To Marry A Marquess (A Regency Romance)

by Teresa McCarthy

  Though he had acted the very epitome of the gentleman since she had met him at the Dowager Duchess of Glenshire's ball last month, she still felt uneasy about her decision. She knew he held the particulars about her family in strictest confidence, and she should have been happy that he had chosen her for a wife.

  But the fact was, she did not love the man. She had been honest with him about that, but it didn’t matter to him. He said love would grow in time.

  However, this marriage had to be done, for her family's sake, and done quickly, so her family would not interfere. They would never approve of her marrying Nightham for the sole purpose of providing for them a secure future.

  But Nightham wanted to be married without the pomp and circumstance of a large wedding, and that suited her just fine. He explained that his mother was a delicate woman and would not be able to bear the stress of the invitations and parties. Victoria understood perfectly, feeling somewhat relieved. A swift, private wedding seemed the logical step for both of them.

  She had been barely out in Society since Uncle Henry's death, and Nightham had been an answer to her prayers. Yes, indeed. A swift marriage of convenience would give her beloved family security. In return, Nightham would have a wife and mother for his future heir.

  At first, Victoria had thought they were to be married in a church, but as soon as they arrived in the village, the earl calmly explained the church pews were being varnished, and the ceremony was to take place by special license at a nearby inn. She was certain he knew the legalities, yet something still worried the back of her brain.

  As her booted feet crunched over the gravel pathway toward their destination, she lifted her head and caught sight of Mrs. Hinckleberry, the hired escort from London, scurrying ahead of them, her plump feet stumbling precariously toward the tap. Alarm sent Victoria's heart racing. It was obvious that would be the last they would see of her. The lady had been paid for her journey and was to immediately return to Town in a hack after taking some refreshments.

  Realizing she was alone with the earl, Victoria wondered for the hundredth time why he had chosen her among all the beautiful ladies of the ton. She had no dowry, nothing but herself. But he needed her for a wife, and she needed him for the money. At this point, that was enough. She could not afford to linger on her decision.

  A few minutes later, in a secluded dining room inside the inn, she braced herself against a nearby chair. Swallowing hard, she took in the cracked yellow walls and the mildewy odor leaking in from the drainage ditch outside. Sweat beaded along her forehead, and she blinked to keep herself from fainting. Recovering from a bad cold and worrying over her plans, she had barely slept a wink the past few days.

  As for her gown, a plain blue muslin, it was nothing a bride would want to remember for this momentous occasion. But Lord Nightham had told her there would be plenty of time to shop in London for gowns after they were married.

  When the vicar, a slight man with rounded shoulders, suddenly appeared with the witnesses - a plump servant lady and an older man with barely any teeth - Lord Nightham pulled out the special license.

  Victoria didn't like the mischievous smile on the vicar's face, but she ignored it. She focused her attention on her fiancé. He was dressed in a cream-colored waistcoat and navy jacket. Tall and handsome, he was every schoolgirl's dream. But he did not love her.

  The vicar cleared his throat, glancing at Victoria, then back to Lord Nightham. "You are a lucky devil, my lord."

  "A devil maybe," Lord Nightham said, smiling, "yet I find myself in a rather favorable position at the moment."

  Nightham gave Victoria a wink, appraising her with a possessive caress that sent a chill along her spine. Had she somehow misjudged him? No, certainly not. He was merely a man who was about to be wed, a man about to claim his husbandly rights. But could she trust him? Her fingers gripped her gown. Could she trust any man with her life ever again?

  Minutes later, the sentences, the vows, the one-word answers, all seemed to tumble forth like a horrible dream, seeping past Victoria's senses in a giant blur. When Lord Nightham placed his ruby ring on her finger, it was all she could do not to run away. Sweat had soaked through her chemise onto her gown, dampening her chest.

  As the earl's—no, her husband's—lips claimed hers, panic finally began to penetrate the shield she had put up for so many days. Blood rushed from her head as he whispered her name.

  She had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. The words rang over and over in her mind until her knees wobbled, and she felt a strange roaring in her ears. There was something wrong here. Something terribly wrong…

  "Lord Nightham," she said softly, feeling the room closing in on her. "I—"

  But before she could finish, her knees finally gave way and the room went black.

  "The lady is ill," Nightham said with a frown, catching Victoria in his arms. "Dash it all! Go fetch a doctor."

  The vicar's eyes went wide. "There's no doctor here, my lord. He was taking his breakfast early this morning at the inn when he was called to a birthing in the neighboring village. Ain't been back since."

  Nightham scowled. "You there." He looked to the servant. "Is there no one who can help us?"

  The servant frowned. "There be a woman down the road, m'lord. Begging your pardon, but she ain't be catering to the likes of you. Won't step outside her cottage. Daughter ran off with a military man and ain't seen hide no hair of her since."

  "If you ask me," the older man, serving as witness, interrupted, raising a bushy white brow as he stared at Victoria, "lady swooned like one of those fancy birds in Town. That's all gov'nor."

  A muscle ticked in Nightham's cheek. Uttering an oath, he shifted Victoria in his arms, angling his head toward the plump servant, telling her to follow him as he brought Victoria up the stairs of the inn and into one of the bedchambers.

  He pushed some coins into the woman's hands and frowned at Victoria's pallor.

  "It's more than just a swoon. The lady has not looked well the entire ride. Stay with her and give me directions to that woman down the road. I won't be long."

  After receiving directions, Nightham hurried down the stairs the way he came, only to find the vicar and the old man long gone. He spent a few agitated minutes looking for them while a niggling suspicion began to gnaw at his brain.

  He had no marriage certificate and no vicar. He needed that piece of paper. Dash it all. It was his future.

  The sound of clamoring feet snapped his gaze toward the stairs. The servant who was to stay with Victoria had bolted through the private dining room and out the back of the inn. An ugly thought suddenly occurred to him. Mayhap the vicar was not a man of the cloth at all, but a swindler pocketing his money. Nightham knew he was not the smartest of men, but by Jove, he thought he knew a vicar when he saw one.

  Clenching his fists against his sides, he hastened outside to go after the woman. "You there! Stop, I say!" But the earl never saw the man coming up behind him. Pain seared Nightham's back, sending him falling against the inn with a thud.

  "Take that, your lordship. It won't be a wedding night for you, but a funeral march."

  Chapter Two

  It took only a few seconds for Victoria to realize that she was in a strange bed with only her shift for clothes. She vaguely remembered being carried up some stairs and given something for her nerves. Laudanum? A round-faced woman had offered her a drink and then fled from the room. She had been the same woman who had served as one of the witnesses.

  Victoria lifted a hand to her brow. Her head felt fuzzy from the medicine, yet the past few hours flashed through her mind with a distinct clarity.

  Dear heaven, what had she done?

  She slowly turned her head, spying a small engraving on the nightstand beside her. Narrowing her eyes, she read the words etched on the porcelain pitcher. Boxing Boar Inn.

  She glanced beyond the nightstand, noticing her gown thrown over the top of the changing screen. Her throat tightened with dread. Had Lord
Nightham removed her clothing, or had it been the servant woman?

  Panicking, she fumbled beneath the covers and felt the ruby ring circling her finger. Where was Lord Nightham? Would he return? Of course, what a ninny she was. Nightham would surely come to her, demanding his husbandly rights now. She cringed at the very thought of him touching her. Though his few kisses were not unpleasant, she had no love for the man, at least not like the love Aunt Phoebe had for Uncle Henry.

  Her bottom lip trembled as she tilted her head toward the small window at her side. A pair of white curtains floated in the afternoon breeze, letting the soft rays of the sun spill onto her bed. How many hours had passed since the wedding ceremony?

  "You are awake, madam?"

  Victoria gasped and felt the blood drain from her face as she shifted her gaze to the corner of the room. She fought back the urge to scream at the sight of a man stepping toward her. His shoulders filled the room with such arrogance, her throat ran dry. Slick tan breeches molded to long muscled legs and narrowed hips, accentuating his powerful strength. Glossy hair, black as midnight, fell behind his back in a queue, leaving a small lock hanging loosely about his left temple.

  Why, he... he looked like a pirate!

  "Who are you?" she finally asked in a haughty tone after she gathered her wits, or at least a modicum of sanity.

  He seemed to ignore her question, and as if he were having tea with Prinny, the man flipped open a gold watch, scowled, snapped it closed, and returned it to his pocket.

  His black-silver gaze pinned her to the bed. "I believe the real question is, where is Nightham?"

  Victoria's eyes flashed. She would not, could not, show any weakness, even though she felt like a cornered mouse. "You insufferable lout! I demand you leave here at once!"

  The intruder gave a slight bow. "Forgive me, madam, I had no thought that I would be attending a ball with a princess or I would have worn my most expensive silk and velvet."

  Humiliated, Victoria jerked the covers to her chin. Where was Nightham? And what was this man doing here? "Leave my chambers. This is insufferable."

  "Insufferable?" The man glared at her as if she were a pesky fly in his ale. "Why, my lady, if indeed that is what you are, this is not insufferable. This is intolerable."

  Victoria gasped, feeling violated and stripped of more than her dignity. Did he not know that she was married to the earl?

  "I need to see Nightham." His voice boomed above her thoughts, making her bite back a hasty retort. "Where is he?"

  His face moved so close to hers that she could see her reflection in what seemed to be a canvas of steel gray, the foreboding color of an approaching storm that she had no wish to encounter.

  "Where—is—Lord—Nightham?" he repeated.

  Her blood froze in her veins when the thought suddenly occurred to her that this was one of the men Lord Nightham had warned her about. Although Charles had mentioned that he had placed a few vowels here and there, he assured her that he would pay them off as soon as he returned to London. However, he had distinctly informed her that some men, even some unseemly lords, would claim that he owed them absurd amounts of money, when he did not. But because of Nightham's title and wealth, the leeches of the world would continue to plague him.

  Well, this insufferable rogue was not about to obtain a single guinea from Lord Nightham or her. He may be undeniably handsome, but his arrogance crushed any hope of an agreeable conversation.

  She lifted her brow in disdain. "I have not the faintest idea where he is."

  The man shot her a disbelieving glare.

  She forced her lips to plunge into a cool, stiff smile. Oh, she saw the flash of sarcasm in that piercing gaze. His steel gray eyes said everything that words did not. She was a tramp, a jade, a hoyden. He had no idea she was Lady Nightham. But it was his snort of disgust that sent her anger climbing.

  "Do you deny your own status in life?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  She sat up. Did he know about her family's monetary situation? Impossible. He wanted Lord Nightham's coin and she would set him straight on that account. "Now see here, sir, you have no right to come barging into my chambers demanding answers that do not concern you. I must insist that you leave."

  "This very well concerns me," he snapped.

  She watched as he pulled out that infernal pocket watch again and checked the time. Daft as King George, he was. She would not hand over a single coin to this blathering nitwit.

  "You will not obtain anything from me," she said sharply. "If you do not take your person from this room, I'll... well, I'll scream."

  To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. "Be my guest, madam." He stepped back and sent her a mocking bow. "Scream and we shall see who comes running. Who will look foolish then? What would your dear Nightham say?"

  Her breath caught at the insolence of the man.

  Yes, what would Lord Nightham say when he returned and saw her with this ... this pirate? The scandal would be unbearable for her and her family. The rushed marriage was one thing, a compromising position with another man was quite another. Perhaps this man was not as stupid as she thought. Undoubtedly his looks had women swooning at his feet. Moreover, there was an air of command about him that even Victoria could not dismiss.

  "About the coin ... I believe you will see the light once you have heard my offer."

  Goodness, did he believe she would swindle her own husband? He was mad. "I think not."

  He threw his hands to his hips, looking more the pirate than ever. "Confound it, you will or I'll force you from here myself."

  Force her? She stiffened her spine. By heavens, she would not give him anything. No small wonder why Nightham had warned her. She was about to open her mouth when she jumped at the knock on the chamber door.

  With a muffled curse, the man stomped across the room and threw open the door. "What is it?"

  A quivering urchin was slumped against the threshold, breathing heavily. "The gent's dying," the boy said as he slipped past the pirate, handing Victoria a red-stained handkerchief, pointing toward the back of the inn. "Told me to give it to you. You have that reddish-brown hair all right. You're the one."

  Victoria stared at the bloody handkerchief, her heart hammering in her chest. The cloth had the Nightham crest embroidered on the comer. "W-what happened?"

  Without warning, the man beside her grabbed the piece of cloth in her hands and studied it with a dangerous scowl marring his perfect features.

  Victoria stared back in shocked silence.

  The boy retreated, his wide gaze switching between the pirate and her. "Gent's been out there a good while. But I ain't knowing who did it. I ain't. And ain't told nobody either."

  The hair prickled at the back of Victoria's neck. This boy seemed to be telling the truth. An icy chill of doom swept through her.

  "I believe you," she said calmly as she slowly swung her feet over the side of the bed, trying to keep the boy from bolting. "I won't harm you. Just take me to him."

  "Stay here."

  Victoria froze at the command. She looked back at her intruder. A pair of dark gray eyes shot her a firm warning. She lifted her chin. As if she would listen to him. "I most certainly am not staying here. Nightham needs me."

  One black brow rose in challenge. "I will return with the information, but you will stay here." It was not only a command, it was a threat.

  Victoria's gaze fell on his taut expression, and she pressed her lips together in frustration. A second later the intruder left with the boy.

  At the sound of the door slamming behind them, guilt sliced through her like a white-hot sword. If she had only objected to this quick wedding, Nightham would not be hurt.

  After waiting like some dumb, anxious animal, for who knows how long, she finally threw back the sheets from the bed and decided to inspect the scene herself. She would dress and follow them. Nightham needed her.

  What had she been thinking staying in the room under that man's orders? She
had stayed in the room far too long already. Who did he think he was?

  Panic like she had never known gathered in her breast as she hurried across the room. Her hands shook as she grabbed her gown, telling herself that Nightham would be fine. It was probably just a little scratch. However, deep down inside, she didn't believe it at all. Something told her that she would never see Nightham alive again.

  Kneeling down in the alley behind the inn, Drake closed his eyes as he held Nightham's hand. Pain swept through him at the sight of his dying friend. There was nothing to be done. He had pressed a cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding, but the knife had cut deep, and the doctor was nowhere to be found.

  "Drake." Nightham's voice was so weak that Drake barely heard him.

  Drake angled his head toward his friend. "Save your breath, old boy."

  "No hope ... m-must take care of her."

  Drake grimaced, knowing Nightham was speaking of the woman. "She wants to marry for money. Can you not see that?" The words burst forth without thought, and he regretted it instantly.

  "No ... failed her... m-must compensate." Nightham's face was white and his lips were turning blue. "P-promise me, Drake. T-take care of her."

  Drake's stomach clenched. A death bed promise. How could he refuse? "You are ever vexing me, friend. Did you love her so?"

  "Remember... the pig?" Nightham's pale blue eyes held a twinkle of mischief as he ignored the question.

  Drake's smile widened. "Ah, the time you let it in the master's living quarters and blamed it on me? You were always a sneaky devil."

  "Never... d-dull moment... eh?"

  Drake swallowed hard. He and Nightham had grown up together. As boys, it was Nightham who had painted Lord Roxey's pew with brown paint an hour before church service because the baron had taken him to task the day before. It had been Nightham who had showered the ladies' punch bowl with whiskey at the Winter Ball because the hostess had shaken a finger at him.