The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  “Who is that?” someone whispered behind her.

  “My word, I don’t know, but I mean to find out,” a female voice replied.

  “Effingham,” Lord Darley said with conviction in Dillian’s ear. “Shall we go meet him? That is your purpose here tonight, is it not?”

  Dillian didn’t have the tongue to answer. She thought perhaps she’d swallowed it. She took Lord Darley’s proffered arm and gratefully let him guide her through the milling mob.

  The Marquess of Effingham in starched cravat, evening coat, and angle-length pantaloons stretched taut over muscled legs left her speechless. She knew what he looked like naked, for heaven’s sake! Why should his elegance now play such havoc with her feelings?

  Because he looked just what he was: a marquess. A man far above her reach. Dillian almost felt resentment when Darley approached him and offered the public introductions necessary for their deception.

  A real marquess would have reason to lift his eyebrows in disdain and turn away from such as her. She couldn’t believe she’d had the audacity to berate a man like that and order him about as she had. She must be all about in her brain box.

  The Marquess of Effingham could walk through this room and make heads tumble with just a curt look if he desired. He didn’t even need his sword. That dark angular face and those nearly black eyes would do the work for him. The elegance of his clothes spoke of his power to do so.

  She almost trembled as she held out her hand. Accepting her fingers in his, Gavin ruined the effect by raising a quizzical eyebrow and asking with a mocking smile, “Should I kiss it or shake it?”

  Dillian fought laughter. Darley chuckled. Effingham gave her an evil look, bowed over her hand, and proprietarily placed it on his arm. He looked her over thoroughly, from her unruly curls tamed by the ribbons, to the daring décolletage of her gown, to her slipper-shod feet.

  “You clean up very well, Miss Reynolds.” Giving Darley a brief nod, he said, “You’re looking well, Darley. Don’t let Jessica tease you into anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Dillian attempted to remove her hand from his arm, but Gavin held it firmly. “You may introduce me around, Miss Reynolds,” he said with the arrogance of the Prince Regent.

  “I’m certain Lord Darley is better able to make suitable introductions, my lord,” she protested.

  “And I’m equally certain Darley would rather bask in his bride’s smiles than mine,” Gavin returned. “Isn’t that so, Geoffrey?”

  The viscount glanced back and forth between the formidable visage of the marquess to the determined jut of Dillian’s chin. He answered honestly, “Jessica’s a deal prettier than you, Effingham, I’ll grant you that, but Miss Reynolds is right, you know. It’s not seemly to appear too much in her company so soon after introduction.”

  The marquess grimaced, and Dillian decided that she liked the viscount. Few other men would have made such casual reference to Gavin’s looks without fear of retribution. She decided to rescue him from the decision she’d forced upon him.

  “Since he’s an American, they’ll understand he hasn’t quite learned the proprieties.”

  Darley looked relieved, if slightly amused. “Americans are notoriously uncivilized, granted. I’m certain you’ll be in good hands, Effingham. Marian will have your neck if you do aught else.”

  “It’s a damned good thing there aren’t too many Lawrences left in this world,” Gavin agreed, before looking down at Dillian. “Although the Reynolds might have produced one or two equally well matched.” He glanced back at the viscount. “I’ll worry about my cousin. You just keep your own lady in line.”

  Dillian didn’t like that gleam in Gavin’s eye. Or rather, she liked it altogether too well. She felt all slithery inside when he looked at her like that, and she needed all her concentration to keep her wits about her.

  She realized she stood alone beside Gavin with probably all of London staring at them. She had no idea how to move, what to say. She only knew the pressure of his hand against hers, the hard muscle of his arm beneath his evening coat, and the tension between them. Her fingers bit into his coat, and he glared down at her.

  “All right, termagant. Where do we start? Shall I growl at your duke first? Glare at the earl? Gnash my teeth at a few cabinet ministers? Just precisely why have you exposed me to this scene?”

  Darting a nervous gaze to curious bystanders, Dillian tried to remember their purpose here. She watched a fashionably gowned young matron fan herself as Gavin turned his mocking look and scarred features in her direction. Why had she exposed him to this appalling scene?

  Because of Blanche. Because someone had tried harming Blanche, and they must find out who and why. If Neville was the culprit, they had to know which of these people were his friends, and which they could trust. And if her father’s journals were somehow involved, they must know who could help them get the journals back, and who they could trust with them. A lowly Miss Reynolds had no means of learning these things. A Marquess of Effingham did.

  The whole scheme emerged perfectly clear to Dillian all at once. It gleamed bright and golden in her head. Why on earth hadn’t she considered it before?

  With a brilliant expression of innocence, Dillian announced, “You needn’t gnash your teeth at the ministers, my lord, you must smile at their ladies.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “I’ve heard such appalling rumors! How is dear Blanche faring, Miss Reynolds? Will she return before the Season ends?”

  Dillian translated this as “Is she horribly scarred and ever coming back?” but she maintained her polite behavior and smiled dutifully at Lady Castlereagh. “She is doing much better than expected, my lady. The doctor recommended a change of scenery, and she has taken a villa in the south of France for a while.”

  Having satisfied herself on that topic. Lady Castlereagh turned her attention from an upstart nobody like Blanche’s companion to a more immediate interest. “Lord Effingham, I’ve heard so much about you. Why have you not introduced yourself before this?”

  Dillian admired Gavin’s stiff bow. The mocking curl of his lip didn’t extend to a smile, but Lady Castlereagh didn’t know that.

  Dillian had already introduced him to the wives of the prime minister and the home secretary. She could tell Gavin had lost some of the hard edges of his fear, but he remained wary. He had reason. Behind his back, people whispered and wondered, and gossip flowed without his having done so much as introduce himself to their society.

  She’d seen pity in the eyes of some, revulsion in others. People preferred perfection. It made them more comfortable. Still, more than one hopeful miss had come forward at her mother’s urging.

  Dillian preferred keeping him steered to the powerful peeresses, the women behind the men, and away from eager young hopefuls. She didn’t explain the reason for that to herself.

  “As a newcomer to this country, I had much to learn, my lady. And an estate that needed to be set to rights. It seems the time has come for learning a little more than my rural abode can provide. It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance. I, too, have heard much about you.”

  All he’d heard about Lady Castlereagh was her abominable penchant for gaudy jewels, her husband’s powerful position as foreign secretary, and her domination of ticket vouchers for Almack’s, Dillian thought spitefully. But he didn’t need to know more than that.

  If a question arose about the patriotism of Colonel Whitnell, Lord Castlereagh was the man in position to stifle the rumor. Gavin needed to meet the man. Castlereagh was also in a position to introduce the marquess to Wellington.

  Dillian could not, without risking revealing her father’s identity. Wellington would know her father was no traitor. Once they found the journals, he might be the man to receive them.

  “Miss Reynolds, would you mind greatly if I borrow the marquess for a little while? I have several people to whom he really must be introduced.” Lady Castlereagh claimed Gavin’s arm and had effectively dismissed D
illian even before she had given her agreement.

  The lady didn’t reckon on Effingham’s stubbornness.

  Politely removing her hand from his coat, the marquess bowed over it and replaced it with Dillian’s. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I will gratefully call upon you so you may make any introductions you like, but Miss Reynolds has promised to aid me with some unfinished business. My regards to your estimable husband.”

  Without further ado, Gavin tugged Dillian through the crowd.

  This wasn’t the way the evening was supposed to go. She tugged back. He pulled her onward.

  She had no intention of making her debut in society by being dragged about the room. She resisted. The marquess glared. She smiled. He growled and continued across the floor.

  “Would you care to tell me where we are going?” she asked as politely as she could while engaging in this tug-of-war. “If you wish to meet Neville, he’s no doubt in one of those antechambers off to the right.”

  “I don’t wish to meet Neville. I don’t wish to meet Wellington. I don’t wish to meet another damned soul. This is a pointless waste of time. We’ll find the damned journals and then decide what to do about them. I don’t know why I let the lot of you talk me into this.”

  “Because you thought we’d back down when everyone screamed in horror and ran from the room. You thought you’d be back at Arinmede the next day.”

  He jerked her through the open French doors and unless she wished to struggle, Dillian had to follow. She continued relentlessly, “Only now you’re discovering you’re not the creature of horror you thought, and it disagrees with you. My sympathies, my lord. Did you merely borrow those clothes from the earl so you need not waste your coins on them?”

  He dragged her to the stone wall surrounding the balcony, out of the light. “I bought them so I would not shame you, more fool I.”

  Dillian had only time to catch her breath at the glitter in his eyes before he had her pulled up against his chest, his mouth grinding into hers.

  She didn’t fight him. She knew the futility of fighting the inevitable. She could feel the desire surge between them, the power and elation of it as they succumbed to something far beyond the meaningless social amenities forced upon them this last hour.

  Her arms circled his shoulders, and she clung tightly as he drew her upward into his embrace. She surrendered to the heat of his mouth, welcoming the invasion that followed. She understood the need pouring between them as she understood nothing else.

  Gavin set her aside so quickly that Dillian’s fingers still clung to his coat. Cool spring air rushed between them, chilling her heated skin. She jerked her gloved hands back and ran them up and down her bare arms for warmth.

  She glared at him through the darkness, trying to divine his intentions, too frozen by the swiftness of their separation to think coherently at all.

  “Who is this Lady Blanche everyone speaks of?” he demanded, in a tone not his own.

  Dillian stared, wondering if he’d gone mad or if she’d mistaken him for the wrong marquess. She had her back turned to the doorway, but as she glanced away in confusion, she caught movement near the glass. Understanding dawned at once, and she made a play at shrugging her shoulders.

  “A young friend of mine, my lord. A house fire left her exceedingly distressed. As I told Lady Castlereagh, she has gone to France to recuperate. Why do you ask?”

  “Probably because he knows you’re a liar, Miss Reynolds.”

  The Duke of Anglesey strolled onto the balcony, eyeing them with displeasure. He stood only half a head taller than Dillian, yet he confronted Gavin with all the confidence of a man certain of his place in life.

  His fashionably tailored frock coat and exquisitely tied cravat should have put Effingham’s careless attire to shame, but “exquisite” and “careless” presented two entirely different ideas in Dillian’s eyes. She disliked dandies in general, Neville in particular, and she had discovered a growing fondness for antiquation in dress. Give her Gavin’s cape any day over Neville’s impeccably tied neck cloth.

  “Why, how charming to see you, too, Neville. Surely, you’ve grown an inch since I saw you last, although it does seem all in your head. Effingham, here’s the man you seek. His Grace, the Duke of Anglesey, may I present the Marquess of Effingham. I’m certain the two of you have much in common, so I’ll leave you to yourselves.”

  * * * *

  Gavin lost count of the number of subtle and not so subtle insults Dillian wedged into her little speech before she attempted to escape. He caught her arm before she could flee. He couldn’t take his eyes off her in this crowd. He wouldn’t have any more near abductions hanging over his head. He would see her home, and with any luck, into her bed before this night ended. He wouldn’t trust this bloody duke for two seconds.

  “I’m not difficult to find,” Neville responded coldly. “You have an odd manner of seeking me.” He turned his hard glare on Dillian, as if the fault lay with her.

  “I allowed Miss Reynolds to distract me. I apologize. Would it be possible to call on you someday to speak on some business matters inappropriate for discussion at this time?” Gavin kept his hand firmly on Dillian’s arm, although she did her best to twist it away.

  “I cannot imagine what we have to discuss, unless you have some means of coercing my cousin’s whereabouts out of this fiend in female clothing,” Neville replied.

  As the duke turned to leave, Dillian cried after him, “If you do not return my father’s papers I’ll see that Blanche never speaks to you again!”

  Gavin didn’t know whether to slap his hand over her mouth or admire her courage. Already puffed up by his own consequence, the young duke puffed even more with fury. He swung around and glared at Dillian to the extent that Gavin thought of jerking her behind him for protection.

  “Those papers were in Blanche’s safekeeping. You will see them if and when she returns to claim them.”

  “Those papers are my property! That is thievery!”

  Several people had drifted to the open doors at the sound of rising voices. Gavin tugged Dillian’s arm to apprise her of the situation, but she merely turned her hostile glare in his direction. Before she could say more, Gavin interceded.

  “I dislike intruding on what is apparently a family argument. If you will excuse me ….” He dropped Dillian’s arm and started in the direction of the door.

  “Far be it from me to interrupt your little coze,” Neville said snidely. “Miss Reynolds is no relation of mine. You are welcome to her.” With that, he strode briskly from the balcony, disappearing behind the drapery within.

  “He has those papers,” Dillian complained. “If there is anything in them, Dismouth will know soon enough, and then all the world will know. I can’t afford a solicitor to sue for them.”

  “There are other means of obtaining what you want. Let us leave before we provide any more free entertainment.” Gavin steered her toward the glass doors, but she resisted.

  He had no grand desire to return to that hothouse full of overblown orchids, either, but even his American manners told him they couldn’t properly sneak out through the gardens. He despised being gawked at, but knowing the evening had finally ended and he had only a few more minutes until freedom made it easier. He glanced at her impatiently.

  She stared at someone just beyond the crowded circle near the doors. “Reardon! I cannot let him see me.”

  Rather than follow her glance, Gavin scowled. “If you keep any more secrets, they will surely spill all over the floor one of these days. We will simply march through the crowd and out the front door. He’s not likely to notice.”

  “You don’t understand! Reardon is one of my father’s friends. He’d see me at once and expect to be greeted, but he knows me as Whitnell, not Reynolds. It could get extremely sticky should anyone overhear.” She lowered her voice. “He was one of the soldiers at the crossroads that night. Neville has apparently hired him.”

  Gavin thought she made thing
s unnecessarily complicated. She ought never to have called herself Reynolds in the first place. He could see no reason why it mattered one way or another what people called her. Michael called himself anything that came to mind, and no one cared overmuch. He didn’t think he had much hope of telling Dillian that.

  He’d accomplished all he’d intended to accomplish tonight. Society knew him now. He could make his own inquiries. With a sigh of resignation and a burning desire to get out of here and into Dillian’s bed, Gavin took the matter into his own hands.

  “Faint,” he ordered, reaching down to lift her from the ground. “Close your eyes and go limp.” Without further warning, he caught her behind the knees and picked her up.

  He didn’t give Dillian time to call him all the names undoubtedly flying to the end of her tongue. Wisely heeding his words, she collapsed in his arms. Perhaps women could faint from embarrassment. Gavin didn’t think Dillian much capable of it, but she put on a good show as he strode into the shocked crowd carrying his limp burden.

  Lady Darley and several other matrons hurried to his side, exclaiming in hushed peeps much like baby birds. Gavin didn’t attempt to translate their protests. “The lady fainted. Show me where to take her while someone calls for her carriage.”

  They led him down a path opening directly through the crowd. Gavin tried ignoring the shocked stares, the words whispered behind gloved hands, but he felt as if all the world stared at him. He resented becoming the object of such attention, but he merely set his jaw and continued on his chosen path. If they needed a tame lion to stare at, so be it.

  Lady Darley came to his rescue, leading him into a small salon while sending a servant hastening for her carriage. “What happened? Lay her down here, if you please.” She indicated a backless divan.

  “No doubt corset’s too tight,” Gavin responded wickedly, feeling Dillian stir in his arms. “Mustn’t wear them often, I suspect.”

  Dillian skewered him with her glare as he lay her down, but she held that fiendish tongue of hers while Lady Darley remained present. “I am quite fine, now, thank you. You may stop hovering.”