How to Manage a Marquess (13 page)

* * *

Anne was seated between the marquess and the Earl of Inwood in Lord Banningly's family dining room. The arrangement could best be described as cozy. The table had not been designed to seat fourteen people comfortably.

Well, perhaps everyone else was comfortable. She was trying valiantly not to brush up against Lord Hellwood, and so was squeezing to the left side of her chair—which brought her too close to the portly earl.

“Would you care for another slice of mutton, Miss Davenport?” Lord Inwood asked, a slice of that meat already balanced precariously on a serving fork and advancing toward her.

“No, tha—”

The meat plopped onto her plate, on top of the slice that was already residing there.

“You need to eat to put some flesh on your bones, girl. No one likes a scrawny female.” He leaned across her. “Isn't that right, Haywood?”

Her fingers tightened around her knife. If the fat earl didn't move immediately, he was going to learn how it felt to—

Lord Hellwood's hand came down on hers, gently but firmly trapping her fingers.

She stared at it, and all thought of eviscerating Lord Inwood evaporated, to be replaced by explicit images of a certain marquess's naked chest and shoulders and neck.

She glanced around to see if anyone noticed her odd behavior. No. Everyone was conversing normally—including Papa.

What
had
he and Mrs. Eaton been doing in that bedchamber?

She would not think about it. Lord Hellwood was correct. Some things were best left uncontemplated.

“I wouldn't call Miss Davenport scrawny, Inwood.”

Her eyes snapped back to glare at the marquess. He had better not call her scrawny. She would—

His thumb started rubbing—well, caressing, really—the knuckle of her little finger, and her thoughts scattered.

The motion was slight, but it was making her feel very, very odd. Her feminine parts were suddenly strangely . . .
expectant
.

Good God! She snatched her hand away. “Neither of you had better call me anything other than Miss Davenport.”

Inwood chuckled. “She's a feisty one, Haywood. You'll have your hands full.”

Inwood was about to have his lap full—of mutton. Anne grasped her plate.

And felt Lord Hellwood's hand on her thigh!

“You mistake the matter, Inwood. Miss Davenport and I are merely acquaintances.”

His hand was heavy and . . . hot. Her feminine bits started . . .
throbbing
.

Lord Hellwood needed to remove his trespassing body part immediately. She eyed her knife, propped against her plate. Could she pretend to drop it—

His marauding hand departed.

Her thigh felt cold and bereft.

“Try to ignore Inwood,” the marquess murmured as he leaned close to examine a dish of prawns next to her plate. His new position gave her an excellent view of his long lashes and strong jaw with its vague hint of stubble. “He
is
Banningly's cousin, so if you take him to task, you will cause unnecessary discomfort.”

“For whom?” She could smell the soap he used.

“For everyone.” He finally selected a prawn—and then went back to study them again.

“Do leave a few for the rest of us.”

He grinned—and plucked an especially large, plump specimen from the dish. “And I believe the earl had one—or two—too many preprandial glasses of sherry, which may account, at least in part, for his behavior. May I serve you some prawns?”

“Does he make a habit of over-imbibing? And no, thank you. I have far too much food as it is.”

“Not that I'm aware of, but we don't run in the same circles.” He looked at her plate. “Have you eaten anything?”

She put a bite of mutton into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Yes.”

“Well,
that's
a relief.” His face was expressionless—except for the amused glint in his eyes.

She pointed her fork at him and hissed under her breath. “I did not appreciate Lord Inwood discussing my person. It was extremely rude.”

“Yes, but the man has fifty years in his dish. He likely thinks of you as a daughter.”

Her stomach twisted. “My father is fifty, Lord Haywood, and Mrs. Eaton is a year younger than I.”

He flushed. “That's different.”

It wasn't. He knew that as well as she did.

“And I don't appreciate
you
mentioning my, er, size either or, or even thinking about it.”

Lud! She shouldn't have added that last part. The marquess's look of embarrassment vanished in a slow, suggestive smile.

“Oh, Miss Davenport, you can't keep a man from thinking.” His voice dropped, and his eyes gleamed with mischief. “But you don't wish me to tell you what I think, so of course I shan't, except to say that when my unruly male thoughts do stray in your direction, scrawny is not one of the many adjectives that come to mind.”

Blast it all, now she was the one embarrassed—and, worse, she wanted to ask what adjectives
did
occur to him.

Fortunately, at that moment, Lord Banningly stood and knocked his knife against his wineglass to get their attention.

“Lord Haywood, Lord Davenport, Miss Davenport—Lady Banningly and I wish to welcome you to our home.”

“What about the rest of us, Banny?” called out Lord Inwood, who had
definitely
imbibed too enthusiastically.

“The rest of you—with the exception of our local vicar and his wife”—he nodded at Mr. and Mrs. Huntley—“are family and have been running tame here for years—or at least since I inherited.”

Everyone laughed—everyone but Anne.

“And because you
are
all family or”—the viscount looked at Anne's father—“almost family, we've not planned any specific activities for the week. Feel free to stroll the grounds or”—he looked at Lord Hellwood—“go off fishing at some dreadfully early hour or”—he looked at Papa again and then Mrs. Eaton—“lie abed all day.”

Everyone sniggered, Mrs. Eaton blushed—as did Papa—and the vicar—
the vicar!
—slapped Papa heartily on the back.

She made a strangled sound and looked down at her plate, hoping no one had heard her.

Someone had. Lord Hellwood's hand landed on her thigh again, but this time in a bracing way.

She reached for her wineglass, and his fingers tightened.

“Careful,” he said quietly. “You don't want the wine to go to your head. And it would. You've hardly eaten a thing.”

She didn't look at him, but she didn't pick up her glass, either. “Perhaps I wish it to go to my head.”

“Bad plan. You'll likely say something—just as Inwood did—that you'll regret later.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If I say something, I won't regret it.”

“Hmm. Well, you'll regret the pounding head you'll have in the morning. Eat something so you aren't drinking on an empty stomach.”

“Very well.” Not that her head or her stomach were any of Lord Hellwood's concern.

Her more feminine parts, however . . .

No! Of course not.

She ate a few bites of mutton—the slice she'd chosen, not the one Lord Inwood had forced on her—and some peas. Lord Hellwood, the dastard, put a few prawns on her plate as well as some stewed carrots, and she ate those, too. But she also drank her wine, and when she finished that glass, she had the footman pour her another.

Lord Hellwood didn't approve—she could tell by the way his mouth tightened—but he had the good sense not to try to stop her.

She took a healthy swallow of wine and then another. This was good. She was feeling happier, a bit detached, almost—

“Could you pass the cheese, Miss Davenport?”

That was the annoying Lord Hellwood again. She'd like to refuse, but even in her slightly fuddled state, she recognized that would be silly. She was above such things.

Way above.

She put down her glass to pass the cheese—with proper disdain—but somehow the plate jerked sideways as she handed it to the marquess, knocking over her glass.

“Oh!” He put his napkin down to stop the river of red from reaching her, but that wasn't necessary. He'd managed things so the liquid flowed harmlessly into the middle of the table. “How clumsy of me. My apologies.”

“That's quite all right, Haywood,” Lord Banningly said as the servants moved in with cloths to mop up the mess. “I believe we're done here. Let's adjourn to the drawing room”—he looked from Papa to Mrs. Eaton and waggled his brows—“where I believe we'll hear an announcement that will require champagne.”

Anne tried to catch Papa's eye, but he studiously avoided looking at her.

“Allow me to escort you, Miss Davenport.”

She blinked up at Lord Hellwood. He looked quite . . . kind.

“Everyone else has already left the dining room, Anne,” he said gently.

His use of her Christian name should have been shocking, but it was surprisingly comforting. She blinked again and looked around. He was correct. Everyone else
had
left—and they'd probably all given her a pitying look as they'd passed her.

She nodded—she was horribly afraid she'd cry if she tried to speak—and stood, stumbling slightly. His hand came up to steady her.

She held tightly to his arm as they walked to the drawing room.

Chapter Nine

Davenport and Eleanor took their place at the front of the room next to Banningly as footmen came round with trays of champagne. Nate steered Miss Davenport—Anne—toward the doors to the terrace, positioning himself to put her in shadow and, he hoped, give her a little privacy. At least she'd replaced her stricken expression with one of polite boredom, but he could still see the hurt and panic in her eyes.

Damnation! Davenport should have told her privately before telling everyone so publicly that he was going to wed Eleanor. Not that Anne would have taken it well even then—he was quite certain she'd have berated her father like a fishwife—but it was cowardly not to give her the opportunity to adjust to the news away from curious eyes.

The couple did look rather revoltingly besotted. And Anne
had
seen them coming out of a bedchamber together. The impending announcement shouldn't be a complete surprise.

Surprise or not, it was clear it wasn't something Anne welcomed.

He glanced down at her again as she took a glass of champagne. She'd already had too much to drink, given her mostly empty stomach—he'd been forced to spill her wine in the dining room to keep her from making a bad situation worse—but it would look odd if she didn't toast the news that was surely coming. She should pretend to be happy, if she could manage it.

He took his own glass as Banningly called for their attention.

The viscount wasted no time getting to the point.

“I'm sure none of you will be surprised by this news, but I still take great delight in telling you that Eleanor has accepted Lord Davenport's offer of marriage.”

“Wonderful!”

“Splendid!”

“It's about time you found some happiness, Eleanor.”

Banningly put his hand on his sister's arm at that comment. “Yes. We all know Eaton was—” He stopped, shook his head, and started again. “We all know Eleanor's first husband, may he rot in hell, was a complete blackguard. Davenport here will cherish her as she deserves and care for her and the boys properly.”

Davenport nodded, taking Eleanor's hand and raising it to his lips. “Indeed I will,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You have healed a hole in my heart, Eleanor, and have made me so very happy.”

All the women sighed at Davenport's words—except the woman standing at Nate's elbow. Anne gasped—fortunately not loudly—and stiffened.

Banningly held up his glass. “A toast: May Eleanor and Davenport have years of happiness together”—he winked—“and be fruitful and multiply.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Don't delay on the fruitful and multiply part.” That was Inwood. At least Lady Inwood was now at his side, though she showed no signs of reining him in.

Nate took a sip of champagne and watched Anne do the same. Her hand shook, and she swallowed more than she'd intended. She choked a little and then coughed.

He moved to pat her on the back, but she stepped out of his reach. He glanced back at her father.

Davenport was laughing, and he and Eleanor were both blushing. “Well, as to that,” the baron said, “and since we are among family—”

“I'll tell you that Eleanor believes she'll be presenting me with our first child in roughly eight months' time.”

The room erupted into cheers. The women rushed to hug Eleanor, the men to slap Davenport on the back and make a variety of predictably ribald comments.

Anne drained her glass and snatched another off the tray a footman had left behind.

“The room's rather stuffy, don't you think, Miss Davenport? Let's take a turn about the terrace.”

She looked at him as if he were speaking Greek, but she let him take her arm and usher her outside.

“Give me your glass, and I'll put it down on this table,” he said as they stepped onto the terrace.

“No.” She held her champagne against her chest and turned away so he'd have to wrestle with her to get it.

“Miss Davenport—Anne—if you drink the rest of that, you really will get sick.”

“I don't care.”

“You'll care in the morning.”

“No, I won't.”

Clearly, she'd already drunk enough that it was going to be impossible to reason with her. Now she was staring through the windows at her father and Eleanor and looking like she was going to scream or cry—or go back inside and slap someone.

He'd better get her even farther from the party.

He took her arm again and walked toward the stairs with her. “We didn't explore the garden earlier. It is rather nice.”

“I hate plants.” She took another swallow of her champagne. “I like champagne. The bubbles m-make me happy.” She stumbled and fell against him. “Do they m-make you happy?”

“Not as happy as they appear to make you.”

“Let's f-find the b-bottle.”

“Let's not.” They should now be out of view of the drawing room, so he could put his arm around her to steady her. He did not want her pitching headlong down the steps.

“But I want to. I need more ch-cham—” She grinned and held up her glass.

Thank God it was almost empty. He plucked it out of her fingers.

“Hey!” She reached for it—and stumbled against him again. “I want more.”

“Perhaps after we take a turn about the garden.”

Anne frowned. “But I want more
now
.”

“But I'm not going to give you more now. You've had quite enough.”

“You aren't my keeper.” Her frown deepened. “You're not my f-father or b-brother.”

“Thank God for that.” He started down the stairs. “Trust me, you will be happier for a little fresh air.”

Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout—and then she heaved a loud, gusty, alcoholic sigh. “Oh, v-very well.”

She allowed him to lead her down the stairs and along the path, farther into the garden. At least the sun was finally going down. The lengthening shadows would make it harder for anyone to see them, but it would be better to find a place where Miss Davenport could sober up in privacy. Where . . . ?

Ah, now he remembered. There was a secluded bower, a little nook of trellises and vines, just ahead. He steered her in that direction.

“Where are we g-going?”

“Somewhere you can sit and, er, catch your breath.”

“All right.” She leaned heavily into him, making it a little difficult to walk. Fortunately they didn't have much farther to go. “Are you going to”—she hiccupped (at least he hoped it was only a hiccup)—“sit with me?”

“Of course.” He certainly wasn't about to abandon a drunken woman in the vegetation, not that he was afraid someone would accost her. No, he was worried she might fall into a fountain and drown.

“Oh, good.” Her arm snaked round his waist. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely ch-chest, Lord H-Haywood?”

This time, he was the one who stumbled. “Ah, er, no, I don't believe anyone ever has.”

“Well, you do.” She put her free hand on that part of his body. “Not that I'm an expert, m-mind you.” She giggled.

“Er . . .” What was the proper response to such a statement from a drunken spinster? “Thank you.”

“You have a l-lovely stomach, too, and shoulders and arms and neck.” She sighed with apparent admiration. “I'm sure you are l-lovely all over.”

His brainless cock stirred, eager to be examined and complimented, as well.

Where the
hell
is that bower?

“Ah”—
thank God!
—“here we are then.” The place was so overgrown he'd almost missed it. The vines not only covered the trellised top and both sides, they spilled down the front. Banningly might wish to have a word with his gardener about his pruning schedule.

He pushed away one of the dangling vines and guided Anne inside. It really was private. Anne could definitely recover her wits here unobserved.

“Ohh.” Anne looked around. “It's a green cave. I like it.”

“Yes, it is nice. Now do have a seat on this bench.”

“If you'll sit with me. You d-did promise.”

He had no choice. She pulled him down as she half sat, half fell onto the stone slab.

She wrinkled her nose as soon as she righted herself. “It hurts my bottom.”

Zeus! Now all he could think of was her round, soft arse. “It
is
stone, Miss Da—what are you doing? Stop that.”

The woman was trying to crawl into his lap.

“I'm sure you're softer than this bench.”

He wasn't so certain about that. “Be that as it may, you will sit on the stone.” Hell, he didn't want to hurt her, but he was not about to have her plant her feminine hindquarters on his hard and getting harder . . . lap.

He put her firmly back on the bench.

She pouted and then pressed against him, her hands moving everywhere. It was like sitting next to an octopus—not that he had ever done that, of course. Her fingers dove under his coat and tried to unbutton his waistcoat. He captured them and put them in her lap, snatching his own fingers back before they could venture into dangerous territory.

“Behave yourself, Miss Davenport.”

His admonition fell on deaf ears. Her other hand had sneaked behind him to land on his arse.

Why hadn't Banningly put a back on this bench?

He reached round to pluck her roving hand away, but he made a serious tactical error by turning
toward
her to accomplish this goal. The moment his body twisted to face hers, she tried to wriggle onto his lap again—this time successfully—her fingers diving into his hair, combing from his temples to the back of his head.

Mmm. He felt the stroke of each finger all the way to his cock.

He definitely felt like purring and rubbing up against—

I
must
get Anne—Miss Davenport—off my lap.

His hands grasped her waist, but couldn't complete the lift-and-remove portion of the required action. Instead, they insisted on holding her right where she was.

He resorted to words. “Miss Davenport, please. Restrain yourself.”

“I don't want to.”

God save him from tipsy virgins. Her fingers had moved from his hair to his jaw and chin, her thumbs brushing over his lips, sending jolts of pleasure through him.

“Madam, you are foxed.”

“Your skin is so scratchy here”—she traced the line of his jaw—“but so soft here.” She ran the tip of her finger back and forth over his lower lip.

She pulled his lip down, dipping her finger in, moistening it so it slid more smoothly.

Oh, God. All he could think of was exploring her nether lips, slick with—

No! He
had
to get her off his lap.

Still, his hands refused to obey him. Instead, the wicked things pushed her down to meet his swelling, welcoming—

“Kiss me.” She pressed her mouth against his jaw—and then licked her way up to his ear.

Perhaps she isn't a virgin
, his cock whispered.

Miss Davenport's actions were tentative and awkward enough to proclaim her inexperience, unless she was a very, very talented actress.

“Please? Kiss me like you did in the Spinster House garden.”

She'd managed to get his cravat loose and was now pressing her lips against his neck.

“No. It's not proper.”
I sound like a bloody old spinster myself.

She leaned back, and he blinked away his lust. There was still enough light to see desire and anxiety swirling in her eyes.

And something else, something fundamental, a need that hadn't come from a champagne glass, that went deeper than sexual craving. It pulled at him—

“Please?” Her jaw hardened. “You
have
to.”

He didn't have to do anything. He was a man. He was in control. A woman's place was to subjugate herself, to yield, to welcome a man's body into hers. Not to give orders.

Anne shifted in his lap, and his cock begged him to subjugate himself to her wishes. To worship her with his hands and mouth and finally—

No, there could be no finally. If he took her virginity, he would have to give her his name.

That was his cock talking again. He couldn't marry, not yet.

The desire pounding in his veins made it difficult to think. The reason had something to do with Marcus—

Miss Davenport grabbed his face in both hands and awkwardly planted her lips on his.

* * *

Part of Anne was appalled by her boldness, but the alcohol quickly drowned her scruples, leaving a mishmash of emotion churning in her gut. She felt angry and sad, abandoned, embarrassed, frustrated, disgusted.

And something else. Something hot and needy.

She
needed
Lord Hellwood to help her forget what her father had said back in the drawing room. She needed to lose herself in the physical wonder of his touch.