Tempting the Marquess (2 page)

1. I can read.

2. I can write.

3. My head is not made of wood.

4. I can breathe.

Aunt Kate looked up from her book to address her daughter. “Charlotte, I do believe Queenie looks a bit peaked. Perhaps you should both try to rest for a time and let your poor cousin alone.”

Charlotte was disgusted by this suggestion. “Mama, Queenie is a
doll
. How can she rest when her eyes don’t close?”

Aunt Kate sighed and peered out the window at the passing scenery. “At least we are getting close to the end. We should arrive tomorrow provided the weather doesn’t change—” A choked laugh escaped her. “Dear heavens, that child will be the death of me!”

Livvy glanced at Charlotte, who had apparently decided to take her mother’s advice. She was curled into the corner of the carriage, with her feet drawn up under her and her head pillowed against one hand. Her eyes were closed, a beatific smile on her face. Queenie lay in the crook of her free arm—Olivia smothered a laugh as she realized the reason for her aunt’s proclamation.

As the doll’s eyes did not, as Charlotte had pointed out, close, her enterprising mistress had contrived other means by which Queenie might rest. Raising Queenie’s gown up over her head
did
shield her face from light, but this also exposed the doll’s lower half. And while Queenie’s ensemble boasted exquisitely detailed garters, stockings, and shoes, it did not apparently run to petticoats.

Ha! Petticoats! There was another way in which she was superior to Queenie
and
squirrels, too, for Livvy had never encountered a petticoat-wearing squirrel and very much doubted she ever would. The closest she was ever like to come was the stable cat her younger sisters had caught long enough to dress it in a bonnet and christening gown.

Aunt Kate leaned forward and spoke quietly so as not to disturb Charlotte. “I feel I ought to warn you about my stepson.”

“Warn me?” Olivia’s cheeks grew warm. “I hardly think—”

Her aunt waved a hand dismissively. “Heavens, child, I’m not suggesting anything of
that
nature. No, I only meant to caution you about the welcome we are like to receive.”

“You mentioned Lord Sheldon keeps to himself a great deal of the time. I am not expecting to be met with a grand parade. I wish to inconvenience the marquess as little as possible.”

That wasn’t precisely true.

If all went to plan, she would put the man to a great deal of trouble. . . .

But that was her secret, one she didn’t dare share with present company. Not with Aunt Kate, certainly not with Charlotte, and not even with Queenie, who was by nature most admirably closemouthed.

“Jason,” Aunt Kate began, then sighed. “I know I should call him Sheldon, but I can’t seem to get my mind round it, no matter that he’s held the title for five years now. I suppose his Christian name is rather too familiar for polite conversation, but he has always been Jason to me.”

“Did he not have use of a courtesy title?”

“There is one,” her aunt admitted, “but most of the heirs would rather do without it.” Her eyes sparkled with laughter. “Most understandable, really. Would you like to go through life being addressed as Bramblybum?”

“B-Bramblybum?” Olivia burst out laughing. She caught her aunt’s sharp glance at Charlotte and lowered her voice. “Surely you are joking.”

Aunt Kate shook her head. “The marquisate was created for the ninth Viscount Traherne, who was, I gather, a great personal favorite with James I. The viscount’s son, who went on to become the second Marquess of Sheldon, openly disapproved of his sire’s, ah, special relationship with the king. The Traherne men have never been ones to keep their opinions to themselves, which perhaps accounts for the dearth of ambassadors and politicians in the family. In any case, the young man’s outbursts angered the king, and he might have met a very sorry end had not his father intervened. The viscount begged the king to disregard his son and joked how the boy had been born with nettles stinging his backside. The king’s revenge was to bestow a marquisate
and
an earldom upon the viscount. While his father was alive, the second marquess was known by his courtesy title.”

“The Earl of Bramblybum,” Livvy whispered, torn between horror and hilarity.

“Earl Bramblybum, actually, but I wouldn’t suggest you let that pass your lips once we reach Castle Arlyss. Jason always gets fussed on hearing it. He certainly doesn’t use the title for Edward. I have told you about Jason’s son, Edward, haven’t I? He’s nearly seven now and such a dear, sweet boy.”

Olivia nodded. She wasn’t sure if Aunt Kate had told her about Edward, but she knew about him all the same. But that was part of her secret.

Unconsciously, she bent forward and smoothed her hands over her skirts, her fingers searching out the almost imperceptible bump of the little fichu pin she wore affixed to her garter. The dainty brooch featured a tiny silhouette set in a gold frame surrounded by garnets. The portrait was no bigger than her thumbnail, but the artist had rendered the gentleman’s profile in great detail, from the slight curl in the hair at his nape to the soft ruffles of his shirt frills. An elegant man, but Livvy reserved final judgment until she met him in the flesh, which, with any luck, would be on the morrow.
Finally,
she thought, a little sigh escaping her.

“I’ll stop nattering on and let you rest.” Aunt Kate’s eyes twinkled. “You needn’t go take the same drastic measures as poor Queenie and cast your skirts over your face.”

“I wasn’t—I mean, you weren’t—” Livvy stammered out a protest.

“Calm yourself, my dear, I’m only teasing. I know I have a tendency to ramble, especially when I don’t have to mind my tongue.” She winked and nodded in Charlotte’s direction.

A rush of pride swept over Olivia at her aunt’s words. In the eyes of Society she was an adult and had been since her eighteenth birthday close to a year earlier. Girls her age, and even some younger, had already had their come-outs this past Season. She should have come out then as well, but her sojourn in Scotland with Aunt Kate, Charlotte, and Livvy’s newly married (and freshly abandoned) older sister, Isabella, had lasted longer than expected.

Nine months longer, give or take a little.

Olivia hadn’t minded putting off her come-out. She wasn’t overly anxious to put herself on the Marriage Mart, and besides, her sister had needed her. That last trumped everything else as far as Livvy was concerned.

Aunt Kate reached forward and patted Olivia’s knee. “I’ve grown accustomed to having you and Izzie around. I was so pleased when you asked to come along with us to Wales. I would have invited you had I known you were so interested in this part of the country.”

“I must confess, some of my interest stemmed from wanting to avoid traveling home with Mama, spending countless hours trapped in a carriage listening to her expound on some Shakespearean heroine or other.”

For as long as Olivia could remember, her mother had been writing a critical work about Shakespeare’s heroines. Life in the Weston household was all Shakespeare, all the time, at least when her mother was present. The rest of the family bore it with equanimity—mostly because they tended to ignore her—but over the years her mother’s obsession increasingly grated on Livvy’s nerves. She adored her mother, really she did, but she could easily do without hearing, at least once a week, as she had for her entire life: “Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

Lady Weston particularly enjoyed tailoring her recitations so that each of her children would be familiar with the plays from whence had come their names. Though Olivia resented having Shakespeare’s greatness constantly thrust upon her, not for the world would she have hurt her mother’s feelings by telling her so. All in all, she felt lucky to have been named for a character in
Twelfth Night
, which, in her opinion, was one of Shakespeare’s more tolerable works, and not only because it was relatively short.

Her younger sisters, identical twins Cordelia and Imogen, were stuck with
King Lear
and
Cymbeline
, two plays that were, in Olivia’s opinion, entirely too puffed up with melodrama. The first words Richard, her precocious little brother, babbled had sounded suspiciously like: “Now is the winter of our discontent.” Portia, the baby of the family, hadn’t got much past cooing and gurgling when Livvy had left for Scotland. . . .

She realized with a slight pang that she had missed her youngest sister’s first words, and a wave of homesickness swept over her. These past months marked the longest time she had ever been away from her younger siblings.

“What’s caused that long face?” Aunt Kate asked. “Have I scared you off with this talk of my stepson? You mustn’t let him upset you. He is very changed since Laura’s death, and grief affects us all in different ways. Perhaps, given time . . .” She trailed off, her hopes for the future unspoken but entirely clear.

Olivia wanted to say she knew, or at least had an inkling, of what the marquess had been like before his wife’s death—but she could not. Instead she smiled brightly and said, “Then we must do our best to bring some cheer to both him and his son this holiday season. If you don’t mind, Aunt Kate, I think I’ll read a bit while Char is quiet.”

Her aunt laughed. “Yes, living with Charlotte one does learn to seize those rare moments of peace. They certainly don’t last long.”

Olivia nodded distractedly, already absorbed with her book. Or rather, with the piece of paper hidden inside. In bold, scrawling script were the words—the first clue—that had led her to the brooch, thus prompting her seemingly impromptu journey to Wales—words penned by none other than the Mad Marquess of her dreams.

December 22, 1798

Under his butler’s disapproving gaze, Jason Traherne, Marquess of Sheldon, reached for the box of sand on his desk and sprinkled some over the letter he had just completed. He waited a moment for the fine grains to dry the ink before brushing the sand back into the box. He set the paper aside and stood, noting how Gower’s shoulders relaxed.

“M-my lord,” Gower spluttered. “Perhaps you misunderstood. Your guests have arrived. You cannot mean to—”

“I did not misunderstand, but my stepmother is hardly a guest. She should know her way around after all these years, but if she wants a tour, have the housekeeper—”

“Beg pardon, my lord, but Mrs. Maddoc is occupied just at present.”

Jason took the top letter off the pile and slid the edge of his knife under the wax seal. “I, too, am occupied. I have put off responding to, ah—” He glanced down to ascertain the sender. It was from his stepmother. He cursed and set the paper aside, reaching for the next letter. A glance at the handwriting showed it was from the same source. He thumbed through the remainder of the stack before setting it back upon his desk.

Gower shook his head. “Her ladyship is the only person who still bothers to write you. Everyone else has either given up or addressed their concerns to your man of business.”

Jason rubbed his temples. This was the problem with having retainers who had known him from the time he was in short coats. They had no compunction about making their displeasure known.

“Do I pay you to be impertinent, Gower?”

“If I may be so bold, my lord, you don’t pay me at all. Your dearly departed father left me a generous pension in his will. I’ve the means to retire if I so choose.”

“Are you tendering your resignation, then?” Jason asked flatly, as though the butler’s answer meant nothing to him.

“You would be rightly served if I did, and Mrs. Maddoc, too, but neither of us is leaving while there’s life in our bodies and Trahernes residing here at Castle Arlyss.”

Jason released his breath. “I can’t get rid of the servants I don’t pay or keep the ones I do,” he grumbled. “The maids don’t last long enough to learn their way about the house. I swear not a month goes by without Mrs. Maddoc informing me that yet another maidservant has quit her post. That would mean, what, eleven maids have come and gone this year?”

“Twelve. Bess left this morning.”

“Bess,” Jason repeated, frowning. “Wasn’t she the one who—?”

“She was the only one, my lord.”

“The only one who what?”

“The only maid, my lord.” Gower’s expression was that of a long-suffering parent saddled with an unnecessarily stupid child.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gower. A place this size can’t function without maids.”

“Quite so, and we’re in a fair bind being so short-staffed, but perhaps I should clarify: Bess was the only remaining chambermaid. The under- maids usually aren’t scared off, as they never come in contact with, er—” The butler cleared his throat. “In any event, Mrs. Maddoc has placed several advertisements—”

“Scared off?” Jason pushed to his feet and began to pace the room. “Christ, has some ninnyhammer been spreading tales about that bloody ghost again? Or is it the curse on the Traherne brides this time? You know I won’t stand for gossip among the servants.”

“My lord, your guests are waiting for—”

Jason stopped, fixing his butler with an icy stare. “Answer the question.”

“Very well,” the butler replied stiffly, drawing himself up to his full height. With his back straight, the man’s bushy white eyebrows were in line with Jason’s collar-bone. “There has been no mention of ghosts or curses, at least in my hearing, since you forbade such talk.”

“Then what the devil is scaring these silly chits off?” Jason snapped.

Gower fixed his attention on the study’s coffered ceiling. “I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” he murmured. “Mayhap they’re frightened of those demon hounds always trotting along at your heels.”

Jason looked over at the two massive Danes sleeping on their backs in front of the fireplace. With their front paws drawn up to their chests, they looked more comical than ferocious. “They wouldn’t harm a flea—” He held up a hand as Gower opened his mouth to protest. “—without some provocation. Yes, I remember how they viciously atta—assaulted you. You certainly take every opportunity to remind me. Give over, Gower. You weren’t harmed and neither of them has so much as barked in your direction in years.”

Jason shot a sideways glance at the dogs he’d rescued years before from a bear-baiting in London. They had recovered from the experience in most respects, but there were certain commands so harshly beaten into them, an eternity wouldn’t be long enough to forget.

A familiar anger welled up, its dark currents flowing through his veins, stirring his blood. Being deceived and abandoned by the one most implicitly trusted . . . Such betrayal cut deep. The physical scars had healed and faded, but there were other scars no amount of patience or affection could erase.

“My lord, are you well?”

Jason heard the butler speak as from a great distance. He forced his eyes to focus on the older man’s worried visage. “Quite well,” he responded, unclenching his fists. “I got lost in the past for a moment.”

“If there is anything I can . . . ?” Gower trailed off as Jason shook his head sharply.

“There is nothing anyone can do, short of turning back time.”

The butler fiddled with one of the buttons on his austere black coat. “May I suggest you allow yourself to be distracted for a while? Your guests are waiting in the Great Hall—”

“Damnation, didn’t you hear me before? I have no wish to play at being the gracious host, and it isn’t necessary in this case. My stepmother is not a guest, nor is my half sister.”

“The marchioness and Lady Charlotte are family and thus more deserving of your attention. As it happens, however, you do have a guest. There is a young woman come with them.”

Jason shrugged. “She’s probably Charlotte’s nurse.”

“I hope your lordship is not suggesting I cannot tell a gentlewoman of good breeding from a maidservant.” Gower’s tone had more starch than his cravat.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Jason sighed. “You’re not going to leave off until I greet them, are you?”

“No, my lord.”

“Very well,” Jason grumbled, stalking toward the door. “You’re a nuisance, Gower. Remind me later to turn you out without references.”

“Of course, my lord,” the butler agreed. “The day would feel woefully incomplete were I not dismissed at least once.”