How to Manage a Marquess (5 page)

Papa sat back, frowning. “The vicar said he thought this duke an honorable man, but I can't like you—”

Oh, for heaven's sake! “Papa! I said I am not interested in the duke!”

He scowled at her. “You don't have to shout, Anne.” Then he drummed his fingers on his leg. “His friends, though . . . The Earl of Evans was recently jilted, but the Marquess of Haywood might be a possibility.”

Papa could
not
mean what she thought he meant. “A possibility for what?”

Papa heard the fury in her voice. His eyes widened and he sat all the way back in his chair. “Just, er, ah . . .” His chin hardened. “A possible husband for you, Anne. You're twenty-six, you know—”

She leapt to her feet. “I bloody well know how old I am.” How dare Papa consider Lord Hellwood as a—an
anything
for her?

He stood, too. “You are putting yourself firmly on the shelf. Don't you want your own home?”

“I would love to have my own home—it's the husband I don't want.” She clasped her hands, firmly pushing a certain marquess's image from her thoughts.
The supercilious, aggravating idiot.
“I would far rather be on the shelf than chained to some man, at his beck and call, forced to share his be—” No, she couldn't say it. “Forced to share my life with him and do his bidding until I die.”

Papa looked as if he wished to say something—likely to point out the amount of time and money he'd spent dragging her to house parties in search of an acceptable husband—but fortunately he did not. “Most men aren't such tyrants, Anne. I'm not, am I?”

“No, but you aren't a great advertisement for marriage either.”

He flushed. “Your mother and I rubbed along well enough. Marriage isn't the constant hearts and flowers the poets like to pretend it is.” He frowned. “Surely you don't want to live at Davenport Hall forever? What will you do when I—” He stopped. Clearly his emotions had carried him further than he'd intended to go.

“When you marry Mrs. Eaton?”

“This is not about El—Mrs. Eaton.”

But it was. Oh, God, she knew for certain now. Papa had looked away, a clear sign he was prevaricating.

She grasped her hands together to keep from wrapping them around his neck. “Everything was fine until you met
her
. Ever since then, you've been desperate to get rid of me.” Blast, she was going to cry.

“Anne.” Papa reached for her, but she stepped back quickly to avoid him. “I only want you to be happy. To find love.”

“I am not marrying just to get out of Mrs. Eaton's way.”

Papa rubbed his face. “Anne.”

“I'm going to my room.”

“But you haven't touched your supper.”

“I'm not hungry.”

It might be juvenile, but slamming the study door behind her felt very, very good.

* * *

“What the
hell
were you thinking, Marcus?” Nate stepped into the castle's study, where Marcus sat with Alex. He was tempted to slam the door behind him. He needed another way to rid himself of his anger besides wrapping his hands around Marcus's throat.

He settled for gripping his fingers tightly behind his back.

“And good evening to you, too, Nate,” Alex said, raising his glass along with his brows. “Why don't you help yourself to some brandy? A drink might settle your spleen.” Then he, too, looked at Marcus.

Marcus was scowling. “Damnation, Nate, were you spying on me again?”

At least he didn't pretend not to know what Nate meant.

“No. There was no need to spy. Anyone walking down the street could see you.”

And anyone had.

He could
not
think about Miss Davenport's tongue, about how sweet it had tasted, how shyly it had slipped over his and then, with his encouragement, grown bolder—

Enough. As far as he could tell, the woman hated him.

But she liked Miss Hutting. They were friends
.
Surely she wouldn't do anything to tarnish her friend's reputation.

He just wished he felt more certain of that.

“I'm a grown man, for God's sake, Nate. My activities are none of your concern.”

“The hell they aren't.” If he grasped his fingers any tighter, he might break some. Perhaps a glass of brandy
was
a good idea.

He strode over to the decanter and jerked out the stopper.

Marcus sighed. “But they aren't, Nate. I know your mother drummed it into your head that you are my keeper, but I absolve you of that duty.”

“You can't absolve me. I've watched out for you ever since we were boys. I'm not going to stop now when you're in the greatest danger.” Nate splashed a little brandy into a glass and tossed it off in one gulp. It burned his throat and made his eyes water, but the discomfort felt good.

“Would anyone care to tell me what you two are talking about?” Alex asked.

“No. Nate is making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Nate was in the process of pouring himself some more brandy and knocked the decanter against his glass, causing a few drops to spill. How could Marcus say that?

“This
molehill
could be your death if word of your mad behavior gets out and you have to marry the girl.” Nate looked at Alex. “Marcus dragged the vicar's daughter into the bushes, just as he did Miss Rathbone.”

Marcus slammed his brandy glass down on the occasional table. “Bloody hell, Nate, I
told
you that incident in London was all Miss Rathbone's doing.” He got up to pace, his steps taking him past the large portrait of the third duke, the man whose callous treatment of Isabelle Dorring had started the curse.

“That's right.” How could he have forgotten? Marcus hadn't been the instigator here, either. “Now that I think about it, it wasn't you doing the dragging—it was Miss Hutting.” He shook his head. “The scheming minx. She had it all planned.”

Marcus glared at him. If looks could kill, Nate would be measuring his length on the carpet.

“Er, Nate,” Alex said, shifting on his uncomfortable chair, “you might want to sit down and relax.” He snorted. “Not that a fellow can relax on this infernal furniture. It manages to be both hard
and
lumpy, and it's proportioned for some giant with dwarf legs.”

“You will not speak ill of Miss Hutting,” Marcus said, his eyes narrowed, teeth—and hands—clenched.

Did Marcus wish to fight? Good. They hadn't come to blows in years, but at the moment Nate would welcome the chance to pummel his cousin. “So she
didn't
drag you into the bushes?”

“I say, isn't it time for supper?” Alex smiled bravely.

They ignored him.

“Of course she didn't drag me into the bushes.”

“Then why the hell were you in there with her?”

Marcus glanced away. “She merely wished some privacy to discuss the Spinster House.”

A woman did not do something as scandalous as disappear into the foliage with a man simply to discuss her living arrangements, unless those arrangements included the fellow's regular visits to her bedchamber—and he could not believe Marcus was thinking to set up the vicar's daughter as his mistress. That was too bizarre a plan even for a curse-addled brain.

No, trips to the shrubbery were far from innocent. His trip with Miss Davenport, for example—

He shoved Miss Davenport from his thoughts.

“And nothing else occurred?” he asked. He couldn't help himself. He needed Marcus to admit what he'd done.

Marcus blinked, and when he looked at Nate again, his eyes were shuttered. “No. What would have occurred? I told you Miss Hutting is determined to be the next Spinster House spinster.”

God! Nate felt as if a fist had slammed into his stomach. Something in Marcus's voice or face made it clear: his cousin was lying.

Marcus had never lied to him before.

Marcus flushed and looked down quickly as if checking his hands for soot.

Nate was suddenly blindingly angry. Marcus
knew
he was playing with fire. A sensible man would recognize the danger and take steps to avoid it. Females and shrubbery were a lethal combination. Look at what had happened to
him
when he'd gone into the Spinster House garden with Miss Davenport. What had started simply as a means to avoid scandal had ended up with him on the ground, his hands on Miss Davenport's arse and his tongue in her mouth. If he hadn't come to his senses, he'd have had her skirts around her ears and his pantaloons around his ankles, his cock—

Zeus! And
he
wasn't subject to Isabelle Dorring's curse.

Society told young virgins they shouldn't be alone with a man, but that was really for the man's protection. Those marriageable maidens were temptresses, luring a poor fellow into all sorts of indiscretions—and thus into parson's mousetrap.

Which, for Marcus, was the door to his grave.

“Good God, Marcus, do I have to put a leash on you, then?”

Alex gave a long, low whistle, causing Nate to really look at his cousin. Marcus's lips had thinned, and his eyes had narrowed to slits. He was furious.

The shock of that brought Nate's own ire up short.

Perhaps he
had
overstepped his bounds with that last bit.

“Forgive me. It's just that I worry.”

Marcus sighed and relaxed, coming over to grip Nate's shoulder. “I know you worry, Nate. I worry, too. I've not forgotten about the curse. Believe me, I can't forget. It weighs on me every moment of every day. But you have to give me the freedom to live my life.”

He'd like to do that.

When they were young, keeping Marcus safe had seemed so simple. If the other boys whispered or teased, he could bloody a few noses or administer a set-down and be done with it. Even when they'd first gone up to London, he'd had little trouble. Back then he could trust Marcus to avoid dangerous situations. But since his cousin had turned thirty, it was harder and harder to protect him, especially now that the man insisted on going into the bushes with anything in skirts.

“The bloody curse doesn't give you that freedom, does it?” he said.

“No, I suppose it doesn't, but I don't need to be hemmed in by you as well.” Marcus smiled, though his eyes were still guarded. “Trust me, you do not have to worry about Miss Hutting. As I've told you several times, she most ardently desires to be the next Spinster House spinster,
not
the next Duchess of Hart. She will be delighted if she draws the short lot tomorrow and wins the house.”

Nate got the distinct impression that Marcus, however, would not be so happy. Blast. “Then I shall pray—fervently—for her success.”

Marcus flinched, but the reaction was so quick, Nate couldn't be certain he'd seen it.

“Come, sit down on this terrible furniture and finish your brandy, Nate,” Marcus said. “I have a request to make of you.”

Nate grimaced as he let himself down gingerly onto the settee. “A request?” Damnation. Alex was smirking. This could not be good.

Marcus nodded. “It turns out Mr. Wattles—or rather, the new Duke of Benton—was filling in for a Mr. Luntley, the village music teacher, while the man was off tending to his elderly mother. Benton had agreed to play at Miss Mary Hutting's wedding festivities, which are just a little more than a week away, but now he and Mr. Luntley are both gone. As you might imagine, Mrs. Hutting is, ah, not best pleased and asked if I might know someone who could play the pianoforte.”

Oh, Lord, he could see where this was heading.

“Nate plays quite well, don't you, Nate?” Alex's smirk had grown into an annoyingly large grin.

Nate sighed. “I supposed you volunteered me?”

“No. I volunteered to ask you. You are free to decline. In fact, I said you might be off walking the Lake District, but of course she got her hopes up.”

“You're going walking as well, aren't you?” Nate leaned forward, alarm vibrating through him again. “Once the Spinster House spinster is chosen, you're free.”
And I'll be free to leave the temptation of Miss Davenport.

The sinking in his gut felt more like disappointment than relief.

Marcus picked an invisible speck off his pantaloons. “I may not be going walking. You and Alex have persuaded me I need to take more of an interest in the estate.”

“You're planning to
stay
in Loves Bridge?” Zeus, he'd almost shouted the words, but what had been alarm was now full-fledged panic. There
must
be something between Marcus and Miss Hutting. There was no other explanation for his cousin's sudden desire to remain at the estate he had shunned for twenty years.

Marcus was still inspecting his pantaloons. “Very likely.”

“You can't. I mean, only consider . . .” Nate fisted his hands on his thighs. “It
must
be Miss Hutting,” he muttered, shaking his head. “These Loves Bridge women are far, far worse than their London sisters.”

Alex had got up to refill his brandy glass, but he paused, the decanter partially tipped, and raised one dratted eyebrow. “These Loves Bridge
women
? I thought you were only discussing Miss Hutting.”

“As did I,” Marcus said, both his brows raised.

“I was.” Lord, that was all he needed. Marcus was busy with his own problems, but if Alex got wind of his—his whatever it was with Miss Davenport, there would be no bearing it. Alex wasn't cruel, but he didn't know when to leave off jesting.