The Marquess’s Hand_A Regency Romance Novel

by Rosie Wynter

  Abigail nodded. “I would like that, and I know father would like to see you too.”

  “You really think so?” Rosalie asked. Despite the optimistic appraisal Abigail gave, she couldn’t quite believe that Mr Farrell would indeed be pleased to see her.

  Abigail didn’t answer but took Rosalie’s hand and began to walk her down the street in a most determined manner.

  With Abigail leading her to her father’s door, Rosalie felt confident that she could call on Mr Farrell without arousing suspicion from prying eyes. If anyone were to ask her business, she could simply claim to have met Abigail and wished to ensure the child arrived home safely. Even with these excuses shielding her from criticism, Rosalie still found herself looking furtively up and down the streets as Abigail led her to her home. The child set a fast pace, and Rosalie found herself wishing she would walk just a little more slowly so that she would have time to consider just what she would say to Mr Farrell. How was she meant to tell him that she was uncertain about her decision to marry Lord Wareham, or explain her need to confide in him all her fears and worries?

  Before Rosalie could even fathom what her first words to the man would be, Abigail drew to a halt outside her door and knocked three times. It did not take more than a moment for the door to open, and Rosalie found herself staring into the eyes of a bewildered Mr Farrell.

  “Miss… Miss Curtis, just what are you doing here?” The man looked up and down the street before ushering his daughter and guest inside. It was clear that he was just as worried about Rosalie’s reputation now as he had been when he had cautioned her not to call on him. It seemed even now he was concerned for her welfare.

  Rosalie glanced around the hall as she entered the house, immediately noticing a change in Mr Farrell’s home. Though the man had just asked a question, she found herself completely distracted by the wooden containers that stood in piles around the house and the lack of any decorations along the walls or furniture about the place. “Mr Farrell, are you moving?”

  The man did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted to one of the sturdy boxes, and his eyes seemed unable to meet Rosalie’s.

  “Father said we are moving to America,” Abigail answered.

  By the tone of her voice, it was clear the girl took no pleasure in the decision and appeared almost as upset now as she had when she had hugged Rosalie on the streets.

  “Is this true?” Rosalie found herself hurt by the sudden news. She had no justifiable reason to be angry with Mr Farrell for not having informed her, not when her last letter had effectively severed all contact between them. Nevertheless, she found it upsetting to think that the man would make such a move without informing her of it, in some way. It was almost terrifying to think that he could simply have vanished from her life without her ever knowing.

  Peter Farrell shifted his weight back and forth, seeming a little disconcerted by the looks he was receiving from his daughter and Miss Curtis. “It was a practical decision,” he insisted. He straightened his back, and his eyes began to harden in a way which did not suit him. He was not the kind of man who could feign false pride or haughtiness.

  “You mean for your business ventures, then?” Rosalie remembered that the bulk of his trade was based in the Americas, and it was not unreasonable for him to relocate if it meant the more efficient management of his business. However, the timing of this decision, so perfectly coinciding with her engagement to Lord Wareham, could not be overlooked. “Is that really the only reason for this move?” Rosalie asked.

  Mr Farrell looked down to his daughter, a troubled look passing over his features as his brow furrowed. “Abigail, would you be so kind as to make some tea?” It was clearly a ploy by her father to move his daughter out of the way, and the child stood stubbornly in place, unwilling, it seemed, to be ushered out of the conversation.

  “It’s all right,” Rosalie assured her. “I will still be here when you get back. Your father and I just need to share a few words alone, that is all.”

  Abigail did not seem at all certain of Rosalie’s promise. However, something in the charged air seemed to prevail, and she gave a solemn nod that suggested wisdom beyond her years. “I’ll bring some tea to you in the drawing room in a little while, then.” She moved away at a snail’s pace, glancing backwards on several occasions as though hoping to catch some of the conversation she was missing out on.

  Mr Farrell did not utter a word until his daughter was well out of sight. Taking a deep breath, the man gestured for Rosalie to follow him up the stairs as he led her towards the drawing room. Rosalie followed in silence, lamenting the bare and barren look of the house.

  “I understand congratulations are in order. I have it on good authority that you were successful in winning Lord Wareham’s heart. I wish you both happiness and long years together.” There was something monotonous and unfeeling in the man’s tone, and Rosalie knew at once that he did not truly mean what he said.

  “In truth, my engagement is one of the reasons I have sought you out this day.” Rosalie bit her lip, realising too late that she had confessed to something she likely should not have done.

  Mr Farrell turned to look at her, an eyebrow arched. “You sought me out? I was under the impression you had merely chanced upon my daughter in the streets and she had corralled you into coming here.”

  Rosalie blushed and looked down to the floor, her fingers winding fretfully about. “It was my intention to visit, but I was fortunate enough to spy Abigail on the streets. It was just a happy coincidence.”

  Something in Mr Farrell’s manner suggested a certain disbelief, or maybe his aloof and distant nature stemmed from a different source. Rosalie had given the man plenty of reason to be cautious of her of late. “Your aunt and fiancé cannot know you’re here. Even given her generosity in the past, I find it impossible to believe Lady Lynch would let you call on me alone and unchaperoned while engaged to a man such as Lord Wareham.”

  “She does not know I have come here,” Rosalie admitted with a little more boldness. She recognised that if she were to make any headway in her conversation with Mr Farrell, she had to speak plainly and let the man judge her propriety, or lack of it, as he wished. “I needed to see you, however. Everything has been moving so fast these last few days, and I am finding myself questioning my decisions at every turn.”

  Mr Farrell stopped as they approached the drawing-room door. His face looked pained, and Rosalie could tell her presence was upsetting him deeply. It was almost enough to make her abandon her plan and excuse herself, but she had to see this matter through to the end. “I will, of course, try to help you in any way that I can,” the gentleman assured. “I do warn you, though, your coming here will likely do you far more harm than good. I am not even certain what I can do for you.” He opened the door, then, and Rosalie stepped inside.

  This one room had been left mercifully untouched. None of the furnishings had been boxed or sold on to new owners. It was an island of comfort in a house of emptiness. Straight away, Rosalie noticed the picture hung in the far corner: the woman with the blonde hair and brown eyes. That portrait unsettled her anew as she considered Mr Farrell’s own past, but she reminded herself that she had not come to bring up those matters.

  Mr Farrell closed the door and locked it, ensuring that Abigail could not burst in unannounced at some inopportune moment. “So then,” he said with a heavy sigh, “how may I assist you?”

  Rosalie tore her eyes away from that mysterious portrait and took a seat, one which faced away from the cursed item. She slouched forward in the chair and chewed her lip as she struggled to decide where she should begin.

  “I do not know if I should marry Lord Wareham,” she announced in some haste.

  Speaking the words out loud was surprisingly cathartic, and she felt as though a load had been taken off her back, just by the admission.

  “I see.” Mr Farrell seemed most uncomfortable to have heard this revelation.

  He moved to a chair and sat dow
n. For a few moments, he seemed to struggle to find a comfortable position before giving up and standing once more. He seemed agitated, and it was heightened by Rosalie’s words.

  Seeing as the man was not asking any of the probing questions Rosalie had expected to be asked, she began to offer up the information freely to him. “I thought myself completely enamoured with the man for weeks leading up to his proposal. However, throughout my courtship with the Marquess, a doubt and a fear have been building inside of me, and I cannot shake them from my mind. And with my aunt’s having orchestrated the match, I feel I have no one to turn to.”

  Farrell studied her now, quite intently. His expression seemed to have altered subtly. His eyes looked at her with a kind of wistful sadness, and he seemed almost to be struggling against some impulse. He made two attempts to speak but faltered both times. When at last he found his words, that cooler temperament seemed to have returned to him once more. “Just what fears are these? As I mentioned before, the man was a friend of mine for some years before the...” he trailed off then. “I can speak for the man I knew in my youth, but I do not know if I can speak for his present habits and tendencies.”

  Rosalie did not care. Just speaking her mind and fears was a liberating experience, and she would confess her fears to Mr Farrell, even if he could do nothing to reassure her. “When I have observed the man, I have always noticed how well liked he is, particularly by other women. Although I am assured he has done nothing wrong, he seems to enjoy close, almost intimate relationships with many women I have met of late, and they all seem to dote on him, without exception. I have tried to assure myself that what I feel is nothing more than simple jealousy... but I cannot shake the feeling there is more to it. Tell me, in your dealings with the Marquess, did he ever seem over-familiar with the women of your acquaintance?”

  Mr Farrell seemed to struggle with answering the question. He ran his hand through his hair and paced to the window, seeming to wish to hide his expression from Rosalie at that moment. “If the man was ever guilty of any wrongdoing, it has never come out, and I have heard nothing of it. That being said, I can attest to the fact that he has always been liberal in his associations, and it is possible that his unguarded spirit might have been misconstrued by some as genuine interest. It was always his way, and he paid such compliments to girls of low rank as well as high.” He turned to Rosalie then, his chest swelling as he looked on her. “Do... do you have any particular evidence that leads you to worry as you do?”

  Rosalie had refrained from mentioning Mrs Porter’s tale with anyone who might spread the matter around and so defile that poor woman’s name. Still, something about Mr Farrell seemed to inspire complete confidence in her, and she knew instinctively he would breathe no word of this conversation to anyone. “I have already spoken with one woman who believed herself truly in love with the man. They even shared a moment in a garden hedge maze, if you can believe it... It is not enough to truly condemn the man in the eyes of society, but my observations and concerns lead me to fear that I am just the latest woman to take his fancy in a long line of other girls.”

  Mr Farrell nodded, his hands now moving to stroke his chin as he pondered her words. “If you are uncertain of the man’s regard for you, you are, of course, fully within your rights to call a halt to the engagement, even just long enough to confront Wareham with your concerns. Certainly, were I in your position, I would not...” He tailed off suddenly, gripping the back of the nearest chair and hunching over it as though in the throes of some pain. He turned his face to the side almost ashamedly.

  “Mr Farrell? Peter, what is wrong?” Rosalie got up from her seat at once, walking over to the man and putting a hand on his shoulder, instinctively looking to comfort him.

  He shrugged off her hand and took a step back. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “You must forgive me Miss Curtis, but I am in no position to advise you on your nuptials with Lord Wareham... Suffice it to say, I... I cannot provide an impartial voice in this matter. I am sorry.”

  Rosalie blinked in surprise. Despite the man’s attempt to distance himself from her, she pressed forward and took his hands in hers. “What do you mean, sir? Please, tell me what is troubling you.”

  For a moment, he remained still and silent, his eyes gazing down at the way his fingers were bound up with Rosalie’s. He let his thumb stroke the back of her hands with some tenderness, but then recoiled once more. “Miss Curtis, I cannot lie to you on this. You have been the one person to look past the rumours and past that hound me constantly. Your kindness towards both myself and my daughter has impressed me from the very moment I met you. You are by far the most beautiful creature I have ever met, in both body and soul. I had thought, when you sent your last letter, I would be freed of my feelings for you... but the knowledge that you’d remain in London, close by with your new husband, has tortured me these last weeks, so that I had no choice but to make arrangements to flee to America.”

  Rosalie skipped several breaths at Mr Farrell’s sudden and heated declaration. She had spent so long fretting over her regard for him that she had not even considered how fierce his regard for her might be. In a moment of pure impulse, she pressed forward, her lips seeking his with an urgent need that was greater than any desire she had felt before, even for Lord Wareham. However, Mr Farrell showed more restraint and turned his face to the side.

  “I am sorry, I should not have burdened you with my feelings like that... It... It was wrong of me.” He unclasped his hands from hers then and retreated from her. Rosalie watched in pained disappointment as he paced the room in an agitated manner. He seemed to linger for a moment near the portrait on the wall, his eyes glancing to it as he neared it. “There is nothing I can do for you, Miss Curtis. Lord Wareham is the sort of man who can provide you with a future and life you deserve. Please, whether it is pity or gratitude from the one kind deed I performed for you, you should not look to me to make you a husband. Even just being in this house risks your honour and standing.”

  “No!” Rosalie found the man’s words anathema to her now. He blinked in surprise at the fierceness of her declaration. “Mr Farrell, you have done far more for me than one kind deed, and no matter what rumour says of you, I know you are not the man society paints you to be. You dote on your daughter with so much love and affection. You have treated me with the kindness of a true gentleman. You have even been willing to give up your friendship with me just to protect my own honour. You have told me you love me, and yet you still denied me when I attempted to kiss you, from a desire to protect me. How can this man I have come to know and admire be the same man who betrayed the woman he was courting and bore a child with a serving girl he cared nothing for? It is not who you are, and I feel like my mind is ripping in two trying to understand the truth of things.”

  Mr Farrell seemed to be trembling now. Once again, Rosalie felt very strongly that he was resisting something, keeping something from her.

  “What is it, sir? Just what is it that forces you to accept the scorn and accusations of your peers? Why will you not tell me the truth of things?”

  At that moment, a gentle knock was heard at the door. “Father? Miss Curtis?” The voice was fractured and fraught. Clearly, Abigail had been standing outside the door for several moments and must have overheard at least some of the exchange that had passed between Rosalie and her father.

  The way Mr Farrell looked at the door in that moment was telling. His whole being seemed to fill with worry at the sound of his child’s voice. “Everything is fine. Please, Abigail, just give us a moment. I promise I’ll let you come in presently.”

  “Ye... Yes, father.” Abigail sounded positively terrified, and Rosalie felt for both the child and her father in that moment. She waited for a moment, listening to the sounds of tiny footstep retreating down the empty passage.

  Mr Farrell straightened up and the vulnerability he had displayed, just moments ago, was gone. Once again, he was the protective father and insular figure who would n
ot open up. “Please, Miss Curtis,” he said in as quiet a voice as he could, “There is no point in prying the truth of matters from me. Knowing that you refuse to believe the stories spread about me is perhaps the most wonderful thing you could have given me, and I fear that faith you put in me deepens my feelings for you all the more... But I cannot tell you the truth of things, however dearly I might wish to.”

  “But why?” Rosalie asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

  “Because even if I told you the truth, I could not do so to the rest of society. I have to accept the villainous role placed on me by Lord Hargraves, but that does not follow that you should as well.”

  Rosalie stood her ground, struggling not to let her emotions overtake her and reduce her to weeping. “Maybe I am prepared to bear the ire of society to know the truth and be with you,” she said firmly.

  He gave a wan smile and shook his head. “Miss Curtis, it is a life you do not know. Were you to marry a man with my sort of reputation, it would tarnish your family’s name, tarnish your sisters’ chances of marrying well. Beyond this, you would find yourself without friends and universally despised. I am honestly touched that you believe yourself willing to accept such an existence for me... but I am not worth it, and I do not wish you to choose me now, only to realise too late the price that comes with being with me.” He paused and his chest swelled as he took a deep breath. “Please, marry the Marquess if you feel it is right for you to do so. If you cannot marry him, then find a man you can love elsewhere. Whatever else you do though, try to forget me. I sail to the new world with Abigail at the end of the month. Once I am gone, please treat me like a ghost or figment of the imagination.”