How to Manage a Marquess (36 page)

She shoved the thought away for the hundredth time.

Happily, the door opened then, and Miss Hutting came in. Belle had completely forgotten it was Wednesday afternoon, the time they usually met to discuss Miss Hutting's writing.

“Have you had a chance to read my story, Miss Franklin?”

“Yes, I have.” Belle reached into the drawer where she'd stored the manuscript. “I liked it, but I did make a few suggestions.” She handed the pages to Miss Hutting. Belle wasn't interested in writing herself, but she'd discovered she enjoyed editing.

“Oh.”

Miss Hutting looked quite crestfallen.

Belle leaned forward to examine the papers again. Perhaps there
were
rather a lot of marks on them.

“Don't be discouraged. It's not as bad as it may look.” It really wasn't. Miss Hutting was only twenty-four. She'd lived her entire life in a large, happy family in a small, happy village. Her characters were a little, er, shallow. But they were getting better, and she definitely had a deft hand with language. “I think it is one of your best efforts, actually. I quite liked your hero. Look it over and see if you agree with my comments.” Belle smiled. “They are only my opinions, of course.”

Miss Hutting sighed and stuffed the pages into her satchel. “Yes, I know, but you are usually correct.”

The girl had also made a lot of progress in accepting constructive criticism over the months—heavens, years now—she'd been sharing her writing with Belle. At first she'd argued over every change Belle suggested, but now she was far more open-minded and willing to work on improving her stories.

And perhaps Belle had become a better editor.

“Have you heard from Mr. Wattles?” Miss Hutting grimaced. “My mother wishes to know when Walter's music lessons will resume. Walter, of course, hopes the answer is never.”

Pain lanced Belle's heart. Silly. Hadn't she just been thinking William might not return? If his purpose in coming to Loves Bridge had been to hide from his wife, that need was gone.

“I'm afraid I really have no idea. I'm not Mr. Wattles's confidante. I just happened to be at hand when he got the letter calling him away.” She shrugged indifferently, rather proud of how well she'd perfected that movement.

Miss Hutting frowned at her. “You know the Misses Boltwood think you
are
his confidante.” She blushed. “Well, rather, er, more than that, actually.”

“What?!”
Blast these small villages. And blast the Boltwood sisters in particular. Those two elderly spinsters were far too busy about everyone else's business. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. “Nonsense. On what do they base such a ridiculous notion?”

Miss Hutting looked relieved. “It
is
ridiculous, isn't it? I thought so, too. Why would you want to throw your life away for some man when you have the Spinster House and your independence?”

“Er, yes.” Oh, God. She'd “throw” her life away in an instant for William. “But I still don't understand why the Misses Boltwood think I'm friendly with Mr. Wattles. I haven't exchanged more than a handful of words with the man the entire time he's been in Loves Bridge.”
As far as the villagers know.

“Well, that's part of it.”

“What's part of it?” The Boltwood sisters
couldn't
know about the time William had spent in her bedroom, could they?

“Miss Gertrude said it's comical, the lengths to which you both went to avoid each other. She said she was tempted to trick you into being in a room together to see what would happen.” Miss Hutting shifted in her seat, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Miss Cordelia wagered there'd have been fireworks if she had, and she and her sister giggled in a knowing, very annoying manner.”

Belle was certainly annoyed. And horrified. She'd been so certain she'd hidden her feelings for William successfully. “The idea!”

“Miss Cordelia even maintained that whenever you thought you weren't being observed, you'd stare at Mr. Wattles”—Miss Hutting flushed—“as if you wanted to gobble him up.” Her nose wrinkled. “Disgusting. And she said he'd look at you in the same way when he thought no one was watching him.”

“I've never heard such baseless tittle-tattle. Those sisters could build bridges out of fairy dust.”

“Yes.” Miss Hutting took a sudden interest in the fabric of her skirt. “But as to the baselessness, er, well . . .” She looked back up at Belle. “Apparently Miss Gertrude saw Mr. Wattles go into the Spinster House one evening shortly after he arrived in Loves Bridge. She watched for an hour or so—she and Miss Cordelia were visiting their papa's grave in the churchyard—and she didn't see him come out again.” Miss Hutting frowned. “I asked her why she hadn't raised an alarm, but she said she thought you wished to have him, ah, visit.”

It was always best not to lie if one could avoid it.

She forced herself to laugh. “Heavens, how silly! Miss Gertrude must have seen Mr. Wattles the day he tried to help me discover how Poppy got into the house. Of course he left, likely shortly after Miss Gertrude stopped spying on me.” That was the curse of village living—nothing went unnoticed or unremarked upon.

Miss Hutting did not drop the matter—she could be bloody tenacious—but at least now she sounded merely puzzled rather than accusatory. “But why did Mr. Wattles do that, Miss Franklin? It's not proper for an unmarried man to be alone with an unmarried woman. Is Mr. Wattles an acquaintance or relation of some sort?”

“Mr. Wattles was merely being a gentleman, Miss Hutting.”
Keep the story as close to the truth as possible.
“He was concerned for my safety.”

“But Miss Cordelia said she'd seen him embracing you on the street earlier that day.”

“He wasn't embracing me, Miss Hutting. He was catching me. I'd tripped over Poppy and would have fallen if Mr. Wattles hadn't happened upon me at just that moment.”

Miss Hutting grinned, looking much relieved. “I'm surprised he didn't topple over with you. He's rather on in years, isn't he? And not especially robust.” She snorted. “But then, I can't imagine teaching music requires much muscle, unless it's to pound some knowledge into skulls as thick as my brother Walter's.”

How could Miss Hutting say such things? William wasn't at all old. And as for muscles—

She bit her lip. She wasn't supposed to know about William's muscles and—a spurt of what could only be possessiveness shot through her—she definitely didn't want Miss Hutting knowing about them.

“And you are far too old for such foolishness yourself, of course, which you may be sure I told the Misses Boltwood.”

Blast it, her jaw hadn't dropped, had it? Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around Miss Hutting's neck. She'd show the girl
old
.

Miss Hutting flushed. “But they just laughed and said you were in your prime and likely desperate to—” Her flush deepened.

And she'd strangle the Boltwood sisters as well.

“But then Miss Gertrude shushed Miss Cordelia and said she shouldn't sully my virginal ears.” Miss Hutting scowled. “I
hate
it when people say that.”

“I'm sure you do.” And she was equally sure she wished to bring this conversation to an end. She made a great show of consulting her watch. Thank God! “Why, look at the time. It's already past five o'clock. I must close up.”

Miss Hutting stood. “Yes. And Mama will be looking for me. She'll want help with the children.”

Miss Hutting waited while Belle locked the library door. Then they started walking toward the Spinster House and vicarage.

“Thank you again for reading my pages,” Miss Hutting said.

“I do hope you'll find my comments helpful.” Impulsively, Belle laid her hand on the girl's arm. “You must not get discouraged. You have a great deal of talent.”

Miss Hutting's face suddenly glowed, as if someone had just lit a candle inside her. “Thank you, Miss Franklin. I'm determined to improve.” She sighed. “I only wish I had the solitude you have. The vicarage is so crowded, and Mama is always saddling me with the younger children. It must be so peaceful in the Spinster House.”

“Yes, I do have hours and hours to myself, don't I?”

Miss Hutting's brows shot up. “Don't you like living in the Spinster House?”

“Of course I like it.” The Spinster House had saved her life. She had no idea what she would have done if it hadn't been available when she'd needed it. “As you say, it's very peaceful. And it gives me my independence.”

“Precisely. You're at no man's beck and call. I can't tell you how much I envy you that.” Miss Hutting grimaced. “Mama is still trying to marry me off to Mr. Barker.”

Mr. Barker was a very staid, very prosperous local farmer with a
very
dreadful mother.

“Your mother means well. I'm sure she only wants the best for you.”

Miss Hutting wrinkled her nose. “But Mr. Barker?”

Belle laughed. “Perhaps not Mr. Barker.”

They reached the Spinster House, where their ways parted, and Belle touched Miss Hutting lightly on the arm again. “Your mother can't force you up the church aisle, you know, especially with your father at the other end of it. He would never consent to witness your marriage to a man you cannot like.”

“I know. I just wish Mama would stop trying to marry me off at all.” Miss Hutting smiled. “Well, what I really wish is to be the Spinster House spinster. However, that position is already taken.”

“Indeed it is.”
Though if William—

No.
She
was not going to begin building bridges from fairy dust. “Good day, Miss Hutting.”

“Good day, Miss Franklin.”

Belle turned up the walk to the Spinster House. Miss Hutting was blessed with so much—parents who loved her, sisters and brothers to share life with—yet she didn't begin to appreciate her good fortune. It was very sad.

But it wasn't any of her concern.

She opened the door to find Poppy sitting just inside. At least there was one living creature to welcome her home. She bent to rub Poppy's ears.

“Did you miss me, then?”

“Yes. Dreadfully.”

Oh! Her heart almost leaped out of her chest. That wasn't Poppy talking.

Chapter Six

“William!” His name came out as a croak. He was here. He was actually here. “H-how did you get in?”

“The back door.” His brows slanted down. “It was unlocked. That's not safe.”

“Oh. Yes. That's right. For some reason Poppy insisted on going out that way this morning. I must have forgotten to lock up when she came back in.”

She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms.

She didn't move.

“I thought she had her own means of coming and going.”

Poppy had gone over to rub herself against William's leg. He bent to stroke her.

“When it suits her. Today she wanted to use the door.”

Good God. They were conversing like two polite strangers. She should go to him.

She couldn't. It was as if there were a great chasm between them. If she stood here on her side, her life would remain as it had been these last twenty years. If she crossed over and touched him, everything would change.

It was far safer to stay where she was.

She was no longer young.

“I saw that your wife died. I'm very sorry.”

He kept looking down, stroking Poppy. “I thought you didn't read the gossip columns.”

“I didn't used to.” She bit her lip. She didn't want to pry, but it felt rude to ignore the topic. “I hope she didn't suffer.”

“I don't think she did. I don't know.”

She heard the pain in his voice, and her heart ached for him.

He straightened up. “God, Belle. I shouldn't have been surprised, but it was still a shock.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I suppose one thinks life will go on as it always has until it doesn't.”

“Yes.” That was a
good
thing. Surprise hurt too much. Now that William's wife had died, he'd return to London . . .

Did she really want her life to go on as it had been, day after day, always the same?

Always alone.

Yes. That's what everyone was, at heart: Alone. It was good to depend on yourself and no one else. To do otherwise gave people too much power to hurt you.

She looked down. Good heavens, Poppy was glaring at her.

Poppy kept glaring, her tail twitching.

“When do you go back to London?”
Yes. Remember, he's only here briefly. In a short time—perhaps only a few days—I'll be at peace again.

He looked at her, his eyes dark and tight with pain. Bleak.

Her heart clenched.
At peace? No. Or only the peace that death brings.

She'd been getting up in the morning and going to bed at night, going through all the motions of life, but she'd been dead inside. Even a short time with William was worth the ache of years without him.

He blew out a long breath and grimaced. “I don't know. I came here to hide from the gossips, Belle, but the gossips are still in Town. Hortense's death didn't stop their tongues.” His shoulders slumped. “And, more to the point, there's nothing for me there. I'm so tired of the
ton
and their intrigues.”

She crossed the distance separating them and touched his arm. “Why did you come to see me, William?”

He stared down at her, his jaw clenched. She saw him swallow, saw his nostrils flare—and then she saw tears film his eyes.

“Oh, William.” She wrapped her arms around him.

“Belle.” It sounded as if her name was wrenched from his lips. He crushed her against him so she could barely breathe. “Belle. Oh, God, Belle.” He buried his face in her hair.

“It's all right.” She had to whisper, he was holding her so tightly. “It's all right.” She rubbed his back. His body was taut as a bowstring.

Finally, he shuddered and let her go, pulling his handkerchief out quickly, but not before she saw his eyes were red. He looked away as he blew his nose.

“Would you like a glass of brandy, William?”

One brow rose, but the effect was rather spoiled by the blotches on his face. “You have brandy?”

She nodded and took his arm, leading him to the uncomfortable red settee. Thank God the shutters were closed. All she needed was for the Misses Boltwood to catch sight of him in her sitting room. “One of the earlier spinsters—or perhaps Isabelle Dorring herself—was very fond of spirits.”

She gave him a little push to get him to sit and then went to fetch the brandy and a glass. When she came back, Poppy was sprawled next to him.

“Only one glass?” His hand shook just a little as he took it from her.

“I don't drink.”

“Never? Come, sit down.” He scooped Poppy up and put her on his lap. Surprisingly, Poppy didn't protest.

“Hardly ever.” She perched on the edge of the settee. This was probably closer than she should be to him now. It was one thing to be brave. It was quite another to be stupid. “Has it gone bad?”

William tasted it. “No. It's quite good, actually.” He held the brandy out to her. “Here. Try a little.”

“All right.” She took a cautious sip. Warmth filled her mouth and slid down her throat. The tight, nervous feeling in her stomach began to ease. She took another sip.

She already felt a bit fearless.

Or perhaps it was reckless.

“Good?”

She nodded and glanced down at Poppy. Blast it, Poppy looked very snug and content and
blissful
with William's strong fingers rubbing her ears. It made her—

Good God, I'm jealous of a
cat.

William spread his free arm out along the back of the settee. “There's no need to sit on the edge of the seat like that, Belle. Come closer.” He smiled faintly. “You don't have to be afraid of me.”

“I'm not afraid of you.”
I'm afraid of myself.

She slid next to him, and then his arm pulled her even closer, so she was pressed against his side. It felt wonderful. She relaxed even more.

They sat that way for a while and then William broke the silence.

“I realized, as I watched Hortense die, Belle, how much to blame I was for her suffering.”

She stiffened. What? William could not think himself at fault! “No. I read about her, er, activities in the gossip columns. You didn't force her to go to those awful parties or to behave in such a scandalous manner.”

He sighed. “In a way I did. I was neither kind nor understanding, especially at the beginning of our marriage, when it might have made a difference. If I had only—”

She put her fingers on his lips, stopping him. “No. You are giving yourself too much credit. Each of us chooses our own path. Surely not every London lady with an unkind husband lives a notorious life.”

He frowned. “I should have done better.”

“We all have regrets, things we'd do differently if we had the opportunity. You were very young when you married.”

“I was nineteen,” William said. “Nineteen is quite old enough to ruin one's life.”

“You did not ruin your life. It just went in a direction you hadn't planned.” As hers had. “You learned things you wouldn't have learned had you made different choices.”

He snorted.

“William, the past can't be changed. We can only live in the present.”

She rested her head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent. William. The only times in her entire life that she hadn't felt alone were the times she'd spent with him.

Need swirled low in her stomach.

He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Tired?”

“Mmm. I think I'd like to go to bed.”

Poppy blinked at her, and then jumped off William's lap to run up the stairs.

“Then I'll see you tomorrow.” William stood and pulled her up. “Thank you for listening.”

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “Don't go.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I want you to stay with me tonight. If you want to, that is. If you're ready to.” She stroked his cheek. “I want to love you.”

And then she stretched up to kiss him on the mouth.

* * *

Zeus! The touch of Belle's lips sent need flashing through him like lightning, followed immediately by a thunderous boom of lust. He pulled her up against his—

No.

He didn't want her to think this was what he had come to her for. He'd sought her out not to ease his body but his mind.

And perhaps his soul.

He loosened his hold and looked into her face. Some of her hair had come out of its pins. He tucked it behind her ear and forced himself to smile. “You are the spinster of the Spinster House, remember? You have sworn off men.”

“I'm a spinster, but I never swore off men.” She pressed her cheek against his chest. “I never swore off you.”

His will was weakening.

“Belle.” He sounded a bit desperate to his own ears. “I came here only to see you and talk to you.” And to hold her, yes. But bedding her had not been in his plans. He was very sure of that. “I had no other intention.”

She met his gaze squarely, her arms still wrapped around him. “I know.”

“I'm not asking—”

Her jaw hardened. “I
know
.”

“Then what is this about?”
Good God, did she think—?
He broke her hold on him and stepped back. “I am not a charity case. I don't need your pity.” Bloody hell, the notion was nauseating.

“And I'm not offering it. I want this.” She was scowling at him, but he'd swear there was hurt in her eyes, too. “The last time you were here, you were bound by your marriage vows. Now you are not. I'm lonely. I think you are, too. What harm can there be in two friends finding comfort in each other?”

He'd never looked for comfort in a woman's bed before, beyond the obvious comfort of physical release.

“We used to have something wonderful, didn't we, William?”

“Yes.” Oh, God, yes. He'd felt such deep pleasure and peace in those few weeks at Benton.

“Let's see if we can find it again.”

What
could
be the harm? Belle was right—he wasn't bound by any vows. He'd been very careful not to be observed when he'd entered the Spinster House. Belle's reputation shouldn't be at risk.

But Belle wasn't asking for a parson's blessing. She never had.

He was here now, and he
was
lonely, so very lonely. “You're certain?”

She smiled. “I have never been more certain of a thing in my life.”

“You won't change your mind at the last minute like you did last time? I don't want to go through that again.”

“I won't change my mind.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Emotion flooded him—relief, lust, anticipation, desire, need, thankfulness, and something that felt oddly like reverence.

Ridiculous. There was nothing reverent in what he was about to do. He grinned. He intended the interlude to be deeply, satisfyingly carnal.

“Then I accept your invitation gladly.”

They almost ran up the stairs to Belle's bedchamber. Poppy was there before them, but she jumped down from the bed to curl up on the chair when they came in.

“I think Poppy has given us her blessing,” he whispered as he pulled out the rest of Belle's hairpins. Her nimble fingers were already undoing his waistcoat.

“She's a very wise animal.” Belle tugged his shirt free of his breeches.

They scrambled out of their clothes. When they were finally naked, he gathered her into his arms, running his hands down her back, pressing her body against his. No woman had ever felt this good.

“Let's go to bed, William.” Belle kissed the underside of his jaw and flexed her hips against his cock. Her voice was seductive and breathless with the same need that raged through him.

“Yes.” He jerked back the coverlet and lifted her to sit on the high mattress. Then he spread her knees and stepped between them so he could see and touch all of her. “God, Belle, you are so beautiful.”

She flushed—he could see all of that, too—and tried to cover herself. “No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.” He caught her hands and pushed them aside. “Don't hide.”

She frowned—and then smiled. “You're right. I'm not going to hide any longer—or at least not here with you.” She leaned forward, kissing his chest and running her hands over his arse. “And you're beautiful, too.”