How to Manage a Marquess (7 page)

Forcing Cat to take the last lot—the winning one.

“Here we are.” Jane plunked a bottle down on the table. “There's not much left, so we can't do too much damage. And I've got a fresh pot of tea.” She put that next to the brandy. “Mrs. Tweedon insisted.”

Anne didn't really want more tea, but she reached for the pot. “Shall I pour?”

“We can have the tea later.” Jane picked up the brandy bottle and put a healthy dose in each teacup. She raised her cup. “To spinsterhood.”

“Yes.” Anne lifted hers and dispiritedly clicked it against Jane's. “To spinsterhood.”
And living with Papa and Mrs. Eaton and the hellions. Dear God.

Blast! That thought should
not
conjure Lord Hellwood's face, no matter how handsome. He was as bad as his friend, the duke. Neither had proposed marriage in the shrubbery.

Not that she would have accepted the scurvy marquess if he
had
asked.

She took a sip of the fiery liquid.

“We need a plan,” Jane said. “Cat is only twenty-four. She could outlive us both.”

“I know.” Anne let out a long sigh. “I suppose I'll have to marry someone. I can't continue to live at Davenport Hall once Papa marries Mrs. Eaton.”

“You're sure he's going to do that?”

“The Bigleys certainly think so. And Papa all but admitted it to me himself.”

Jane propped her head on her hand. “Is she really dreadful?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

Anne tried to be dispassionate, but her head was already rather fuzzy from the brandy. She should eat some of her meat pie.

She picked up her fork, but her stomach protested. She put the fork back down.

“She's a year younger than I am, Jane. How can she not be dreadful?”

Jane nodded. “That is a bit . . . a bit . . .” She was clearly searching for a polite word to describe the union of a twenty-five-year-old woman and a fifty-year-old man.

“Disgusting. It's disgusting that Papa would wed a woman half his age.”

“Well, er, yes. But men will be men, I suppose.”

Ugh. Men.
Anne took another sip of brandy. “What about Randolph?”

Jane's brows rose. “What do you mean, ‘what about Randolph?'”

“He's a man. Young—well, not as old as my father.” Randolph was thirty-three, five years older than Jane, but he seemed much older. “Do you think he'll marry?”

Jane tapped her teacup—or, more accurately now, brandy cup—gently against her lips. “N-no. I think he may have loved someone when he was young, but then our parents died and he had to take care of me. If there
was
someone, she didn't wish to become the mother to a half-grown girl.” Jane looked down into her cup. “I do appreciate that. It's something I think about when I wish to rend Randolph limb from limb.”

“It
is
quite sad.” Anne tried to picture Randolph in love, but her imagination failed her.

“Yes.” Jane wrinkled her nose. “But now he makes use of the Widow Conklin for all his amorous needs. He has an appointment from eight to nine o'clock every Wednesday evening.”

Anne wrinkled
her
nose. The widow was pleasant enough, but everyone knew her trade.

Men really were revolting.

She took another sip of brandy. “What are we going to do, Jane? I wish there was some way we could get Cat out of the Spinster House.”

Jane divided the last of the brandy between them. “Perhaps there is.”

Was Jane bosky? Surely she hadn't imbibed
that
much.

“How? I'm not willing to resort to murder.” And she couldn't wish that Cat die from some disease or accident. Cat might be standing between Anne and her freedom, but she was still her friend.

“Not murder,” Jane said. “Marriage.”

“Marriage? Why would Cat marry? She has exactly what she's always wanted.”

“What she always
used
to want. I don't think she wants it any longer.”

Oh, blast. Jane had got her hopes up for no purpose. “If she didn't want to be the Spinster House spinster, she wouldn't have participated in the lottery.”

Jane
must
have drunk too much brandy. Anne likely had. She poured herself some tea.

“Oh, she may still
think
she wants to be a spinster, but didn't you see how she looked at the duke when he arrived?”

“No.” Anne had been too nervous to analyze Cat's behavior.

Jane smirked at her. “You should pay more attention.”

“Apparently. So tell me how she looked.”

“As if her heart's delight had just entered the room.”

Anne looked at Jane suspiciously. “How much brandy have you had?”

“No more than you and none before the lottery. And I'll tell you this as well, since it seems you were woolgathering.” Jane leaned closer as if sharing a secret. “The duke looked at her in the very same way.” She sat back and giggled. “Well, rather more lasciviously.”

Jane
must
be making this up, but if she wasn't . . .

There
was
that interlude in the trysting bushes.

Which had resulted in exactly nothing.

“What difference does it make? Cat won the lottery, and now that the Spinster House vacancy is filled, the duke will leave Loves Bridge and that will be the end of it.”

“No, he's staying here.” Jane flushed slightly. “I happened to be talking to the duke's friend—”

Oh, blast, Jane's eyebrows shot up. Anne
had
sounded a bit too . . . upset. And for no reason. What did she care whom Lord Hellwood conversed with?

“No, not Lord Haywood. Lord Evans.”

“Oh.” And she shouldn't be feeling so happy to hear that. “When did you speak to Lord Evans?”

“Just a little before I ran into you in front of the Spinster House. Apparently the duke and Lord Haywood argued last night and again this morning—Lord Evans didn't say about what, of course—so he came into the village to get away from all the brangling. He told me that he and Lord Haywood were leaving, but the duke was staying, at least until Mary's wedding”—she grinned—“when he and Lord Haywood would both be back. Lord Haywood is a musician and has agreed to play for the festivities.”

“Oh.” Instead of delight at Lord Hellwood's departure, Anne felt a surge of anticipation that she'd see him again. Stupid!

“I think the duke must be staying because he
is
interested in Cat,” Jane said.

I can
not
be happy to see Lord Hellwood.

“Likely he is. He did go into the bushes with her.” Anne pushed her teacup away. She should go back to the Hall. Sitting in her room and sulking sounded like the perfect way to pass the rest of this dreadful day. Perhaps she'd come up with a solution to her problems in the morning.

She
could marry the boring Mr. Barker.

Heh. She'd clearly had too much brandy.

“But don't you see?” Jane said. “If the duke loves Cat and marries her, the curse will be broken.”

“I thought you didn't believe in the curse.”

“I don't, but the duke does.” Jane's expression hardened. “So all we need to do is force his hand.”

“Force his hand? You lost me there.”

“Don't be dim, Anne. Everyone knows what happens in the trysting bushes. If word spreads that the duke was there with Cat, he'll feel honor bound to offer for her.” She grinned. “We don't even have to gossip ourselves. A word or two in the Boltwoods' hearing, and by the end of the day—if not the end of the hour—everyone in Loves Bridge will have heard the tale.”

Anne felt a second's hopefulness—and then shook her head. “We can't do that. Cat's reputation would be ruined. Everyone would shun her.”

Jane covered her mouth to muffle a hiccup. “Don't be so negative. If Cat loves the duke, we'll be doing her a favor.”

“Well . . .” Anne wasn't being negative; she was being realistic, wasn't she?

“Look.” Jane leaned toward her, her expression intent. “This will work to everyone's benefit. The duke will marry the woman he loves, breaking the curse, if there is one; Cat will get a wealthy husband who can support her writing; and we'll get another chance at the Spinster House.”

“Hmm.” Hope began to stir in Anne's breast. “Put that way, it does seem that a little gossiping could be a good thing.”

Chapter Five

 

Nate looked at the organ. It was small, but the Loves Bridge church was small. A large organ would overwhelm the space both in size and in volume. The question was, how well did it play?

“Lord Haywood, permit me to make myself known to you.”

Nate looked up politely. The man who'd spoken was an inch or two shorter than he and roughly twenty years older, with brown hair graying at the temples and lines bracketing his mouth and radiating from his eyes.

Nate's gaze moved to the woman at his si—

Perhaps his prayer would be answered, standing as he was so close to the altar.

“I'm Lord Richard Davenport,” he heard the man say, as if from a distance, “and this is my daughter, Anne . . .”

His heart, which had felt as if it had stopped and then leapt and spun in his chest, settled down, though it still beat rather more quickly and forcefully than normal.

And his cock—

He would not think about that. He would pretend he knew nothing about the activities happening below his waist and hope that Lord Davenport's gaze did not venture in that direction. Fortunately the man was standing too close to observe any, er, protrusions without making a special effort to do so.

And surely in a few moments that unruly organ would settle down just as his heart had.

Anne was as beautiful as—no, more beautiful than he remembered, and he had remembered her often. She'd slipped into his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams, no matter how hard he'd tried to exorcize her.

Damnation, he should have been prepared for this. He'd known she would be at Miss Mary Hutting's wedding, but he'd thought—he'd hoped—that he'd be too busy playing the organ during the service and the pianoforte at the festivities following to be able to exchange more than a distant nod.

She was wearing blue again, to match her eyes. A beam of light from one of the church's high windows touched her hair and made it glow like a halo.

“. . . whom you've already met, of course.”

What?!
His eyes snapped back to Davenport's face. The man's expression was rather too bland.

Had Anne told her father about their interlude in the Spinster House garden?

No, if she had, Davenport would be far less cordial. Hell, he'd likely be insisting the vicar marry them today as well. He was letting his imagination run away with him.

He glanced back at Anne. She was noticeably pale, staring at her father with a look of horror.

Right, then. Time to say something, anything, to keep the baron's attention on him, because if Davenport looked at his daughter now, he'd have his suspicions, whatever they were, confirmed.

“Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Davenport briefly at Cupid's Inn the day after I arrived in Loves Bridge.” He looked at Anne. She was still too pale. “I believe you were there for a planning meeting regarding the village fair, were you not, Miss Davenport?”

Her lovely—but panicked—blue eyes regarded him blankly.

“Are plans for the fair proceeding well?” he prompted her.

“Oh.” She blinked and gathered her composure. “Yes. Yes, everything is shaping up nicely. The fair isn't for a while yet, so there's plenty of time to attend to the details. And it really doesn't change much from year to year. We—”

Her father put his hand on her arm to stop her nervous chatter. “We should let Lord Haywood get back to what he was doing, Anne. The ceremony will begin shortly.”

“Yes, I'm afraid I do need to familiarize myself with this organ. Each instrument has its own peculiarities, you know. But perhaps we'll have the opportunity for further conversation later.” He bowed slightly to Lord Davenport and gave Anne what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Well, perhaps reassuring was not the message he should be trying to send her, he thought as he watched her walk away. He definitely intended to have a few words with her, but they might be anything but reassuring.

He turned back to regard the organ, but his mind wasn't on the instrument. When he'd arrived at Loves Castle yesterday, he'd had a number of upsetting surprises, but the worst was learning that rumors about Marcus and Miss Catherine Hutting and their disappearance into the vicarage bushes had spread throughout the village.

There could be only one source for that gossip.

He clenched his hands. Worse, he'd discovered Marcus had actually offered for the girl. Thank
God
she'd turned him down. If she hadn't, the tenor of his upcoming conversation with Miss Davenport would be very different.

He forced himself to concentrate on the organ—the
musical
organ. His own organs—his silly heart and randy cock—were insisting that Miss Davenport was innocent of any wrongdoing despite the evidence to the contrary or, if she wasn't innocent, that she should be forgiven.

He sat down and focused on the music he was about to play.

* * *

“Lord Haywood, Mr. Linden, please, take a break and have something to eat and drink,” Mrs. Hutting said. They were in the parish hall, entertaining the villagers now that the ceremony was over.

Mr. Linden, farmer and Loves Bridge fiddler, put down his instrument and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “I
am
a mite thirsty, Mrs. Hutting.”

“Of course you are. You've been playing for almost an hour.” She turned to smile at Nate. “And you, my lord, have played even longer. I must tell you again how beautiful the organ sounded in church today. Mr. Hutting and I so very much appreciate having a musician of your caliber help us celebrate Mary's wedding.”

“I'm happy to be of assistance, madam.” A polite lie. Since Marcus had insisted on being here, Nate had had no choice but to come, too.

He glanced around. Where
was
Marcus?

“Yer right about that, Mrs. Hutting.” Mr. Linden slapped Nate on the back with enough enthusiasm to send Nate lurching forward half a step. “Never had the pleasure of playing with a fellow as good as ye, milord.” He grinned, showing several missing teeth, which, he'd explained earlier, made whistling easier.

Nate smiled back. “You're an excellent fiddler, Mr. Linden. I've quite enjoyed myself.” Which was true. The
ton
looked a bit askance at aristocratic male musicians. Normally his only opportunity to play for an audience was at house parties where the guests were dragooned into performing to pass the time after supper and before bed and where most of the people in the room only pretended to listen, being either half asleep from overindulging or busy planning their next bedroom assignation.

“The music's not over, is it, Mama?” A flushed and slightly anxious-looking young girl came up with two younger boys—twins—behind her.

“We want to dance some more!” one of the boys said.

Nate smiled. Their dancing had been more like jumping and spinning, but they'd clearly been enjoying the music.

“Lord Haywood and Mr. Linden are just taking a rest, children.” Mrs. Hutting looked hopefully at him and Linden. “Could you begin again in, say, half an hour?”

“Of course.” Linden laughed. “That is, I can. Don't know about this young fellow. London lords may not have as much stamina as country farmers.”

“Ha!” Nate grinned at that. “I can outlast you, sir, even if you try to play all night.”

“We'll see about that.”

Mrs. Hutting had turned away to give instructions to one of the servants and answer an elderly gentleman's question. She must have caught only part of their conversation, because when she turned back, she sounded a bit harried.

“Oh, no, I am not asking either of you to play all night. I—oh.” She glanced over at her husband, who was making faces at her as if he was in desperate need of rescuing. Since he was talking to Lady Penland and her daughter, Lady Uppleton, he was indeed in need of immediate help, though if Nate remembered correctly, Lord Penland was the vicar's older brother.

Not that being related to Penland made the situation any more bearable. Likely it made it worse.

“If you'll excuse me?” Mrs. Hutting hurried off.

Linden snorted. “The vicar's fancy relations don't come to the village much,” he said, walking with Nate to get some ale. “By Jove, I thought all the London nobs were like them 'til I met you and yer friends.”

“That's right. Nate here is the best of good fellows,” Alex said, appearing on Nate's left and clapping him on the shoulder.

“That he is. Finest piano player I've ever had the pleasure to play with.” Linden slapped his knee and guffawed. “'Course the only other fellow I know who plays the darn thing is Luntley, the village music teacher, so I wouldn't be getting too proud of yerself, milord.”

Linden grabbed a pint and a plate and drifted off to talk to a group of local men.

Nate glanced around the room again. He still didn't see his cousin. “Where's Marcus?”

Alex shrugged. “I think he went outside. Here, have some ale. And the lobster patties are quite good. I wonder if Hutting had them brought down from London?”

Damnation.
Nate looked at the food with regret. He
was
hungry—and thirsty. “I should go after him.”

“Why? He's probably only in search of some fresh air”—Alex snorted—“or the jakes.” He handed Nate a pint. “I think he can manage that all by himself.”

Nate took the ale automatically. “You don't understand.” Mmm. The ale smelled very good. He took a sip. It tasted good, too.

“I understand that Marcus is chafing under your constant surveillance, Nate. He's a big boy. He can live his own life.”

Nate picked up a lobster patty and took a bite to keep from retorting. There was no point in arguing with Alex. He didn't believe in Isabelle Dorring's curse. But at least Miss Catherine Hutting, the one woman Nate most feared Marcus might misbehave with, was a level-headed female, a dedicated spinster—the Spinster House spinster!—
and
she'd already declined Marcus's marriage offer. Marcus should be safe on his own for a while.

He hadn't seen Miss Catherine Hutting in the room, either, but then it must be uncomfortable for her to be around Marcus when her refusal was so recent. And having her extremely annoying aunt, Lady Penland, and the woman's equally annoying daughter in attendance could not improve matters.

And, well, her sister
had
just got married. Even a dedicated spinster might feel a little out of sorts with all the attention being showered on the girl.

It was too bad. Marcus had seemed genuinely sad that she hadn't accepted him. He'd still been a bit low this morning. But it was for the best. Thirty was too young to die. He and Marcus and Alex would return to London in the morning, and Marcus could put this all behind him.

Nate frowned. Neither Marcus nor Miss Hutting would have been put in this awkward position if Miss Davenport hadn't engaged in a bit of gossip. This was as good a time as any to have it out with her. And there was also the matter of her father's odd behavior before the ceremony. Where was she?

Being tall was a distinct advantage in a crowd—he had a good view of the room. Ah, there. He spotted a blue dress and blond hair over in a corner. Amazingly, Miss Davenport was alone.

“Excuse me, will you, Alex? I need to speak to someone.”

* * *

Oh lud, Lord Hellwood was coming her way.

Anne looked longingly at the door to the churchyard. She'd like to dash outside.

But she couldn't. The door was across the room. And even if it were right next to her, she couldn't use it. Jane had given her strict instructions to keep Lord Hellwood occupied inside. They'd both watched Cat flee and the duke follow her out of the room. It was in their—Anne's and Jane's—best interests to prevent the marquess from interrupting whatever might be happening between those two.

And they had great hopes
something
was happening. Cat might have turned down the duke's proposal—Cat's mother had not been silent about her daughter's cabbage-headed refusal—but it was clear Cat had feelings for the man. Look how she'd run when the duke had approached her today, straight into her annoying cousin, Lady Uppleton.

Only a fool would think the duke had offered for Cat out of duty. He'd been staring at her during Mary's wedding as if she were his salvation—which perhaps she was. If he loved her and married her, the curse might be broken.

If there was a curse, of course.

However, it was unlikely Lord Hellwood would view the matter in quite the way she and Jane did.

Anne looked at the door one last time. Then she grasped her hands tightly together, took a deep breath, and willed her heart to stop leaping about in her chest as she forced her lips into a smile.

“Lord Hell—”

The marquess's right brow arched up.

“Lord Haywood, I must tell you how much I enjoyed your playing, both on the organ in church and here on the pianoforte.”
Perfect! Men love being flattered. We can spend the next few minutes until Mrs. Hutting urges him back to work talking about his musical skills.
“You are very talented.”

Lord Hellwood smiled briefly. “Thank you, Miss Davenport. I do my best. Now, as to why I've sought you out, I'm afraid I have a bone to pick with you—well, two bones, actually.”