To Marry a Marquess (7 page)

"William needs a man," Sarah said in exasperation as she opened her white linen napkin and waited for Phoebe to join them. "But I declare, not any man will do. He needs a man who would make a good father. Every time I turn around that rapscallion is in some type of trouble. In the country, it was all Aunt and I could do to keep him civil. I shudder to think about visiting there again with him."

Victoria recognized the concern in her cousin's eyes and felt the same herself. "What about this duke? You must have more information than his looks. Will he cast William out of the house to some school up north, far away from Phoebe?"

"Oh, no. He is nothing like that. His Grace is fifty-years-old, and his wife died years ago. He has three sons. I met Anthony who's sixteen, and now away at school. I suspect the older two are just as handsome. Then there is the Dowager Duchess, the grandmother. Quite a nice lady, but you know, Victoria, I felt as though she could see straight through me, noting every one of my flaws, inside and out."

Victoria blinked. Hopefully, her cousin was wrong.

"But there is also the duke's granddaughter."

"Granddaughter? Truly? How old is she?"

"I will tell you how old, young lady." Phoebe stepped through the doors and took her seat at the head of the table. "The girl is four, and the child of the duke's eldest. The mother was killed in a tragic accident, leaving a grieving husband behind. Her carriage slipped off a cliff."

The oxtail soup was served, and after a moment, Phoebe looked up. "They say he hardly smiles anymore."

"Who?" Sarah asked. "The duke?"

Phoebe shook her head. "No, his eldest son. Talk has it he resembles something of a pirate."

Victoria choked, grabbing a glass of red wine to wash down her food. Pirate, indeed.

She took another gulp of wine, recalling the only two pirates she had ever known, the mischievous one upstairs and the menacing one back at that inn.

She flashed a tremulous grin in her aunt's direction. "A p-pirate? How utterly ridiculous." But as she spoke, she knew ridiculous was too tame a word. It was horrid.

Phoebe frowned at Victoria's reaction. "I had no cause to upset you. How careless of me to mention the mother's accident."

Victoria's parents had died in a carriage accident, but that had not been what upset her. She regained her composure and waved her hand in the air. "No. The soup. Went down the wrong way."

Victoria caught Sarah's curious gaze. Her cousin would have to wait for answers because when the footman pulled the top off the platter of chicken, a green blob jumped into the air and struck the table with a thump. The footman leapt back in surprise and dumped the entire dish on top of Phoebe's head, tray and all.

Phoebe shot straight out of her chair and screamed.

The footman stammered an apology. "So very s-s-sorry, my lady. 'Tis only me working today, and well, I ain't been checking all the platters since ..."

He wanted to say since the mischievous William returned home, Victoria thought with a smile, but the poor man's face turned three shades of red as he fought for a plausible explanation, helplessly dabbing at Phoebe's ruined gown.

Victoria and Sarah sat covering their mouths with their hands, watching a huge frog hop down the lace tablecloth, teeter on the edge, then jump to the floor with a ferocious croak.

Phoebe pushed the footman out of her way while she wiped a chicken leg off her gown. "WILLIAM!"

A flash of white zoomed by the doors of the dining room.

Victoria exchanged amused glances with Sarah. Phoebe pounded up the stairs, her voice echoing off the walls.

"William! Do not think for one single minute that I did not see you down here, young man!"

When Victoria slipped into bed that night, her mind whirled with thoughts of that pirate. He could not be the son of a duke. It was just not possible. She plumped her pillows into a soft mound, slamming her fists into the sides.

She recalled the night she met Lord Nightham at the ball given by the dowager duchess. Could there have been a closer connection between Nightham and the duke? If so, then it seemed plausible that Nightham knew the duke's son—the pirate.

Her stomach stirred with uneasiness as she pushed her feet further toward the foot of the bed. What if her pirate was indeed the duke's son?

She flinched when something brushed across her feet. At the sound of a squeak, her eyes snapped open in horror. In the light of the moon, a white mouse scurried from beneath her covers, racing across the floor. She jumped from her bed and onto her vanity chair just as the hideous beast scampered back in her direction.

"William!"

Her door instantly swung open, and a small shadow hovered in the hallway.

"What be all the shouting about, landlubber?" William's bare feet hit the floor in a string of happy thuds. "Oh," he said innocently, followed by a mischievous chuckle as he glanced up at her. "I see you have met me second in command, Cap'n Whitie."

The boy hurried over to scoop the mouse into his hands. Then he turned to leave, but not before he sent her a devilish smile and a six-year-old's piece of advice. "Ye should know, pirates do not like being slobbered on," referring to her kiss in his bedchambers. "I should like it above all things if you do your kissing with your prince."

Prince, indeed!

Victoria watched in awe as the door closed behind him. Grimacing, she crawled off her chair and carefully tiptoed to her bed, palming the covers, feeling every crinkle and curve for anything that could be lurking about. She felt things that were not even there.

Climbing back into bed, she cringed, not certain which pirate was worse, the big one or the little one. Nonetheless, what she did know about pirates vexed her to no end. They were odious creatures, every last one of them.

That same evening, in the library of Percy Hall, the country home of his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Glenshire, Drake took a seat in the bottle-green wing chair beside the hearth. Surrounding him, rich wood wainscoting met with thick crimson carpets, giving the room a warmth much like the duchess herself.

Drake thought of his grandmother fondly as he lifted a crystal decanter off the mahogany end table and splashed some Madeira into his glass. She was a woman of
good
taste and unconventional means. He could not thank her enough for showering Margueretta with love and giving his little girl a home, a place where Drake felt at home as well.

A kind, gentle woman, the dowager never approved of his gallivanting about Town with the ladies, taking him away from his daughter for weeks at a time, and doing who knows what else. Gambling, fencing, boxing, you name it, he did it. But she had always loved him, the only woman besides his mother and daughter who ever had.

Crossing one well-polished boot over the other, Drake swirled his drink and took a sip, reflecting upon the recent turn of events that had turned his life upside down. He could not forget that mahogany-haired goddess from the inn and wondered if he ever would.

He tilted his head toward the fireplace, blinking against the reddish-orange flames dancing before him, flames that reminded him of both her hair and her temperament. He pulled out his watch, then slipped the timepiece back into his pocket.

A heaviness centered in his chest when he thought about Nightham. The funeral had been brief with a small piece in the paper. Nothing had been said about the woman. Only that the earl had died from a footpad's knife. There had been rumors, but nothing that amounted to anything. And it grated on Drake's nerves to have the bounder responsible for Nightham's death still about.

Drake had paid well to ensure his friend's privacy and to avoid a scandal that would affect Nightham's mother. He also had spent a good deal of time and money discreetly searching for Lady Victoria with no luck. The female seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, or at least from London.

He could only guess that Nightham had met her in Town. At a ball perhaps? A soiree? Through mutual friends?

Sighing, he placed his glass down and rubbed the back of his neck. The strain from the search for the woman and the death of his friend had begun to take a toll on him. Despite the fact that the woman had eluded him, he would never give up.

Confound it. He had made a promise. Yet in the back of his mind he knew there was another reason for seeking her out, but he refused to search that part of his heart. Never again.

"Papa! Papa!"

Drake smiled as Margueretta rushed through the doors and into the library.

"Papa, you thaid, you would give me a horthy ride."

"Did I now?" He nuzzled her neck, taking in the sweet scent of rosewater that lingered on her skin. "Last time I saw you, the horsy ride was very short if I remember correctly."

"You had to help a friend."

Drake thought about Nightham and grimaced. "Did you receive the gift I left for you in your bedchambers?"

"Yeth, Papa. Thank you." Her small white hand pulled out a tiny locket that hung around her neck. "It tickth, Papa. Lithen. Tick. Tick. Tick. I will keep it forever and ever and ever." She threw her hands around his neck in a tight squeeze. "Will you find that thpecial clock, will you, Papa?"

"It's being made in a place very far away, poppet."

"And will thith," she pulled at the locket timepiece, "be part of your thpecial thingth too." Her dark gaze looked hopeful.

Drake gently tapped her nose. "Yes, but you will have to guard it very, very closely for me. Can you do that?"

Her eyes lit up with pride. "Oh, I will, Papa. I will. I promith, I will hold it forever and ever."

Drake's heart skipped a beat every time he looked at his child. "How would you like a ride to London on Papa's back?"

Margueretta let out a gleeful gasp and clapped her hands. "Yeth. Yeth. To London, to London, my horthy."

Smiling, Drake pulled off his jacket, tugged at his neckcloth, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, rolling up his shirtsleeves. "Ready, my lady?"

Margueretta giggled. "Ready, Lord Horthy."

Drake hunched down on all fours while laughing

Margueretta jumped onto his back, holding onto his mane of black hair.

"Whoa," she yelled, her little bottom bouncing up and down in the air. "Whoa," she giggled again.

"Almost there." Drake trotted toward the open doors to the hall. "Grab tight, my lady."

"Now, what have we here?" a male voice sounded in the hall, sending Drake's four hooves grinding to a halt.

Drake groaned, focusing his eyes on two sets of Hessian boots reflecting back up at him. His gaze followed tan breeches clinging to two pairs of muscular legs. The devil. His brother James and his friend Foxcroft had come to call.

"Papa'th giving me a ride," Margueretta squealed.

Twenty-two-year-old James laughed as he bent down to give Margueretta a kiss. "Papa's giving you riding lessons for the circus?" He paused to stare at Drake. "And neigh to you horsy."

Drake glared at his brother. No doubt, the two men were here about Nightham, and from the looks on their faces they weren't leaving until they had some answers.

"Can I play horsy, too?" James said, patting Drake's black hair, a shade darker than his own. "See here. I can be the front of the horse." He quirked a brow toward Drake. "And you dear brother, you can be the other part of the horse. By Jove, what an idea! You ... you can be yourself!"