His Convenient Marchioness

But what about Hunt? Would she be a comfortable wife for him?

A little voice crept into his head... What would you have done if Anne’s father had ordered her to marry someone else all those years ago? What, more to the point, would Anne have done?

Peter Lacy had not been a bad match. Except for the fact that Dersingham and Keswick hated each other. Some quarrel decades ago and neither could let it go.

Emma’s voice dragged him back to the present. ‘I have shocked you, sir, but I thought it better that you knew the truth.’

Hunt took a deep breath. Headstrong, managing and distressingly independent she might be, but Emma’s honesty was bone-deep. She had told him in the full expectation that he would walk away without a backward glance. She would not even blame him. ‘Do you mind dogs in the house?’ he asked.

She blinked. ‘No, but what does that—’

‘Excellent.’ There was really nothing to say about her scandalous marriage. It was not his place to approve or disapprove. After all, it was in the past and if it meant she did not wish to give her heart again...well, he wasn’t offering his own heart. Just his hand in marriage.

Now she was staring, those deep blue eyes slightly suspicious. ‘I just told you I’m a walking scandal and you’re worried about dogs in the house?’

He ought to be scandalised at what she’d done. Such behaviour argued that she was ungovernable. He knew that. And, yes, it would definitely cause a stir if he married her. But somehow that didn’t worry him. Emma Lacy was the sort who stuck to her word. She hadn’t tried to sugar-coat what she’d done, let alone hide it. She’d thrown it in his face before he could commit himself in any way. And if she had married Gus Bolt she’d still be married to him and he’d be dodging Amelia Trumble. Or worse.

‘Were you happy with Lacy?’ he asked at last and caught his breath.

A tender smile softened the stubborn set of her mouth.

‘Oh, yes. Although what that has to say to—’

‘Good.’ He possessed himself of her hand and tucked it safely into the crook of his elbow as they started walking again. It felt right there. Completely right. This felt right. Logical. As long as he didn’t imagine her one day smiling that way at the thought of him. ‘I don’t think you would have enjoyed marriage to Gus. God knows I wouldn’t.’ Her jaw dropped. Now he thought about it, it would be as bad as being married to Amelia. ‘The man’s a dead bore,’ he went on. ‘You’ll need time to consider, but while you do so you may as well know exactly what I am—what I would be—offering.’

* * *

She hadn’t said no outright. Hunt told himself that as he walked them home in the lengthening shadows. A light drizzle had started, nothing very much, but no one wanted the children to take a chill.

She hadn’t said no. Instead she had listened to his suggested settlement for herself and the children, and agreed to what he asked; that he be allowed to call on her while they considered. Walk with them, get to know her and the children. She had very firmly stipulated no gifts of any sort, whatsoever. Reluctantly she had agreed that he might buy the children a few sweets. He understood that; she did not wish to build hope in the children, only to crush it if either of them did not, in the end, want the marriage. He suspected that she fully expected him to step back.

So he escorted them home and hoped. This could work. There was no reason it would not. He was attracted to her; more, he liked her. He liked the children. She was of his world, familiar with it, if temporarily out of place. She had not leapt at the chance of marriage. Even now she employed no arts to attract. If anything she was rather quiet, as if thinking. And yet the silence between them was not awkward. It was...companionable, that was the word. They had said what needed to be said for now, so they could just enjoy each other’s company. At least he hoped she was enjoying his company. Perhaps she thought he was boring, like Gus Bolt.

As they reached her front door, she looked up at him, her expression serious. ‘Thank you for understanding that I need to think about this.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It is a huge step, marriage.’ It was a good thing that she would take the time to think about it logically and rationally. As he had done.

She smiled. ‘Most men would think that they were the only ones who need to do any thinking about it. That a woman, especially in my situation, should simply say thank you very much—yes, please.’

‘Is that what Gus Bolt thought?’

She flushed. ‘I suppose he might have. My father told me that Sir Augustus had offered and he had accepted. That it was all settled. Sir Augustus was presented to me as my betrothed. I doubt either of them expected me to say anything about it at all. As far as my father was concerned it was none of my business.’ She bit her lip. ‘When I protested my father said I was being missish. That the marriage would work well enough if I just did as I was bid.’

Would Anne’s father have insisted on the marriage even if Anne had been repulsed? It didn’t bear thinking about. And here he was, perilously close to pushing Emma into marriage just because he could see no reason against it. She knew next to nothing about him. For all she knew he could be the sort of bastard who beat his wife. She had no one to protect her and ensure that the marriage settlement was equitable, or that her children would be protected. Women took a far greater risk in marriage than men.

Predictably, the children were lagging behind. They came up, faces a little downcast. Georgie took his hand and tugged on it. ‘Will you come again, sir?’

He smiled, his fingers closing on the little hand. That felt right, too. ‘Oh, yes. Your mother has said that I may. The day after tomorrow? If the weather is bad we could have an indoor picnic.’ Tomorrow he would see his solicitor and have the most careful and decent marriage settlement drawn up that he could devise. If he pretended that he was overseeing a marriage settlement for Marianne...he bit his lip. Or Georgie. Would he one day negotiate a match for Georgie?

‘An indoor picnic?’ Georgie giggled. ‘How do you do that?’

The question pushed back the abyss. ‘You spread a picnic rug on the floor and sit on that, and you eat picnic food,’ he said. Surely if he sent a message to the kitchen for food suitable to an indoor picnic his cook would rise to the occasion?

‘What sort of food do you have for an indoor picnic, Mama?’ Harry demanded.

Emma opened her mouth and shut it again, clearly uncertain.

‘That,’ Hunt said, ‘is a secret. You’ll have to wait and see.’ Along with himself.

‘But Mama has to know,’ Harry argued. ‘Because she’ll have to cook it with Bessie.’

Hunt shook his head. ‘Not when I’ve invited you to a picnic. That means I bring the picnic, you provide the games and entertainment.’

Georgie brightened. ‘Backgammon. Mama’s teaching me. And Harry can play chess.’

‘And what does Mama do?’ Emma’s voice was very dry, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

‘You keep us all in order,’ Hunt informed her. ‘I have no doubt that you’re very good at it.’

She sighed. ‘Wonderful.’ Laughter danced in her eyes, luring him. ‘A managing female.’ She slipped a hand into her worn pelisse and drew out the house key. Hunt took it from her gently. There was little enough he could do for her until she agreed to marry him, but he could do this. He could show her that the Marquess of Huntercombe would be a courteous, kindly husband.

‘I’ll do that.’ And wondered if he had overstepped the mark. But she smiled, a little wistfully he thought, as he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. A courtesy and a minor one at that. But he liked the thought of doing things for her.

Emma made the children say their goodbyes as soon as they were inside. ‘Off to the kitchen, both of you. Hang your damp things by the fire and tell Bessie I said you could have some hot milk.’

‘And cake?’ Harry wheedled.

‘A small piece,’ Emma allowed, as she pulled off her gloves. ‘Say goodbye to Lord Huntercombe.’

Georgie knelt down, hugged Fergus and shrieked with laughter as he licked her face. She jumped up, gave Hunt a ravishing smile. ‘You don’t need my hankie, do you, sir?’

Laughter welled up at the child’s certainty. He shook his head. ‘Not this time, Georgie. Enjoy your cake.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Harry held out his hand and Hunt shook it.

He watched the children as they rushed down the short hallway, waving at the door into the kitchen. It banged behind them.

That left Emma. He took a deep breath as he pulled off his own gloves. There was only one way to say farewell to a woman you had sort of asked to marry you...he caught her hands and his breath jerked at that first touch of his bare hands on hers. He felt the warmth of her skin, the slight roughness of her hands that told him she did indeed do some of the housework. Those deep eyes, drowning blue, widened as he drew her closer. ‘You permit?’ He wanted to kiss her. Every fibre in his body urged him to do just that. But she was not a woman who either gave herself, or could be taken lightly.

For a moment she looked utterly confused. ‘Permit? Oh!’ A flush crept over her cheeks. He thought her fingers trembled a little, or perhaps his did. Whichever it was, his heart was suddenly pounding. Yes, he was definitely attracted to her. Rather more than that if he were to be honest about it. He wanted her and every instinct clamoured for him to take her in his arms and show her that.

But this was supposed to be a polite, decorous courtship. A chaste kiss would be more the thing.

‘I think... I think I may have forgotten...’

Heat shot through him at the soft confession. ‘I haven’t,’ he assured her. Releasing her hands, he took her in his arms and drew her closer until their bodies touched and his blood hammered in a rhythm he had thought lost. It was not as though he had been a monk these past few years, but this was different. And not merely because he was thinking of marriage. It was just...different. She felt right in his arms, soft breasts against him, her eyes dark in her flushed face. She smelled of soap, just soap, rain-damp wool, and warm, sweet Emma.

‘My lord—’

‘Hunt.’ He put his hand under her chin. Lord, she was soft. Peach soft, silk soft. ‘My friends call me Hunt. Will you be my friend for now, Emma?’ He stroked the delicate line of her throat, knew the leap and quiver of her pulse under his fingers. And wanted. Burned. A chaste kiss.

‘Yes.’ It was no more than a whisper, yet he heard it in every corner of his being as he lowered his mouth to hers and feathered the lightest, briefest kiss over her lips. It nearly broke his control, because her lips flowered under his, opening on the sweetest, softest sigh, inviting him in. Everything in him leapt to meet her response and he took the kiss deeper, tasting the warmth and shy welcome of her mouth. She met him, took the rhythm from him and their tongues matched, danced. Her body moulded to his, supple and pliant under his hands. He found the curve of her bottom, pressed to bring her more fully against his aching shaft and heard the soft gasp of shock.

A kiss. Just a kiss. This was more than just a kiss.

And he was going to want more than just sex... Damn.

Somehow he broke the kiss, released her and stepped back, his body taut with protest. Just a kiss. He would not give her the least reason to think he subscribed to society’s usual attitude to widows with a shady past. Even if his body had no discretion, he didn’t have to give it free rein. Not until he had her to wife. And even then, this was to be a marriage of convenience. The sort where a gentleman visited his wife’s bed, then retired to his own.

‘Au revoir, ma’am.’ He raised his hat, put his gloves back on and left. Before he could change his mind. The door safely closed behind him, Hunt used the short walk back to the inn where he had left his carriage to remind himself exactly what a marriage of convenience entailed. An alliance of mutual benefit. A contract, an arrangement that would not require any changes to the routine of his life. Except for regular sex. As enjoyable as he could make it for both of them. But not passion. They would be friends with an affectionate regard for one another. Not lovers in any more than the physical sense of the word.

* * *

Emma only permitted herself to think about Hunt’s not-quite offer after she had kissed Harry goodnight. She went back down to the parlour and tried to consider it dispassionately.

There were no logical arguments against. Not if he could accept her past.

Hunt was offering a future for the children. Without even waiting to be asked he had said that he would dower Georgie as if she were his own daughter and named a sum that had nearly made Emma’s jaw drop. Harry could have a good tutor, go to school, university and be trained for a profession. There would be money settled on him as if he were Hunt’s younger son. Money would be settled on her to provide for her in the event of Hunt’s death.

I’m not precisely a spring chicken. She smiled at the memory of his wry voice. How old was he? She was no spring chicken herself.

He offered passage back into the world from which she had been exiled. She had never regretted the exile for herself, only the difficulties of providing for the children. But now she had a way back and a future for her children. All she had to do was marry him without love on either side. Instead she would have respect, some affection and kindness. And the title of Marchioness of Huntercombe.

She liked him. He was a good man, honourable to the core. She had enjoyed his company both the other day and today. But she had loved Peter. Passionately. If she married Hunt she would be marrying for advantage. Though she could not pretend it would only be for the children’s sake. She wouldn’t insult Hunt by wearing pretty clothes again and accepting jewels from him, while pretending they were sack cloth and ashes she wore for the sake of Harry and Georgie. Nor could she pretend that she would not enjoy sharing her bed with a man again.

No. Not just any man—Hunt. Her breath caught. She wanted him. Her whole body hummed at the memory of that kiss. Hours later and the shock of awareness lingered, with the faint enticing odour of sandalwood soap, damp wool and warm male. She could still feel the fierce strength of his arms as he held her and her breath hitched at the remembered taste of his kiss, hot and male, as her mouth had trembled into that swift, shocking response. Heat crept over her cheeks at the memory of his erection pressed against her belly. Had her response shocked him? Would he think her a wanton or, even worse, desperate to have responded so fast? So freely? He had called her ma’am afterwards and left immediately, but—she was being foolish. He was the one who had initiated the kiss. If he didn’t want a response then he should have delivered a chaste peck to the cheek. He was the one who had pulled her against him.

But she had wanted him, still wanted him, and it bothered her. Other men had made advances to her in the last few years. None of them had interested her and not just because they had offered nothing more than an affair. She hadn’t even been attracted, let alone tempted. If Hunt had wanted an affair, well, she hoped she would have refused, but she could admit to herself that without the children to consider it would be tempting.

He had asked her to be his friend, but with very little encouragement, or perhaps none at all, she could do very much more than simply like him. There was something about the quiet confidence, the dignity that was far more than his rank—that was simply him. And he was kind. Not in a patronising sort of way; that could annoy. His kindness was bone-deep. And, she smiled, there was something very appealing about a man so obviously fond of his dog. He had been open with her, honest. She would be a fool to refuse...if, in the end, he offered for her. Because he had not offered marriage as yet. He had asked to court her, to have a chance for them to become acquainted.

And there was the other thing that bothered her; she already knew her answer. Just as she had with Peter almost from the first moment of meeting him at that house party so long ago. They had ridden out in a large group, but somehow it had been as if no one else existed from that moment. And she had known, just as she knew now. Although it was a little different. With Peter she had known that she was falling in love; with Hunt she simply knew that she wanted to marry him, that she could be happy with him.

She who, according to her parents, had flung her life away for love was now prepared to marry for convenience.

For safety. For her children’s future.

Only there had been that kiss... Something inside her fluttered, something she had thought if not dead, then asleep.

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