A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS

by Lillian Marek

  Copyright © 2018 by Lillian Marek

  Cover Design by David R. Leaman, Business By Design, Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-9990180-2-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the owner of the copyright. In other words, pirating books is illegal. Please don’t do it.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Excerpt

  She was utterly still, staring at him for a moment, and then flew to her feet so quickly that Philip was not sure he had actually seen her move. One moment she was sitting, the next she was not. The movement must have startled him enough to make him jerk his head—fortunately, because the cup she threw at him smashed harmlessly against the wall instead of against his face.

  He felt the breath knocked out of him. No, she was not made of ice. She was blazing with fury—and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

  “How dare you, you contemptible rake! You may be sure I am quite aware of the situation in which we find ourselves, and I do not need your sulks and ill temper to remind me. You may resent the prospect of wedding me, my lord,”—she was fairly spitting out the words and pointing her finger at him—“but I am the one who is about to lose her chance at freedom when it was almost within my grasp. Am I supposed to be pleased at the thought of wedding you simply because you are a marquess? Do you assume a marriage such as this fulfills all my girlish dreams of love and romance? Do you think I look forward to being trapped this way? To spending my life being ordered about, under the control of a man with neither sense nor morals? Am I supposed to think that your title makes all other considerations unimportant? How dare you take that tone with me! You might remember that neither of us would be in this fix if you had had the decency to stay in your own bed!”

  Also by Lillian Marek

  in the Victorian Adventures series

  Lady Elinor’s Wicked Adventures

  The Etruscan Adventure

  Lady Emily’s Exotic Journey

  The Assyrian Adventure

  A Scandalous Journey

  The German Adventure

  Lord Edward’s Mysterious Treasure

  The Breton Adventure

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Excerpt

  Also by Lillian Marek

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  In memory of my mother,

  the inspiration for Lady Anne

  Chapter One

  In which our heroine receives a letter

  1828

  Lady Anne Milhaven looked at the letter lying upon the salver as if she had never seen such a thing before. She looked up at the butler who was proffering it to her and raised her eyebrows in query.

  “A letter for you, my lady,” said Jeffries.

  She could swear there was the ghost of a smile on his face.

  “Thank you,” she said, offering a ghostly smile of her own.

  She reached out hesitantly and picked it up. It had been so long since she had last received a letter that she had almost forgotten what to do. Uncle Craddock required that all mail be given only to him, and in this house, his word was law. If there had been letters for her—and there must at least have been letters of condolence after her parents’ deaths—she had never received them.

  But at the moment, Uncle Craddock was away from home.

  This letter was clearly addressed to her, in what looked to be a man’s writing, and franked with an illegible scrawl. Her fingers caressed the letter, enjoying the smooth texture of the expensive paper. She did not recognize the seal on the back, but it had been too long since she had needed to pay attention to such things.

  She stiffened her spine and told herself to stop shillyshallying. She was not some faint-hearted ninny. Her father would have laughed and reminded her never to hesitate before taking a fence. With a quick smile for the memory, she opened the letter so she could read it before Aunt Craddock and Cousin Corinne arrived at the breakfast table.

  The signature first. It was from the Earl of Greystone, her godfather. That was a surprise. Was he no longer in India? Since she had never heard from him, she was not even certain that he knew of her father’s death.

  She read the letter through quickly, and then again slowly. There were more surprises. It was clear from the letter that not only was he in England but he had been back for some time—and he had written before. Her fingers clenched around the paper. Here was proof positive that her uncle stole her mail.

  Forcing her fingers open, she smoothed out the letter and read it again. It was an invitation to stay at the earl’s country house. To stay for weeks, perhaps. A door was opening for her, a chance for something, a chance for something more.

  If she went and Uncle Craddock found out—no, when Uncle Craddock found out—he would be furious. But he was not here, and the invitation was in her hand. For a moment, she had control of her life. She could hardly believe it. She closed her eyes and reminded herself to stay calm and to keep breathing. This was her chance, and she would seize it!

  The sounds of her aunt’s approach recalled her to the moment. She pulled herself together and by the time her aunt arrived, she was once again a subdued creature in a mousey grey gown, eyes down in seeming modesty to keep her thoughts safely hidden. Fearing that if she looked up for a moment the blaze of hope in her eyes would be obvious, she stared down at the grey bombazine of her dress. Once I am free, I will never wear grey again.

  “Still sitting?” Aunt Craddock said crossly. “Don’t you have tasks to attend to?” Her round face had been designed to smile but too often wore an angry, disappointed look.

  “I was waiting to speak with you, Aunt. I have received an invitation to spend some time with the Earl of Greystone, and I wondered…”

  “The Earl of Greystone? Don’t be foolish. What would an earl want with you?” Aunt Craddock seated herself and waved a hand at the footman who had followed her in, indicating that she wished to be served.

  James, the footman, made his face impassive and piled eggs and a roll on a plate without any inquiry as to what Aunt Craddock would like. The eggs, he had to know, were cold by now, and he selected one of the rolls left from the day before. The fresh ones, which had been brought
up earlier for Anne, had been returned to the kitchen for the servants’ meal.

  Anne sighed. “James…”

  The footman looked at her innocently.

  “I believe my aunt will need a fresh pot of tea,” she said.

  “Yes, my lady.” He bowed and disappeared through the servants’ door.

  It was unlikely, Anne thought, that fresh tea would appear in time for this meal. Perhaps this afternoon. But then, did she really care if her aunt had only cold tea to drink?

  Anne shook her head. She had more pressing concerns at the moment than the temperature of the tea. It was time to return to the question of the earl.

  “He is an old friend of my parents, if you recall, and my godfather,” Anne said smoothly. “He invites me to spend some time at his country house.”

  Anne carefully did not mention how much time, or her hope—faint but undeniable—that the remove might be permanent. Greystone was her other guardian, after all. It was only the fact that he had been in India when her parents died that had landed her in the Craddock household.

  “I could not, of course, go alone, but I didn’t know if you would find it convenient to join me. You would need to bring Corinne as well. Do you think my cousin is ready to take part in a house party of this sort? There will probably be titled ladies and gentlemen present. Do you think she might feel uncomfortable?” Anne lifted her eyes to look at her aunt innocently.

  Aunt Craddock grew positively apoplectic at the suggestion that her cherished chick might find any company, no matter how high, intimidating. “Corinne could not be considered inferior to any friend of your parents! Her beauty and poise are unequaled—she will grace any society she enters and be able to marry anyone she chooses, even a duke!”

  “The earl doesn’t say anything about dukes.” Anne took a sip of tea—it was indeed cold—and looked down again to avoid her aunt’s eye.

  “Don’t be pert,” snapped Aunt Craddock. “It is not at all becoming. A gathering like this will be excellent exposure for her, and will doubtless lead to invitations to all the important affairs next season.”

  Anne managed to keep her expression bland. Aunt Craddock was still smarting over the fact that Corinne’s first season had been met with total indifference. They had attended public balls and entertainments, but no invitations to the fashionable events of the ton had been forthcoming. Aunt Craddock wanted desperately for Corinne to marry a title, and Uncle Craddock’s contempt for the aristocracy was his wife’s despair.

  Here it was September, the season well over, and they were still in town. Everyone of importance had long since departed for the country but even though the Craddocks were living in Mount Street, in the elegant town house that had once belonged to Anne’s father, the Earl of Elsworth, they had been invited nowhere.

  Corinne had been drifting into the breakfast room and stopped in the middle of a yawn. “Invitations? We have received invitations? To what?” she demanded, reaching out a hand for whatever was available.

  Aunt Craddock stopped looking irate and smiled indulgently at her daughter. Anne had to admit that Corinne was an angelic-looking creature, with golden curls and blue eyes that usually managed to seem innocent, at least in company. This morning she was a vision in lace and ruffles, which made Anne even more aware of her own drab bombazine.

  “Actually, I am the one who has received the invitation,” Anne said. She was unable to keep a touch of frost from her voice. That worried her. The thought that she might, even if only for a while, escape the control of her aunt and uncle was making her careless. Speaking more carefully, she continued, “A friend of my parents, the Earl of Greystone, has invited me to visit at Greystone Manor in Hampshire. I am sure you and your mother will be welcome as well.” Just as well, she thought, to make clear that they could not go without her.

  “Greystone Manor?” Corinne frowned slightly, her blue eyes looking vaguely puzzled. The she burst out, “Greystone Manor! But I have heard of it! It was in all the gossip sheets. The earl came back from India a positive Nabob, and it is all restored and refurbished. It is supposed to be quite fabulously elegant. Oh, this is too, too marvelous.” She spun around in delight. “Just the sort of place I have always wanted to be.”

  “It will be a perfect setting for you,” agreed her mother, and then turned to Anne. “When does he expect us? Oh dear. Since Mr. Craddock has the traveling coach, we will have to hire a coach.” Aunt Craddock looked distressed at the prospect of arriving in a hired equipage.

  “The earl writes that he will send his coach for me”—how Anne savored that me—“when I let him know how soon I will be ready. What day would you choose, Aunt?”

  “Oh…how very gracious of him. I think we should be ready by Wednesday next. That will give us a chance to visit the modiste. I will let him know.”

  Aunt Craddock reached out a hand for the invitation, but Anne held it back. “I think, Aunt, that I must be the one to accept his invitation. It was, after all, sent to me.”

  Aunt Craddock flushed and then sniffed. “I only hope you can manage to compose a response without giving offense. You are too inclined to forget your position. Come, Corinne, we need to go over your wardrobe and see if it needs replenishing.”

  Anne closed her eyes. Three more months until she was of age. Three more months until she was free. She had survived five years of insults and humiliations. She could manage another three months. Now, while her aunt and cousin were busy with Corinne’s wardrobe, she had a letter to write.

  It was not an easy letter, she soon realized. The earl’s invitation sounded as if it was not the first he had issued, but she might be mistaken. Just how many letters had her uncle kept from her? She had to consider it possible that he was telling the truth when he told her that her parents’ friends had forgotten her, that she was of no interest to them now that she was poor. But what of the letters she had written? Had they ever reached their destinations?

  Whatever she wrote now, she did not wish to sound as if she was reproaching the earl and his sister for neglect, but neither did she wish to have them think she had neglected them. Nor did she want to complain that her uncle had been interfering with her correspondence. She would sound like a whining child, and that would be too humiliating.

  Her parents had expected her to face life with courage and honor. They would not have wanted to see her complain or indulge in self-pity. They would want her to hold up her head proudly.

  She needed to remember that she was the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Elsworth. She was Lady Anne Milhaven.

  Chapter Two

  In which a response is received

  Lady Augusta Lamarche sat in the breakfast room at Greystone Manor and enjoyed the way the sun coming through the window made the rosewood table gleam and sparkled on the blue and white Spode dishes. The room was almost as it had been when she was a young girl, before everything changed. The blue toile of the draperies was almost the exact pattern of the draperies she remembered. The pattern of the dishes was the pattern her parents had used.

  There had been changes, of course. She could see that every time she looked in a mirror or caught sight of her brother, the Earl of Greystone. He was going through the letters that had arrived this morning and was wearing his usual cherubic smile.

  It was infectious, that smile, making it impossible not to smile back when she looked at him. He was such an innocent—always believing what anyone told him—that it really was amazing that he had come back from India a wealthy man.

  She had waved him off when he departed for the East to repair the family fortunes, doubting he would survive to return. For them both to be restored to not just comfort and safety but wealth and luxury was something she had not dared to dream.

  “Augusta!” he said, “She is coming. Elinor’s daughter, Anne. I can scarcely believe she will really be here at last.”

  Augusta was less overwhelmed with delight. “Really?” she asked. “You mean she has finally deigned to accept one
of your invitations?”

  “Yes. And do you know, it is really rather odd,” he said, a look of mild confusion coming over his face. “In her letter she sounds positively surprised to hear from me.” But then he returned to beaming. “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”

  Augusta was curious now and held out her hand. “Let me see the letter, George.”

  He passed it over to her. She put on her spectacles and examined it. “It is indeed odd,” she said with a frown. “She says that she is delighted to hear from you after all these years. What a strange remark after all the times we have written and the gifts you sent.” She looked over at her brother. “She did acknowledge the gifts, did she not?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Craddock always wrote for her. Reminders of her parents made her too sad to write herself, he said. You know she was a sensitive child.”

  Sensitive? The girl Augusta remembered may have been sensitive, but she was also very private, and not at all inclined to make a parade of her emotions. To say nothing of the fact that any child of Elinor’s would have been well schooled in matters of courtesy. Far too well schooled to neglect her correspondence.

  “Her uncle. I see. But he is away from home at the moment, so she writes. And this is the first time you have actually received a letter from her. How very interesting. I look forward to talking with her.” Indeed, Augusta was looking forward to that very much indeed. There was a puzzle here.

  She looked back at the letter. “She wishes to bring her aunt and cousin with her?”

  “Yes, her uncle wrote that the girls are very close. That is why she wished to stay with them instead of coming to us even after I returned.” He looked momentarily sad, for he too had been hurt by the rebuffs.

  However, he turned quickly to look on the bright side. “I suppose the aunt believes she is needed as a chaperone. In any case, it is not as if we have no room for them, even with the other guests. Annie will, of course, have her mother’s old rooms, and her aunt and cousin can share the room across the hall. They will be ready to travel on Wednesday, she writes. I must let John Coachman know. And I think I will ask Whyte if he would be willing to accompany them. He has business in London, I know. A woman and two girls should not be traveling alone. They will feel more secure with a man to accompany them.”