A Marquis For Marianne (Blushing Brides Book 2) Read online

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  Marquis For Marianne

  Blushing Brides

  Book 2

  Catherine Bilson

  Copyright © 2019 Shenanigans Press

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-6481743-6-3

  ISBN-13: 978-0-6481743-6-3

  Other Books by Catherine Bilson

  The Best Of Relations

  Infamous Relations

  Mr Bingley’s Bride

  A Christmas Miracle At Longbourn

  An Earl For Ellen

  A Duke For Diana (forthcoming)

  For information on forthcoming works as well as free short reads, visit my website at:

  www.catherinebilson.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Catherine Bilson

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  A Note From The Author

  Chapter One

  )

  A Private Ball at Temple Grove Manor, near Cambridge

  March, 1810

  “Your most persistent suitor is back, Miss Abingdon.”

  Marianne permitted only a slight smile to touch her lips as Amelia Temple spoke. The other girl’s tone held just the slightest hint of jealousy, as the tall young man approaching the pair was easily the handsomest in the room -- especially in a lieutenant’s scarlet regimentals.

  “I’ve been acquainted with Mr. Rotherhithe since we were both children, Miss Temple,” Marianne attempted to defray Amelia’s envy. “We are friends; that is all.” The lie almost scalded her tongue, but it would not do for whispers of her true attachment to Alexander Rotherhithe to reach her father’s ears. Or, God forbid, his father’s or grandfather’s ears.

  “Miss Abingdon.” Alexander bowed very correctly, his dark brown eyes warm as he straightened to gaze upon her face. “Dare I hope you have a space remaining on your dance card for me?”

  Without a word, Marianne slipped the ribbon holding the tiny booklet from about her wrist and offered it to him. His lips quirked minutely as he examined the card before lifting the equally tiny pencil attached and jotted his initials down in the single space remaining. She had saved that precious space by dint of avoiding as many potential dance partners as possible, no easy feat when you were lauded as the greatest beauty of the Season.

  “I shall consider myself exceptionally fortunate, Miss Abingdon. Until our dance, then.” He bowed once again and left them alone.

  Amelia sighed wistfully as she watched the lieutenant depart and muttered, “I wish he’d asked me to dance.”

  “Since your card is full already, it would do you no good if he had,” Marianne pointed out dryly. “As the daughter of the house, your dances have all been reserved since the house party began!”

  “True, but still, he could have asked,” Amelia sighed again before linking her arm through Marianne’s. “I hear the orchestra tuning up. We should go into the ballroom; the first set will begin shortly.”

  Marianne did not care in the slightest for the first set, or any set other than the one she would dance with Alexander. Nevertheless, she painted a false smile on her lips and allowed herself to be led onto the floor.

  )

  He hated every man who dared approach her.

  She was his, had always been his. Ever since he’d laid eyes on her years ago, her auburn-haired perfection had drawn him like a moth to a flame. Every other girl paled into boring insignificance beside her spectacular, eye-catching beauty.

  She was too young then, of course, but now she was a woman grown. Eighteen years old and ripe for the plucking, a peach just ready to drop into his waiting hand. Especially considering her father, who was even now gambling away the last of his late wife’s money at the gaming tables.

  Taking a sip of his brandy, he watched with narrowed eyes as a tall young sprig in a scarlet coat claimed her hand for a dance. How dare that upstart touch what was his!

  Soon, nobody would be allowed to dance with her but him.

  Very soon.

  )

  “It’s terribly warm in here,” Marianne said as the musicians struck the first chords. “Would you mind terribly if we sat out the dance? I think perhaps I should get some air.”

  “Of course,” Alexander said with a secret little smile, promptly escorting her from the floor. “I would not for a moment have you distress yourself for the sake of a mere dance, Miss Abingdon. Pray, retire to refresh yourself.”

  “Thank you for your understanding, Lieutenant.” Marianne curtseyed gracefully before making her way out of the room.

  Once out of the ballroom, she did not turn left to ascend the stairs to the retiring rooms. Instead, she turned to the right and opened a door mostly concealed behind a large potted plant, a door which led to the servants’ quarters. Lifting her skirts in her hands, she rushed along the narrow, poorly lit corridor as fast as she could in her dancing slippers, hoping desperately nobody was coming the other way. She was lucky, though, and reached her next destination without seeing another soul.

  A second door let out below the terrace immediately outside the ballroom, and she stepped out onto the raked gravel, careful not to let her feet make a sound. Directly above her head she could hear voices, people talking and laughing, cigar smoke drifting upwards as some gentleman indulged in the cool night air.

  A hand curled around her elbow, and she bit back a gasp. Relaxing at once, she followed the insistent tug of that strong hand, tiptoeing on the loud gravel until they were around the side of the house and walking on grass, moving further away from the lighted windows and the noise until everything became dark and quiet.

  “Marianne,” he said her name gruffly once they were free to speak without fear of being overheard.

  She sobbed his name in return, throwing herself against him. “Oh, Alexander! You came!”

  “Nothing could have kept me away.” He caught her in strong arms, bending down to kiss her upturned lips.

  “Not even your grandfather?” Marianne whispered when he broke the kiss.

  “It turns out that joining the army has had a remarkably freeing effect. My commanding officer is a great deal less strict than dear Grandpapa.”

  She could not see his wry smile in the darkness, but she could hear it in his voice. Smiling herself, she rested her head against his chest, heedless to the disarray of her curls. His warm hand came up to rest at the back of her neck and for a long moment they remained thus, in a close and loving embrace.

  “I wish I could ask you to come away with me now,” Alexander murmured, “but my regiment is bound for Spain next week. Even if we were to marry, I have no safe haven to provide you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Marianne said fiercely. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Alex? Promise you’ll come back to me?”

  )<
br />
  They both knew there were no guarantees in war. Both of them had lost family and friends to the war against the French: Marianne, her only brother; Alexander, two uncles and his best friend from his school days.

  Still, Alexander promised her, and he meant every word. “If God grants that I survive, I will come back to you, Marianne. There is no force on earth which will stop me coming for you, if you will but wait for me.”

  His words had the solemnity of a marriage vow, and in his mind they were exactly that. In that moment, he pledged himself to the girl who he had known all his life. The girl who had been his childhood companion in numerous escapades. The girl who had been his shoulder to cry on when his baby sister died of fever, just as he had returned the favour a year later when her mother drowned in a tragic accident. The girl who he loved above all others. And always would.

  “I will wait for you,” Marianne pledged in return, reaching up to place her hands on his cheeks, and though he could not see her eyes, in his mind they glowed blue as the summer sky, bright with her love. “I will always wait for you.”

  )

  He watched the young officer return to the ballroom from the terrace, his smile a great deal too self-satisfied for a man who’d lost out on dancing with the most beautiful girl at the ball. Moments later, Marianne walked back in through the main doors, smiling just as happily.

  Two pairs of eyes met and secret glances were exchanged before both looked away, feigning gaiety while mingling with the other partygoers.

  He downed the last of his brandy.

  It was time to make his move.

  Chapter Two

  )

  The townhouse of the Earl of Havers, London

  November, 1818

  “He’s dead.”

  Marianne stared in disbelief.

  “Lady Creighton?”

  Behind her, the whispers began: “Poor thing.” “She’s in shock.” “So sudden.”

  “Lady Creighton, I think you’d best sit down.”

  A strong hand touched her elbow, guided her away from her husband’s body. Out of the room entirely, to a smaller, empty parlour and a couch where she was pressed to sit down.

  “Marianne,” her friend Ellen said, taking a seat beside her, looking and sounding desperately concerned. “Are you all right? Please, say something. Should we fetch a doctor?”

  “I think it’s rather too late for that,” Marianne said and then had to suppress a totally inappropriate giggle. “My husband is dead.”

  “Thomas,” Ellen said, and her husband of less than a day immediately moved to her side. “A drink, do you think?”

  “Brandy,” the Earl of Havers agreed. Within moments he knelt by the couch, pressing a glass into Marianne’s hand, which she only then realised was shaking. “Drink it, Lady Creighton. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “At your wedding party…”

  “Don’t you dare apologise!” Ellen almost pushed the glass to her lips, forcing her to take a sip. The brandy burned all the way down her throat.

  “Lady Creighton,” Thomas said, and she couldn’t stop her flinch. He paused and began again, “Forgive me for being familiar - Marianne. Will you allow me to handle things regarding the disposition of your husb- I mean, Lord Creighton’s body? I assume he should be returned to his estate?”

  “Yes.”

  She should say more, Marianne realised when the pair of them just stared at her. Thomas was an American, only lately come to England when he’d inherited his title. Though Ellen was possibly the only person she could truly call a friend, her friend was the daughter of a country parson, with no knowledge of society.

  “It’s near Durham,” she managed to get out. “I - perhaps Lord Creighton’s valet would be able to give you some useful information.”

  “Yes,” Thomas agreed with some relief. “Yes, of course. I’m sure he will. I’ll get right to it, then.” He exchanged a glance with Ellen which somehow conveyed a great deal, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click.

  “Drink the rest of this,” Ellen said quietly, urging the glass back to Marianne’s lips, “and then I’m going to ring for my maid. You remember Susan? She’s terribly efficient. We’ll get you up to your room and then you can rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  Yes, Marianne thought, letting Ellen coax her into drinking the rest of the brandy. It is indeed shocking when your husband suffers an apoplectic fit while reproaching you for smiling at the man your friend married just yesterday, dropping dead at your feet.

  She must keep herself together, lest Ellen think she had run mad. So she called upon years of training, years of controlling even her slightest expression, to rein her emotions in. It was not until hours later, when she had finally convinced Ellen and her terrifyingly efficient maid that she was perfectly fine and only wished to be alone, that she could finally allow her feelings to show.

  Standing at the window of her bedroom, in the magnificent suite she had been allotted as one of the guests of honour at Ellen’s wedding, she watched as the carriage bearing a hastily-procured casket containing her late husband’s earthly remains rolled away from the house and down the long avenue of larch trees, bare now of leaves. She would have to follow, of course, and remain at Creighton Hall for the foreseeable future, at least until her period of mourning had ended.

  But now, for the first time in more years than she cared to remember, Marianne was free.

  She had thought she would laugh, in this moment.

  The tears surprised her; she had thought there were no more tears left to weep. Years of pain and suffering, loneliness and fear, had dried them all up. Yet the view of the receding carriage blurred, fat drops raced down her cheeks, and Marianne Creighton fell to her knees and wept in sheer, unadulterated relief.

  Chapter Three

  )

  Brooks’ Gentlemen’s Club, London

  November, 1819

  “You look bored to tears, Glenkellie.”

  “Give it a few years, Havers.” Alexander Rotherhithe, Marquis of Glenkellie, looked up from the news sheet he had been perusing without really taking in any of the information. “Everything in London will bore you to tears, too.”

  The young Earl of Havers laughed, taking the free seat at Alex’s table without waiting to be invited. Which was probably why Alex liked the American; it wasn’t so much that he had no idea of the niceties of behaviour, but more that he thought they were utter nonsense and refused to abide by them. The seat was free, and Thomas wanted to sit down. Why wait for Alex to ask, just because he happened to possess a loftier title?

  Setting the news sheet down, Alex smiled at Thomas. They had only met a few months ago, when Thomas brought his new wife down to London for the Little Season, but hit it off right away. Alex was tired of sycophants and toadies, of those too intimidated by his wealth and title to want to get to know the real him. Thomas’ cheerful disregard for protocol was a breath of fresh air.

  “Drink?” Alex suggested, gesturing to an attentive waiter.

  “I’ll have what you’re having.” Thomas nodded to his cup on the table.

  “Coffee? Sure you wouldn’t like anything stronger?”

  “I’ve promised to take Ellen to a ball tonight. If I start in on anything stronger now, I’ll not see it through until four, or whatever ridiculous hour these things finish.” Thomas grimaced. “I’m looking forward to heading back to Herefordshire and going to bed before midnight, for once!”

  Alex had to laugh. “You’re such a provincial, Havers.”

  “Says the man whose estate comprises much of the remotest parts of Scotland,” Thomas shot back dryly.

  “Why do you think I’m in London? Nothing up there but cranky crofters and sheep. Castle Glenkellie is only tolerable for a month or two in the summer, and barely that. Were it not entailed, I’d sell the lot and live here year-round.”

  The words were empty, and Thomas’ sharp-eyed s
tare let Alex know he wasn’t fooled. The truth was: Alex loved his home no matter the time of year. He simply couldn’t bear it when his mother was in residence, as she was at the moment. God willing, she’d take it into their heads to tour Greece or Italy or some such place soon, and he’d be able to go home without fear of her producing a bride for him out of thin air.

  Thomas’ coffee arrived, and he sat back in his chair, relaxing as he took a sip of the hot, fragrant brew. “Rather you than me,” he said, and it took Alex a moment to realise Thomas was talking about living in London. “In fact, we’re heading home earlier than we planned. As much as Ellen has enjoyed our visit this time around, she wants to be home in plenty of time for Christmas. In fact, she plans to host a house party, and she has charged me with extending an invitation to you.”

  Surprised, Alex paused with his own coffee cup an inch or so from his lips. While he had met the lovely young Countess of Havers on several occasions and even stood up with her at a few dances, they’d had little chance to get to know each other. “Why?” he asked bluntly, lowering the cup.

  Thomas looked amused. “Because she knows you and I have struck up a friendship, Glenkellie. Ellen has made plenty of friends among the ladies -- both married and single -- and has invited a number of them, but none of their attached husbands, brothers, or fathers are people I would call a close friend. You, on the other hand, are. She asked if I should like to invite you, I said I would, and she wrote out an invitation.” Slipping a cream-coloured envelope from his pocket, he placed it on the table between them. “Should you fancy an escape from the delights of London for a few days without journeying to the frozen wastes of the north, we would be delighted to have you.”

  Touched, nonetheless Alexander affected disinterest as he picked up the envelope, broke the seal, and perused the brief invitation written in the Countess of Havers’ own hand. Ellen had been raised a country parson’s daughter, and her handwriting bore none of the flourishes and curlicues the daughters of the aristocracy were wont to affect; it was plain, neat, and very readable.