Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Papa, I just wanted to see if it was all right to go to the Havenhursts with Caroline this afternoon.”

  “I suppose so. I’m going to my club. Your mother probably won’t be home tonight, so order a tea tray.”

  “Very well. Goodbye, Pa...”

  But before she could finish, he brushed past them and strode away.

  It had only been twenty minutes, but already this was looking to be one of the longest afternoons of his life.

  Inwardly cursing, William forced himself to nod every so often as the petite, brown-haired Baroness Havenhurst clung to his arm and chirped like an intoxicated canary. It was hard to know what was more nauseating, the purple and orange decor of the drawing room, or the way she was parading him around like a thoroughbred at Tattersall’s. That was the reason he usually avoided gatherings like this—they were a favorite haunt of wealth-and-position-seeking mamas and daughters, and unfortunately he had one of the oldest titles and largest fortunes in the whole damned realm.

  However, the opportunity to accidentally bump into Lady Samantha was too tempting to pass over. Stephen had mentioned that the Almack’s outing had garnered him enough credits to decline, but Caroline would be here today. Considering Caroline and Samantha had become good friends, the likelihood of both arriving seemed high enough to risk the unpleasantness. Yet at this stage neither the countess nor his assignment had appeared, and his nerves were edging closer to frayed.

  “Standish!” boomed a voice behind him. “Can hardly believe my eyes, but good to see you!”

  Turning, William smiled his first genuine smile of the afternoon, and offered his hand. Short, stocky, and a talented inventor, Lord Nigel Havenhurst had been a good friend of his father’s and a long-time widower until he’d inexplicably married the current baroness three years previously.

  “Havenhurst. You’re looking well, sir.”

  “Fit as a fiddle, m’boy, fit as a fiddle,” said the baron, beaming and stroking his impressive snow-white moustache. “Heard the latest from France? Can’t believe that damned bounder Napoleon escaped Elba and made it to Paris.”

  “He made it look easy, although the Bourbons haven’t exactly inspired love among their people. I know Liverpool and Castlereagh are watching the situation very carefully.”

  “As they should. But if that Frenchie so much as sniffs in this direction, I hope Wellington just shoots the bastard—”

  “Nigel!” snapped Lady Havenhurst, scowling. “No war talk in my drawing room. Poor Lord Standish is quite bored already.”

  “Beg pardon, Mary,” Lord Havenhurst replied, exchanging a glance with William over his wife’s head. “Quite forgot where I was.”

  “Indeed. As I was saying to his lordship before you so rudely interrupted us, it is high time he found himself a bride. The very cream of the crop will be here today, so if he makes his choice I will be credited with the match of the Season. Perhaps the decade.”

  “Oh, I see,” Havenhurst murmured, his faded blue eyes twinkling with unholy glee. “Well, far be it from me to stand in the path of true love. Best of luck with the quest, Standish, I’m off to sample the fruitcake.”

  And with that the damned turncoat nearly sprinted for the refreshment table.

  “So, my lord, tell me,” said the baroness, retaking his arm and fixing him with a gimlet stare. “What qualities do you seek in a wife? Apart from the obvious of beauty and breeding, of course.”

  “Truth be told I haven’t really—”

  “Haven’t really considered it? Gracious me.”

  “Naturally I’ve considered it,” he countered, quelling his irritation. “But when one has obligations requiring frequent absences, it would be rather unfair on a wife, don’t you think?”

  “Fustian. The future Marchioness of Standish will know her duty. Now, I must admit I’m rather shocked Jane Westleigh hasn’t taken the situation in hand. A man of your stature shouldn’t be running around a bachelor!”

  “Lady Havenhurst—”

  “Her son is settled, although it was such a shame that dear Caroline presented him with twin daughters instead of an heir. He no doubt hopes she’ll do better next time. An heir and a spare to secure the title and no dilly-dallying about, that’s what I always say. So, my lord. Attributes. Tall or short? Fair-haired or dark? Well read, musically accomplished? Unlike so many others, I daresay a less than impressive dowry won’t trouble you.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back so he didn’t strangle the woman, William attempted a smile. From her startled recoil, he didn’t succeed. Hell. He was probably bestowing upon the baroness the look that George referred to as ‘the gentleman assassin’, all icy refined menace. “Your interest in my wellbeing and future happiness is humbling, my lady. I will share two rather important qualities I’d like my future wife to possess: sensitivity and discretion.”

  “Of course, of course!” Lady Havenhurst said, relaxing. “My husband searched for exactly those traits also…well, I never. Would you look at who has just arrived! Caroline Westleigh and Samantha Buchanan.”

  Oh thank God. “By your tone I take it they are not your favorites?” he enquired softly.

  “Well, Lady Westleigh is the daughter of a duke. And we adore her husband, and brother Trentham, of course. But those good looks are wasted on someone so ridiculously tall. Not to mention her frightful temper.”

  “Some might say,” he murmured noncommittally, trying not to grin at the thought of Caroline overhearing and launching the baroness headfirst out a window.

  “As for Claremont’s chit...”

  “What about Lady Samantha?” he answered, his voice chilling.

  “Well, like so many others, I can only sympathize with poor Jane. She truly is a saint, taking on her niece’s come out for her shameful brother and his harlot wife when they are such terrible ton. The girl shouldn’t be allowed near decent people. Lowers the tone.”

  “Really? When I danced with Lady Samantha last night, I found her to be charming.”

  Lady Havenhurst’s face drained of color then turned pea-green. “You...you did?”

  “Yes. Actually, she’s always been charming,” William continued frigidly. “Known her since she was an infant. The Westleighs are delighted to be sponsoring Lady Samantha’s first Season, and Trentham, Ardmore, Southby, and I have all pledged our full support to ensure it is pleasant experience. Anything else would be disappointing. Exceedingly disappointing.”

  “Certainly, your lordship,” choked out the baroness. “Only silly people listen to silly gossip. If you’ll excuse me, I must go and welcome the newest arrivals then attend to my other guests.”

  “The mark of a fine hostess, Lady Havenhurst. I’ll accompany you to greet them.”

  As they strolled across the drawing room, he reminded himself that Lady Samantha was probably the daughter of a traitor, completely off limits, and not to be touched, admired or gazed at under any circumstances.

  Indeed, his mind snickered. But look at the pink gown she’s nearly sewn into. One too-deep breath and it would be all over. And the color, doesn’t it make her mouth look even lusher, like she’s spent the last few hours being thoroughly kissed? Imagine how she would taste, how those plump lips would feel on your skin, on your c...

  “Focus, man,” he muttered furiously.

  “Excuse me, my lord, did you say something?”

  “No, no...Lady Westleigh, Lady Samantha, good afternoon to you both.”

  “Lord Standish,” replied Caroline, her usual unrepentant grin somewhat muted. “I wasn’t expecting to see you in this particular drawing room.”

  Lady Havenhurst inhaled deeply, but she also managed a smile. “I’m so very glad you were able to come today, Caroline dear.”

  “Are you, Mary dear?” Caroline replied, tilting her head. “Well then, we are glad to be here. Have you met Lady Samantha Buchanan?”

  “Not officially. Welcome, my lady. I am acquainted with your aunt, she is a lovely woman.”

&n
bsp; “Thank you, Lady Havenhurst,” said Lady Samantha, her eyes as round as saucers as she took in the décor.

  “Divine, isn’t it?” the baroness preened, following her gaze. “Chose the colors myself.”

  “I would never have thought to bring the two together. So very, ah, vibrant.”

  “You have excellent taste. Well, unfortunately I must excuse myself, guests to attend to and all that. Do enjoy the afternoon, and help yourselves to tea. The berry tarts are quite delicious.”

  Lady Havenhurst was barely out of earshot when Caroline folded her arms and looked at him intently.

  “Did you say something to her, Lord Standish? She usually has no more than two hissed words for me.”

  “Of course not,” William replied. “Perhaps the baroness is mellowing as she ages.”

  “Pfft. Now I feel even more unsettled, like the end of the world is nigh. Of course, that could just be this room. I need cake, immediately. Excuse me.”

  He turned and bowed to Lady Samantha. “Forgive me, it seems I am frightening everyone away today.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her lips twitching, “When Caroline needs cake, she needs it without delay. Otherwise lives could be lost. And we’ve had an...interesting morning.”

  “Interesting? How so?”

  A shadow crossed her expressive face, and he frowned.

  “Lady Samantha? Was someone unkind?”

  “Oh no,” she said quickly, “It’s nothing really.”

  His neck prickled. “Tell me.”

  “Well, um, before we came here, I went to ask Papa’s permission and he was being absolutely awful to a delivery man from the docks. So awful he made the man cry!”

  “Why? Had the man stolen something and been caught?”

  “According to Penn—that’s our butler—some things were missing, but the man swore it wasn’t him. He was so afraid! And I was a little afraid, too. I’ve never seen Papa look or speak so cruelly before, and he hit the man as well.”

  And there it was, the perfect opening to start his campaign.

  For God’s sake, man, say the words. The sooner it begins, the sooner it is done.

  “That doesn’t sound good at all,” he said instead, attempting to harden himself against the confusion and unhappiness in her wide brown eyes.

  “It wasn’t. Why would Papa be so awful?”

  Say the words, you damned fool!

  “I really don’t know. But…” he continued, even as distaste sanded his throat, “should something like that ever happen again, a strange visitor, or a situation where you feel uneasy, I hope you’ll tell me. Right away. I realize it has been a long while since we last spent time together, but I do feel a certain duty...”

  “Duty,” she repeated, her eyes dulling, and he wanted to kick himself for the poor word choice. The master of courtly love, he was not.

  “I mean friendship. I greatly enjoyed our dance and conversation last night, and would certainly like to spend some more time with you. If you agree, of course.”

  “But the others sent me flowers,” she said slowly, her cheeks reddening as she glanced away. “You didn’t.”

  Oh hell. Kicking himself wasn’t nearly enough punishment for such a ridiculous oversight. How could he have forgotten something so basic? A failure as a gentleman on top of being England’s worst interrogator.

  First lie, coming up.

  “Of course I did! You mean you didn’t receive them? Yellow rose spray with a blue bow? Well, I know one florist I shan’t be returning to.”

  “Oh no, wait, perhaps I just didn’t see them. If you say you sent some, I believe you!” she finished, her face lighting up.

  “How very reassuring. Trustworthy as the day is long, that’s me,” William replied in a tone so horribly “jolly old uncle” hearty it made him queasy. “Now, are you hungry? We should get to the cake before Lady Westleigh finishes it all.”

  “I’d love some.”

  Tucking Lady Samantha’s arm through his, desperately trying to ignore the inviting warmth of her skin and the light floral scent far more alluring than any perfume would ever be, he led her toward the refreshment table. All the time wishing he’d never re-met this beautiful, bashful, and rather interesting young woman, who might well be helping to spin a web of pure evil.

  Lord Standish was so kind. Had bought her flowers. And yet he was very hard to understand.

  Nibbling at a thin slice of fruitcake—because if she indulged in the other treats on the refreshment table, her gown would actually split down the front—Samantha pondered the physical perfection standing beside her.

  He was so proper. Polite and attentive. Occasionally made comments that caused her to laugh out loud and the room to stop and stare. And yet an almost visible cloak of tension had settled around his shoulders, something that made her want to step forward and wrap her arms around him. But that would be another mistake, and twenty was far too young to have made as many as she had. Besides, if she got too close, the inferno that occasionally flashed in his eyes, that heat whenever she rested her hand on his sleeve, or danced with him, or brushed against him in any way, might burn her alive.

  Especially now, when there were so many people around. And not elderly matrons with poor eyesight and worse hearing, or discreet secret-keepers. If she were to say something here, to ask him a personal question to try and get to know him a little better, all the gossips in London would fall on her like wolves on meat scraps.

  Oh God. She was officially turning Bedlamite. Or perhaps it was just this ghastly drawing room, which would give her purple-and-orange-tinged nightmares for eternity. This assault on the eyes was not even something her mother dared; she at least restricted herself to gowns.

  “It’s definitely an acquired taste, isn’t it?”

  Startled, Samantha looked up at Lord Standish. Was she so very easy to read? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

  “Oh dear,” he said, his lips twitching. “You aren’t going to break my heart and admit to a fondness for the décor combination, are you?”

  “In truth,” she said archly, resolutely ignoring the effect of that damned dimple when he smiled, “I don’t feel the room is vibrant enough. To really bring out the magnificence of the orange and purple, Lady Havenhurst should have added some splashes of jonquil or Pomona green. And there is a criminal lack of dyed feathers.”

  “Good God,” said Caroline, coming to stand beside her. “Lord Standish, we must extract Sam from this place at once. She is actually crumbling as we watch. I am concerned she may commandeer the refreshment table and start pelting Lady Havenhurst and friends with raisin pastries, in which case, I would be forced to help her. The cake sacrifice would be worth it. ”

  The marquess tilted his head. “The way I hear it, Lady Westleigh, you are far more lethal with a slipper heel than an object in hand. But Lady Samantha is an unknown quantity. What deadly talents might she possess?”

  I throw knives with astounding accuracy, my lord. “I would have thought that was patently obvious after last night, Lord Standish.”

  “Oh?” said Caroline, her green eyes gleaming with curiosity. “What happened last night?”

  “After attempting to flatten him in a hallway, I then moved my regime of terror to a higher level and mauled his instep during the waltz.”

  “Pfft. The mauling of insteps is a sanctioned weapon in a lady’s arsenal.”

  “He hadn’t done anything wrong,” Samantha stage-whispered.

  For one odd moment, Lord Standish’s smile seemed to freeze. Then he laughed. “There is no gentleman on earth entirely innocent, Lady Samantha. But, Lady Westleigh, back to your original point, I do believe we must escort your charge away from this place. And I should chide you on bringing her here so early in the Season. I thought ladies new to London saved this pleasure for last.”

  “Well, usually Mary and her cronies have some light entertainment to share, but unfortunately, Esther Hartley twisted her ankle on a rogue
step and was unable to sing or play the piano here this afternoon.”

  “Who is Esther Hartley?” said Samantha, as the three of them moved toward the drawing room door and freedom. But the other two remained silent on the topic until they had made their farewells to a rather annoyed-looking Mary Havenhurst.

  “I suspect she is a government operative,” said Caroline, when they were outside on the footpath waiting for the Westleigh carriage to be brought around. “When Mary isn’t holding court they gather suspected criminals, bring them here to the orange and purple dungeon, and have Esther play pianoforte and sing. Remarkably effective and bloodless way to gain confessions. I believe the record for longest resistance is five minutes. Hardy soul, that one. But even he broke down and wept, promising to reveal everything he knew if they would only make it stop and allow him the paradise of rats and moldy bread at Newgate.”

  Lord Standish cleared his throat. “Esther is, ah, not that bad.”

  The giggle Samantha had been suppressing at Caroline’s story died in her throat. Who was Esther Hartley to Lord Standish? Were they friends? Lovers? Damnation. The woman was probably beautiful. Well bred, delightful parents, and slender…

  Caroline snorted. “Poppycock. We keep her and George apart, because together they would begin the musical apocalypse with their rendition of two barn cats getting their tails caught in a water wheel.”

  “’Tis true, Lady Westleigh, your brother’s singing voice would make a statue weep…”

  The two of them continued to banter back and forth, but Samantha couldn’t concentrate on a single word. So, this was jealousy. And a more pathetic example would be impossible to imagine. How on earth could she feel so proprietary toward the marquess? Good grief, she had no claim on Lord Standish whatsoever, and after nothing more than a few conversations and the worst waltz in history thanks to her two left feet, she wanted to scratch the eyes out of a young woman she’d never even met.

  “Lady Samantha?”

  She jumped. “Yes?”

  That damned dimple appeared again. “The Westleigh carriage is here to take you home. If you’ll allow me…” he finished, assisting first Caroline, and then her into the luxurious conveyance.