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How to Manage a Marquess
By Sally MacKenzie KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2016 Sally MacKenzie
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3715-6
CHAPTER 1
Loves Bridge, May 1817
Nathaniel, Marquess of Haywood, strode across the road from Cupid's Inn, arguing with himself.
Slow down. You don't want to attract attention. You can't burst into the vicarage in a panic. Think how angry Marcus would be.
Oh, hell.
He stopped and took a deep breath. This was Loves Bridge, not London, and Miss Hutting, the woman he feared wished to trap his cousin into marriage, was a vicar's daughter, not a conniving Society chit.
And Marcus had told him she wanted to be the next Spinster House spinster, not the next Duchess of Hart.
But she spent hours alone with Marcus the other day, including some time in the Spinster House. Think what could have happened there!
Nate clenched his teeth and started walking again.
He should have been more suspicious when Marcus accepted this dinner invitation. A sane man wouldn't voluntarily sit down to a meal with a vicar, his wife, and their countless children.
He'd let his guard down, that was it. Loves Bridge was the curse's birthplace, so he'd thought the villagers would realize the Duke of Hart had to avoid marriage at all costs. Once the duke said his vows and bedded his wife, the poor man started counting the months left him on this earth. For two hundred years, no Duke of Hart had lived to see his heir born.
I am not going to let that happen to Marcus. I have to remain alert, especially now that Marcus is thirty.
Just look what had happened when he'd let his attention wander in London a few days ago: Marcus had ended up in the bushes with that Rathbone hussy, her dress falling down for all to see.
Hell, Lady Dunlee, London's leading gossip, had seen.
Marcus wouldn't end up in the bushes at the vicarage, of course, but that didn't mean —
"Good evening, Lord Haywood."
"Ah!" Nate took several quick steps back. Oh, Lord, talk about not remaining alert.
Two old ladies with white hair and bright, prying eyes blinked up at him. They must be the Boltwood sisters, the leading gossips of this little village. What wretched luck.
He forced his lips into a smile and bowed slightly. "Good evening, ladies."
"Looking for some company, my lord?" The shorter of the two batted her eyelashes at him.
Nate repressed a shudder. "No. My thoughts are company enough, madam."
The other old woman clicked her tongue. "A handsome young lord like you alone with your thoughts? That will never do."
Her sister nodded and then waggled her thin white eyebrows suggestively. "We happened to see Miss Davenport loitering around the Spinster House."
"She was looking quite lonely."
Miss Davenport.
A very inappropriate part of him stirred.
Miss Davenport had arrived at the inn the other day just as he and his friend Alex, the Earl of Evans, were coming to have a pint and wait for Marcus to finish posting the Spinster House vacancy notices — accompanied by Miss Hutting. Later, Marcus had told them Miss Davenport was also hoping to become the next Spinster House spinster.
Unbelievable! She should have men lining up to beg for her hand in marriage. That day at the inn, the sun had touched her smooth honey-blond hair, making it glow. He'd gazed down into her blue eyes as he'd opened the door for her and felt himself being pulled deeper and deeper....
He frowned. He'd seen dark currents swirling below her polite expression and had a sudden, bizarre urge to ask what was troubling her. Thank God Alex had spoken then. She'd looked away, and the odd connection he'd felt with her had broken.
And it would stay broken. He was not in the market for a wife. Of course not. Not only did he have to guard Marcus for as long as he could, he was only thirty, too — far too young to consider marriage.
Oh, blast. Now the Misses Boltwood were snickering and nudging each other.
He sniffed in his haughtiest manner and looked down his nose at them. "I am quite certain Miss Davenport would not welcome my intrusion into her solitude, ladies."
Though the thought of Miss Davenport a spinster —
No. The woman's matrimonial plans — or lack thereof — were none of his concern.
"That Spinster House!" The shorter of the Misses Boltwood curled her lip and snorted. "I can't imagine what Isabelle Dorring was thinking. Spinsterhood is an unnatural state."
The other Miss Boltwood nodded. "A woman needs a man to protect her and give her children."
Her sister elbowed her, waggling her eyebrows again. "And keep her warm at night."
Since both ladies looked to have reached their sixth or seventh decade without nabbing a husband themselves, their enthusiasm for the activities of the marriage bed was more than a little alarming.
"As you must know," Nate said, "Miss Dorring had good reason to distrust men. It's not surprising she would wish to offer other women a way to live comfortably without a husband."
The taller Miss Boltwood shrugged and flicked her fingers at him. "Bah. From all accounts, Isabelle knew what she was about. Her mistake was letting the duke into her bed before she'd got him to the altar."
"Though you must admit, Gertrude, that if that duke looked anything like this duke, poor Isabelle can be forgiven for getting her priorities confused." The shorter Miss Boltwood's lips curved in what could only be considered a lascivious fashion. "Have you seen the man's calves? His shoulders?"
These elderly ladies can't be lusting after Marcus.
The thought was too horrifying to contemplate.
"I'm not blind, am I, Cordelia? And what about his —"
"I'm afraid I must continue on my way, ladies." It might be rude to interrupt them, but it was necessary. Some things could never be unheard.
"Oh, yes, of course." Miss Gertrude winked. "Here we are, keeping you cooling your heels when you must be anxious to meet Miss Davenport."
"I am not meeting Miss Davenport."
Unfortunately.
No! Where the hell had that thought come from? There was nothing unfortunate about it. He had no time for nor interest in a marriageable woman.
"You aren't the duke, my lord," Miss Cordelia said. "You don't have to worry about the silly curse."
Miss Gertrude nodded. "And Miss Davenport is a comely armful in need of a husband."
Very comely ...
He must get these wayward thoughts under control. Miss Davenport might be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was not for him.
"I doubt if Miss Davenport would agree she's in need of a husband." He bowed again. "If you will excuse me?"
He didn't wait for their permission. He wanted to get out of earshot as quickly as possible.
He wasn't quick enough.
"The marquess has an impressive set of shoulders, too, Gertrude."
"Yes, indeed. Miss Davenport is a very lucky woman."
He resisted the urge to turn and shout back at them that he had no interest in Miss Davenport.
Which would be a lie.
But he could have no interest in the woman. What he had — must have — was an immediate interest in Marcus's safety.
He strode —
No. Slow down. Don't be obvious. Marcus hates it when he knows I'm spying on him.
And he wasn't spying, precisely. He was merely keeping a watchful eye out.
He strolled toward the vicarage, which just happened to be directly across from the Spinster House. Was Miss Davenport still there? He didn't wish to encourage any gossip, but surely it wouldn't be remarkable to engage the woman in conversation if he encountered her. Actually, it would be an excellent thing to do. That way, he could watch for Marcus without being obvious about it.
Splendid. Miss Davenport was still there, dressed in a blue gown that he'd wager was the same shade as her eyes. A matching blue bonnet covered her lovely blond hair. She was slender, though not too slender, and just the right height. If he held her in his arms, her head would come up to his —
Bloody hell! I'm not holding the girl in my arms.
He jerked his eyes away from her — an action that was far harder than it should have been — to look toward the vicarage. What luck! Marcus was just leaving. Miss Hutting was with him, but in a moment the girl would —
Good God!
He stopped and blinked to clear his vision. No, his eyes had not deceived him. Miss Hutting had just pulled Marcus into a concealing clump of bushes.
Hadn't Marcus learned anything from the disaster with Miss Rathbone?
It was the blasted curse. Marcus wouldn't do anything so cabbage-headed if he was in his right mind.
But what can I do to save him? I can't "accidently" barge into those bushes.
He glanced back at Miss Davenport. Oh hell, she was staring, too. If she told anyone what she saw —
His blood ran cold. If those gossipy Boltwood sisters got wind of this, Marcus would be hard-pressed to avoid parson's mousetrap, particularly as Miss Hutting's father was the parson.
Well, this was something he could attend to. He'd have a word with Miss Davenport. Surely he could persuade her to keep mum.
* * *
Baron Davenport's daughter, Miss Anne Davenport looked at the Spinster House. It wasn't a remarkable edifice. In fact, the place looked like all the other village houses — two stories, thatched roof, of average size. It was much smaller than Davenport Hall, the comfortable house she shared with her father.
And might all too soon share with a stepmother and stepbrothers.
Lud!
Anne's fingers closed into two tight fists. How can Papa wish to marry a woman a year younger than I am?
She forced her fingers to uncurl. There was nothing mysterious about the situation. Mrs. Eaton was a widow with two young sons. She'd proved her procreative abilities — and Papa needed an heir.
Ugh.
And if — when — Papa married Mrs. Eaton, Anne would have to turn over all control of Davenport Hall to her, after almost a decade of making the household decisions herself. That thought had been so distressing, she'd considered marrying anything in pantaloons just to have a home of her own.
But then she'd thought what must happen when the pantaloons came off.
She shivered — and not with anticipation. Not that she knew precisely what happened in the marriage bed, but she had a general idea. And even if a woman's marital duties were no more demanding than shaking a man's hand, that would be too much. She'd yet to find a male she wished to spend five minutes with, let alone a lifetime.
She looked back at the Spinster House. It would be spacious for a woman living alone.
She'd not given the place much thought before. She'd been only six when Miss Franklin, the current — no, the former — spinster had moved in. Miss Franklin had been very young at the time. Everyone expected her to be the Spinster House spinster for forty or fifty or even sixty years, if she enjoyed good health. So when Papa had taken up with Mrs. Eaton, Anne hadn't thought the house might offer a solution to her problem.
But just days ago, to the surprise and shock of the entire village, Miss Franklin had run off with Mr. Wattles, the music teacher, who had turned out to be the son of the Duke of Benton and was now, with his father's passing, the duke himself. Even the Boltwood sisters hadn't sniffed out that story, and they were almost as accomplished at ferreting out secrets as Lady Dunlee, London's premier gabble grinder.
Which all meant the Spinster House spinster position was open again. The Almighty — or possibly Isabelle Dorring — had answered Anne's prayers.
But Jane and Cat want the house, too.
Jane Wilkinson and Catherine Hutting were her closest friends, Jane a little older than Anne, Cat a little younger. They'd grown up together, giggled together, shared confidences, cried on each other's shoulders. Cat and Jane had comforted her just the other day when she'd told them the sorry tale of Papa and Mrs. Eaton. She would do anything for them.
Except give up my chance at the Spinster House.
Speaking of Cat, was that her voice she heard? She glanced across the road, up the hill to the vicarage —
Good God!
Her jaw dropped, and she blinked. No, she hadn't imagined the scene. Cat had just darted into the trysting bushes — and the Duke of Hart had gone in after her!
Her thoughts raced. What should she do? Run for the vicar? No, Cat might be ravished before she got back with him. Scream? That would only have people rush to help her.
I'll have to save Cat myself.
She took a step toward the vicarage — and stopped.
Wait a minute.
Cat led the duke into the bushes, not the other way round. In fact, the duke had hesitated, as if he wasn't entirely certain joining Cat in the foliage was a good idea.
Perhaps he was the one who needed rescuing.
Anne stared at the shrubbery. It had been several minutes, and neither Cat nor the duke had emerged. There was no screaming. The branches weren't thrashing about. Clearly no one was struggling to get free.
Which could only mean they were doing something other than fighting in there.
Heavens! There was only one reason a couple went into the trysting bushes, and it wasn't to discuss the weather.
Excitement bubbled up in her. If Cat married the duke, there would be only two candidates for the Spinster House: herself and Jane.
But Cat didn't want to marry. She wanted to live on her own and write novels.
Or maybe she just didn't want to marry Mr. Barker, the stodgy farmer Cat's mother had been throwing at her head these last few years. The duke was nothing like Mr. Barker. He was handsome and wealthy. And he didn't have an annoying mother living with him. If Cat married the duke, she'd have time and room to write as many novels as she wanted. She could —
"Miss Davenport."
"Ack!" She jumped several inches above the walk. Dear God, the Marquess of Haywood is at my elbow.
Her heart gave an odd little jump as well. And why not? The man presented a very, er,pleasant picture. With the strong planes of his face, his straight nose and sculpted lips, he could be a Greek statue come to life. Any woman would find him attractive.
Not to mention his warm hazel eyes seemed to look straight into her soul. When he'd opened the door for her at the inn the other day, she'd had to clench her hands to keep from brushing back the lock of brown hair that fell over his brow.
He'd been so serious then, so unlike his friend, the Earl of Evans. Lord Evans had laughed and flirted, but when Lord Haywood had spoken — just a few polite words — odd tendrils of warmth had curled low in her belly. Even now, though his tone had been rather harsh, his voice sent excitement fluttering through her.
"I didn't see you approach, my lord." Anne mentally chided herself for how breathless she sounded.
At least the man hadn't noticed. Or perhaps he had and it annoyed him. His brows slanted down farther.
"You didn't see me because your attention was elsewhere."
He sounded disapproving. Well! She wasn't the one engaged in scandalous behavior.
"Indeed, it was. I was quite surprised — shocked, really — to see His Grace bringing his London tricks to Loves Bridge, exploring the vegetation with a marriageable female."
Lord Haywood's mouth flattened into a hard, thin line, his aristocratic nostrils flaring. "Miss Davenport, I —"
"Merrow."
His frown moved from her to the large black, white, and orange cat who'd appeared at their feet. "What the —?" He pressed his lips together, clearly swallowing some less-than-polite comment. "Go along, cat."
The cat sat down and stared at him.
"That's Poppy," Anne said to fill the oddly strained silence. "She lives in the Spinster House."
The marquess transferred his glare from the cat to Anne and then back to Poppy.
"Now what's the matter with the animal?"
"What do you —? Oh." Poppy was behaving rather strangely. She'd arched her back, hair standing all on end, and was hissing. But it wasn't the behavior in the vicarage bushes that she was objecting to. It was something down the walk toward the inn.
"I think the Misses Boltwood are coming this way," Anne said.
Poppy must agree. She yowled and darted toward the Spinster House.
"Blo —" Lord Haywood caught himself again. "Blast. I just encountered them headed the other direction."
"Well, I suppose it might be another set of elderly ladies. They are still too far off for me to be certain. In a moment I'll be able to — what are you doing?"
The marquess had grabbed her hand and was tugging her in the direction Poppy had taken. She dug in her heels and tugged back.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from How to Manage a Marquess by Sally MacKenzie. Copyright © 2016 Sally MacKenzie. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
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