How to Manage a Marquess (26 page)

Chapter Eighteen

 

Nate sat in the study of his London townhouse, reading a letter from Stephen. He had to keep checking the signature to assure himself that it was indeed Eleanor's older son writing. He'd never known the boy to sound so excited, so happy and, so, well,
childlike
.

Stephen could not say enough good things about his new papa. Davenport and Eleanor had arrived at the Hall a day or two after Nate left, and Davenport had lost no time in getting the boys' lives arranged. There was indeed a tutor coming, but for the time being the boys would be in James's care when they weren't with Davenport himself. Stephen wrote that
Papa
was going to teach them to swim and to ride and had gotten them their own ponies. He'd already allowed Edward to adopt one of the new kittens, though it had to stay with its mama in the barn until it was older.

Stephen did not mention how his mother and Anne were getting on. In fact, he didn't mention them at all.

Nate put the letter down. How
was
Anne? He'd thought of her often—constantly, really—since he'd left Davenport Hall over a week ago. She'd been its mistress for close to ten years; he'd seen how the servants had consulted her while he was there.

Well, the few times the servants had appeared. They'd been all but invisible—which in itself was a testament to Anne's good management.

And the servants' matchmaking efforts, he suspected. It had been a
very
good thing his curricle had arrived so quickly. He'd noticed the moment he'd entered his bedchamber that there was a door connecting his room to Anne's. Fortunately, he'd been too exhausted the one night he'd spent there to use it, but if he'd stayed any longer . . .

He looked back down at his letter. It could not have been easy for Anne to hand the household's reins over to Eleanor, yet she must have done so. If there was any tension in the house, he'd hear the shadow of it in Stephen's letter.

He frowned. But what about tension elsewhere? Stephen hadn't mentioned any problems, but would the boy know if the villagers were gossiping about Anne?

Well, Davenport would know and he wouldn't hesitate to write to Nate. So Anne must have been right. The villagers hadn't believed the tale.

Most of the
ton
hadn't believed it either, unable to imagine the Marquess of Haywood behaving so scandalously—or scandalously at all. Living a boring, staid life had its advantages. And if anyone
was
bold enough to mention the gossip to him, a lifted eyebrow and a long look were enough to silence the idiot.

Frankly, the gabble grinders were far more interested in Eleanor, the new Lady Davenport.

But more than all that, it had been tremendous good luck that the day before Nate returned to London, the Countess of Dayton had got into a shouting match with her husband at Almack's, thrown a tray of stale cakes and a cup of punch at him, and run off to the Continent with the much younger and reputedly penniless Mr. Drumm. That story was far, far more delicious than any other gossip this Season and had the added advantage of having been witnessed by half the
ton
, though everyone had a slightly different account of it, of course.

He pushed his chair away from his desk and walked over to the window to look out over the back garden. He should be relieved. It looked as if Anne's reputation was intact. Honor did not demand he offer for her.

He scowled out at the vegetation.
So why don't I feel relieved?

The answer was all too obvious.

Because I
wanted
to be forced into marrying Anne.

Lord! He hated to admit it, but it was true. His duty to rescue Miss Davenport's reputation would have trumped his promise to his mother to delay marriage so he could focus on Marcus's safety. He could have had what he wanted without guilt.

He leaned against the window frame. It would be easier to put the thought of Anne aside if Marcus appreciated his concern at all. He didn't. Hell, Marcus didn't even appreciate his company.

He narrowed his eyes. Marcus's foul mood had started when they'd left Loves Bridge after the wedding. One would think it must have something to do with Miss Hutting—Alex certainly thought so—and when he'd asked Marcus about it, Marcus had glowered at him and said nothing.

He pushed away from the window and strode back over to stand in front of his desk. But how
could
Miss Hutting be involved? She'd already declined Marcus's offer and was now living exactly as she wished in the Spinster House.

In Loves Bridge. While Marcus was in London.

He hadn't seen Marcus since the Easthaven ball last night. He'd stepped away to have a word with Viscount Motton, and when he'd returned, Marcus was gone. At first he'd been afraid his cousin was in the bushes with some female again—even though he'd just got free of Ambleton's daughter—but Alex confirmed Marcus had left early to go home to Hart House.

And then Marcus hadn't been at White's this morning. He should have been. He'd given up waiting for the post.

But Alex had said no, that Nate was suffocating Marcus with his constant surveillance.

Anger, despair, and a deep feeling of loneliness swirled in his gut. He picked up the round, smooth stone he kept on his desk for times when he felt this, well,
impotence
. Running his fingers over it was calming. He'd had it for . . .

Ah, that's right. He'd found it in the Spinster House garden twenty years ago when he and Marcus had been boys and Marcus had chosen his first Spinster House spinster. Then it had fit his palm perfectly. Now it was much smaller—well, no, his palm was much bigger—but he still found it oddly comforting.

“Milord.”

He jumped slightly. Good God, he'd been so lost in thought, he hadn't heard his butler open the door. “What is it, Wilson?”

“Lord Evans and the Duke of Hart are here to see you.”

Thank God! He smiled with relief as Marcus and Alex entered and Wilson left, closing the door behind him.

“Where were you this morning, Marcus?”
Blast, that had come out wrong.
“Not that it's any of my concern, of course.”
And now I sound hurt.
“Will you sit?” He gestured to the chairs by the fireplace.

Neither man moved.

Hell.

This was bad.

He pressed his lips together and waited for one of them to continue the conversation. Instead, they exchanged a very speaking look.

Anger and worry and something that felt very much like panic churned through him as the silence lengthened.

“I've been in Loves Bridge,” Marcus finally said.

Nate's stomach clenched into a tight, hard knot.
Oh, God!
He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak calmly. “Is there some problem with the Spinster House?”

Marcus looked down at his hands. “In a manner of speaking.”

More silence.

“Just tell him, Marcus,” Alex said. “You're not helping matters by dragging this out.”

Panic leapt from his stomach to his throat. He couldn't breathe. His head pounded—

Marcus took a deep breath and nodded. “Right.” He raised his eyes to look directly at Nate. There was determination in his expression, but also an odd mix of sadness and elation.

And something that looked suspiciously like pity.

“You can wish me happy, Nate. I'm marrying Miss Hutting.”

“What?!”
Nate's knees threatened to give out and he leaned against his desk. “No! She turned you down.”

“I asked again. This time, she accepted.”

This can't be happening.
“But what about the curse?”

Marcus ran his hands through his hair. “I'm not certain anymore that there is a curse.”

Oh, Lord, here was wishful thinking indeed.

“Catherine and I found some papers in the house that call it into question.”

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Marcus was wagering his life because of something he'd found in a mess of old, forgotten papers?

“What about all those dukes who died before their heir was born, Marcus? For
two hundred
years? How do you explain that?”

“I can't.” Marcus shrugged—and then he
smiled!
“I guess we'll finally discover if marrying for love will break the curse.”

Nate took a deep breath and tried to corral his thoughts, but panic was driving them in all directions. Marcus hadn't been there when Mum died. He hadn't seen her—heard her. He didn't understand.

“Love didn't save our grandfather.”

“Nate, your mother was only five when her father died. How could she know the difference between lust and love?”

“And you do?”

“Yes.”

“That's the curse talking.” Nate wanted to close the distance between them and shake some sense into Marcus. Instead he held his worry stone so tightly, it would likely leave its imprint on his hand. “How can you love her, Marcus? You've only just met her!”

No. It wasn't love he felt. It was lust. It must be. “The curse is twisting your reasoning.”

Nate looked at Alex for support, but Alex just shook his head. He wasn't going to help save Marcus.

Of course he wasn't. Alex didn't believe Marcus was in danger. He didn't believe in the curse. He didn't see this was literally a question of life or death.

Nate tried again. “Think, Marcus. You've only known Miss Hutting for what? A month? You can't know if you love her or not. Give it time.”

That's all that was needed. With time, Marcus would come to his senses—or Nate would find a way to cure him of his infatuation. Or perhaps having a word or two with Miss Hutting would do the trick. He might even ask Anne to persuade—

No, he could not ask Anne to do anything. She would
celebrate
Miss Hutting's nuptials. She wanted the Spinster House for herself.

“It's too late for that, Nate.” Marcus flushed slightly and then grinned. “Catherine is already carrying my child.”

Zeus! Blood roared in Nate's ears and this time his knees did give out. He sat down abruptly on his desk, sending a pile of papers cascading onto the floor.

“You don't have to wed. You have money and property. You can set Miss Hutting up in comfortable style. She—”

“Stop!”
Marcus glared at him as if Nate were a complete stranger, and a despicable one at that.

Well, yes, what he'd suggested wasn't honorable, but then desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I
am
marrying Miss Hutting, Nate. Today. I am sorry you cannot like it.”

“Today?” Nate said weakly. Surely he'd misheard. He looked to Alex for confirmation.

Alex nodded. “Today.”

“I'm only in London to procure a special license,” Marcus continued, “and to ask you to stand up with me and be my witness.” Hope flickered in his eyes. “What do you say, Nate? Can you put aside your worries and support me?”

“No.” How could he stand next to his cousin while he, in essence, killed himself?

Marcus's shoulders drooped briefly and regret shadowed his face, but then he straightened.

“Ah, well, that is what I was afraid you'd say. I am sorry for it, Nate. And now you must excuse me. I leave at once for Loves Bridge.” Marcus turned and headed for the door.

“But . . . you aren't
really
going to marry Miss Hutting, are you?”

Marcus paused and looked back at him. “Of course I am.” He patted his coat pocket. “I have the license and I'm eager to use it. The vicar is going to perform the ceremony as soon as I get back to the village.”

“But who will be your witness?”

“Alex,” Marcus said, and then he left.

Nate listened to his cousin's steps echo down the corridor, and then he heard the front door open and close.

He looked at Alex.

“I'll happily stand aside if you change your mind, Nate. You should be the one to support Marcus. I'm only a friend—you're his cousin and the brother of his heart.”

Maybe if he could convince Alex to take his side, Marcus could be saved. “But marrying Miss Hutting will kill him.”

“Perhaps. But wanting her—
loving
her—and not marrying her will kill him sooner. He'll die inside, Nate.”

“Zeus, Alex. Only poets believe that rubbish.”

“Then I must be a poet, because I believe it.” Alex, face set, stared back at him.

Desperation clawed at his throat. “All Marcus needs is a few hours with a practiced whore.”

“I don't think that's true—and I don't think you do either.”

Nate fisted his hands. “You don't understand. You can't. You don't believe in the curse, but it's real. If Marcus is married to Miss Hutting and Miss Hutting is carrying a boy, Marcus will die before the child is born.”