  “From days past, when I tried to foster some creative talent in myself. It is not a very good pie
ce, but it was one of the best things I was able to produce.”

  Rosalie jumped as the voice of Mr Farrell reached her ears. She put a hand on her chest as she tried to recover from the shock. She was not easily startled, but she felt as though she had been caught rifling through the man’s private letters. She felt a definite significance in the portrait, and she shifted uncertainly on her feet as she looked at the gentleman. “I am sorry. I was quite curious about the picture. It seemed so different from the others.” Rosalie did not dare to share her suspicions surrounding the woman in the painting. She knew Mr Farrell guarded his past and his previous marriage jealously, and she did not wish to incur his anger by wading into the hidden recesses of his past where she was not permitted to venture.

  As he moved to Rosalie’s side, the man ran a hand through his short dark hair. Standing close to him like this, Rosalie tried not to let herself draw comparisons between Mr Farrell’s appearance and that of Lord Wareham. Weighing the two men against each other was an ugly and slippery slope she wished to steer well clear of.

  “That woman was a servant in our home. Her family had been staff to my family going back two generations, and we grew up together almost as siblings. It was quite an adjustment when our childhoods were put behind us and she became a servant to me. I asked her to sit for that portrait in the days when I was trying to impress Lady Hargrave. I had hoped to become more proficient before I attempted to paint Georgiana.”

  Rosalie could detect a hint of disappointment in the man’s voice, and it was immediately apparent to her that the man had been left deeply scared by the loss of the lady he had been courting. She felt sorry for him, even though the rumours she had heard suggested he deserved the punishment meted out to him. Her eyes glanced back to the servant in the portrait, her own mind painting a picture of Mr Farrell’s past from his words.