His Convenient Marchioness

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 (#u9d6976ef-7b7b-525e-ac34-b183c310d744)

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.