To Madden a Marquess

by Tamara Gill

  Katherine turned her full attention toward Cecilia. “Who? You never mentioned running into anyone before the meeting.”

  “I was late if you remember, and the reason for that was the very handsome, very rakish Marquess of Aaron. I was walking down Fleet Street when I noticed the man stumbling along, and then the fool thought to walk out in the middle of the road and try and be hit by a cab. What else was I to do but save the prig.”

  Her friend’s eyes widened. “And did you?”

  “Did I what?” Cecilia asked, frowning.

  “Save him!”

  She laughed. “Oh yes, I got him off the road without any harm done to his absurdly beautiful bone structure. But I really ought to have let him be hit. No man should ever be that perfect.”

  Katherine laughed. “You bantered with a marquess. Oh, what a story to tell your grandchildren one day. He’s famous about London. Everyone wants to be his friend and be part of his set. He is known to be vastly naughty and flirts with even the old matrons in the ton. And you saved his life. He owes you.”

  “He doesn’t owe me anything. In all honesty, I was glad I was there to help him for he was as foxed as they come.”

  “In the middle of the day, his lordship was drunk?” Katherine sighed, sitting back in the squabs. “This shouldn’t surprise me as I’ve heard other rumors about his lordship.”

  “What rumors are they?” Cecilia tore her gaze away from the streets outside their carriage that slowly started to meander their way into their neighbourhood, a much less savoury one than the one the marquess would hail from.

  “That he’s always inebriated. That there hasn’t been an outing he’s attended this year where he hasn’t been foxed or in such a state by the time he leaves. It really is a great shame that he isn’t able to attend balls and parties without being so drunk. His lordship might find that he enjoys himself more if he wasn’t in such a state, but so far not many have seen him otherwise. I suppose his wayward life could be blamed on his parents.”

  Cecilia didn’t like the idea of the Marquess having such demons. Indeed today when she’d saved him it had been in the middle of the afternoon. Most people of his set were sleeping the day away, gaining their strength for the next night’s entertainments. But his lordship had not been. He’d still been returning home from who knows where. The smell of him certainly wasn’t pleasant as one would expect a nob to be. Was what Katherine saying true? How terrible if it was so.

  “His parents? What do you mean?” Cecilia asked.

  Katherine met her gaze. “His parents before they passed away were famous for their public arguments, their lively love-hate relationship.” She shrugged. “Although I’ve not heard Lord Aaron has acted in such a way in public with a woman, he’s certainly as wild as his sire was behind doors.”

  “How do you know all this about the marquess? I’ve never heard you mention his name before today.”

  “I read the paper, but also, my ladies’ maid has a sister who works for the marquess, just as a scullery maid. Even so, the stories that she’s been told about his lordship, the parties that take place at his townhouse, the company he keeps and what they get up to is beyond anything we’ve ever imagined. There will be stories told about his lordship for years to come I’m sure, even after his death.”

  Which would be sooner rather than later if he kept up such antics. Walking out in front of carriages indeed. Stupid, handsome fool.

  Late that afternoon, Hunter lay back in his bath and groaned when his servant knocked on his bathroom door.

  “My lord, your steward would like a word with you downstairs in the library when you’re ready. He’s willing to wait.”

  “Tell him to come up here and speak. I’ll not have my bathing rushed.” He’d only just got into the damn tub for crying out loud, and with any luck, the pounding headache he currently suffered with would abate a little in the warm, soothing water that smelt of lavender.

  Hunter rested his head back on the tub and looked up at his ornate ceiling that had cherubs floating about in clouds. Really, the image was absurd, but a reoccurring effect upon the ceilings throughout his home.

  The thought of another who had a rounded ass just like the cherubs above him floated into his mind. Miss Cecilia Smith. A very plain name for a woman who was completely the opposite of that. She was extremely attractive for a woman of the middle class, untitled, located in a different part of London and their social circles couldn’t be more different. But she was extraordinarily beautiful.

  Her ethereal golden locks had sat tied on the top of her head, little wisps floating about her face with the most striking, intelligent blue eyes he’d ever beheld. She’d saved his life, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember if he’d thanked her.

  And nor would he get the chance now, since it was unlikely he’d ever see her again. A shame for he’d love to get to know her better. He was in need of setting up a new mistress, his current one was too needy, had become a whiny little thing who was no longer fun. Maybe a woman of Miss Smith’s class would accept such a proposition from him. He dismissed the idea as soon as he had it, she had a father who was in law, would have family and friends who expected her to marry well, she would not be looking to be his lover, no matter how rich he’d make her.

  He started when a loud knock sounded on his bathroom door. “Come in,” he said, sighing as his thoughts and ideas for the delectable Miss Smith vanished from his mind.

  “My lord, apologies for interrupting you, but I have some urgent business matters which must be discussed.”

  “And they are?” he asked, flicking a glance at his man of business Mr. Marsh. His steward was a tall gentleman, but too thin by far, looked as if a good meal would kill him. His hair was washed and kept pulled back from his face, that had an overly broad forehead. He was smart man and hence why he was working for Hunter. Probably a good thing that his forehead was so broad, if only to hold in his massive mind.

  “The property on Pilgrim Street that is empty has had an offer of purchase against it.” He ruffled through his papers. “Ah, the charity by the name of London Relief Society wish to meet and negotiate a price.”

  Hunter sat up in the bath. “That property is marked for development for a gentleman’s club for the middle class as it were. Building for it was to commence next year. Why is anyone offering on it? The property was taken off the market months ago.” He had the idea for a gentleman’s club for the middle class, to give those who were bankers, lawyers or barristers a place to go and enjoy good wine, food and intelligent company. It had been one of his best ideas, and it was now in the final stages of planning and design.

  “I believe, my lord that they wish to open up a school for the children who need it, an orphanage of some kind.”

  The location made sense, as in that part of town there were hundreds of kids running about, their parents either working or unfortunately dead and unable to keep track of them. In this part of London, the seedier side of the city was kept at bay, not spoken about and relatively ignored. Hunter had wanted to revamp the area a little, offer it a little luxury to those who lived and worked there. Putting an orphanage and school did not suit that plan at all.

  “How much did they bid for the building in its current state?” Hunter asked, having not thought he’d ever have anyone interested in the site.

  “Two hundred and fifty pounds, my lord.”

  An excellent sum, but still no gentleman’s club. “And when does this charity wish to meet?”

  His steward ruffled through his papers once again. “The meeting is set for tomorrow at four in my offices on Regent Street. The charity will attend and make their formal offer.”

  What was he doing tomorrow evening…. Ah, there was a card game at Whites he’d wanted to attend. Many a gentleman would be present who didn’t play as well as they ought, and Hunter often left with a much more massive purse than the one he arrived with.

  “Do we know who will be in attendance from this charity?”
Hunter asked, his voice bored even to his own ears.

  Again Mr. Marsh ruffled through his paperwork. “A Mr. John Smith and his daughter, Miss Cecilia Smith. Mr. Smith is the owner and barrister from J Smith and Sons.”

  Hunter sat up in the tub. Miss Cecilia Smith. Could it be the very one who’d saved and chastised him not hours ago? “I think I shall attend and hear what they have to offer. Although I have no intentions of selling, I have other business on Regent street and will be in the area. It is only right that I attend and notify this charity of my plans for the site.”

  “Very good, my lord. I will see you at four tomorrow,” Mr. Marsh said, bowing and leaving him in peace.

  Hunter shut his eyes, revelling in the warm, fragrant water. Tomorrow he would purchase a new phaeton carriage. Baron Abram had started to race them from London to his estate in Kent and Hunter wanted to take part. Now he would be able to and enjoy himself at the gambling parties that were hosted after such sport.

  A capital idea if ever he had one.

  Chapter 3

  Cecilia Smith shut her mouth with a snap when the Marquess of Aaron sat down across from her in Mr. Marsh’s office on Regent Street. Her breath hitched, and she swallowed the nerves that took flight in her belly. This could not be happening. Only days before their paths had crossed and now, again, here he was, staring at her with amusement that made her hackles rise, and her cheeks to heat.

  To be sure nothing was out of place, Cecilia checked her attire and satisfied all was well, met his gaze. He didn’t need to know she’d eaten a pastry prior to coming here, and it would have been just her luck that the crumbs were sitting upon her bottle green day dress.

  The Marquess’s steward started to discuss the plans for the building, and it was enough to bring Cecilia out of her musings on his lordship and concentrate at the job at hand.

  “A gentleman’s club! That is preposterous,” she said, raising her chin. “The location is not Mayfair or Knightsbridge, it is Ludgate. We do not want your gentleman’s clubs here. What is needed is more homes for those who are less fortunate than yourself.”

  Mr. Marsh’s mouth pinched, and Cecilia smiled at him. She would not play this high and mighty lord’s game. He would not make the London Relief Society start from scratch and find some other place to purchase. As the building stood, two-hundred and fifty pounds was probably more than they ought to offer, but it was paramount in their plans for the future, the children’s future in this area and so they had offered a little more to make the deal tempting to the vendor. In this case, though, she had not thought the vendor would’ve been the marquess and a money hungry vulture one at that.

  “The property, even in its current condition is valued more than what you’ve offered. But as I stated before, my client will be remodelling the building for a gentleman’s club, not an orphanage.”

  Cecilia placed her hand on her father’s arm when he went to speak, and instead caught the Marquess’s eye. “Maybe his lordship, considering the fact that I saved his life only days ago, will rethink his plans with the building. Had I not stopped your foxed self from walking out in front of that hackney, you wouldn’t even be here today to accept or reject our offer of purchase. Nor would you be able to make it a gentleman’s club like you’re so set to do.”

  He leaned back in his chair, smirking and Cecilia’s stomach fluttered at his absurdly appealing visage. “Touché, Miss Smith, but I still will not sell you the building. I thought I would do right by your charity and meet with you, explain my plans, not negotiate another option.”

  Anger and disappointment surged through her veins. “Children are relying on us, children who’ll never have a roof over their heads unless I supply that cover. Your belittling of their circumstances by wanting to make a frivolous, and boring gentleman’s club, promoting affluent lifestyles that help no one, makes you look like an ass.”

  The steward gasped, and her father clasped her hand, shaking his head. “Cecilia, apologize to his lordship at once.”

  She ignored them all. “And while we’re at it, let me remind you your building may be the most suitable, but it is not the only one available in that area. We can look elsewhere if need be, you may want to remember that.” Even though it was suited best of all they’d viewed and would be the cheapest option available to them at this stage. But he didn’t need to know that if he was playing hard for a higher offer.

  The marquess leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. The action made his arms seem a lot larger than what she remembered them from the day before. In fact, today his lordship looked practically normal. Certainly he wasn’t foxed, or sleep deprived as he had been. If anything, he had an air of intelligence that she hadn’t thought he possessed.

  “Had you offered twelve months past, I might have thought on the offer, but since then I have put in place plans for the remodelling and structuring of the building’s usage. So now, unfortunately, Miss Smith you are out of luck.”

  “So it would seem,” she said, standing and putting her notepad back in the leather case she carried to all her business dealings. “Come, father, this meeting is finished.”

  The marquess stood and held out his hand to her. Cecilia looked at it for a moment debating whether she really wanted to shake this man’s hand or for that matter touch him at all. The last time she had, it left her feeling a little lost and not herself. It wasn’t to be borne.

  With a sigh she shook it, tightening her hand to the point that he narrowed his eyes. Good, she wanted him to know she was no pathetic, whimpering miss that he could pull the wool over. She was an educated, worldly woman who could read this marquess like a book. He may be laughing at her now, thinking her a silly fool for trying to do business with a lord, but she would show him. Their dealings would not end here. And he would not win this war. Not today, or ever.

  He arched a brow, a slightly sardonic smile slanting his lips. “What a strong handshake you have, Miss Smith. Almost masculine in fact.”

  She laughed, pulling him closer to her so that only they could be heard. “I will not play your game, nor will I allow you to build your gentleman’s club. I think you should take some time and think over our final offer. I do not wish to, my lord, but the class I hail from is the very one you’re trying to market to, and my father is well known. Your club will need members, yes? If you do not sell to me, I shall ensure no one of my set ever sets foot in your building.”

  He grinned, holding her tight and not letting her remove her hand from his grasp. “How very delightful you are, Miss Smith. Do tell me what else you have planned for my future. I am quite enraptured.”

  Cecilia wrenched her hand free. “Nothing more, my lord. I think what I stated is enough.”

  Taking a fortifying breath, she helped her father to stand as sitting for long periods tended to make him seize up a little. Walking outside, they were soon in the family carriage, heading back to the offices. Cecilia tugged her gloves off, slapping them against her skirts. “That man is the most vexing, arrogant, too high in the instep man I’ve ever met in my life. Not to mention one of the dumbest. A gentleman’s club, for men like you, papa. How absurd.”

  “You were extremely blunt with the marquess. He could make your life, even in the small Society we grace hard for you to make a good match in marriage. You should watch how you speak to people, my dear. It is not becoming of you.”

  “Pfft. I don’t care a fig if it’s not becoming of me, he is a fool.”

  Her father frowned and studied her for a moment. “What did you mean when you said you saved his life two days past. Have you met the marquess before?”

  Cecilia nodded and looked out the carriage window, the streets busy with shoppers and people out for strolls or calls. Not her though, at three and twenty she was a fortified spinster and solidly on the shelf just as she wished it to be. With her friends and her charity, she was never lonely or sad about her circumstances. If anything it enabled her to spend more time with the unfortunates
of the world. And she’d much rather be with them, than tending to a husband, locked up at home day in and day out with nothing else to do but sew and host parties.

  “I was running late for a meeting at the London Relief Society, and I spotted this man wandering, stumbling really onto the street. No one seemed to be taking any notice of the danger he was in, and I intervened. Stopped him from being hit by a passing carriage. I should’ve let him be flattened. I would’ve got my building then for two-hundred and fifty pounds. His estate would’ve sold it off right smart, just to be rid of it.”

  Her father scowled. “Cecilia you should not speak so vulgar. You’re better than that. I know you have a good heart, and there will be other buildings. His loss and stubbornness will be your gain, mark my words.”

  The carriage pulled up in front of J Smith and Sons, her father’s offices. Cecilia glanced at the buildings glass doors with her father’s name which included ‘and sons’ on it. Not that she had any brothers, a point he never brought up, but the disappointment he felt was sometimes palpable in their home. If only women could be lawyers, bankers and stewards, and then ‘and sons’ could be replaced with the wording ‘and daughter’. But it was not to be. Her father had chosen who would take over the firm after his death, and it was not her.

  “Did you wish to come inside and see Mr. White? I know he’d like to see you again.”

  The man her father intended for her was Mr. Justin White, a pompous lawyer who had trained under her father and now helped run the firm. Cecilia couldn’t stand the man, he was demanding and had not an ounce of empathy in his body, certainly not for her or her charities. As much as her father wished it, she would never marry the man. Even if he did end up inheriting her father’s company.

  If she ever married, and that was a very big if, she wanted a man who cared for those who were born less fortunate. Give time and money to her causes and try and make some change to these people’s circumstances. A husband who would not expect her to be a wife, cossetted at home, seen but never heard. And certainly not a husband who did nothing but idle his life away in folly and meaningless pursuits. Like a certain marquess she could think of.