How to Marry a Marquis

by Julia Quinn

  She bit her lower lip and bent her legs so that she was right on level with his face. She put her fingers to his lip and gently stretched it upward so that the small scratch was exposed. “Here you are,” she whispered as she cleaned the wound, amazed that she was able to make a sound over the pounding of her heart. She’d never stood so close to a man before, and this one in particular did the oddest things to her. She had the most absurd desire to let her fingers drift over the sculpted planes of his face, and then smooth across the elegant arch of his dark eyebrows.

  She forced herself to exhale and then looked down at his face. He was staring at her with an odd expression, half amused and half something else entirely. Her fingers were still on his lips, and somehow the sight of herself touching him seemed more dangerous than the actual touch.

  With a little gasp she pulled her hand away.

  “Are you done?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I—I hope that didn’t hurt you too much.”

  His eyes grew dark. “I didn’t feel the cut at all.”

  Elizabeth felt herself smile self-consciously, and she took another step back—anything to regain her equilibrium. “You’re a very different patient than my brother,” she said, trying to turn the conversation to tamer topics.

  “He probably didn’t flinch half as much as I did,” Mr. Siddons joked.

  “No,” Elizabeth said with a breathy laugh, “but he screams much louder.”

  “You said his name is Lucas?”

  She nodded.

  “Does he look like you?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes, which had been studying a painting on the wall in an effort not to look at Mr. Siddons, suddenly flew to his face. “That’s an odd question to ask.”

  He shrugged. “Like you, I’m a curious sort.”

  “Oh. Well, then, yes, he does. We all look alike. My parents were both very fair.”

  James held silent for a moment as he contemplated her words. It was hard not to notice that she’d spoken of them in the past tense. “They have passed on, then?” he said gently.

  She nodded, and he couldn’t help but see a slight stiffening in her face as she turned her head to the side. “It’s been over five years,” she said. “We’re used to being on our own now, but still it’s—she swallowed—“difficult.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then let out a small, forced laugh. “I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to utter those words.”

  “No,” he teased, trying to weave humor into the conversation. He respected her desire not to share her grief. “We agreed that you would not say them. I, on the other hand…”

  “Very well,” she said, clearly relieved that he wasn’t going to pry, “if you truly wish to apologize, I shall be happy to write out a list of your transgressions.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Would you, now?”

  “Oh, indeed. Of course, I only have three days worth of transgressions to document, but I’m fairly certain I can at least fill a page.”

  “Only a page? I shall have to work harder to—Miss Hotchkiss?”

  Her entire body had gone stiff and she was glaring at the door. “Get out,” she hissed.

  James stood so that he could see over the counter. Aunt Agatha’s cat was sitting in the doorway, resting on his furry haunches. “Is there a problem?” James queried.

  She never once took her eyes off of the animal. “That cat is a menace.”

  “Malcolm?” He grinned and walked over to the cat. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Don’t touch him,” Elizabeth warned. “He’s vicious.”

  But James just scooped him up. Malcolm let out a loud purr and buried his face into James’s neck with one long, lazy rub.

  Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. “That little traitor. I tried to befriend him for three years!”

  “I thought you’ve worked here for five.”

  “I have. But I gave up after three. A woman can only be hissed at so many times.”

  Malcolm looked at her, stuck his nose in the air, and went back to showering James’s neck with kitty love.

  James chuckled and walked back to his chair. “I’m sure he views me as a challenge. I hate cats.”

  Elizabeth’s head fell forward in the most sarcastic of gestures. “Odd, but you don’t look like you hate cats.”

  “Well, I don’t hate this one any longer.”

  “How fitting,” she muttered. “A man who hates all cats save one, and a cat who hates all people save one.”

  “Two, if you count Lady Danbury.” James grinned and sat back, suddenly feeling very satisfied with his life. He was out of London, away from the simpering debutantes and their grasping mamas, and he’d somehow found himself in the company of this delightful young woman, who probably wasn’t blackmailing his aunt, and even if she was—well, his heart hadn’t raced so much in years as when she’d touched her finger to his lips.

  Considering that he hadn’t managed to muster up even an ounce of interest in any of the matrimonial prospects parading about in London, that had to count for something.

  And maybe, he thought with a wistful hopefulness he hadn’t felt in years, if she was blackmailing his aunt—well, maybe she had a really good reason for it. Maybe she had an ailing relative, or was being threatened with eviction. Maybe she needed the money for an important, worthy reason, and never really intended to actually shame Agatha by spreading rumors.

  He smiled at her, deciding that he’d have her in his arms by the end of the week, and if she felt as good as he thought she would, he’d start thinking about pursuing her further. “With the proper inducements,” he teased, “I might put in a good word for you with our furry friend here.”

  “I’m no longer interested in—Oh, my heavens!”

  “What?”

  “What time is it?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch, and much to his surprise she actually rushed over and snatched it from his fingers. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “I was meant to meet Lady Danbury in her drawing room twenty minutes ago. I read to her every morning, and—”

  “I’m certain she won’t mind. After all”—James waved at the scratches on his face—“you have ample proof that you were attending the sick and needy.”

  “Yes, but you don’t understand. I’m not supposed to—That is, I’m supposed to be practicing—” Her eyes filled with horrified embarrassment, and she clamped her hand over her mouth.

  He stood, rising to his full height and looming over her with the sole intention of intimidation. “What were you about to say?”

  “Nothing,” she squeaked. “I swore I wasn’t going to do that any longer.”

  “Swore you weren’t going to do what any longer?”

  “It’s nothing. I swear. I’m sure I’ll see you later.”

  And then, before he could grab hold of her, she scooted out of the room.

  James stared at the doorway through which she’d disappeared for a full minute before finally springing to action. Miss Elizabeth Hotchkiss was the oddest thing. Just when she’d finally started acting like herself—and he was convinced that the gentle, kind woman with the wry and razor-sharp wit was the true Elizabeth—she’d started acting skittish and stammering and spouting off all sorts of nonsense.

  What was it she’d said she had to do? Read to his aunt? She’d said something about practicing something as well, and then swearing that she wasn’t going to do it any longer—what the devil had that meant?

  He poked his head out into the hall and looked around. All looked quiet. Elizabeth—when had he started thinking of her as Elizabeth and not the proper Miss Hotchkiss?—was nowhere in sight, probably tucked away in the library selecting reading material for Aunt—

  That was it! The book. When he’d seen her in his cottage she had been hunched over his copy of Bacon’s ESSAYS.

  A flash of memory, and he saw himself trying to pick up her little red book the day he’d met her. S
he had panicked—practically leaped in front of him to get her hands on the little tome first. She must have thought that he’d somehow managed to get his hands on her book.

  But what the hell was in the book?

  Chapter 6

  He watched her all day. He knew just how to trail a person, slipping around corners and hiding in empty rooms. Elizabeth, who had no reason to think that anyone might be following her, was never the wiser. He listened as she read aloud, watched as she marched back and forth across the hall, fetching unnecessary objects for his aunt.

  She treated Agatha with respect and affection. James kept listening for signs of impatience or anger, but whenever his aunt acted in an unreasonable manner, Elizabeth reacted with an amused indulgence that James found enchanting.

  Her restraint in the face of his aunt’s whimsies was nothing short of awe-inspiring. James would have lost his temper by noon. Miss Hotchkiss was still smiling when she left Danbury House at four in the afternoon.

  James watched from the window as she strolled down the drive. Her head was bobbing slightly from side to side, and he had the strangest, warmest feeling that she was singing to herself. Without thinking, he started to whistle.

  “What’s that tune?”

  He looked up. His aunt was standing in the doorway of her drawing room, leaning heavily on her cane.

  “Nothing to which you’d want to know the words,” he said with a rakish smile.

  “Nonsense. If it’s naughty, then I certainly want to know it.”

  James chuckled. “Aunt Agatha, I didn’t tell you the words when you caught me humming that sailors’ ditty when I was twelve, and I’m certainly not about to tell you the words to this one.”

  “Hmmph.” She thumped her cane and turned around. “Come and keep me company while I have tea.”

  James followed her into the drawing room and took a seat across from her. “Actually,” he began, “I’m pleased you invited me to join you. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your companion.”

  “Miss Hotchkiss?”

  “Yes,” he said, trying to sound disinterested. “Petite, blond.”

  Agatha smiled knowingly, her pale blue eyes crafty as ever. “Ah, so you noticed.”

  James pretended not to understand. “That her hair is blond? It would be difficult to miss, Aunt.”

  “I meant that she is cute as a button and you know it.”

  “Miss Hotchkiss is certainly attractive,” he said, “but—”

  “But she isn’t your sort of woman,” she finished for him. “I know.” She looked up. “I forget how you take your tea.”

  James narrowed his eyes. Aunt Agatha never forgot anything. “Milk, no sugar,” he said suspiciously. “And why would you think Miss Hotchkiss isn’t my sort of woman?”

  Agatha shrugged delicately and poured. “She has a rather understated elegance, after all.”

  James paused. “I believe you may have just insulted me.”

  “Well, you must admit that other woman was a trifle…ah, shall we say…” She handed him his tea. “Overblown?”

  “What other woman?”

  “You know. The one with the red hair and the…” She lifted her hands to the level of her chest and started making vague, circular motions. “You know.”

  “Aunt Agatha, she was an opera singer!”

  “Well,” she sniffed. “You certainly shouldn’t have introduced her to me.”

  “I didn’t,” James said tightly. “You came barreling down the street at me with all of the discretion of a cannonball.”

  “If you’re going to insult me—”

  “I tried to avoid you,” he cut in. “I tried to escape, but no, you were having none of it.”

  She placed a dramatic hand on her breast. “Pardon me for being a concerned relative. We’ve been after you to marry for many years now, and I merely wondered after your companion.”

  James took a steadying breath, trying to unclench the muscles in his shoulders. No one had the ability to make him feel like a green boy of sixteen like his aunt. “I believe,” he said firmly, “that we were discussing Miss Hotchkiss.”

  “Ah, yes!” Agatha took a sip of her tea and smiled. “Miss Hotchkiss. A lovely girl. And so levelheaded. Not like these flighty London misses I keep meeting at Almacks. To spend an evening there one would think that intelligence and common sense had been completely bred out of the British population.”

  James agreed with her completely on that point, but now really wasn’t the time to discuss it. “Miss Hotchkiss…?” he reminded her.

  His aunt looked up, blinked once, and said, “I don’t know where I would be without her.”

  “Perhaps five hundred pounds wealthier?” he suggested.

  Agatha’s teacup clattered loudly in its saucer. “Surely you don’t suspect Elizabeth.”

  “She does have access to your personal effects,” he pointed out. “Could you have saved anything that might be incriminating? For all you know, she has been snooping through your things for years.”

  “No,” she said in a quiet voice that somehow screamed authority. “Not Elizabeth. She would never do such a thing.”

  “Pardon me, Aunt, but how can you be certain?”

  She impaled him with a glance. “I believe you are aware that I am a good judge of character, James. As proof, that should suffice.”

  “Of course you’re a good judge of character, Agatha, but—”

  She held up a hand. “Miss Hotchkiss is all that is good and kind and true, and I refuse to listen to another disparaging word.”

  “Very well.”

  “If you don’t believe me, spend a little time with the girl. You will see that I am correct.”

  James sat back, satisfied. “I’ll do just that.”

  He dreamed about her that night.

  She was bent over that damned red book of hers, her long blond hair loose and shimmering like moonlight. She was wearing a virginal white nightgown that covered her from head to toe, but somehow he knew exactly what she looked like underneath, and he wanted her so badly…

  Then she was running from him, laughing over her shoulder as her hair streamed behind her, tickling his face whenever he drew close. But every time he reached out to touch her, she eluded his grasp. And every time he thought he was close enough to read the title on her little book, the gold-leaf lettering shifted and blurred, and he found himself stumbling and gasping for air.

  Which was exactly how James felt when he sat up straight in his bed, the light of morning just beginning to touch the horizon. He was vaguely dizzy, breathing hard, and he had only one thing on his mind.

  Elizabeth Hotchkiss.

  When Elizabeth arrived at Danbury House that morning, she was frowning. She had sworn that she wasn’t going to do as much as look at the cover of HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS, but when she’d arrived home the previous day, she’d found the book lying on her bed, its bright red binding practically daring her to open it.

  Elizabeth had told herself she was just going to take one peek; all she wanted to do was see if there was something about being witty and making a man laugh, but before she knew it, she was sitting on the edge of her bed, engrossed.

  And now she had so many rules and regulations floating around her head she was positively dizzy. She wasn’t to flirt with married men, she wasn’t supposed to try to give a man advice, but she was supposed to give a suitor the cut direct if he forgot her birthday.

  “Thank heavens for small favors,” she murmured to herself as she entered Danbury House’s great hall. Her birthday was more than nine months away, far enough in the future so as not to disrupt courtships she might possibly—

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. What was she thinking? She’d told herself she wasn’t going to let Mrs. Seeton tell her what to do, and here she was—

  “You look rather serious this morning.”

  Elizabeth looked up with a start. “Mr. Siddons,” she said, her voice squeaking a bit on the first syllable of his name. “
How lovely to see you.”

  He bowed. “The feeling, I assure you, is mutual.”

  She smiled tightly, suddenly feeling very awkward in this man’s presence. They had dealt together quite famously the day before, and Elizabeth had even felt that they might call themselves friends, but that was before…

  She coughed. That was before she’d stayed up half the night thinking about him.

  He immediately held out his handkerchief.

  Elizabeth felt herself blush and prayed it wasn’t too obvious. “It’s not necessary,” she said quickly. “I was just clearing my throat.”

  THUMP!

  “That would be Lady Danbury,” Mr. Siddons murmured, not even bothering to turn toward the sound.

  Elizabeth stifled a commiserating grin and turned her head. Sure enough, Lady Danbury was at the other end of the hall, thumping her cane. Malcolm was on the floor next to her, smirking.

  “Good morning, Lady Danbury,” Elizabeth said, immediately making her way toward the older woman. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’m seventy-two years old,” she retorted.

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” Elizabeth replied with a perfectly straight face, “since I have it on the best of accounts that you are no more than sixty-seven.”

  “Impertinent chit. You know very well I’m sixty-six.”

  Elizabeth hid her smile. “Do you need assistance getting to the drawing room? Have you eaten yet this morning?”

  “Had two eggs already and three pieces of toast, and I don’t want to sit in the drawing room this morning.”

  Elizabeth blinked in surprise. She and Lady Danbury spent every morning in the drawing room. And of Lady D’s many lectures, her most favorite was on the prophylactic qualities of routine.

  “I have decided to sit in the garden,” Lady D announced.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said. “I see. That’s a lovely idea. The air is quite fresh this morning, and the breeze is rather—”

  “I am going to take a nap.”

  That announcement completely robbed Elizabeth of speech. Lady Danbury frequently dozed off, but she never admitted to it, and she certainly never used the word “nap.”