How to Manage a Marquess (12 page)

Oh, Lord Hellwood probably exaggerated. Likely someone had just spoken sharply to the woman's sons when they were misbehaving.

And yet, the marquess's tone, the tension that had suddenly appeared in his face, spoke of something more serious than a well-deserved reprimand.

They walked for a few strides in silence. She was dying to press him for details, but she didn't want to ask him to betray a confidence. Not that he would. He would more likely treat her to a firm set-down—and she found that prospect surprisingly distasteful.

“It's not really a secret,” he finally said. “And you should know Eleanor's history, I suppose, if she does marry your father.” He smiled a little. “I doubt you and she will have the conversation on your own.”

She held her tongue. Her trepidation was growing with each word.

“Eleanor's first marriage was not happy. I'm not certain why she wed Eaton, unless it was to escape her mother.” He sighed. “Or perhaps she truly thought she loved him. She had very little experience with men, and Eaton was accounted quite handsome.” His jaw hardened. “Like a perfect apple that, when you bite into it, turns out to be wormy, rotted to the core.”

He pressed his lips together, and she thought he'd decided against speaking further. A part of her hoped that was the case. It would be easier to continue to think Mrs. Eaton shallow and self-centered if she knew no more about her.

No, it was already too late for that.

“I should have kept her from marrying him.” The marquess's voice was low, intense, and full of self-loathing.

She stumbled, but recovered before Lord Hellwood could touch her. “How could you have prevented it? She's not your relative.”

Apparently the marquess made a habit of feeling responsible for other people—the Duke of Hart, Mrs. Eaton. . . .

She doused a sudden flicker of excitement. The marquess was officious and overbearing. She'd feel suffocated if he involved himself in her life more than he already had.

“It's true we're not related by blood, but, as I believe I've told you, our fathers were close and I was George's friend. I came to look upon Eleanor as a sister. And to be honest, I felt some responsibility for her situation. At one time, her parents had hoped we'd make a match of it. I think her mother, in particular, had set her heart on the notion.”

“Wanted her daughter to be a marchioness, did she?” As distasteful as the thought was, it was not surprising. A marquess was two ranks higher in the peerage than a viscount.

“Perhaps, but I think it was more that she thought marrying Eleanor off to me would mean she wouldn't have to take her to London for the Season or even to the local assemblies.” He shook his head. “I suspect Eleanor could have been bullied into the match, but I wanted no part of it. I was far too young to consider marriage and—”

He stopped, shook his head, and then shrugged. “So Eleanor married Eaton. Can you wonder that I feel a little guilty about that?”

Guilty? That was taking his feelings of responsibility too far. “Surely Mrs. Eaton wouldn't have wished you to marry her from pity!”

Lord Hellwood didn't argue the point. “That is what I tell myself. And I'll admit I am not so gallant as to be willing to tie myself to a woman I can feel no passion for.” He gave her an odd look that she couldn't quite interpret.

No, that wasn't true. Her body thought it understood all too well and shivered with anticipation.

Ridiculous! She must have just felt a chill. They
were
in the deep shade at the moment.

“Perhaps Mr. Eaton loved her. Have you considered that? Mrs. Eaton
is
very beautiful.”

The marquess scowled. “That dastard wouldn't have known love if it bit him on the arse.” He flushed. “Pardon my language.”

“That's quite all right. I'm not easily offended.”

The marquess nodded, though she wasn't entirely certain he heard her.

“I don't doubt Eaton lusted for Eleanor and the connections their marriage would give him, but I'm very certain he didn't love her. In any event, they did marry.” He kicked a stray stone so forcefully it bounced up the path and ricocheted off a tree trunk. “The maltreatment started before the honeymoon was over—if not before they wed.”

Anne gasped. “You
must
be mistaken. Even a woman as unfeeling as you describe Mrs. Eaton's mother to be wouldn't give her daughter into a violent man's keeping. Or if she would, then old Lord Banningly would have forbidden it.”

They came out of the woods. The sun had gone behind a cloud, stealing all the garden's colors.

“I don't think they knew. Eleanor hasn't told me much about it, but I believe, at least in the beginning, Eaton used words instead of fists, browbeating and belittling her. There were no cuts or bruises to explain. However, he was not so restrained with his sons. She found the courage to leave after he beat Stephen, the older boy.”

Anne still hoped the story wasn't as terrible as the marquess made it sound. “But children need to be disciplined.” Though the thought of a grown man hurting a child made her feel ill.

“This was more than discipline. He knocked two of Stephen's teeth out and blackened both eyes.”

“Oh! How horrible.”

“Yes. That was two or three years ago. Eleanor took the boys, sneaking away one night when Eaton was too drunk to stop her, and coming here. Her parents had died by then, which was a good thing as I wouldn't have put it past her mother to have blamed Eleanor and insisted she return to Eaton. Instead, the current viscount took them in and made certain Eaton knew he was not welcome at the Manor.”

They'd reached the house. “We'll take the back stairs, unless you'd rather go in through the drawing room?”

“No.” She had no desire to encounter any of the other guests before she had to.

The marquess led her across the garden to a wing somewhat distant from the terrace and opened a nondescript door.

“When did Mr. Eaton die?” she asked as she stepped inside.

“A few months after Eleanor left him. One would like to think he suffered a broken heart, but the truth is he got roaring drunk and someone put a knife in him during a tavern brawl. I doubt anyone mourned his passing.”

He led the way up the stairs and down a corridor.

“Here you are,” he said, stopping in front of a door. “The main staircase is farther along. Everyone will gather in the drawing room in”—he consulted his watch—“half an hour.”

Anne nodded.

“Thank you,” she said and slipped gratefully into the peace and solitude of her room.

Chapter Eight

Nate shrugged out of his coat as he eyed the connecting door. As he remembered, there was a dressing room on the other side and on the other side of that . . .

He dropped his coat on the bed and tried the latch.

Blast! It swung open.

He stared into the shadowy space. In four or five strides, he could have his hand on the other door, the one opening into the chamber that Miss Davenport now inhabited.

Was she lying on the bed, taking a few minutes' rest before going downstairs? The gathering was sure to be an ordeal for her. Perhaps she'd slipped out of her shoes, shed her dress, loosened her stays, let her glorious hair down to spread across the pillows—

He forced himself to step back and close the door.

He'd never before been so . . .
distracted
by a woman and so tempted to do something he would sincerely regret. Miss Davenport was a well-bred virgin, for God's sake! She was not available for dalliance even if he were the sort to dally, which he definitely was not.

He would lock the blasted door and take the key to Banningly when he went downstairs.

He examined every inch of the door.

Nothing.

He squinted across the dressing room—he was not about to test his willpower and actually cross it. He couldn't see anything like a lock on that door, either.

Perhaps it was covered. Or perhaps there was a bolt on Miss Davenport's side.

He closed the door firmly and unbuttoned his waistcoat. There wasn't time for a bath, but he could wash some of his travel dirt off. He dropped the waistcoat by his coat as he walked over to investigate the pitcher on the washstand. It was full. Splendid.

He started untying his cravat.

He should be disgusted by Miss Davenport, not attracted. She'd judged Eleanor without knowing her, and she'd given little, if any, thought to her father's feelings.

Well, to be fair, she likely wasn't the only one to look askance at a possible union between Davenport and Eleanor. Twenty-five years
was
a very large difference. Many people would think the baron had suddenly come face-to-face with his own mortality or, worse, that he was indulging in the fantasy of virile youth some aging men allowed themselves.

And as to Eleanor's motivations? He sighed. Yes, the
ton
would assume exactly as Miss Davenport had: that Eleanor was marrying the baron for security, calculating that having a roof over her head was worth the price of welcoming an old man into her bed.

He tossed his cravat next to his coat and waistcoat.

To be honest, he wasn't sold on the notion of a wedding himself. Eleanor and the boys had suffered enough.

No, that seemed unlikely. Look at Miss Davenport. The baron had been her sole parent for almost a decade and
her
spirit was undimmed.

He took a moment to consider Miss Davenport's spirit . . . and features and carriage and her lovely—

He jerked his shirt over his head and sent it sailing through the air to join his other garments.

And Eleanor was not like other women. Living with Eaton had aged her, of course, but even before that disastrous union—hell, even back when she was a child—she'd been mature beyond her years. And while it was true Eleanor hadn't had friends, she also had never seemed to want them. She'd always gravitated to the adults, as if she found the other children's games silly.

Perhaps it was a good thing he'd taken George's place at this party. He'd observe the situation closely. If Davenport was just looking for a broodmare and didn't value Eleanor for herself, he'd try to warn her off. Eleanor valued his judgment. She would listen to him.

However, if Davenport appeared to be sincerely attached. . .

His eyes drifted toward the dressing room door. If Davenport and Eleanor needed time to cement their relationship, he might be able to help matters along by keeping Miss Davenport occupied.

The thought was far too appealing. He should—

No. He was tired of constantly worrying about what he should or shouldn't do. For this handful of days, he would put aside his worries.

He picked up the pitcher, poured its contents into the basin, and washed his face and chest. He was just reaching for a towel when he heard the door to the corridor open and close behind him.

“Eeek!”
The feminine squeak was quickly muffled.

Oh, blast, what was this?

He kept his back to the door as he considered the matter. Surely it wasn't a woman hoping to have a little extramarital bed play? This being a mostly family party, he'd thought he'd be spared such foolishness.

He dried his face as he ran through the list of female guests. None struck him as at all licentious. However, appearances were sometimes deceiving. More than one man had told him in confidence that a certain countess, well past her fiftieth year and bearing a strong resemblance to a startled fish, rivaled London's most highly priced courtesans if one was lucky enough to meet her between the sheets.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean . . . I had no idea . . . I'll leave as soon as . . . I . . . I . . . ohh.”

Hell. His heart—and another organ rather lower on his anatomy—jumped. That was Miss Davenport's voice.

He turned to find her with her back plastered against his door, eyes wide, looking—no, staring—at his chest.

“You're not wearing a cravat.” She swallowed visibly. “Or a shirt.”

He bowed slightly. “Pardon me. I was taking a few moments to rid myself of my dirt, not anticipating entertaining a visitor.”

Blast, it was far too arousing to have her examining his person. He cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded huskier than usual.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, madam?”

“Wh-what?” She tore her eyes away from his upper body to meet his gaze—briefly—before moving to study his neck and shoulders.

“Why are you here, Miss Davenport?” He was holding the towel in front of his waist to hide the evidence of his arousal, but if she kept studying him this way, the towel itself might rise. “Did you mistake your room?”

Perhaps she'd started off down the corridor and then realized she'd forgotten something. One door did look much like another.

“N-no.” She swallowed again. “I, ah. There was a problem. . . .”

“With your accommodations? You should see Lady Banningly about that rather than me.” She must have discovered they shared a dressing room.

But then wouldn't she have entered from that direction?

Her gaze kept slipping from his face to his chest. “That's not the problem.
Will
you put a shirt on?”

“And here I thought you were enjoying the view.” He moved to pluck a fresh shirt from his valise.

Oddly enough, he rather liked her attention. He'd never before had a woman look at him this way. The light-skirts he frequented certainly never did. They wished, as did he, to get down to . . . well, business. That's what copulation was for them—a business. And for him, too: He had a need; they provided a service. It was a commercial, not an emotional, exchange.

If only he could—

But he couldn't. If he took Miss Davenport to the comfortable bed that was so close at hand, it could not be for one day or even a few days—it would have to be forever. It would have to lead to marriage, sooner rather than later.

Too soon. He had a good ten years or so before he needed to focus on getting an heir.

“You still haven't told me why you're here,” he said, rather more sharply than he'd intended. It was frustrated desire speaking. She was back to looking at him like a child gazing at sweets.

Miss Davenport was not, however, a child, and he was not a sweets shop.

He pulled his shirt over his head and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

“Oh, yes. I'm so sorry. I, ah”—her color rose again—“I'd just left my room to go downstairs when I saw my father and Mrs. Eaton coming out a door farther down the corridor. They were . . . well, she was . . . that is, my father—” Miss Davenport emitted a short, annoyed breath. “Oh, bother. They were coming out of the same
bedroom
, Lord Haywood. My father had his hand on Mrs. Eaton's waist, and Mrs. Eaton was
giggling
.”

Eleanor had been giggling? He couldn't remember ever hearing her giggle. In recent years, she'd hardly even smiled.

“And Papa's expression was”—Miss Davenport turned an even brighter shade of red, if that was possible, and said in a strangled voice—
“doting.”

Very
encouraging. Perhaps Eleanor would finally find some happiness—and if she was happy, the boys would be, too. He'd have to see how Davenport behaved with them, of course, before coming to a firm conclusion, but the man's eagerness to go up to the nursery as soon as he'd arrived boded well.

“I didn't want them to see me and your door was right there, though of course I didn't know it was
your
door and—” She stopped and took several deep breaths. When she spoke again, her voice was a bit steadier. “And I panicked. As much as I could think at all, I suppose I hoped this room was empty or a closet or something.”

“And instead you found me.”

“Y-yes. I do apologize sincerely.”

“That's quite all right.” He slowly tucked his shirt into his pantaloons—and watched Miss Davenport's eyes follow his hands as if trying to learn the steps to a new dance.

He turned away briefly to finish his task—and adjust his inconveniently enthusiastic cock.

“What, ah, what do you think they were doing in that room, Lord Haywood?”

He stared at her. She was twenty-six. Surely she could guess what they'd been doing.

She flushed. “They could just have been, er, chatting.”

“Yes.”

Like the two of them were.

That was his cock talking.

“But you don't think that's what they were doing, do you?”

“Miss Davenport, it is usually best not to speculate about other people's intimate relationships.”

Speculating about one's own possible intimate relationships, however—

“It's still daylight, Lord Haywood. People don't do, ah,
that
during the day, do they?”

“If we are talking about what I think we are,” he said a bit abruptly, “then, yes, they do.”

“Oh.” Miss Davenport blinked at him and then looked at the bed. Her thoughts must have traveled the same path as his—with a somewhat different result.

She pressed against the door again and spoke quickly. “You must think me very naïve, Lord Haywood. I
am
naïve. I've spent most of my life in Loves Bridge, where people don't do the shocking things they do in Town.”

He took leave to doubt that. Town or country, people were people, and having sexual congress in the daylight was hardly scandalous. Even the fact that Davenport and Eleanor weren't married wouldn't raise many eyebrows, as widows were given far more latitude in such matters than spinsters.

And, furthermore, he suspected they wouldn't remain unwed much longer.

“I . . . I should go.” Miss Davenport bit her lovely lower lip. “I do apologize once more for bursting in on you like this. I assure you it won't happen again.”

He stepped over to her, putting a hand on her arm. “Calm yourself, Miss Davenport. There's no harm done.”

Now she was staring at his naked neck, and he was enveloped in the sweet scent of lemon and woman. He was close enough to kiss her.

No.

“Before you erupt into the corridor,” he said, “let's be certain it's empty.”

“Oh, yes. That's a very good idea. We don't want people to know I was here in your b-bedroom, d-do we?”

He just smiled and cracked the door open to listen. He could tell her about the dressing room they shared, but he was strangely reluctant to do so.

Likely his stupid cock was hopeful that before this visit was over, Miss Davenport would invite him to use that connection to visit her unobserved.

Which was not going to happen, even if she begged.

Which she wouldn't.

Opening the door even just an inch pushed her closer to him. He allowed himself to skim his lips over her hair before whispering, “All's quiet. I think it's safe for you to slip out.” He stepped back. “I'll see you downstairs, once I'm presentable.”

That, of course, directed her gaze back to his throat, where his shirt still lay open.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She tore her eyes away from him to peer out the door herself. Once she confirmed there was no one about, she was gone.

He eased the door closed and leaned against it, breathing out a long sigh.