To Madden a Marquess

by Tamara Gill

  “It’s only a ball, mother. I’m not getting married.” She walked over to her bed and slid the soft pink slippers on that matched the dress she’d been lucky enough to find only a few days ago on Cannon Street. The gown had been made for a woman of means, but then when she’d gone to collect the garment, she’d disliked the colour against her skin and refused to take it. The modiste, Madame Perrin was only too happy to give her a small discount if Cecilia would take the dress, and lucky for her, the gown had suited her complexion perfectly, and was suitable without being too fancy.

  “Even so, you look so lovely. How wonderful for the Duchess of Athelby to invite you as her special guest. I do hope you’ll remember to be polite and try and not let anyone vex you.”

  Cecilia pulled on her white silk gloves. “I won’t pretend to not understand what you’re saying, because I do perfectly well. But I promise I shall behave myself, and not allow my mouth to run away from me and tell off all the rich nobs or at least tell them what I truly think of their shallowness. Will that suffice, mama?”

  “Now now, you cannot tarnish everyone the same. Some of those in attendance will be just like you, not full of airs and graces, just attending for the enjoyment of fine food, music and dancing. Oh, I do hope I can stay up to hear all about it, but alas no doubt you will not return until the wee hours of the morning.”

  “I should think so, but do not wait up mama. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow at breakfast.” Cecilia pulled on her cloak and started for the door. “Now, I must be off. I think I just heard our carriage pull up.”

  “Have fun, my dear!”

  Cecilia chuckled as she made her way outside to the carriage. Well, if she didn’t have fun, at least it was a memory that she could keep for the rest of her life. She could say to her children that she once danced and was merry with the haute ton. Not everyone could boast such a triumph.

  Hunter nursed a glass of whisky, the amber liquid quenched his thirst, but only for a short time. He needed many more of these tonight if he were to survive it. His nemesis, Miss Smith, stood next to the Duke and Duchess of Athelby and was talking to a fellow Hunter hadn’t seen in town for two years or more. The gentleman’s name eluded him at present. Who was the blasted flirt?

  He took another good sip and blinked to clear his eyes. He’d not intended to attend this evening, certainly not after hearing Miss Smith was invited, but the allure of a pair of very pretty blue eyes changed his plans. Miss Smith was certainly looking very well this evening, the rose pink of her gown suited her fair complexion and long blonde locks, that were arranged atop her head. He had to admit, the hell cat almost looked like one of them, but every now and then something would catch her eye, and the disdain she carried for his lot in life was visible to his inspection.

  Hunter sighed and started toward the card room, but his feet, a little more unsteady than he’d believed only got as far as some empty chairs and he sat down, gesturing to a footman to bring him more of that delightful amber liquid.

  How long he sat there, lost in his own thoughts was anyone’s guess, so when a vision in pink sat beside him, he was startled when she spoke.

  “You’re foxed, Lord Aaron. Please tell me I’m not going to have to rescue you tonight as well. I don’t think these silk slippers would survive the London streets.”

  He harrumphed. “I need no rescuing, and least of all from you.” He frowned at his cutting words that he didn’t mean to be so abrupt. But Miss Smith had a way of annoying him greatly, and the fact that tonight she looked more becoming than anyone he’d ever met before only made the situation worse. She was common for crying out loud. No better than the maids who worked in his homes. Well, maybe a little above his employees, but not by much. She took care of everyone, always sought to make people’s lives better, whereas he thought of little other than himself, how to enjoy life as much as he could. His parents had certainly lived in such a way, and no harm ever came of it.

  A little voice reminded Hunter that no good came from it either.

  “Do you get so very drunk all the time, my lord?”

  The footman delivered his drink and he took a sip. “Being from the Society that you are, I’ll forgive your crass behaviour and give you a little lesson in manners. You never, ever ask a gentleman if he is foxed at any event he attends. You never ask at all. It is no one’s concern but mine, and as I’m unwed, and nor am I engaged, I shall do whatever the bloody hell I want.”

  If he’d expected his words to send her packing, he was greatly disappointed. Miss vexing Smith simply narrowed her eyes at him and wrenched the whisky glass from his hand.

  “You are making a spectacle of yourself. Twice now I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing you in such a state. Do you never attend a ball where you’re sober? You know if you tried it, you might actually enjoy it.”

  “I doubt it very much,” he said, taking back the glass and finishing it. His eyes watered and he rubbed them, blinking a little to try and clear his vision. Miss Smith was starting to look like a blurry mound of pink.

  “You do realize that if you sold me the building, I will leave you alone. I promise never to enter your Society again and will never seek you out as I have done so this evening. So, what say you? Are you willing to reconsider my proposal?”

  He blinked again, wanting to see her clearly. Hell, she was pretty, ethereal almost, her features soft, delicate and perfectly structured. Until her eyes that was. They were intelligent, calculating and right at this moment, judgemental. It stung when it shouldn’t have, for he did not care about her opinion. Or did he? Hunter frowned, not understanding the unknown disquiet stirring inside.

  “No matter what you think of me, Miss Smith, let this be known. I may be a lord, but I do enjoy business, such as buying and selling horse stock, estates that I’ve inherited but do not use, the building on Pilgrim Street being one of them. But in this instance, as I have explained, I wish to develop it into a gentleman’s club, not ruin an area that is improving as a location which should increase in value. It will decrease in value if that site is turned into an orphanage. That would never equate to good business.”

  She shifted on the chair beside him and met his gaze, her angelic features hard with loathing. Loathing for him. Damn, he didn’t like that look on her. He wanted her to look at him with anything but that. Sweetness, heat, passion, anything but contempt.

  “You’re an embarrassment to Society, my lord. At least I’m trying to better the world for those who are less fortunate. What do you do?”

  “You’re so intelligent, why don’t you tell me?” he said, wanting to mock her words as, damn it, they stung. The images of the needy children who’d begged him for money bombarded his mind, and he frowned. Was he an embarrassment? An uncaring, toff. Surely not, it was simply his way of life. He did not deny those who begged him, and over the years he’d instructed his man of affairs to donate to charities when his patronage had been sought.

  “You do nothing other than drink yourself into a stupor and make money with your ventures, and yet all around you people live in poverty. At least I can sleep at night knowing I’ve done my best. You, my esteemed lord, are a parasite.”

  She stood, and he watched her go. His jaw ached, and he summoned another glass of whisky to dispel his annoyance. What did she know anyway? Who was she to criticise him for how he lived his life.

  Hunter stood and started for the card room. He would dispel his frustrations in a game of cards. Better that than strangling the little middle class, righteous heathen in front of all the ton.

  The card room was full of men, like him no doubt trying to escape the fairer sex or looking for a diversion from them. He spied the Duke of Athelby who had joined a game, and sat himself down at his table, willing to wait for him to be able to join in.

  The duke, Cameron to his friends, threw him an amused glance. “What’s got you all flustered? You look like you’ve danced every reel since the beginning of the ball.”

  Did he look
like he’d been dancing like a popinjay? He shook his head and summoned a glass of brandy from a passing footman. “The vexing woman that your wife brought if you must know. Right now, I have no doubt she’s telling your wife that I’m greedy and have no heart, just as she implied to my face five minutes ago.”

  The duke choked on his wine, and Lord Nash seated across from Hunter bellowed out a God almighty laugh, bringing to attention their table.

  “She did what?” Cameron asked, putting his card playing aside for a moment.

  “Told me I’m a parasite because I do not help charities like the one she runs, with the help of your wife I might add.”

  Cameron smirked. “Darcy likes her. She thinks she’s intelligent and kind, more than a lot of those in attendance this evening. No offence to you, Lord Nash, of course,” the duke said, smiling.

  Lord Nash nodded but didn’t comment, merely studied his cards. Hunter took a long pull of his drink. “Even so, she does not suit this environment. She is not one of us. Does not fit in. Admit it, Cameron, even you wouldn’t lower yourself to talk to her had your wife not made you.”

  The duke frowned, this time placing his cards down and levelled his gaze on Hunter. “I’ve known Miss Smith for some years, longer than I’ve known you, in fact. I use her father’s firm for all my legal matters. They may have ink stains on their fingers, but they’re very respectable people. And Cecilia is beyond intelligent, even Darcy admitted the other day that she thought Cecilia was more intelligent than her, and that’s a rarity.” The duke laughed, picking up his cards. “By the way, how sober are you at the moment? I don’t want an unjust advantage against you in cards. I always find winning under such circumstances tedious.”

  Hunter looked down at the empty glass in his hand and waved to the footman for another. “Not foxed enough if anything. Not if I have to put up with middle class hell cats who call me a parasite.”

  “You are not a parasite, merely misunderstood perhaps or even, not aware so much of what goes on about us outside of Mayfair. I know from Darcy’s charity work that I’ve become more in tune to the poverty people live with. Miss Smith wants you to sell her your building, I think she’s showing you her strong opinions regarding the poor, merely to change your mind. I don’t believe she means to be cutting or judgemental.”

  Hunter fought not to scoff. Miss Smith was the most judgemental woman he knew, no matter what Cameron said about the fact. “I am not blind to the poor, I just choose to live without it dictating my every move.” The thought sounded uncaring even to Hunter’s own ears, and he cringed.

  “You’re acting as I used to, dear fellow. Like the world should pander to your every wish and desire. Be pretty and correct, not ugly and poor, rough about the edges. Not everyone in London are as fortunate as us. As human beings, we accept this and remain polite, help when we can. I hope you’ve remained polite to Miss Smith. She does not deserve your cutting words.”

  Hunter took the drink from the footman and revelled in the sharp scent of brandy. “I was honest with her.”

  “You were rude, admit it. And now I shall have Darcy onto me about how my friend was rude to hers.”

  “Darcy is my friend too.”

  “She won’t be after tonight if she finds out you were a prig.”

  Hunter downed his drink, and the room spun for a moment. “There was a time when you were a very good prig.”

  “Just sell her the building, and your troubles with Miss Smith will disappear.”

  Hunter ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair, no longer looking to play a game of cards. Not here at least. Maybe he’d go to Whites later tonight, and anywhere else the night may take him.

  “I have plans afoot on the location for a gentleman’s club for bankers and lawyers, men of that calibre. Miss Smith thinks my idea foolish, but I digress, I think it’s an untapped money-making venture I want to get started as soon as may be.” A flash of pink caught his eye, and he turned to see Darcy and the very woman who vexed him greatly come to stand before them.

  Miss Smith curtsied as the duke, and regretfully, Hunter stood to greet them. The duke took Darcy’s hand and placed it on his arm, covering it with his as they glanced at each other. A year after their marriage and the pair were still madly in love. As much as Hunter was happy for them, it was also too, a little confronting. He’d grown up in a household where love was folly, fun and games, and not always with your spouse was the tone, not all this affection and fidelity. Hunter wasn’t sure what to make of them, or the fact that the duke and duchess made a mockery of his parents’ marriage every day. Made a mockery of what he’d always thought as normal in a marriage.

  “I’ve come to steal my husband away for a dance.”

  Hunter glanced at Miss Smith and smarted at the look of horror that crossed the woman’s face. No doubt being left alone with him and his Society left her horrified.

  “Lord Aaron, will you do the honour of dancing with our guest, Miss Smith. We would be very pleased if you would,” the duchess said, smiling at them both.

  “Do not feel that because I accompanied her grace here that I was looking for a dance partner, Lord Aaron.” She turned to the duke and duchess. “I shall return to the ballroom and meet up with you after the waltz.”

  Before the duchess had a chance of reply, Miss Smith turned on her heel and headed back toward the ballroom. Darcy turned her steely gaze on him, and he groaned.

  “Hunter, follow Miss Smith and ask her to dance,” the duchess said, glaring at him.

  “It’s obvious she does not care to dance with me.” He snatched another glass of whisky from a passing footman. “I do not wish to force her hand.”

  Just as quick as he’d claimed the drink, Darcy snatched it out of his hands. “I think you’ve had enough liquor tonight. Now go, and ask her, and be kind or you shall have me to deal with.”

  He raised his brow at the duchess and instead of arguing the point, which damn it, she probably had an argument for, he headed into the ballroom to seek out Miss Smith.

  He saw her nestled in one of the corners, her height making her easy to find. Some rather large and boisterous matrons stood before her and gave him a sharp look when he asked to move past them.

  Cecilia too looked at him with contempt, and he tampered down his annoyance and held out his hand.

  “Would you care to dance, Miss Smith? I do believe the next song is to be a waltz.”

  “I do not,” she said, crossing her arms and looking over his shoulder.

  He took her hand anyway and pulled her toward the dance floor. Hunter cringed as she tightened her hold, stabbing him with her fingernails. What did she have in her gloves, little knives?

  “That hurts, Miss Smith.”

  She swung into his arms, fitting him like a glove. He liked that, and what’s more, he liked the feel of her in his hold. Her silk gown slid against his palms, her hand fit perfectly within his, her waist was small and yet still held delectable womanly curves he adored.

  “I never do anything without a purpose, Lord Aaron.”

  He chuckled and steered them down the ballroom floor. “I think we shall enjoy the dance more if we suffer our time together in silence. Are you in agreement, Miss Smith?”

  Her crystal clear eyes, unlike his which had a tendency to see things a little blurry most nights narrowed slightly. “I fail to care if we converse or not, but I will tell you this, your breath reeks of whisky, and if you step on my feet again I will retaliate in kind.”

  Pox on her for insinuating he was foxed. “Maybe you ought to stop breathing then?” He smiled at her shock and then swore when her slippered foot, something that had looked delicate slammed down on his toes.

  Cecilia stood in the middle of the ballroom and waited for Lord Aaron to regain his composure. Gentleman had their feet stepped on often and so too did women, why he had wrenched her out of his arms while he inspected his injured toe was simply embarrassing. And not for her.

  “Is your toe
well, my lord. I do apologise. I certainly didn’t mean to be so clumsy on purpose.” Cecilia smiled at the haute ton who looked on, some down their pointed noses, but Cecilia simply allowed their censure to roll off her back. What did it matter what these people thought? Outside of these walls, the majority of them didn’t worry about anyone else except their own person or families. Cecilia could count on one hand how many she knew here who worked for her charity or those that worked for other charities like hers.

  It was a pitiful few, and the dandy who kneeled before her, inspecting his toe, which she was surprised he could feel at all since he was so drunk, was simply absurd. This was the fourth time she’d been in his lordship’s company and the second time she’d seen his glassy, unfocused eyes, not to mention his unsteady gait, although he seemed quite apt at hiding that a lot of the time.

  But she didn’t miss the slowing of steps to regain one’s balance, or the shaking of his hands when he drank, or that the trembling ceased a little once he’d imbibed himself of that liquor. The man was a drunk. Unfortunately, Cecilia had seen many like him, fathers, mothers, carers of the children she dealt with daily. Most of the time the children chose to stay at her institutions on their own accord simply to stay alive.

  He stood and pulled her into his arms, twirling them once again into the fray of dancers as if nothing was amiss. Did no one see this man? Did no one know the troubles he fought within his outer visage?

  “All is well again, my lord?”

  “Yes, it shall be,” he said, flicking her a glance that spoke of annoyance more than anything else.

  “While I have your ear, tell me, have you thought more on my offer? I do hope you’ve realised by now that the amount we’re willing to pay is reasonable and my idea for the location is more suited for that part of London.”

  “The property is not for sale, Miss Smith.”

  His stoic and no-nonsense tone said more than anything that he was at an end with her trying to make him sell. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. We’ve found another building for sale, right next door to yours. So even if you refurbish your building to a be a gentleman’s club, I’ll ensure no one will want to go there simply because of who your neighbours are.”