A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS

by Lillian Marek

  “Now that everyone has seen that we do not have cloven feet, people will come to call,” she said. “When you ride out, neighbors will greet you and stop to pass the time of day. It is not enough for you to put the estate back on a solid footing financially. We must also restore the family name socially.”

  He made a disgusted sound at that. “If it will make you happy, I will endeavor to be polite to them all, but don’t make the mistake of thinking I shall ever think of this place as home. It is an obligation, and I will take care of it. That is the most I can promise.”

  She felt rather as if he had struck her, and it took her a moment to retrieve her mental footing. She had begun to think of this place as home, but he had never, after all, given her any reason to believe that he thought of Penworth Castle with anything other than loathing. Nor had he ever promised to remain here. Or, for that matter, with her.

  If she was growing to love this place, if she was putting down roots and thinking of this as her home, that was her problem. She would have to remember that she might be living here alone.

  The first to call were Lord and Lady Willesford. He was the second landowner in the area, a fact of which his wife was excruciatingly aware. They were followed by the vicar and his wife, Squire Farleigh and his wife, and all the gentry within a reasonable drive.

  The gentlemen soon gravitated to the library, where Philip offered them brandy and smiled politely while they offered him advice. The ladies remained in the drawing room with Anne, where she offered tea and cakes while they offered observations.

  Lady Willesford, though her husband was merely a baron, seemed to feel that her many years in the district allowed her to patronize the newcomers.

  “Ah,” said that lady, “the drawing room of Penworth Castle. How many delightful hours have I spent here with Lady Penworth. The previous Lady Penworth, that is,” she added, having noticed Anne’s raised brow. “The dowager.”

  “I have never been here before,” said Mrs. Margrave frankly. “The previous marchioness and I were not on visiting terms.”

  Lady Willesford nodded smugly, failing to note the smile Anne exchanged with Mrs. Margrave.

  “I am hoping that you ladies will be able to tell me something about the families hereabouts,” said Anne. “I fear I am not familiar with this part of the world, and neither is my husband.”

  “Do not worry, my dear.” Lady Willesford smiled complacently. “I can tell you anything you need to know. And I assure you, you need have no fears. No one is likely to bring up the matter of Lord Penworth’s mother. That scandal was so long ago, I am sure no one even remembers it.”

  Mrs. Margrave choked on her tea.

  Anne looked confused. “Lord Penworth’s mother? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why, I meant no offense, truly.” Lady Willesford looked a trifle embarrassed. “I thought surely you knew. She was a barmaid and the old marquis disowned his son for marrying her.”

  Anne could not help it. She laughed. “What an absolutely bizarre story. Whoever told you such nonsense?”

  Lady Willesford hesitated but then forged ahead. “Everyone heard about it at the time, I am told, and it was only a few weeks ago that the old marchioness reminded me. I would, after all, expect her to know.”

  “Yes, one would expect her to know.” Anne shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know if the dowager is wandering in her wits or so bitter about the loss of her husband and her position that she deliberately maligns her son and grandson.”

  “Maligns?” Lady Willesford repeated nervously.

  “Wouldn’t put it past her,” Mrs. Margrave muttered.

  Anne took a calming breath. After what Philip had told her about his father’s family, she had not precisely held the dowager in high esteem, but this was beyond enough. “Allow me to disabuse you,” she said, with what she considered admirable calm. “Lord Penworth’s mother was a Lamarche, a cousin of the Earl of Greystone to whom my husband is closely bound by ties of affection as well as blood. It was with Greystone at Greystone Manor that my husband and his mother lived after his father died and after the old marquess refused to even acknowledge their existence. My lord’s father was disowned because he refused to marry the bride the old marquess had chosen. She was, I believe, the daughter of a very wealthy slave trader.”

  An unbecoming red flush covered Lady Willesford’s face. Her hands fluttered about her as she stumbled over various apologetic phrases.

  Mrs. Margrave did not look in the least surprised.

  Anne decided that it would be best to eliminate any possibility of questions in Lady Willesford’s mind. “Perhaps I should tell you why I am quite certain of what I just told you. Before my marriage I was Lady Anne Milhaven, daughter of the Earl of Elsworth. The Earl of Greystone is also my godfather and was my guardian after my parents’ death.”

  Lady Willesford was looking horror stricken. “I cannot imagine why Lady Penworth—the Dowager Lady Penworth, I mean—would, would…”

  “Tell such lies, do you mean to say?” A sardonic smile lifted one corner of Anne’s mouth. “Let us be charitable and say that old age and her losses have addled her wits and she can no longer distinguish between fantasy and reality.”

  “I quite understand.” Lady Willesford was patting Anne’s hand. “My dear Lady Penworth, how very dreadful. I am so sorry that I ever mentioned it.”

  “On the contrary, I am very grateful. Had you not done so, the lies might have spread. That would have been most unpleasant.”

  “Indeed it would, and I can assure you that I will see to it that the truth is known, and that Lady—that is, that the dowager’s tales are recognized as just a sign of her wandering wits.”

  “I have long believed that it would be foolish to place any reliance on the dowager’s word,” put in Mrs. Margrave with feigned regret. “On any subject. I would be pleased to make that clear to one and all.”

  After they left, Anne was tempted to leave her husband in ignorance of his grandmother’s malice, but decided that lies of omission violated her promise to him. As it turned out, he was not nearly so angry as she had feared—rather, he seemed mordantly amused, as if there was nothing the dowager could do or say that would surprise him any more.

  However, Anne noticed that he referred to Greystone—“my mother’s cousin”—on several occasions when talking to gentlemen of the neighborhood.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  In which Mr. Craddock receives an unpleasant surprise

  “What?” Craddock roared.

  Mrs. Craddock shrank back, and Corinne huddled behind her. Mr. Craddock seemed to have grown at least a foot taller and broader in his fury, but his wife could not understand what was wrong. She had hurried to the hall to greet him with her news and now this.

  “I thought you would be pleased,” she whispered. “You no longer need worry about her. And he is a marquess…”

  Craddock raised a fist and would have knocked her across the room had his tame clergyman not offered a tentative but admonitory cough. It had taken weeks to travel down from Edinburgh because that fool Comyn kept getting sick in the coach, and now to be greeted by this!

  Comyn, who had been trailing behind Craddock and the clergyman to stare in wonder at the elegant house in which he found himself, now peered around and saw Corinne. “I say, she is wonderfully pretty,” he said, and walked toward her, holding out a hand.

  Corinne saw a comic caricature of a gentleman coming toward her and retreated further behind her mother with a shriek of horror.

  “No, you idiot!” roared Craddock, grabbing Comyn by the collar to haul him back. “That’s my daughter, not my ward.”

  The clergyman was beginning to think that five pounds would be inadequate recompense for whatever he was expected to do. He should have insisted on guineas at least. He coughed again. “And where is the bride?”

  Craddock spun around and glared. There was total silence in the room. No one even seemed to be breathing. Finally Craddock said,
“The bride appears to be…indisposed. I fear the wedding will be delayed.”

  Mrs. Craddock seemed about to speak, but her husband silenced her with a look.

  Comyn tried to speak, but Craddock snapped out, “Not now!”

  Corinne whimpered, but did not even try to speak.

  Craddock regained control of the group.

  He pointed at the clergyman. “Your services will not be needed in the morning. Leave.” The clergyman did so with obvious relief.

  He pointed at Comyn. “You will have to stay at a hotel. The carriage will take you to Osborne’s.” When Comyn opened his mouth, Craddock roared “NOW!” and the young man nodded and scuttled away.

  When he was alone with his wife and daughter, Craddock led them into the library, closed the door and said, “You will now tell me precisely what happened.” His voice was soft, but neither woman failed to take note of the menace behind it.

  Jeffries and the rest of the staff at Mount Street withdrew downstairs. They had all been listening to the scene in the hall with avid interest but did not feel the need to listen at the library door. Mrs. Craddock’s maid had told them all about the events at Greystone Manor, far more than Mrs. Craddock knew herself, or was likely to relate.

  Mrs. Bacon, the cook, was positively round eyed. “Well,” she exclaimed, “don’t ever tell me that he was going to marry off our young lady to that…that creature!”

  “He wouldn’t do that, would he?” asked Sadie, the scullery maid.

  “He would if he could,” said Jeffries, frowning. “There’s not much he would not do.”

  “Lady Anne would never agree to such a thing,” said Rebecca firmly. The staff knew Lady Anne far better than her aunt and uncle did.

  “No,” agreed Jeffries, “but he could have made life difficult for her.” They nodded, remembering how many days and weeks Lady Anne had spent locked in her room when she first came under her uncle’s control.

  Mrs. Bacon tightened her mouth. “It looks as if our young lady has had a narrow escape.” She turned to Rebecca. “You say he seems like a decent sort?”

  Rebecca nodded. “All the servants like him, and many of the older ones know him from when he was a boy. He seems to treat her…sort of gently. They were being kind of careful with each other, but not unhappy, if you can see what I mean. And he’s handsome, too.”

  Sadie sighed, but Mrs. Bacon frowned at her. “Remember, handsome is as handsome does. I don’t know what her parents would have said about all this.”

  Jeffries did not look happy, but he said judiciously, “It may not be what we had hoped for her, but it could be worse. It sounds as if she will be well treated. She will at least have the position to which she is entitled.”

  Back in the library, Craddock was thinking furiously. He had heard his wife and daughter out, and stupid though they might be, they were unlikely to be gravely mistaken in their evaluation of the situation. Whatever story Greystone might put about of childhood sweethearts, Craddock was almost positive that his niece and Penworth had never met before. How could they?

  “You are certain that he did not want this match?”

  His wife and daughter nodded vigorously. “It was all the Earl of Greystone’s doing,” said Mrs. Craddock. “He and Lady Augusta made him marry her. He didn’t want anything to do with her.” She pushed away the memory of that embarrassing scene when she had tried to offer Corinne instead of Anne.

  “I’m sure he’d have much preferred to marry me if they had let him have his choice,” Corinne put in.

  Her father gave her a disgusted look. The girl was deplorably stupid, and her mother had given her an inflated sense of her own value. However, if Penworth had been forced into the marriage, there might be a way to salvage the situation.

  He knew all about the Penworth marquisate. A family of dissolute aristocrats who had devoted their lives to sinking deeper and deeper into debt. This new fellow who inherited must be in dire need of money to rescue the estate. That was all to the good.

  “Who knows about this?” he demanded.

  Mrs. Craddock and Corinne looked at each other and shrugged. “The people who were there all know,” said Mrs. Craddock.

  Craddock made a disgusted sound. “The ton, I suppose. Well, they will talk, but only to each other. I want you two to keep absolutely silent about this. If anyone asks, you tell them you know nothing of any such marriage.”

  Mrs. Craddock started to protest, but he drowned her out. “NOTHING!”

  The two women fled.

  Craddock sat down by the fireside and began to think furiously.

  There has to be a way out of this.

  He stood up to pace and ended up by the desk. He sat down and pulled out the current ledger.

  If Penworth was forced into a marriage, he’ll jump at a chance to get out of it. He’ll be another of those brainless aristocrats and he has to be desperate for money. A bride with no dowry will be useless to him. He should pose no problem.

  Opening the ledger, he caressed the long line of black figures and circled his finger around the total on the most recent page.

  I can easily convince him that the marriage can be annulled. I’ll remind him that she’s not of age, and I did not give my consent. A thousand pounds? That should be enough.

  Penworth probably won’t even ask, but if the bishops boggle at an annulment, once Comyn has her in Scotland and claims they are married, Penworth can divorce her for adultery. Up in the wilds of Inverness, she’ll never know anything about it. Comyn won’t find out, and Sprackett will never dare to breathe a word.

  I just have to find out where she is and bring her back.

  I can still marry her off to Comyn, she’ll be up in the Highlands, and no one will ever know.

  He smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  In which our hero and heroine have a glimpse of their future

  Penworth was standing in the breakfast room, drinking a cup of coffee—his preferred morning beverage, much to Mrs. Tripp’s amazement—and looking out across the lawns. The day promised to be warm and sunny. He turned and looked around the room. He was not certain what had been done to it, but everything—walls, furniture—looked clean and polished. The buffet held gleaming silver dishes with eggs, porridge, ham, and mackerel, a basket of fresh rolls, a dish of butter, jars of preserves. It was everything it should be, elegant and still comfortable. Three weeks ago, he would not have thought it possible that he would be able to think of any room in this house in such terms.

  Then he looked at his wife and smiled. His wife. He still could not quite believe it. This, this chameleon creature was his wife. She was sitting there, her hair pinned up in some simple arrangement, wearing a dress that was plain enough, looking cool and elegant as she sipped her tea. A stranger would have taken her for one of those beautifully polished ladies who embroider useless pieces of cloth or play carefully selected pieces on the pianoforte with never a wrong note and never a hint of emotion. However, he had seen her covered in grime and cobwebs, retrieving cabinets from the attics and teaching green housemaids how to clean and polish them to gleaming perfection to bring about the transformation of the house. And he had seen her in their bed, her face flushed with passion, moaning in pleasure as they learned to take delight in each other’s bodies.

  This beautiful chameleon creature was his wife.

  He looked out at the sunshine again. “Have you anything to do today?” he asked.

  She looked at him as if he had lost his mind, knowing full well just how hard they had both been working.

  He grinned. “I phrased that badly. Have you anything to do today that cannot be put off?”

  She thought for a moment and then shook her head.

  “Good,” he said. “I declare a holiday. There is a grey mare in the stable who is longing for you to take her out. While you change into your riding habit, I will ask Mrs. Tripp to pack us a lunch.”

  She looked so delighted that he would have swept her into
his arms and kissed her soundly were it not for the footman standing by the buffet.

  Twenty minutes later she stepped out the door into the stable yard to meet her new mount.

  “My lady, may I present this creature who, I am told, is as yet nameless,” said Penworth, leading the mare to her. “I am also told that she is generally well mannered so long as the whip is not used.”

  “Oh you lovely thing,” said Anne, reaching up to pat the mare’s nose. “I can’t imagine anyone wishing to use a whip on a beauty like you. Here.” She held out a hand to offer a lump of sugar, which was accepted with a whicker, followed by a nuzzle to see if anything else was being offered. “That’s all for the moment,” said Anne, laughing. “Now we will go for a ride, and you will tell me your name.”

  Penworth watched the two of them approvingly, and then lifted her into the saddle. She adjusted herself, as her body remembered how to balance and her hands recalled the position of the reins. Then she looked at her husband hesitantly. “I do not know if I told you, but it has been some five years since I have been on a horse.”

  “Does that mean that if I challenge you to a race, I have a fair chance of winning?”

  “Not at all.” She tossed her head. “It simply means that if by some peculiar chance you should win such a race, my excuse is already in place.” With that she flicked the reins to urge the mare into a trot and headed out the gate.

  Penworth followed, laughing, and then pointed her down a path through the fields. They rode along in companionable silence—Anne enjoying the sense of freedom she derived from being on horseback and Penworth taking pleasure in her enjoyment.

  Eventually the path led downhill through a wood and they came out on a cliff above the shore. Anne gave a gasp of delight and turned her horse back and forth to take in the view. “Have you been here before?” she asked Penworth. “Is there a way down?”

  He dismounted and lifted her from her horse. “No to the first, and yes to the second,” he said. “At least that is what Galveston tells me.”