His Convenient Marchioness

‘Mama?’

‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’

That jolted Hunt from a particularly improper fantasy about how the lady might move in another context. If she knew he was a lord, then he hadn’t been mistaken. He did know her and he certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about her.

‘I can’t have my fairy tales?’

It was almost a wail from the little girl, but the boy turned to him, his face crimson, and nudged his sister.

‘What? It’s all your—oh.’ She shut up and looked at Hunt.

‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ She retained the merest lisp, utterly enchanting. Bright brown eyes, still with the glint of angry tears, gazed up at him out of a face framed with tawny curls and for a shattering moment he saw another small girl furious with an older brother.

‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The boy was stiff with embarrassment.

Hunt regarded the flushed pair and nodded. ‘Accepted. But—’ holding the boy’s gaze and keeping his face stern, he pointed to their mother’s rigid back as she replaced the books ‘—no gentleman behaves badly to his mother.’

The boy bit his lip, but set his shoulders and went to his mother.

‘Mama? I’m sorry I was so rude. Please let Georgie have the fairy tales at least. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have teased her.’

The mother turned and Hunt saw bone-deep weariness in her face. And something else he recognised: love, unshakeable love for the child. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

‘I... I can go without pudding, too.’

Her smile looked like it might turn upside down and Hunt was sharply aware of a longing to do something about that, to lift whatever burdens weighed her down. ‘I do have to fill you up with something. I’d rather you chose a book for yourself and promised to read it.’

‘Yes, Mama. I really am sorry.’

She ruffled his hair, and gave a smile that made Hunt’s heart ache. ‘I know. Go on. Choose your book.’

‘Perhaps I might help there?’ The offer was out before Hunt even knew it was there.

The mother stiffened. He saw it in the set of her slender shoulders, in the firm line of her mouth and his memory nudged harder, trying to get out.

‘That’s very kind, sir, but quite unnecessary.’

Hunt gave up racking his brains. ‘This is most embarrassing, but I cannot recall your name, ma’am. We have met, have we not? I’m Huntercombe, you know.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m surprised you remember me, sir. It was years ago. Thank you for accepting their apology.’

He smiled. ‘I think you were more bothered by them than I. Don’t give it another thought.’ So he did know her. Although from her clothes it was clear she did not move in society, nor was she eager to recall herself to him. She had avoided giving her name. Perhaps she had once been a governess. He would not have noticed a governess, but she might have remembered him if her charges had known his own children. He should not pry, but something about those expressive dark eyes held him, despite her obvious reluctance.

The little girl, Georgie, came and slid her hand into her mother’s. ‘Were you a friend of Papa’s, sir?’

He smiled at her. ‘We are not quite sure. Your mama and I were—’

‘He was Lord Peter Lacy,’ the child said. ‘I’m Georgiana Mary and that’s Harry.’

‘Georgie, sweetheart.’ Her mother took down the fairy tales again and handed them to her. ‘Take your book and sit down with it.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

Lord Peter Lacy. He was a younger son of the Duke of Keswick. Hunt wasn’t quite sure which younger son; Keswick and his Duchess had been nothing if not prolific, although a couple of their sons had recently died. But Lord Peter had married in the teeth of his father’s disapproval and dropped out of society. He remembered hearing something, but he had been mired in grief at the time and hadn’t taken much notice. Just who had he married...? His memory finally obliged.

‘Lady Emma Lacy,’ he said. ‘Of course. Dersingham’s daughter.’ It vaguely came back. Lady Emma Brandon-Smythe she had been. Dersingham had been furious, too. Granted, the match had not been a brilliant one for either party, but perfectly respectable. Keswick and the Earl of Dersingham had only objected due to their mutual loathing of each other. There had been whispers of star-crossed lovers.

‘Yes.’

‘He’s well? I’ve not seen him since the spring sitting.’ Not that he’d tried. He didn’t like the Earl above half.

‘I believe so, sir.’ The polite smile did not so much as touch the weariness in her eyes. ‘If you will excuse me, I must finish choosing our books.’

‘Of course, ma’am.’ Hunt stepped back with a bow. The child, Georgie, had referred to her father in the past tense and, given that Lady Emma was garbed in grey, it followed that... He took a deep breath and took a wild leap into the unknown.

‘I was very sorry to hear of Lord Peter’s death, Lady Emma.’ Lord Peter had been at least ten years younger than himself and he’d dropped out of society completely after his marriage. Hunt hadn’t even heard that he’d died, but he’d been a decent sort, with little of Keswick’s arrogance.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The unmistakeable shadow in her eyes was familiar. He’d seen it in his own mirror for long enough.

‘Mama?’

Hunt glanced down at the boy.

He brandished three volumes. ‘I’ve got this.’

Hunt nearly choked at the sight of this. ‘Hmm. Rather dull, I thought it,’ he said, dismissing all the wild extravagances of The Monk. Matt Lewis might cut him dead if it got back to him, but then again, he doubted even Lewis would consider his tale, in which a monk unwittingly raped and murdered his own sister, appropriate for a ten-year-old.

‘Dull?’ Harry’s face fell.

‘Yes. Beyond tedious.’ Gently he removed the volumes from the boy’s grasp. ‘But I can recommend Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Very exciting. You’ll like the talking horses.’

‘Talking horses? Thank you, sir.’ He looked at his mother. ‘I’ll get that then.’

‘You do that.’ Lady Emma’s voice sounded a trifle strained. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she added very quietly, laughter quivering beneath the surface, as the boy headed back to the shelves. ‘I wouldn’t have let him read it, but—’

‘Perhaps it was more palatable coming from me?’ he suggested. Lord, she was pretty when her eyes danced like that. Like the sea near his Cornish home. A man could drown in eyes like that...

Her mouth twitched. ‘Probably. Not that I would have been fool enough to tell him he wasn’t allowed to read it, but I’ve no idea how I would have wriggled out of that.’

He cleared his throat, uneasy at the sudden camaraderie between them. ‘Well,’ he said stiffly, ‘it cannot be easy for a woman to control a headstrong boy. Ought he not to be at school? Surely Keswick has something to say in that?’

The drowning blue froze to solid ice. ‘That, sir, is none—’

‘Excuse me, my lord?’ Hatchard stood in the doorway. ‘I have the Milton ready for you. Oh, good morning, Lady Emma.’

‘Good morning, Mr Hatchard.’ Along with her eyes, Lady Emma’s voice had iced over, the dancing amusement winked out as though it had never been.

A reserved, sober matron faced Hunt, nose in the air. ‘I won’t keep you, sir.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’

It was a dismissal worthy of a duchess. ‘Ma’am.’ He took her gloved hand. It fitted perfectly within his and, standing this close, he was teased by the warm fragrance of woman, despite the fury seething in her eyes. No scent, just soap and something that was Lady Emma.

‘Au revoir.’ Goodbye was a great deal too final. The French said it much better.

Chapter Two

Their selections made, Emma hurried towards the front door of the shop, the box of books tucked under her arm. How dare he criticise her management of Harry? No doubt his children had been brought up by an army of governesses and tutors. He probably saw them once a day, if that. Although his sons would have been at Eton or Harrow, learning to gamble as her own brothers had! And what on earth was she thinking to find the man attractive? For a start he was married and years older than she was and she was a widow. A widow who had loved her husband to distraction. Besides, it was ridiculous for her pulse to leap and skitter simply because an attractive gentleman had spoken to her and made her laugh. He had been kind. Polite. And stuffy and critical.

But he was married, which made it appalling that she had permitted herself to feel any attraction. And he was the first person from her past in years who had neither ignored her, nor let his contempt show. Although to be fair, not all the gentlemen ignored her, although their contempt took a different form to that of the ladies. To these gentlemen a widow with a shady reputation was just the thing to enliven a dull existence. Not that she could quite see Huntercombe trolling for a mistress in a bookshop, even if she’d been dressed in silks rather than this dreary grey wool. Even if he had thought she couldn’t control her own children.

Harry shot ahead to open the door, something he hadn’t done on the way in. No gentleman behaves badly to his mother. ‘Shall I carry the books, Mama?’

Her breath jerked in. The man who followed them from Chelsea stood across the road, his expression insolent as he looked her up and down. She stiffened. Curse it! Who was he? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had recognised her and followed, thinking she would be ripe for an affair. Lord Pickford had done just that in May, taking her rebuff in bad part.

‘Mama? Shall I—oh, just look!’

Books forgotten, Harry rushed down the steps towards a brown and white spaniel.

‘Harry!’

To her amazement Harry actually stopped and looked back. ‘Oh, Mama, please may I pet him? I don’t think he’ll bite. Do look at him!’

Emma choked back a laugh. Judging by the spaniel’s flopping tongue and insane tail, the only danger was that Harry might be licked to death. She doubted anyone could walk past the creature without stopping to pat him. However, to her amusement, although the dog raised a beseeching paw at Harry, he remained firmly seated.

‘Yes. You may pat him, Harry.’

Harry was beside the dog in a flash, holding out his hand to be sniffed and approved.

‘Do you think he’s lost, Mama?’ Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘We could take him home and look after him until his owner finds him.’

Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t think he’s lost. Look, he has a very handsome collar with a brass plate on it.’

‘There’s a name on it,’ Harry announced. ‘Fergus.’

The dog wriggled ecstatically, his tail a blur of feathered delight.

‘He might be lost,’ Georgie argued. ‘Maybe his master is horrid and he’s looking for someone nice. We’re nice.’

‘I am afraid, Georgiana Mary,’ said a deep voice behind them, ‘that Fergus is not lost at all. He’s merely waiting for me.’

Emma closed her eyes on a silent curse, wondering if her children could possibly embarrass her any more in one day, as she realised precisely who the supposedly horrid master was. Huntercombe might be stuffy, but he wasn’t horrid.

If Fergus had been pleased to meet Harry, his reaction to Huntercombe was nothing short of ecstatic. Still sitting, he quivered all over, uttering whimpers of delight.

‘All right, lad.’ Huntercombe clicked his fingers and the dog bounded to him, one wriggle of joy as he danced about his master’s boots.

‘He’s awfully well trained, sir,’ Harry said. ‘He stayed sitting the whole time.’

Huntercombe’s smile, even directed at Harry, left Emma breathless. ‘Thank you, Harry. He’s a good fellow. Looking forward to his run in the park now.’

Harry’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? We’re going to the park. We always do after coming here. Don’t we, Georgie?’

Georgie backed him up at once. ‘Yes. We do. And we like dogs. Especially dogs in the park.’

‘Oh. Well.’ While not looking offended by this very unsubtle hint, Huntercombe seemed somewhat taken aback.

‘Would you like to come with us, sir?’ Harry asked, as though inviting a marquess for a walk in the park was the sort of thing one did.

Emma plastered a placating smile on her face. ‘Harry, I’m sure his lordship has—’

‘That’s very kind of you, Harry,’ Huntercombe said.

At least he’s letting him down gently.

Huntercombe continued. ‘Fergus is definitely looking forward to his run and I’m sure he would enjoy it more if he had some young legs to run with him. Ma’am, if you permit?’

Shock held Emma silent long enough to see Harry’s shining eyes. Both children loved dogs, as she did. Yet having one was simply impossible—a dog needed more meat than she could afford.

‘May we, Mama?’

Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘Please, Mama?’

Oh, devil take it! What harm could there be walking through the park with an acquaintance of her father’s for goodness sake? A few more smears on her reputation were neither here nor there. And she knew Huntercombe’s reputation. He was a gentleman and married to boot. He could view her as nothing more than an acquaintance’s impoverished daughter.

She glanced up to see the man across the street walking away east along Piccadilly. Probably he had been put off by Huntercombe’s presence. Her tension eased.

‘Thank you, sir. Your company will be most welcome.’

For a short while she would enjoy the company of someone from her own world who viewed her as neither an embarrassing acquaintance, nor a potentially convenient widow. What possible harm could it do?

* * *

By the time they reached the park Hunt had concluded that Lady Emma Lacy was a conundrum. He discovered that she read the newspapers and was well informed, but unlike most ladies she was uninterested in the doings of society. She deftly kept the conversation general, avoiding anything that verged on the personal. In short, she held him at bay.

The moment they left the more populated areas of the park he took a well-chewed old cricket ball from his pocket—something his valet and tailor shuddered over—and hurled it. Fergus, ever reliable, had hurtled after it and brought it back to drop at his feet. Seeing Harry’s delighted face, Hunt at once suggested that he and his sister might share the task. Harry having promptly handed Hunt the box of books, the children raced off, the dog leaping about them.

‘How far do you wish to go before turning back?’ he asked eventually. Fergus would run all day given the chance.

She frowned. ‘Turn back?’

‘Home.’ He gestured back towards Mayfair.

‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘I live in Chelsea. We walked in.’

He wasn’t sure why that brought colour to her cheeks. Quite a number of well-to-do people lived in Chelsea. Far better for the children than living right in town. ‘Are you near the river?’

‘Not particularly. But nowhere in Chelsea is very far from the river.’ Her gaze followed the children and dog. ‘Thank you, sir. They are enjoying themselves very much.’

‘Every boy should have a dog,’ he said.

Her brows lifted. ‘I can assure you that Georgie would object heartily to the limitations of that statement. She would love to have a dog.’

He watched as Fergus, tongue hanging out, tail spinning, dropped the ball at the child’s feet. Georgie picked up the by now probably revolting ball between finger and thumb, managing to throw it about ten feet.

‘But you don’t have one?’

‘No.’ Her gaze followed Fergus’s pounce on the ball.

‘Why ever not?’ He could have bitten his tongue out as her mouth flattened and the colour rose in her cheeks again.

‘Because, my lord, I cannot afford to feed a dog.’

‘Cannot—?’ He broke off and several things registered properly. She was neatly dressed, but not in anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Furthermore, now he looked properly, beyond those tired blue eyes, he noticed that her pelisse was worn and rubbed, her hat a very plain straw chip trimmed with a simple black ribbon. And Harry had said something about Georgie being sick and the medicine costing too much for them to buy a kite as well.

‘We must start for home,’ she said. ‘I’d better call the children.’

‘May I escort you?’ Why the devil had he asked that? Of course it was the polite thing to do, but she had clearly consented to his accompanying them for the children’s sake. And wasn’t that his motivation? Admittedly, he liked the children. Excellent manners, but not so regimented they couldn’t engage in a good squabble. And he liked that they were so deeply smitten with a dog.

Her chin came up and she stiffened. ‘There is no need, sir. It was very kind of you to bring Fergus this far for them.’

He raised his brows. ‘Who said I came this far just so the children could enjoy Fergus?’ Hadn’t he?

‘If you are suggesting, sir—’

‘That I enjoyed your company? I did. And I should very much like—’

‘No.’

He blinked. ‘No?’

Her mouth, that lovely soft mouth, flattened. ‘No, as in “no, thank you, I am not interested”.’

Not interested? Not interested in what, precisely? What on earth had set up her bristles?

‘Harry! Georgie!’ She stepped away, beckoning to the children.

‘Mama!’

Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Permit me—’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth—a skill his mother had deplored and his sisters still did—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

Fergus, the ball in his mouth, bounded back, the children racing behind. Hunt made a grab for the dog, but Fergus danced out of reach, grinning around the ball. Hunt laughed. Fergus knew perfectly well it was time for home, but Hunt played his silly game for a moment while the children shrieked encouragement to the dog. At last, slightly out of breath, Hunt said firmly, ‘Sit.’ Fergus sat at once, the expression on his face saying very clearly cheat. He spat the ball out at Hunt’s feet.

‘Good boy.’ He bent to pick up the now completely revolting ball between thumb and forefinger.

‘Are you putting it in your pocket?’ Georgie demanded. ‘Like that? Eeeww!’ She fished in the little embroidered pocket hanging from her waist and brought out a handkerchief. ‘Here.’ She held it out. ‘You can wrap it in that, sir.’

‘That’s very kind, Georgie,’ he said gravely, not meeting Lady Emma’s eyes. ‘But your mama will not wish you to lose your handkerchief.’

Georgie’s expression took on an air of wholly spurious innocence. ‘You could bring it back if you walked Fergus to Chelsea. We live on Symons Street, in the row behind the stone yard.’

If not for the frozen expression on Lady Emma’s face, he might have laughed.

‘Georgie.’ Lady Emma’s voice was very firm. ‘His lordship does not have the time to walk all the way to Chelsea. You have other handkerchiefs.’

Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir. I do have lots of hankies.’ But her gaze lingered on the dog.

‘One should never contradict a lady, of course.’ Hunt accepted the handkerchief, wrapped the ball carefully and dropped it in his pocket. ‘But I can always find time to walk Fergus and he very much enjoys Chelsea Common.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day, ladies.’ He held out his hand. ‘Harry.’

Beaming, Harry shook hands. ‘It was very nice to meet you, sir.’

Yes, excellent manners. He smiled. ‘Au revoir.’

He turned and left them, Fergus trotting beside him.

Georgie’s clear voice followed them. ‘He said au revoir, Mama. That means until we see each other again! He’s going to come!’

Well, at least someone would be pleased to see him. But he still couldn’t think what the devil he had said to make Lady Emma poker up like that.

No, as in, No, thank you, I am not interested.

And he was damned if he could think why that annoyed him. It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to see her again, had he? Just return the child’s handkerchief, because she’d been so delightfully open about her desire to see Fergus again. That was all.

* * *

Hunt was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street when it dawned that a gentleman strolling with an impoverished widow might have less altruistic intentions than walking a dog and indulging two children...

‘Bloody hell, Fergus,’ he said. ‘She thought I was trolling for a mistress!’

Fergus looked up, interested. Hunt shook his head. At the very least he was going to clear up that misunderstanding, but—

A carriage halted beside him.

He recognised the carriage, horses and coachman even before Letty put her head out of the window. ‘Giles! How very convenient. If you stop in now I have that list.’

This list would be much more appropriate. Women of some maturity and dignity who would understand the advantages and convenience of a second marriage. But the thought of perusing that list under Letty’s gimlet gaze and no doubt being expected to indicate a preference...

‘Thank you, Letty. But I have Fergus with me. Perhaps you might send it around?’

That would buy time to consider the possibilities in private.

Letty gave Fergus a disapproving stare. ‘I cannot think why you have a dog in town at all. Or, if you must, why a servant can’t take it for an airing.’

‘Well, you see, Letty,’ Hunt said cheerfully, ‘since he is my dog, I like to walk him. So, send your—’

Letty snorted. ‘One can only hope that a wife will curb some of your bachelor habits. I dare say I can put up with the wretched animal in my drawing room. It appears well behaved enough. I shall see you in a few minutes.’ She rapped with her cane on the ceiling. ‘Drive on, Bagsby!’

Hunt stared after the carriage as it lumbered away from the curb. He glanced down at the dog. ‘Much help you were! Couldn’t you have misbehaved for once?’

Fergus just grinned up at him. Hunt snorted. ‘It would serve you right if I did let a wife change some of my bachelor habits.’

* * *

Hunt, fortified with his brother-in-law’s brandy, rose as Letty sailed into her drawing room a short time later. She gave Fergus, lying quietly by the hearth, a disapproving look, but said nothing. Hunt suspected that not a single woman on this new list would care for dogs in the house. Idly he wondered if Lady Emma minded dogs in the house.

Letty took the chair opposite him and arranged her skirts very precisely. ‘Caro and I have given a great deal of thought to this.’ She frowned. ‘The last thing you want in a wife is any breath of scandal. I am sad to say that there is often far more than a breath about many widows.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure you won’t consider—?’

‘No virgins,’ he said. He cleared his throat as Letty’s brows shot up. ‘Your list?’

Letty scowled. ‘It isn’t a list, as such. Merely a suggestion.’

‘A suggestion?’ He stared at her. ‘Just one? Do you mean that in the length and breadth of Britain you can only suggest one possible candidate? Who?’

Letty preened a little. ‘My goddaughter—Amelia Trumble.’

Hunt stared. ‘Amelia? She must be well over thirty, surely!’

Letty bristled. ‘Twenty-seven. And she is a very good sort of woman,’ she said. ‘You could hardly do better, especially since you already know her.’

Hunt didn’t see that as an advantage. Amelia Trumble was about the most boring female of his acquaintance. Her late husband, eldest son of Baron Trumble, had been equally dull. How a young woman of twenty-seven contrived to make herself look and act forty, he wasn’t sure, but...

‘Dear Amelia is the very pattern of Respectability and Good Sense,’ Letty pronounced.

He knew that. And Respectability and Good Sense were all very admirable. But did they have to be allied with Dullness?

‘She would make you a most dutiful wife, Giles. She has every qualification—including an annuity that remains with her and would do for pin money. Nor will you be bothered with her son. As Trumble’s heir he will remain in the custody of his grandfather.’

Hunt frowned. ‘She would leave the child with Trumble?’ He was surprised that it bothered him. Most men would be delighted not to have the evidence of a woman’s previous marriage underfoot, but—he saw a woman wearing a neat grey gown, her daughter snuggled in her lap... He shoved the memory away.