Making Merry with the Marquess Read online

  “All good tavern wenches know that flattering the gents might earn them an extra coin. I didn’t think your mother would be immune to flattery.”

  “Indeed, she is not.”

  They reached the area where couples were gliding over the floor, the woman held in the man’s arms. Not at all the sort of dancing that went on at the village festival.

  “A waltz,” Marsden said. “Want to give it a try?”

  She smiled up at him. “I do.”

  And then he was sweeping her into the fray.

  Chapter 4

  It was a mistake to have invited her to the ball. He’d never be able to walk into the foyer without seeing her there, with appreciation for her surroundings dancing in her eyes. He’d never be able to greet another woman arriving without seeing Linnie in emerald velvet and silk smiling up at him. He would always see her strolling through the hallway at his side, ascending the stairs, descending into the ballroom.

  No doubt other balls would be held here, and he would circle the room with other ladies in his arms, but he would always see Linnie, holding his gaze, her face wreathed with joy. He wanted to plow his hands into her hair, ferret out the pins, and send the heavy strands tumbling down her back. He wanted to draw her nearer, allow her orange fragrance to overwhelm his senses until he could no longer smell the tartness of the evergreen boughs that dotted the room.

  He’d offered this night as his Christmas gift to her, but it was for himself as well. If she was relocating to London, he wanted as much time with her as possible before she departed. It had been so much easier when they were younger, before his voice had changed and he’d begun to look upon women differently, before he’d returned from school and noticed changes in her: the rounding of her hips and the remarkable curves of her bosom. The way her smile was a bit saucier. The way she could naïvely tease him with her hand coming to rest on his arm and shoulder. As children, they’d held hands. Now whenever she touched him, albeit innocently, he felt like a piece of kindling ready to ignite, like some wild beast barely tethered. He desperately wanted to break free of all societal restraints and behave like a barbarian, claiming her as his own.

  His thoughts regarding her were inappropriate and yet he seemed unable to escape the untoward images of stripping her bare and spreading her out over silk sheets that often taunted him. He’d awaken in the middle of the night, hard and aching, with fantasies of kissing her in secret intimate places racing through his mind. Even now, he seemed incapable of taking his gaze from her, of not falling into the blue depths of her eyes.

  “Are the balls in London like this one?” she asked.

  “Larger, more people about. Warmer. Doors are often left open to allow for cooler air. And people spend time on the terrace or in the gardens.”

  “Perhaps I can entice the nobility into purchasing bread for special occasions from my bakery.”

  He loved her optimism, how often and easily she smiled. His mother always appeared sour, as though whatever she ate didn’t agree with her. “I’ll hope so, for the sake of your enterprise.”

  “You don’t think I’m going to do it, move to London.”

  It would no doubt be best for his marriage if she did. “I think you’ll follow your heart.”

  She averted her gaze; her smile faltered. “Sometimes it’s unwise to follow where our heart leads so it’s better if we don’t.”

  The music faded away. If she were like the other ladies here, with a mother or chaperone handling a tether, he would escort her off the dance floor and leave her alone. But tonight she was his responsibility, his personal guest, the only lady in whom he had any interest. “Would you care for some champagne?”

  Her smile returned and her gaze swung back to his, no evidence of sorrow remaining. “I’d care to try it. I don’t know if I’d like it.”

  While he escorted her to an area where people mingled, he felt numerous eyes following them, could read errant thoughts in the speculative gazes of some of the men. She was a curiosity, an outsider. He wanted to shout, “She is more welcome than all of you!”

  As a footman carrying a tray passed by, Marsden snagged two flutes of the bubbling brew and handed her one. He lifted his. “To a night of firsts.”

  “To the second finest gift you’ve ever given me.”

  He furrowed his brow. “What was the first?”

  “Your friendship.”

  She said it so simply, so easily. From the beginning, they had accepted each other as equals, and yet tonight the differences mocked him. He was the lord of the manor and she the baker’s daughter, the sometimes tavern wench. Some of the men in this room had slapped her backside, pinched her cheek, made salacious comments about her. She no doubt recognized the offenders, yet she held her head high and ignored them. She was not one to be intimidated. He had no doubt her bakery would be a smashing success. She’d settle for nothing less.

  Over the rim of his glass, he watched as she took a small sip, smiled.

  “Oh, I like it. The bubbles tickle.”

  She never took anything for granted, appreciated everything, even the smallest of pleasures.

  “Well, if it isn’t the tavern maid,” Greyling said, suddenly at Marsden’s shoulder, Ashebury beside him. “Don’t you clean up nicely?”

  She tipped up her chin. “I don’t recall being dirty.”

  “It’s an expression, m’dear.” He nudged Marsden’s elbow. “I’m surprised your mother invited a commoner.”

  “My mother wishes to see me happy.”

  “She wishes to see you married,” Ashebury said, his gaze wandering over Linnie. “And not to her, I’m sure.”

  “No, not to me,” Linnie said.

  “I meant no offense, but in our world—”

  “You’re a lot of pompous asses,” she responded with a sugary smile, and Marsden wanted to cheer her on.

  Ashebury laughed. “Yes, we are, I’m afraid.”

  “Have either of you had any luck meeting your mothers’ expectations?” Marsden asked, hoping to draw attention away from a conversation that might ruin Linnie’s night.

  “Not yet,” Ashebury admitted, “although I daresay the choices are top notch. The marchioness has discerning tastes.”

  Ah, yes, his mother’s invitations had been dispatched to young, beautiful girls. Ones who came from untarnished bloodlines. Ones whose lineage could be traced back for generations. Ones whose families had the distinction of being listed in Debrett’s. Ones he and his friends should marry for social status, political gain, influence. Ones who could elevate their positions within Society, or at least ensure their place was maintained. Those among the peerage did not marry for something as trite as love.

  “I say, Miss Connor, would you honor me with a dance?” Greyling asked, his offer not only taking Marsden by surprise but causing an emotion quite feral to course through him. It bordered on jealousy even as he knew he had no right to experience such possessiveness when he could only offer her friendship.

  She cast a questioning glance his way. He wanted to tell her to decline; he wanted her all for himself but it wasn’t fair when tonight was his gift to her, was supposed to give her memories of feeling special. “You’re welcome to dance with whomever you wish.”

  He couldn’t be certain but she seemed somewhat disappointed in his answer before turning to the gentleman who’d made the offer. “Well, then, Lord Greyling, I’d be most delighted to take a turn about the floor with you.”

  “You must call me Grey,” Marsden heard him say as he led her away. He didn’t like how close they were, how Greyling smiled at her as though she were his favorite person in the entire world.

  “You can’t be thinking to marry her,” Ashebury said once the couple had moved beyond hearing. “She’d never be accepted among the ton. Even now you don’t see anyone rushing over for an introduction.”

  “I’m well aware she’d be ostracized.” His title came with some influence, but the nobility liked to keep their ranks pure. Parentag
e mattered. “She’s moving to London; has always wanted to attend an infamous Havisham ball. My Christmas and parting gift to her.”

  “Lady Marsden must have been thrilled.”

  Watching as Linnie waltzed with Grey, he did wish she weren’t smiling so brightly, even as he was grateful she was having such a jolly good time. He wasn’t so selfish as to wish her miserable when she wasn’t in his company. “I promised Mother I would decide whom I would marry if she invited Linnie.”

  “Any contenders?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Ashebury shifted his stance. “Then stay clear of Lady Penelope Withers.”

  Marsden laughed at the quietly given but rather firm order. “You indicated you hadn’t taken a fancy to anyone.”

  “I don’t want Grey to get a whiff of my interest. His competitive nature will have him striving to win her over.”

  “You’re a duke. Your title gives you an advantage.”

  “I don’t want her marrying me for my bloody title.”

  While it was a challenge to turn his attention away from Linnie, Marsden forced himself to face his friend. “You can’t mean to imply that you’re in love with her.”

  Ashebury shrugged as though the comment were of no consequence but the tautness in his jaw gave away that it mattered a great deal. “I noticed her during the Season, but I kept my distance as she intrigues me in a manner that is rather unsettling.”

  Unsettled. Yes, that was a good description for how Marsden had begun to feel whenever Linnie was around. No, it was more how he felt when she wasn’t around. He was always calmer, more himself when he was with her. “If you want her, you should lay claim to her before someone else does.”

  “You’re right, of course. I simply didn’t want to be the first among us to get married.”

  “A rather stupid excuse to let someone who intrigues you slip away.”

  “You make a good point.”

  They stood in silence for long minutes. Marsden turned his attention back to the dance floor, but he couldn’t see Linnie. Too many blasted people.

  “You could make her your mistress,” Ashebury said quietly.

  Marsden snapped his head around. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The barmaid. You could serve as her benefactor.”

  He had a good mind to punch Ashebury in the mouth. “She deserves better than that.”

  “You can’t tell me that you don’t have a care for her.”

  “I do, which is the very reason I wouldn’t entertain the notion of taking advantage.”

  “Pity. It appears your cousin hasn’t the same qualms.” He jerked his head to the side.

  Marsden spotted Robbie with Linnie, near the mirrored wall. The rage erupting through him escaped in a bellow as he charged through the crowd.

  “Come on, give us a kiss.”

  Greyling had been escorting Linnie from the dance floor when Robbie St. John had happened by to claim the next dance and the earl had foolishly placed her in his keeping before she could object. Only the oaf hadn’t wanted a dance as he’d asserted but instead had backed her up against the wall before slipping a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket and holding it above her head.

  “I’d rather spit on you; now leave off,” she said for the third time.

  “You know what they say. If you don’t kiss a bloke when you’re under the mistletoe with him, you’re destined to be an old maid.”

  “Then I’ll be an old maid.”

  Her back was against the mirrored wall and one of his beefy hands was wrapped around her arm. She didn’t want to make a scene and embarrass Marsden by her presence, but it was happening anyway. And ruining her night in the process.

  “People are watching,” he said. “They expect you to play along. Other girls have.”

  “Other girls have no self-esteem apparently.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Stupid tavern wench. I’ll take more than a kiss before this night is done.”

  Her palm striking his cheek barely turned his head, only served to make his mouth split into a mean-looking grin. He leaned in. “I’m going to have fun with you later, but I can’t walk off now without a kiss. My reputa—”

  He was gone, slammed against the wall so hard that she felt it shake and was surprised the mirror didn’t crack. Stepping aside, covering her mouth with her hand, she watched with a mixture of horror and joy as Marsden pummeled his fist into Robbie’s face, not once but three times. Groaning, cradling his jaw, the brute slid to the floor.

  “Get anywhere near her again, and I’ll have you kicked out into the cold,” Marsden said, his voice low and vibrating with fury.

  “She ain’t a lady.”

  Marsden balled up his fist. She placed her hand on his arm, standing her ground when he directed those anger-filled eyes her way. “He’s three sheets to the wind. No harm was done.”

  He held her gaze for several heartbeats. Finally he gave a brusque nod before looking about and signaling to two footmen. “Get him to his room. Lock him in so he can sleep this off.” As the footmen hoisted up his cousin, Marsden released a shuddering breath. “I’m badly in need of a drink.”

  “So am I,” she said quietly.

  Plastering a false grin on his face, he turned to those who had gathered around. “Entertainment’s over. Carry on.”

  “Sorry, old chap,” Greyling offered. “He said he wanted to dance with her. If I’d known—”

  “You should have known. He’s an idiot. I’m taking Miss Connor for a stroll.”

  She’d just reached down, picked up the mistletoe sprig, and tucked it into her pocket when Marsden slipped his arm around hers and began leading her through the crowd far too quickly. “You can’t be angry at Grey,” she said.

  His jaw tightened. “When a gentleman takes a woman onto the dance floor, he is responsible for her reputation and well-being. He shouldn’t have abandoned you.”

  “He didn’t. He was passing me off to the next chap who expressed an interest in dancing with me.”

  Stopping abruptly, he glared at her. “Did you want to dance with Robbie? Did you want to be cornered by him? Did you want to kiss him?”

  “No, of course not. Why do you think I smacked him?”

  “Then don’t defend Grey.”

  With that they were off again, ascending the stairs with incredible haste, and it occurred to her that he was troubled by something more than his cousin’s abhorrent behavior. “Are you upset that I danced with Grey?”

  Reaching the landing, they left the room and started down a hallway. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  “I like dancing.”

  “I didn’t think you’d ever danced.”

  “Not the way the fancy folk do, but I’ve danced at village festivals.”

  He came to a halt and faced her. “With whom?”

  “With whomever asked. It was all in fun, George. That’s what life is about. Having fun. Don’t ruin tonight by being angry.”

  “Robbie could have hurt you.”

  “Not likely. Had he gotten any nearer, his tender area would have been introduced to my knee.” His eyes widened; she shrugged. “It’s one of the first things that the tavern owner teaches us when he hires us—how to handle a man who’s up to no good.”

  He chuckled. “I would have liked to have seen that. I’m wishing now that I hadn’t interfered.”

  “To be quite honest, I’m rather disappointed it didn’t get that far.”

  Taking her hand, he threaded his fingers through hers, as he had when they were children. She preferred it to simply placing her hand on his arm. It somehow seemed more intimate although she did wish they weren’t wearing gloves.

  “The gallery is this way,” he said, escorting her down the hallway, his stride not quite as long or quick, his shoulders more relaxed.

  “It must have taken centuries to collect all the little baubles in this residence.” Decorative tables, knickknacks, statuettes, flowers, and paintings were everywhere
. She’d hate being the one who had to dust them all.

  “I suppose. Never gave it much thought.”

  They went up a short set of steps and into a wide corridor that three drays side by side could move through. One side was a wall of portraits, the other a wall of windows. Couples stood looking out on the falling snow or slowly strolled from one end to the other. No doubt courtship at play in many cases.

  “Regarding the promise you made to your mother,” she began as they neared the first painting, an elegant woman sitting in a chair holding a babe while two boys stood on either side of her.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t bother with Lady Edith Kipwick.”

  “Why ever not?”

  They wandered down to a vertical line of small portraits of various children. “Greyling has an interest in her.”

  He grinned. “How do you know that?”

  “He was asking me how best to go about wooing her.”

  He chuckled low, but still a few people turned their heads toward them. “It seems my friends may very well marry before me. Ashebury also has an interest in a lady. I can’t fathom that they would fall so quickly.”

  “Is there a better time of year for falling in love?”

  He didn’t reply. She didn’t expect him to. He took two flutes from a passing footman and handed her one.

  “I was thinking of something a bit stronger when you said you were in need of drink,” she told him.

  “As was I but we must be discreet in slipping away to my library.”

  “Is our presence here an effort to throw others off the scent?”

  His green eyes twinkled. “Indeed.”

  They were halfway along the corridor when she asked, “Are you related to all these people?”

  “In one way or another.”

  “Such a sour lot. Not a single one of them smiling.”

  “One does not smile for portraits.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a serious matter. You’re leaving your likeness for future generations.”

  “I can well understand your medieval ancestors not smiling. They probably had rotting teeth but the more recent ones—they all look doomed. If I ever sit for a portrait, I’m going to smile so those who come after will know I was happy.”