How to Manage a Marquess (4 page)

Strangely, Nate did not feel reassured.

Chapter Three

The horse stopped and gave Anne a reproachful look.

“I'm sorry, Violet.” Anne relaxed her hold on the reins.

Violet tossed her head, making the harness jingle, and got back to pulling the gig.

What had just happened back there in the Spinster House garden?

Oh, she knew
what
had happened, of course. It was her feelings she didn't understand. She'd been angry and frightened and . . . and something else, all at the same time.

Well, she should take it as a lesson learned. She'd known in theory that men were stronger than women and that there were good reasons why she needed to be careful around them, but she'd never had the reality of it brought home so forcefully. If Lord
Hell
wood had been determined to rape or murder her, he could have done so. She would not have been able to stop him.

But he hadn't wished to hurt her. On the contrary, he'd wanted to save her—and himself—from scandal. Lud! If the Boltwood sisters had come upon them sprawled together in the dirt—

She shuddered. She should applaud his quick thinking—and she would, if that was all that had happened.

He kissed me.
She bit her lip.
Who would have thought having a man's tongue in your mouth would be so wonderful?

Heat flooded her face—and other parts.

Bah! Clearly the man was a practiced seducer.

Violet stopped and glared at her.

“Oh, Violet, I
am
sorry. I promise not to pull on the reins again.” She loosened her fingers and took a few deep, calming breaths as Violet started forward once more.

She'd make a point of avoiding Lord Hellwood from now on—an especially good idea if word of what the duke and Cat had been up to in the bushes got round. The marquess was sure to blame her for any gossip.

What on earth was the matter with her? She couldn't gossip about Cat. Cat was like the sister she'd never had.

Even sisters fought. And she
needed
to win the Spinster House.

She let out a short, annoyed breath. Oh, fiddle. She wasn't certain what she'd do.

No, what she'd do is hope she was tying herself in knots for no reason. If the duke was an honorable man, he'd have offered Cat marriage and been accepted already. Maybe that was what had been going on in the bushes. Maybe all she need do was give Cat her best wishes.

Well, whatever she did, she wouldn't do it because she wished to do Lord Hellwood a favor.

Violet tossed her head and threw in a little kick to be certain she had Anne's attention.

“Yes, you're quite right. I'll try very hard not to think of Lord Hellwood again until we are safely home.” They'd reached the drive to Davenport Hall, so perhaps she could keep her promise.

Violet picked up her pace, probably hoping to reach the stable before Anne abused her mouth with her terrible handling of the ribbons once more. In a few minutes, the Hall came into view.

Anne smiled and felt her shoulders relax. The house wasn't much more than a red brick box set down in the countryside. Some ancestor, perhaps in an attempt to give it an air of importance, had added a portico. But it was home, and she thought it far more comfortable—and beautiful—than any of the country palaces she'd visited over the years for
ton
house parties.

Except if Papa marries Mrs. Eaton, everything will change. I won't run the house any longer—
she
will. And her two little brats will probably turn Davenport Hall into a noisy playground.

Fortunately she'd finally reached the stables, so poor Violet was saved from having her mouth jerked again.

“Yer papa's looking for ye, Miss Anne,” Riley, the head groom, said as he took Violet's reins.

“Thank you, Riley.” Oh, drat. She didn't want to see Papa. Her emotions were still too disordered—Violet's sore mouth was proof of that. Perhaps she could sneak up the back stairs.

She hurried up the slope to the house. She'd always been close to Papa, much closer to him than to Mama. She and Papa were more alike, both basically book-loving homebodies. And being an only child, she'd had his undivided attention. He'd read to her and played with her and taken her on long walks. He'd called her his magic child, perhaps with reason. Poor Mama had suffered countless miscarriages both before and after Anne was born.

And later, when Mama died, they'd become even closer.

She reached the back door and pulled it open to find her father standing there.

“Papa!” She stepped back and almost tripped on her hem. “What are you doing here?”

He reached to catch her, but dropped his hands when he saw she'd recovered her balance on her own. “I saw you coming up from the stables.” He frowned, though she'd admit she saw more concern than annoyance in his eyes. “I missed you at supper. Where were you?”

She stepped past him. “I went into the village.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I'm twenty-six, as you've pointed out countless times since my birthday. I'm a grown woman, and this is Loves Bridge. I don't have to worry about some fellow r-raping me.”

Papa flinched as if she'd hit him.

Oh, God. She shouldn't have said that. She was sorry for it, but she was also still very upset.

However, that was no reason to take her spleen out on Papa.

She sighed as she removed her bonnet. “Pardon me. I'm a trifle out of sorts.”

Papa's brows shot up. “You've got leaves in your hair,” he said sharply. “And you're missing most of your hairpins.”

Anger stabbed through her again. What did he care what she did? His interest was all for bloody Mrs. Eaton.

“They fell out when I was rolling around in the bushes, passionately kissing a man. I suppose that's where I picked up the leaves as well.”

“
Anne!
Why do you say such things?” Papa ran both hands through his hair. He might even have pulled on it. “Are you teasing me or did some man actually take liberties with you?” His voice hardened. “If he did, you can be sure I'll see that he pays for it.”

“How? By forcing him to marry me?”

Lud! For a moment, the thought of marrying Lord Hellwood was actually appealing.

She must be losing her mind. The man was overbearing, imperious, and domineering—
and
determined not to wed for years, if rumor was to be believed. “That
would
be a punishment, though I believe I'd be the one to suffer.”

Papa hadn't really muttered, “Don't be so certain,” had he?

“You know I wouldn't try to force a blackguard to marry you, Anne.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him squarely. “
Is
there a blackguard I need to have a word with?”

She tried to look away, but he caught her chin and kept her still.

“Anne . . .”

“Of course not.” Lord Hellwood wasn't a blackguard in the way Papa meant. And she was capable of dealing with him herself. She did not need or want Papa's involvement. “I'd never put myself in a position where a man could misbehave.”

She hadn't put herself in the position, after all. Lord Hellwood had dragged her—or the overgrown ivy had tripped her—into it.

“That's what I thought.” Papa smiled. “Come sit with me in the study, will you? I feel as if we've not spent much time together recently.”

They hadn't, not since Mrs. Eaton had got her claws into him.

“I'll have a cold collation brought in.”

“Thank you, but I'll just take a tray in my room.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “As you pointed out, I'm not fit for company.”

Papa's brows slanted down again. “That is not what I said or what I meant, Anne, as well you know. And I'm not company. I'm your father.”

Good, she'd annoyed him again. That was safer than . . . than any other emotion.

And yet she didn't really want to keep shoving him away.

“Oh, very well.”

Papa didn't comment on her gracelessness. He smiled, but his eyes remained wary. He knew this wasn't really a truce.

“Would you be needing anything, my lord, Miss Anne?”

They both started and looked over to see Bigley, the butler, standing by the door to the kitchen. Likely they'd been overheard by Mrs. Willet, the cook, who'd got Mrs. Bigley, the housekeeper, to fetch her husband in case a fight broke out.

Things had been rather testy between her and her father of late.

“Yes, Bigley. Miss Anne missed her supper. Could you have a cold collation brought to the study?”

“Of course, my lord. I will see to it immediately.”

Bigley shot her a worried look before bowing and disappearing into the kitchen. Papa gestured for her to precede him.

“The vicar told me the Duke of Hart is in Loves Bridge,” he said as he followed her into the study.

“Yes.” She used to love this room with its scent of leather and old books. It had been her refuge. Here, she hadn't had to think about fashion or needlework or deportment or marriage. She could kick off her slippers, curl up in one of the comfortable old chairs, and read, losing herself in stories of magic and adventure and romance while Papa worked on estate business. From time to time, Mama would poke her head in, worried Anne was straining her eyes or developing wrinkles from all that reading, but Papa had laughed and told Mama not to fret.

Poor Mama. She and Papa had been as different as chalk and cheese. Anne hadn't realized how clipped Mama's wings were until she'd gone up to London for her first Season and seen how Mama glowed with excitement and happiness in Town.

Anne had not glowed. She'd enjoyed some of it, yes, more than she'd expected to, but the constant noise and activity had worn her out also. And the rules! There were far too many. She couldn't even leave the house without a footman following at her heels like a trained dog.

She was more like Papa. Give her the country over noisy, smelly London any day. And a good book over a crowd of people. Meeting all those strangers, most of whom—especially those with titles—thought so very highly of themselves . . . ugh. She'd gone to bed each night—or in the early hours of the morning—empty, as if her soul had been drained dry. After a few days, she'd been longing for Loves Bridge.

No. Lord Hellwood was just as shallow and puffed up as the rest of the titled ninnies. Worse. Look how he'd behaved in the Spinster House garden—

Best
not
to think of that.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the settee as Papa settled into the wing chair across from her.

“I knew the duke was here,” she said. “I met him at the inn the other day.”

Papa frowned. “And you didn't tell me?”

“I didn't think you'd be interested.”

His mouth flattened. For a moment, she thought she'd managed to provoke him again, but then the door opened and James, the footman, brought in her supper.

“Thank you, James,” Papa said. “That will be all.”

She braced herself when the door closed again. She'd been avoiding Papa, so they hadn't talked about Miss Franklin and Mr. Wattles's marriage five days ago and the discovery that they'd been living in the village under assumed identities—Miss Franklin for twenty years. Nor had they discussed what the empty Spinster House meant.

“I knew the duke's father.” Papa shrugged. “Well, I knew of him. He was older than I. But I remember when he married the current duke's mother. It was quite the village scandal.”

“Oh?” She was intrigued in spite of herself.

Papa nodded. “Clara O'Reilly was the village dressmaker's poor Irish niece and new to Loves Bridge. A nice girl—everyone said she must have loved the duke—but she should never have married him. It was like a—a puppy going off to live with a wolf.”

“But if he loved her—”

Papa snorted. “He wanted her, and marriage was the only way he could have her. But love—” He shook his head. “No. No one needed the curse to play out to know it wasn't his heart that had urged him to the altar.”

She leaned forward. “Do you really believe in the curse, Papa? This is the nineteenth century, after all.” The Marquess of Hellwood appeared to think the curse real, but then the marquess was an annoying, infuriating blockhead.

Papa shrugged. “I don't know. I grant you it seems superstitious nonsense that belongs in the dark ages rather than our enlightened scientific times, but the fact remains that not one duke since Isabelle Dorring's time has lived to see his heir.”

He frowned. “The London wags call the present titleholder ‘the Heartless Duke,' Anne. He doesn't have as black a reputation as his father, but he's not a man I'd consider a good match for you, even with his exalted title.”

Anne's jaw dropped. Where had that come from? “I am not interested in marrying the duke, Papa.”

Papa went on as if he hadn't heard her. “The rumor is he lured a young woman into the bushes, ruined her reputation, and then refused to marry her.”

“I know. The Boltwoods mentioned it at the fair-planning meeting the other day.” And then there was Cat's recent tour of the vegetation, though it hadn't appeared the duke had done any luring there. And surely
that
trip to the foliage would result in a wedding—and one less candidate for the Spinster House.