A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble Book 5)

by Bianca Blythe

  The horse neighed, as if irritated at her request. She clung onto his mane, but the horse didn’t stop.

  It won’t work.

  The horse wasn’t listening to her. He didn’t understand her, or he simply didn’t care.

  The world swerved up and down as the horse pounded his hooves against the uneven ground.

  Should I jump off?

  They were going so quickly, and her legs were bound in this frightful saddle. And what if the horse stepped on her? She’d heard of horses trampling their owners.

  The idea had been dreadful. She should simply have slept later, simply waited to be humiliated, simply waited for Mrs. Carberry’s inevitable tirade.

  A noise sounded in the distance.

  There was another rider. Two other riders.

  Heavens.

  Hope sprung through her, and she struggled to raise herself. “Help! Help!”

  She gazed toward the rider, not quite trusting herself to stay on the horse and wave at him at the same time.

  “Help!” she screamed again.

  The horse jolted further, evidently not appreciating the sound of her scream during his gallop through the field, and she clung onto him more tightly, not daring to turn her head again.

  She hoped the rider would see she was in trouble.

  And yet–she couldn’t calm the horse, even when she was on it.

  What on earth could another rider do? Give people an approximation of where her body might be when she was eventually discovered missing from the castle?

  Her heart clenched.

  And then she heard it.

  “Damnation.” The voice’s pleasant tenor was masked by his decidedly raised voice and his lapse of etiquette.

  Lord Metcalfe.

  It was him.

  In the next moment the sound of another horse’s hooves mingled with her own voice as she cried for help, and in the moment after that, Lord Metcalfe appeared beside her on his horse.

  He rode closely to her horse, shouting an order, and soon her horse entered a meek walk.

  Lord Metcalfe jumped off his horse and continued to calm her horse.

  “Good boy, Odysseus,” Lord Metcalfe, who’d just saved her from falling, saved her perhaps from death and had certainly saved her from injury, said. “Easy, easy.”

  The horse stopped and turned toward Lord Metcalfe, enjoying the man’s strokes.

  “Good morning, Miss Braunschweig,” Lord Metcalfe said.

  Ach.

  “Good morning,” she said weakly. The words caught in her throat, as if trapped before the sudden pounding of her heart.

  She turned toward him.

  Sunbeams danced over his dark hair. She hadn’t noticed how blue his eyes were before.

  The horse was still, and they were in a beautiful field. It seemed ridiculous to think a few moments before she’d worried about her very survival.

  “What on earth were you doing?” he growled.

  Oh.

  The happiness that had soared through her when he’d rescued her halted.

  She avoided his eyes.

  “Odysseus is not a horse for beginners,” he said. “Any stable boy would have told you that. Any stable boy also would have told you he was mine, and that you should not ride him.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He grunted. “You’re lucky I was awake.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You don’t know how dangerous that was,” he said.

  “Of course I know,” she protested. “I’ve never felt so close to death!”

  He blinked, and then his lips twitched. “All the same, you should have waited. A groom could have helped you.” He glanced at the side saddle. “Your technique for putting that on is wanting.”

  “I–er–would rather not have to ask him,” she said.

  “How thoughtful,” he said icily. “You could have been hurt. Odysseus could have been hurt. He doesn’t need an inexperienced rider on him. That won’t make him a better racer.”

  “This is a racing horse?” she asked.

  The marquess nodded. “It’s a little hobby I have.” He frowned. “Or used to have.”

  Emma wondered what caused that faraway look in his eyes. The marquess had gone from seeming threatening to looking as if he craved a hug.

  Perhaps he recognized his unnatural vulnerability too, for in the next moment he squared his shoulders. “Are you injured?” His eyes rolled over her, and she shivered underneath his unflinching gaze.

  “What’s in that satchel?” he asked.

  Ach.

  She readjusted it, hoping the sharp corners revealing it was a book were not too visible.

  “You’re acting strangely,” he said, his voice stern.

  “Am I?” She did her best to retain an innocent tone.

  Even though she was generally a good actress–a fact that had served her well over the years–perhaps because she was exhausted, perhaps because she was still frightened, or perhaps simply because she couldn’t imagine lying to the marquess again, her voice sounded strained, even to her ears.

  The marquess narrowed his eyes. “Did you steal something?”

  “Naturally not,” she said, affronted.

  “Shall I investigate it?” the young boy asked.

  “Go ahead.” Lord Metcalfe tossed the satchel to him.

  The boy rifled through it. “It’s a book.”

  Lord Metcalfe snorted. “Were you going to read poetry by the lake?”

  “Lake?” she squeaked.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice more solemn. “I don’t think it would have ended as well if Odysseus had decided to toss you into it. You would have been surprised, and that dress looks heavy.”

  She shivered, pondering another fate, one that wouldn’t have involved the marquess riding to rescue her.

  He urged his horse to move closer to her and then rested his hand on her arm. “I’m glad you’re fine.”

  He dropped his hand quickly, as if recognizing the impropriety of the motion.

  But nothing much about their meeting was proper.

  The boy held the book up. “It’s about horses!”

  Lord Metcalfe turned his gaze away from Emma. “Give me that.”

  The boy rode up to him.

  “Everything You Need to Learn about Horseback Riding,” the marquess said, his voice bewildered.

  “It wasn’t everything,” Emma said. “Then I wouldn’t have been in this dreadful position to begin with.”

  The marquess raised his eyebrows. “You mean to say you haven’t been on a horse before?”

  Emma bit her tongue.

  That was the sort of thing she had not desired to reveal to him.

  “How odd,” the boy said, his eyes wide. “She’s never ridden a horse before, imagine that.”

  The marquess’s lips twitched, but he turned to his companion. “Why don’t you go back to the stables? Can you manage both horses?”

  The boy nodded, and the marquess slid off his horse.

  “We’re not going as well?” Emma asked.

  “We will,” the marquess said, waving goodbye to the servant. He turned to her. “Though first you have some explaining to do.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MISS BRAUNSCHWEIG’S cheeks pinkened, and Hugh valiantly strove to not compare them to nearby flowers.

  “There’s really nothing to explain,” Miss Braunschweig said.

  “I doubt that.” Hugh flicked through the pages of the book. “How did you manage to put a saddle onto Odysseus?”

  “There’s a chapter on that,” Miss Braunschweig said, her voice miserable.

  “It must have been difficult.”

  She nodded, avoiding his gaze.

  “You could have been trampled to death.”

  “I only worried when he came into the field,” Miss Braunschweig said. “He seemed quite determined to gallop then.”

  “No doubt he was bewildered when he first saw you,” Hugh said.


  Or charmed.

  The thought rose through Hugh’s mind. He cleared his throat. He didn’t need to imagine how Odysseus might have felt to awaken to Miss Braunschweig beside him. It was the sort of musing that might make Hugh ponder what it would be like for him to awake beside her.

  “Both his dam and sire are racing horses,” Hugh said. “It’s in his blood.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Braunschweig said again.

  “Why did you do it?” Hugh asked softly.

  Miss Braunschweig was silent, and for a moment Hugh thought she might tell him some lie. Instead, she sighed. “I was embarrassed. I’ve never ridden before. I know I just squeezed through last night. I should have been sent home, and I thought if you saw how horribly I rode in the morning, you actually would.”

  He tilted his head. “And you don’t want to leave?”

  She met his gaze and shook her head. The gesture shouldn’t be nearly so charming, but it sent a pang through his heart.

  “We should return to the castle,” he said.

  “Naturally.” She smiled, but her shoulders seemed narrower than they’d been moments before.

  “How is it that the daughter of a baron does not know how to ride a horse?” he asked.

  She was silent, as if pondering the answer to the question herself. “Perhaps,” she said finally, “my brother was overprotective.”

  “It’s just both of you in the world?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “No parents? No other siblings? Uncles? Aunts?”

  “No. We were never a large family. My brother has always taken care of me.”

  “Has he done a good job?”

  “He kept me from horse injuries.”

  “I’m grateful for that,” Hugh said, and she jerked her head up to him in surprise.

  “I heard your father died last year,” she said awkwardly.

  “Yes,” he said, somewhat surprised.

  Most people did not like to bring up his father’s death, as if uncertain what sort of reaction he might have.

  His male acquaintances had extended their condolences at the funeral, and his female acquaintances when he’d next seen them, but they’d always avoided the topic after that. In fact, he was quite certain some of his acquaintances had never raised the subject.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “His death must have been difficult.”

  Hugh nodded. It had been difficult. His father hadn’t been supposed to die. Not then.

  “He was always healthy,” Hugh said.

  “You weren’t prepared.”

  Hugh shook his head, still remembering the surprise of that letter.

  “I was in Brighton,” Hugh said.

  “I’ve spent much time there,” Emma said. “I never met you.”

  “Well, the stay was much curtailed,” Hugh said. “I haven’t been eager to return.”

  “Naturally.”

  She was silent, and he knew she didn’t need him to explain.

  Brighton was a place for festivities, not for Parliament or any form of seriousness.

  When he’d been there, he hadn’t been thinking about his duties. He’d been indulging in the delicacies created by the regent’s many chefs, and he’d been dancing in the arms of the young widows who didn’t seem entirely mournful that their aging officer husbands had never made it back from Waterloo to order them about with the same enthusiasm with which they’d commanded whole legions.

  Hugh should have been in London. His father had asked him for help, had wanted to train him, and yet he’d taken his duties in the House of Lords lightly, letting his father press and wheedle for changes to legislation.

  “Let me show you the lake,” he said, forcing himself to change the conversation. “If you know where it is, you’ll know not to fall into it.”

  “I don’t intend to make off with any more horses.”

  He shrugged. “You haven’t promised to not gallivant upon any donkeys.”

  “Donkeys?” Her eyes widened.

  “Precisely. Don’t think I didn’t miss the oversight,” he said.

  “I didn’t know donkeys were in the habit of carrying men about,” she said.

  “They prefer working at the seashore,” he admitted. “And no donkey would want to carry me about. My stature is far too–”

  “Heavy?” Miss Braunschweig suggested.

  “I was going for grand,” Hugh said with a frown that felt curiously similar to a smile. “But a donkey would have no difficulty carrying you about. No sensible donkey would protest.”

  He gazed at her, suddenly aware of the precise slenderness of her waist and figure. He stopped speaking. Somehow the space where his words went had been transformed to one where butterflies might flit about in.

  And his diaphragm seemed filled with butterflies.

  He hurried toward the lake. He shouldn’t have suggested showing it to her. The lake was nearby, and he’d always been proud of the lake’s size. Most manor houses didn’t have lakes. Some people installed moats, but they were after the fact, and tended to serve only to annoy the servants who struggled to receive packages with efficiency.

  Now he thought it would have been wiser to take her back to the castle at once.

  Then a streak of blue was visible through the trees, and he remembered why he’d wanted to show it to her.

  Miss Braunschweig quickened her steps. A smile was on her face. “This reminds me of the Austrian Empire.”

  She swung around, as if bewildered at the similarities, and he smiled.

  “Why, you can’t see any houses at all,” she said, scanning the horizon. Her gaze halted at the folly. “What’s that?”

  “My grandfather was fond of the classics,” Hugh said. “He thought the scenery would be improved by a Grecian temple. He–er–wasn’t an actual worshipper of Greek gods.”

  “So, you can visit even when the weather is poor,” Miss Braunschweig said matter-of-factly.

  He assisted her from her horse, ignoring the jolt of energy as he touched her hand. Perhaps Miss Braunschweig had also felt it, for she avoided his gaze and strode toward the folly.

  Hugh took the horse’s leads and tied them to a nearby tree. He patted Odysseus’s back. “We’ll return soon.”

  Odysseus gazed at him benignly, no doubt still exhausted from his run and content to be rewarded with being in new territory.

  Hugh swallowed back a sigh. Odysseus’s trainer would not approve of this day.

  He followed Miss Braunschweig to the folly. The bluebells were blooming, and the trees would not look out of place in one of the fairy tales his mother had told him as a child. He inhaled the scent and wondered why he didn’t come here more often.

  When he’d been a child, before he’d been sent off to Rugby, this had been his favorite place in the world. Everything had seemed possible then.

  Miss Braunschweig marched up the steps to the folly. She gazed at the frieze. “Are these goddesses?”

  Hugh nodded. “Indeed.”

  He remembered that was another reason why he didn’t visit the folly. It wasn’t always necessary to see just how much his grandfather had appreciated female beauty. His grandfather had brought enough scandal on the family when he’d run off with an actress.

  Fortunately, his father had worked hard to restore propriety to the family name, and after Hugh’s brief partaking in festivities under the guise of building social connections, he’d vowed to further his father’s quest.

  “My grandfather was fond of women,” Hugh said.

  Miss Braunschweig raised her gaze. “That’s not an entirely uncommon trait in men.”

  Hugh’s skin warmed. “He had the sculptor model this goddess after my grandmother. She’s dressed as Aphrodite.” His skin heated further. “They weren’t even married then.”

  “That is less common in Englishmen,” Miss Braunschweig said.

  Hugh nodded. She was correct. It was most embarrassing.

  One didn’t need to see ima
ges of one’s half-clothed grandmother melded into stone for all eternity. “I should cover these up.”

  “Nonsense.” Miss Braunschweig traced her finger on the curve of one of the moldings. “She was clearly very beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you,” Hugh said.

  She gazed at him, evidently startled, and the back of his neck prickled.

  Hugh was always in charge. That was one of the benefits of being a marquess.

  But Miss Braunschweig was different. She went places she wasn’t supposed to. She didn’t recite lists of what was proper, like Lady Letitia or Lady Henrietta. She seemed to forget she was vying to be his wife and didn’t seem overly formal or eager to show her grasp of etiquette, remarking when everyone else broke theirs.

  And all the while, she was so beautiful.

  He wasn’t supposed to kiss her.

  He knew that.

  He wasn’t courting her. Not really. There were seven other women in the house whom he might marry.

  He didn’t need to raise her hopes.

  And yet...

  No lips had called him to them more than hers.

  They weren’t particularly rosy, not like some woman who appeared at balls with red lips as if they’d been biting them or stained them with French powder for the evening. They were still pale, as if her blood had still not regained circulation after her fright.

  There was nothing remarkable about their size or shape.

  And yet...

  They were hers. And that was all that mattered. He needed to claim them. He needed to devour them, to taste them with his own.

  They were supposed to be having a simple conversation, and yet the only thing he could think about was her.

  He wanted her slender arms to go around his neck, and he wanted their faces to be nearer, so he might linger on the exquisite structure of her face. He wanted to see if she’d flutter her long sooty lashes down, or whether or not she’d meet his gaze. And if she did meet his gaze, he wanted to drown in her eyes, because blue must be the loveliest color in the world.

  It seemed outrageous he’d at no point demanded his castle interior be painted that same blue, and it seemed reprehensible he’d not sent his valet to the haberdashery to demand only blue fabric in the future.

  But of course, no blue could ever hope to match the magnificence of her eyes.