Книга - His Convenient Marchioness

His Convenient Marchioness
Elizabeth Rolls


With this ring…After the loss of his wife and children, the Marquess of Huntercombe closed his heart to love. But now he must marry to secure an heir, he’s determined that the beautiful, impoverished widow Lady Emma Lacy should be his…I thee claim!Emma has vowed never to marry for money so must refuse him. But when her children’s grandfather sets to steal them away from her, she has no other option: She must become the Marquess’s convenient bride!







With this ring...I thee claim!

After the loss of his wife and children, the Marquess of Huntercombe closed his heart to love. But now that he must marry to secure an heir, he’s determined that the beautiful, impoverished widow Lady Emma Lacy should be his...

Emma has vowed never to marry for money so must refuse him. But when her children’s grandfather sets to steal them away from her, she has no other option: she must become the marquess’s convenient bride!


“So, you wish to remarry—”

“Yes.”

‘And for some reason you think I might do?’ Emma said.

Hunt winced. ‘I beg your pardon if I gave that impression. But, yes, you do…er…’

‘Fit your requirements?’

A long-forgotten burning sensation informed him that he had actually blushed. ‘Something like that.’

‘And along with your requirements are you also going to ask for references?’ Her chin was up.

Hunt looked at her. The brief hint of laughter was gone. In its place was…bitterness? No, not that. Resignation. As if she expected rejection.

‘If you will forgive the impertinence, Emma, I think your children are your references.’

She stared at him. ‘Oh.’

And that lovely soft mouth trembled into a smile that shook him to his very foundations. Was he insane? He wanted a wife who would not turn his life inside out. Now it would serve him right if he found himself fronting the altar with London’s most notorious widow! Only… Could she really have done anything truly scandalous? He was finding it harder and harder to believe…


Author Note

Somewhere in writing each book I start to worry about the next. Never mind that my current characters are still stuck in whatever mess I’ve concocted for them, I’m off on a tangent, worrying about what I’ll write next. It’s pointless. I know perfectly well from experience that well before I finish the next book will be running around in my head. Very often at least one of the characters is right there under my nose in the book I’m just finishing. This is one of those times.

If you read In Debt to the Earl, you may remember James’s friend the Marquess of Huntercombe. Hunt was grieving for his half-brother Gerald, who had been murdered. From the moment Hunt stepped—quite literally—out of the shadows to help James and avenge Gerald, I wanted to know more about him. And I wanted him to have his own happy ending. I hope you enjoy his story.


His Convenient Marchioness

Elizabeth Rolls






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ELIZABETH ROLLS lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia with her husband, teenage sons, dogs and too many books. She is convinced that she will achieve a state of blessed Nirvana when her menfolk learn to put their own dishes in the dishwasher without being asked and cease flexing their testosterone over the television remote. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers and invites you to contact her via email at books@elizabethrolls.com (mailto:books@elizabethrolls.com).

Books by Elizabeth Rolls

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

His Lady Mistress

A Compromised Lady

A Regency Christmas

‘A Soldier’s Tale’

Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride

A Magical Regency Christmas

‘Christmas Cinderella’

Lords at the Altar

In Debt to the Earl

His Convenient Marchioness

Mills & Boon Historical Undone! ebooks

A Scandalous Liaison

A Shocking Proposition

M&B

Royal Weddings Through the Ages

‘A Princely Dilemma’

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


For Anne, Linda, Lynn and Suzie.

Because you inspire me and keep me going.

And because we can put away more champagne, cheese and tea at a critique group meeting than anyone would ever believe.

You’ve seen a fair bit of this story over the past year.

Now it’s yours.


Contents

Cover (#u49dca1ba-66ea-518b-abaf-0ad5a7fc0aae)

Back Cover Text (#u85c2a223-8576-5bd6-8772-fac1800f92ec)

Introduction (#ufb4be1e9-8e74-593f-87e9-8c12ba4e85a3)

Author Note (#u774d1b1f-83c7-5b49-b7c2-743f6bae9012)

Title Page (#u90ad697f-72a4-5482-8df1-ab2b3d2d360d)

About the Author (#ue1573c4a-1af1-5e0b-8f1e-a32070ddf1a3)

Dedication (#u8facc682-54ce-5fb5-94e1-b7623ca18b47)

Chapter One (#ueb9d0659-aaf2-5879-82c0-3a7b2f060623)

Chapter Two (#u1b8719f9-eed5-518a-899d-40d93745a979)

Chapter Three (#u0b4bdc13-9b87-559c-8267-825e5647f534)

Chapter Four (#u19fdce05-dfa8-5f32-bf1c-e3b998c9ddaf)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


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

Late October, 1803

The Fifth Marquess of Huntercombe perused the list in his hand with something akin to panic. He gulped. No, not merely akin, it was the thing itself: sheer, unadulterated panic. His hands were damp and a thin line of perspiration—damn it to hell—trickled down his spine. In his own library. All because of a list his elder sister had handed him. And he’d only read the first few names. That was quite enough.

He cleared his throat. ‘Letty, this is not—’

‘Huntercombe,’ Letitia, Lady Fortescue, silenced him with an unnerving stare as well as his title. ‘You acknowledge that you must marry again.’

She always called him Huntercombe in just that tone when she wished to remind him of his duty. As if he needed reminding. The Marquess of Huntercombe always did his duty. To the family, his estates and Parliament.

‘And that it is a matter of some urgency. With which,’ Letty added, ‘I wholeheartedly concur. Gerald’s death was a disaster.’

Hunt’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, quite. But—’

‘Caroline and I have listed all the eligible girls currently on the market.’

Market was definitely the right word. And girls. He accorded the list another glance—it reminded him of nothing so much as a Tattersall’s sales catalogue of well-bred fillies, with said fillies paraded, albeit in absentia, for his consideration. Letty and their sister Caroline had included each filly’s sire and dam, notable connections, looks, accomplishments including languages spoken, and fortune. Staying power wasn’t included, although he sincerely doubted his sisters had heard of, let alone seen, Harris’s infamous list of Covent Garden Impures. He looked again at the list, forced himself to read all the names...

‘For God’s sake, Letty!’

By the fire, his spaniel, Fergus, raised his head and cocked his ears.

‘What?’

‘Chloë Highfield?’ He signalled for Fergus to stay put and the dog sank back with a sigh.

Letty looked affronted. ‘Well, of course. She’s—’

‘My goddaughter!’ Hunt could imagine the reaction if he attempted to pay his addresses to Chloë. His imagination didn’t merely quail; it turned tail and fled. Although not before he had an all-too-likely vision of his good friend Viscount Rillington’s approaching fist.

‘Oh.’ Letty had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I’d forgotten. How very awkward. Cross Chloë off, then. It can’t be helped.’

Cross Chloë—With a strangled curse, Hunt strode to the fireplace and consigned the entire list to the flames.

‘Giles! Hours of work went into that!’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said through gritted teeth. If only a similar amount of thought had gone into it. ‘Letty, you wrote to me last month wishing me a happy birthday. Do you recall how old I am?’

Letty scowled. ‘Since I turned fifty-six in March, it was your fiftieth birthday. Although what that has to say to anything I’m sure I don’t know!’

Hunt stared at her in disbelief. What the hell did she think a man of fifty was going to do with an eighteen-year-old virgin?

Giving up on tea, Hunt walked over to his desk and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter there. The mere thought of taking to wife—and bed—a chit only a couple of years older than his own daughter would have been if she’d lived left him vaguely nauseated. Oh, it happened. All the time. But it wasn’t going to happen with him. The very idea made him feel like an elderly satyr. An incestuous one to boot when he considered Chloë. For God’s sake! He’d taken the child to Astley’s Amphitheatre for her tenth birthday and still took her to Gunter’s for an ice whenever they were both in London. He would be one of Chloë’s guardians if that was ever required. He took a swallow of brandy, felt it burn its way down. If Chloë was old enough to appear on anyone’s list of eligible damsels, he’d probably bought their last ice cream. It made him feel positively elderly.

Letty leaned forward. ‘Giles, marriageable ladies do not languish on the shelf for years on the chance that a middle-aged widower will exercise a modicum of common sense.’ She scowled. ‘If a woman remains unwed at thirty there is a very good reason for it! I acknowledge the difficulty, but—’

‘A widow.’

‘What?’

Hunt set the brandy down. ‘Letty, a widow would be far more appropriate. A woman of some maturity would be a far better match for me.’ A widow would be less demanding of his time, his attention...his affections. She would know how to go on and not require his guidance. And he wouldn’t feel like a satyr.

Letty scowled. ‘Well, I suppose so, but you need a woman young enough to bear children!’

‘Thirties,’ Hunt said. ‘That’s still young enough.’

It was rational. It was sensible. An older woman would not have stars in her eyes or romantic fancies he could not fulfil.

Letty pushed her tea away. ‘You may pour me some brandy.’

He reached over and did so, passing it to her.

She took a healthy swig. ‘No money with a widow, most likely. She may even have children.’

‘No matter.’ A widow’s dowry usually went to her first husband’s estate, or was settled on her children. Any jointure, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, ceased upon remarriage. And if she had children, at least he would know she was fertile. Any sons other than infants would be safely at school and very likely their paternal relatives would have guardianship. That was how it was done. As for daughters, they would be their mother’s business. He frowned. Now he considered it, it seemed a cold way of doing things...

‘Very well.’ Letty swigged more brandy. ‘Another list.’

Hunt cleared his throat. ‘I think I can just about manage to find my own bride, Letty.’

She tossed off the rest of the brandy. ‘I doubt it. Many widows do not move much in society. There’s no need for them really.’

That sounded cold, too. But—‘All right. But for God’s sake, be discreet.’

She fixed him with a look that would have sunk a battleship. ‘Why don’t we pretend you didn’t say that?’

He grinned, despite his vexation. ‘I beg your pardon.’

She gave him a blank look. ‘My pardon? For what?’

‘For—never mind. Don’t know what I was thinking.’

Returning to his library after seeing Letty to her carriage, Hunt poured another brandy and sat down at his desk, clicking his fingers at Fergus, who came to him, tail wagging. This room, full of books, with lamplight glowing on the bindings, warm with the rich fragrance of leather, was his sanctuary. Here he could be private and as content as it was possible for him to be. The dog’s head rested against his knee and he fondled the silky, drooping ears.

By the inkwell, where he saw them every time he dipped a quill, was the miniature of his first wife, Anne, and their children, Simon, Lionel, and his Marianne, and Gerald, his young half-brother. Now, instead of letting him slip back into the past, their silent gazes prodded him forward. He took a careful breath, reached out and picked up Anne and the children. Very gently he laid them in the drawer where he kept paper. What bride would want her predecessor on her husband’s desk? The portrait of Gerald at nineteen remained, a reminder of his terrible failure.

* * *

‘But we could buy a proper kite instead of paying the subscription, Mama,’ Harry explained in a wheedling tone for what Emma calculated was the fiftieth time. ‘It doesn’t have to be just my kite. I promise I’ll share with Georgie and you can use it and we’ll—’

‘No, Harry.’ Lady Emma Lacy, a box of subscription books under one arm, released her daughter Georgie’s hand and pushed open the door of Hatchard’s Bookshop on Piccadilly. She gestured Harry inside. ‘The weather for flying kites is over.’ October was nearly gone and the weather had turned cool. At least at this time of year the likelihood of running into anyone she knew on Piccadilly was low. London had emptied of the ton after the Season ended. Some would return briefly for the autumn sitting of Parliament, but right now town was empty. Except for—she cast an edgy glance over her shoulder—the man who had walked behind them all the way from Chelsea. He was nowhere to be seen and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was being foolish. Other people lived in Chelsea. Perfectly respectable people for the most part and she had walked into town along the King’s Road, the most direct route. It was hardly surprising that someone else should do so. She had seen this particular man rather often in the past weeks. But she knew most of her neighbours and she had never seen this man before, nor did he ever seem to do anything except simply be there—where she was. It was foolish, but she could not shake off the feeling that she was being watched.

‘Please, Mama?’

She dragged her attention back to Harry, summoning patience. ‘We can set money aside for a kite at the next quarter day. For Christmas.’ Assuming no unexpected bills dropped into her lap. As it was, she had considered letting the Hatchard’s Circulating Library subscription go back at Michaelmas, but the children had to be given their lessons and she needed the weekly selection of books to help with that. It simply meant that she could not save as much this quarter towards the day when she must send Harry to school.

‘I hate quarter day.’ Harry dragged his feet over the doorstep, his face sulky.

Emma opened her mouth to tell him not to scuff his new shoes, that they had to last until the next quarter day—and changed her mind. She hated quarter day, too. Hated the having to sit down and budget for the next three months, because there never seemed to be enough for new shoes and a simple treat like a kite for a ten-year-old boy. Hated having to worry about the cost when one of the children became ill and most of all she hated that Harry even knew what quarter day was. Even little Georgie had an inkling of the import of quarter day.

The struggle to make ends meet had not been so bad when Peter was alive. There had been more money and the children had been smaller, too. Georgie, now six, was still content with Emma’s attempts at doll-making. Her effort at kite-making had fallen well short of the mark. Quite literally. The makeshift kite had ended up in the Serpentine.

‘Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ Georgie, holding Emma’s hand again, looked up with complete assurance in her tawny eyes. Peter’s eyes.

Harry looked back and scowled. ‘Oh, shut up, Georgie. You’re just a baby. You don’t even remember Papa.’

Georgie stuck her tongue out. ‘Do, too! And he would have!’

‘Harry.’ Emma frowned at her son. ‘Don’t be rude to your sister. Georgie, no lady ever sticks her tongue out.’

Georgie looked mutinous. ‘It’s only Harry.’

‘Even so. And, yes, Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ And how to help their rapidly growing son become a man.

Harry looked crosser than ever. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’ He sulked ahead of his mother and sister, still scuffing his shoes.

Emma followed, Georgie’s hand tucked into hers. Harry needed to be with boys his own age, but at the moment school was beyond her means. More, he needed a man’s influence. Not, as her father had put it four years ago, to lick him into shape, but just to be there for him. Somehow she had to see to his education and—

‘What book shall I choose, Mama?’

She smiled down at Georgie. ‘Let’s see what’s there, shall we?’

* * *

Hunt told Fergus to stay and left the spaniel sitting beside Hatchard’s doorstep. Fergus’s plumed tail beat an enthusiastic tattoo on the pavement and, confident the dog would be there when he came out, Hunt strolled into the shop and breathed in the delight of leather bindings, ink and paper. One of the few things he missed about London when he was in the country was her bookshops, this one in particular. John Hatchard had only opened his business a few years earlier, but it had quickly become one of Hunt’s favourites.

The dark-haired young man came forward to greet him. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He executed a slight bow. ‘Welcome back to London. You found us, then.’

Hunt smiled. ‘Good morning, Hatchard. Yes.’ He glanced around the shop. When he’d left London at the end of the spring sitting of Parliament, Hatchard had been further along Piccadilly. ‘Your new premises are satisfactory?’

The bookseller smiled back. ‘Oh, yes. I venture to say we’ll be here for a while, my lord. May I help you with something in particular?’

‘No, no. I’ll just wander through to the subscription room and make my selection. Unless you’ve anything special for me look at?’ Hatchard knew his collection almost as well as he did.

Hatchard’s smile deepened. ‘As it happens, sir, I do have a 1674 edition of Milton. I was going to write to you.’

Hunt hoped his expression didn’t betray him. ‘Paradise Lost? That sounds interesting.’ An understatement if ever there was one. Hatchard knew perfectly well that he didn’t have the first edition of Paradise Lost.

‘I’ll fetch it for you. The subscription room is through there.’ Hatchard pointed.

Hunt tried not to look as though Christmas had arrived early. ‘Thank you, Hatchard. No rush. Call me when you’re ready.’

Hunt strolled on through the shop, pausing to look at this book and that, making his way towards the subscription room. He didn’t know any of the other customers; late October was a little soon for most of the ton to return to London. He planned to head out to his house near Isleworth in a few days himself, rather than stay in town the whole time, but there were matters to discuss with his man of business and solicitors if he were to marry again.

He couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Paradise Lost was far more enticing than marrying merely because male branches on his family tree were in distressingly short supply.

He stopped on the threshold of the subscription room and quelled his unreasonable annoyance at finding it occupied. A grey-clad woman and two children had claimed a large leather chair, the small girl snuggled in the woman’s lap and the older boy—was he ten, eleven?—perched on one arm, kicking at the side of the chair. A governess and her charges, he supposed. The boy glanced up at Hunt, subjecting him to an unabashed stare from dark blue eyes.

Slightly taken aback, Hunt inclined his head gravely. ‘Good morning.’ A pang went through him. Simon had had just that direct, confident gaze.

The lad’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. Um, good morning, sir.’

The woman looked up sharply from the book she and the little girl were examining and Hunt forgot the boy. Deep blue eyes, very like the boy’s, met his. His breath caught and he tensed, staring, startled by the unexpected and unwelcome heat in his veins. Her lips parted and for a moment he thought she would speak, but with the merest nod she returned her attention to the book and settled the little girl closer, speaking too quietly to hear anything beyond the question in her voice. The child nodded and the book was set aside.

Hunt forced himself to turn to the shelves. All he saw was a pair of midnight eyes in a still, pale face. He gritted his teeth, willing away the shocking heat. For God’s sake! He was fifty. Not a green boy to be rattled by an unexpected attraction. And he didn’t prey on governesses, damn it! Although...no. The resemblance to the boy was clear. Not the governess. Their mother and that meant she was married. Respectably married judging by her gown and the fact that she took her children about with her, rather than leaving it to a governess. Memory stirred. She had nearly spoken to him and he had seen those eyes before. It was not just that unwelcome flare of attraction. Did he know her? He started to turn back, but stopped. She had neither smiled, nor given any hint of encouragement. When a lady made it clear she did not wish to acknowledge an acquaintance, then a gentleman acquiesced. The Marquess of Huntercombe did not accost strange females in bookshops.

‘Harry?’ The woman spoke firmly. ‘Will you have Mr Swift this week?’

At the musical, slightly husky voice, Hunt’s memory stirred again.

‘I don’t mind.’

Perusing the bookshelves, Hunt thought that sounded remarkably like I don’t care. He grinned. Understandable that the boy would far rather be out with friends playing cricket, than choosing books with his mother and sister. His own boys had been the same.

‘Georgie, you had that stupid book last month!’

‘Harry.’ The mother’s voice remained quiet, but it held steel enough to wilt a grown man, let alone a young boy.

‘Well, she did, Mama.’ Brotherly contempt oozed. ‘Why can’t she choose a proper book if we have to come here? Fairy tales are only for babies.’

‘I’m not a—!’

‘Georgie. I haven’t noticed you choosing any book at all, Harry.’

Mama’s clipped tones silenced the little girl and had Hunt wincing. The boy was dicing with death here.

‘I chose Mr... Mr Swift!’

‘No. I suggested it and you didn’t mind. That’s hardly choosing.’

A moment’s sulky silence. ‘Well, I’d rather have a kite. Not a stupid library subscription.’

‘Harry—’

‘I know! Because she was sick and had the silly doctor and a lot of medicine, I can’t have a kite.’

‘It wasn’t my fault! You gave me the beastly cold!’

‘Yes, but I didn’t have the doctor, because I’m not a stupid girl! Ow!’

‘Georgie! Don’t hit your brother. You know he can’t hit back.’

‘Don’t care! He did give me the cold and I’m not stupid!’

‘Right.’

At the sound of upheaval, Hunt turned to see the woman rise from the chair, setting the little girl down gently, despite her obvious ire. Her face scarlet as she met his amused and, he hoped, sympathetic smile, she gathered up several books and stalked to the shelves. His gaze focused on the slender figure, caught by the unconscious grace in her walk.

‘Mama?’

‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’

That jolted Hunt from a particularly improper fantasy about how the lady might move in another context. If she knew he was a lord, then he hadn’t been mistaken. He did know her and he certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about her.

‘I can’t have my fairy tales?’

It was almost a wail from the little girl, but the boy turned to him, his face crimson, and nudged his sister.

‘What? It’s all your—oh.’ She shut up and looked at Hunt.

‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ She retained the merest lisp, utterly enchanting. Bright brown eyes, still with the glint of angry tears, gazed up at him out of a face framed with tawny curls and for a shattering moment he saw another small girl furious with an older brother.

‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The boy was stiff with embarrassment.

Hunt regarded the flushed pair and nodded. ‘Accepted. But—’ holding the boy’s gaze and keeping his face stern, he pointed to their mother’s rigid back as she replaced the books ‘—no gentleman behaves badly to his mother.’

The boy bit his lip, but set his shoulders and went to his mother.

‘Mama? I’m sorry I was so rude. Please let Georgie have the fairy tales at least. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have teased her.’

The mother turned and Hunt saw bone-deep weariness in her face. And something else he recognised: love, unshakeable love for the child. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

‘I... I can go without pudding, too.’

Her smile looked like it might turn upside down and Hunt was sharply aware of a longing to do something about that, to lift whatever burdens weighed her down. ‘I do have to fill you up with something. I’d rather you chose a book for yourself and promised to read it.’

‘Yes, Mama. I really am sorry.’

She ruffled his hair, and gave a smile that made Hunt’s heart ache. ‘I know. Go on. Choose your book.’

‘Perhaps I might help there?’ The offer was out before Hunt even knew it was there.

The mother stiffened. He saw it in the set of her slender shoulders, in the firm line of her mouth and his memory nudged harder, trying to get out.

‘That’s very kind, sir, but quite unnecessary.’

Hunt gave up racking his brains. ‘This is most embarrassing, but I cannot recall your name, ma’am. We have met, have we not? I’m Huntercombe, you know.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m surprised you remember me, sir. It was years ago. Thank you for accepting their apology.’

He smiled. ‘I think you were more bothered by them than I. Don’t give it another thought.’ So he did know her. Although from her clothes it was clear she did not move in society, nor was she eager to recall herself to him. She had avoided giving her name. Perhaps she had once been a governess. He would not have noticed a governess, but she might have remembered him if her charges had known his own children. He should not pry, but something about those expressive dark eyes held him, despite her obvious reluctance.

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.

‘All right, lad.’ Huntercombe clicked his fingers and the dog bounded to him, one wriggle of joy as he danced about his master’s boots.

‘He’s awfully well trained, sir,’ Harry said. ‘He stayed sitting the whole time.’

Huntercombe’s smile, even directed at Harry, left Emma breathless. ‘Thank you, Harry. He’s a good fellow. Looking forward to his run in the park now.’

Harry’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? We’re going to the park. We always do after coming here. Don’t we, Georgie?’

Georgie backed him up at once. ‘Yes. We do. And we like dogs. Especially dogs in the park.’

‘Oh. Well.’ While not looking offended by this very unsubtle hint, Huntercombe seemed somewhat taken aback.

‘Would you like to come with us, sir?’ Harry asked, as though inviting a marquess for a walk in the park was the sort of thing one did.

Emma plastered a placating smile on her face. ‘Harry, I’m sure his lordship has—’

‘That’s very kind of you, Harry,’ Huntercombe said.

At least he’s letting him down gently.

Huntercombe continued. ‘Fergus is definitely looking forward to his run and I’m sure he would enjoy it more if he had some young legs to run with him. Ma’am, if you permit?’

Shock held Emma silent long enough to see Harry’s shining eyes. Both children loved dogs, as she did. Yet having one was simply impossible—a dog needed more meat than she could afford.

‘May we, Mama?’

Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘Please, Mama?’

Oh, devil take it! What harm could there be walking through the park with an acquaintance of her father’s for goodness sake? A few more smears on her reputation were neither here nor there. And she knew Huntercombe’s reputation. He was a gentleman and married to boot. He could view her as nothing more than an acquaintance’s impoverished daughter.

She glanced up to see the man across the street walking away east along Piccadilly. Probably he had been put off by Huntercombe’s presence. Her tension eased.

‘Thank you, sir. Your company will be most welcome.’

For a short while she would enjoy the company of someone from her own world who viewed her as neither an embarrassing acquaintance, nor a potentially convenient widow. What possible harm could it do?

* * *

By the time they reached the park Hunt had concluded that Lady Emma Lacy was a conundrum. He discovered that she read the newspapers and was well informed, but unlike most ladies she was uninterested in the doings of society. She deftly kept the conversation general, avoiding anything that verged on the personal. In short, she held him at bay.

The moment they left the more populated areas of the park he took a well-chewed old cricket ball from his pocket—something his valet and tailor shuddered over—and hurled it. Fergus, ever reliable, had hurtled after it and brought it back to drop at his feet. Seeing Harry’s delighted face, Hunt at once suggested that he and his sister might share the task. Harry having promptly handed Hunt the box of books, the children raced off, the dog leaping about them.

‘How far do you wish to go before turning back?’ he asked eventually. Fergus would run all day given the chance.

She frowned. ‘Turn back?’

‘Home.’ He gestured back towards Mayfair.

‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘I live in Chelsea. We walked in.’

He wasn’t sure why that brought colour to her cheeks. Quite a number of well-to-do people lived in Chelsea. Far better for the children than living right in town. ‘Are you near the river?’

‘Not particularly. But nowhere in Chelsea is very far from the river.’ Her gaze followed the children and dog. ‘Thank you, sir. They are enjoying themselves very much.’

‘Every boy should have a dog,’ he said.

Her brows lifted. ‘I can assure you that Georgie would object heartily to the limitations of that statement. She would love to have a dog.’

He watched as Fergus, tongue hanging out, tail spinning, dropped the ball at the child’s feet. Georgie picked up the by now probably revolting ball between finger and thumb, managing to throw it about ten feet.

‘But you don’t have one?’

‘No.’ Her gaze followed Fergus’s pounce on the ball.

‘Why ever not?’ He could have bitten his tongue out as her mouth flattened and the colour rose in her cheeks again.

‘Because, my lord, I cannot afford to feed a dog.’

‘Cannot—?’ He broke off and several things registered properly. She was neatly dressed, but not in anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Furthermore, now he looked properly, beyond those tired blue eyes, he noticed that her pelisse was worn and rubbed, her hat a very plain straw chip trimmed with a simple black ribbon. And Harry had said something about Georgie being sick and the medicine costing too much for them to buy a kite as well.

‘We must start for home,’ she said. ‘I’d better call the children.’

‘May I escort you?’ Why the devil had he asked that? Of course it was the polite thing to do, but she had clearly consented to his accompanying them for the children’s sake. And wasn’t that his motivation? Admittedly, he liked the children. Excellent manners, but not so regimented they couldn’t engage in a good squabble. And he liked that they were so deeply smitten with a dog.

Her chin came up and she stiffened. ‘There is no need, sir. It was very kind of you to bring Fergus this far for them.’

He raised his brows. ‘Who said I came this far just so the children could enjoy Fergus?’ Hadn’t he?

‘If you are suggesting, sir—’

‘That I enjoyed your company? I did. And I should very much like—’

‘No.’

He blinked. ‘No?’

Her mouth, that lovely soft mouth, flattened. ‘No, as in “no, thank you, I am not interested”.’

Not interested? Not interested in what, precisely? What on earth had set up her bristles?

‘Harry! Georgie!’ She stepped away, beckoning to the children.

‘Mama!’

Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Permit me—’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth—a skill his mother had deplored and his sisters still did—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

Fergus, the ball in his mouth, bounded back, the children racing behind. Hunt made a grab for the dog, but Fergus danced out of reach, grinning around the ball. Hunt laughed. Fergus knew perfectly well it was time for home, but Hunt played his silly game for a moment while the children shrieked encouragement to the dog. At last, slightly out of breath, Hunt said firmly, ‘Sit.’ Fergus sat at once, the expression on his face saying very clearly cheat. He spat the ball out at Hunt’s feet.

‘Good boy.’ He bent to pick up the now completely revolting ball between thumb and forefinger.

‘Are you putting it in your pocket?’ Georgie demanded. ‘Like that? Eeeww!’ She fished in the little embroidered pocket hanging from her waist and brought out a handkerchief. ‘Here.’ She held it out. ‘You can wrap it in that, sir.’

‘That’s very kind, Georgie,’ he said gravely, not meeting Lady Emma’s eyes. ‘But your mama will not wish you to lose your handkerchief.’

Georgie’s expression took on an air of wholly spurious innocence. ‘You could bring it back if you walked Fergus to Chelsea. We live on Symons Street, in the row behind the stone yard.’

If not for the frozen expression on Lady Emma’s face, he might have laughed.

‘Georgie.’ Lady Emma’s voice was very firm. ‘His lordship does not have the time to walk all the way to Chelsea. You have other handkerchiefs.’

Georgie’s face fell. ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir. I do have lots of hankies.’ But her gaze lingered on the dog.

‘One should never contradict a lady, of course.’ Hunt accepted the handkerchief, wrapped the ball carefully and dropped it in his pocket. ‘But I can always find time to walk Fergus and he very much enjoys Chelsea Common.’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day, ladies.’ He held out his hand. ‘Harry.’

Beaming, Harry shook hands. ‘It was very nice to meet you, sir.’

Yes, excellent manners. He smiled. ‘Au revoir.’

He turned and left them, Fergus trotting beside him.

Georgie’s clear voice followed them. ‘He said au revoir, Mama. That means until we see each other again! He’s going to come!’

Well, at least someone would be pleased to see him. But he still couldn’t think what the devil he had said to make Lady Emma poker up like that.

No, as in, No, thank you, I am not interested.

And he was damned if he could think why that annoyed him. It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to see her again, had he? Just return the child’s handkerchief, because she’d been so delightfully open about her desire to see Fergus again. That was all.

* * *

Hunt was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street when it dawned that a gentleman strolling with an impoverished widow might have less altruistic intentions than walking a dog and indulging two children...

‘Bloody hell, Fergus,’ he said. ‘She thought I was trolling for a mistress!’

Fergus looked up, interested. Hunt shook his head. At the very least he was going to clear up that misunderstanding, but—

A carriage halted beside him.

He recognised the carriage, horses and coachman even before Letty put her head out of the window. ‘Giles! How very convenient. If you stop in now I have that list.’

This list would be much more appropriate. Women of some maturity and dignity who would understand the advantages and convenience of a second marriage. But the thought of perusing that list under Letty’s gimlet gaze and no doubt being expected to indicate a preference...

‘Thank you, Letty. But I have Fergus with me. Perhaps you might send it around?’

That would buy time to consider the possibilities in private.

Letty gave Fergus a disapproving stare. ‘I cannot think why you have a dog in town at all. Or, if you must, why a servant can’t take it for an airing.’

‘Well, you see, Letty,’ Hunt said cheerfully, ‘since he is my dog, I like to walk him. So, send your—’

Letty snorted. ‘One can only hope that a wife will curb some of your bachelor habits. I dare say I can put up with the wretched animal in my drawing room. It appears well behaved enough. I shall see you in a few minutes.’ She rapped with her cane on the ceiling. ‘Drive on, Bagsby!’

Hunt stared after the carriage as it lumbered away from the curb. He glanced down at the dog. ‘Much help you were! Couldn’t you have misbehaved for once?’

Fergus just grinned up at him. Hunt snorted. ‘It would serve you right if I did let a wife change some of my bachelor habits.’

* * *

Hunt, fortified with his brother-in-law’s brandy, rose as Letty sailed into her drawing room a short time later. She gave Fergus, lying quietly by the hearth, a disapproving look, but said nothing. Hunt suspected that not a single woman on this new list would care for dogs in the house. Idly he wondered if Lady Emma minded dogs in the house.

Letty took the chair opposite him and arranged her skirts very precisely. ‘Caro and I have given a great deal of thought to this.’ She frowned. ‘The last thing you want in a wife is any breath of scandal. I am sad to say that there is often far more than a breath about many widows.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure you won’t consider—?’

‘No virgins,’ he said. He cleared his throat as Letty’s brows shot up. ‘Your list?’

Letty scowled. ‘It isn’t a list, as such. Merely a suggestion.’

‘A suggestion?’ He stared at her. ‘Just one? Do you mean that in the length and breadth of Britain you can only suggest one possible candidate? Who?’

Letty preened a little. ‘My goddaughter—Amelia Trumble.’

Hunt stared. ‘Amelia? She must be well over thirty, surely!’

Letty bristled. ‘Twenty-seven. And she is a very good sort of woman,’ she said. ‘You could hardly do better, especially since you already know her.’

Hunt didn’t see that as an advantage. Amelia Trumble was about the most boring female of his acquaintance. Her late husband, eldest son of Baron Trumble, had been equally dull. How a young woman of twenty-seven contrived to make herself look and act forty, he wasn’t sure, but...

‘Dear Amelia is the very pattern of Respectability and Good Sense,’ Letty pronounced.

He knew that. And Respectability and Good Sense were all very admirable. But did they have to be allied with Dullness?

‘She would make you a most dutiful wife, Giles. She has every qualification—including an annuity that remains with her and would do for pin money. Nor will you be bothered with her son. As Trumble’s heir he will remain in the custody of his grandfather.’

Hunt frowned. ‘She would leave the child with Trumble?’ He was surprised that it bothered him. Most men would be delighted not to have the evidence of a woman’s previous marriage underfoot, but—he saw a woman wearing a neat grey gown, her daughter snuggled in her lap... He shoved the memory away.

‘Trumble would not countenance otherwise,’ Letty said. ‘No doubt Amelia would visit the child, but she is not unduly sentimental.’

The memory of Emma’s face as she accepted her son’s shamefaced apology slid into his mind. Unduly sentimental?

But...he didn’t dislike Amelia. She just didn’t interest him. Did that matter? If Letty and Caro were satisfied he’d done his duty...

‘Very well. I’ll consider your suggestion. By the by, are you acquainted with Lady Emma Lacy?’

She blinked. ‘Who is—? Good God! Emma Brandon-Smythe, you mean? Giles, she may be a widow, but you are not considering an alliance with that dreadful creature, are you?’

‘What?’ Hunt stared at her. ‘No. Of course not.’ Dreadful creature? ‘I ran into her in Hatchard’s, that’s all. It took me a moment to place her.’

Letty snorted. ‘No doubt the shameless hussy presumed upon your acquaintance with Dersingham and forced herself upon your notice. She ran off, you know—from the altar, no less!—to live openly with young Lacy. And then persuaded him to make an honest woman of her. Dersingham cast her off regardless and naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’ Letty shuddered. ‘If she approaches you again, you must ignore her as everybody else does. I wonder at Hatchard allowing her in the shop. I shall have a word with him about that. Disgraceful that she is permitted to mingle with her betters!’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary, Letty.’ Hunt’s mind spun. Lived openly with Lacy? In sin? Ran off from the altar? That had to be exaggeration. ‘I doubt she will approach me again.’ Not after she’d come close to telling him to go to hell. In fact, she hadn’t approached him at all. He had spoken to her. How the devil could he deflect Letty? The last thing he wanted was to have Letty force John Hatchard to refuse Emma admittance! ‘Ah, is Amelia in town?’

Letty looked gratified. ‘Dear Amelia is not in town just yet, you know. Would you wish me to—?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’ Hunt fixed her with a steely look. ‘You will say nothing whatsoever to anyone about this. Is that quite clear?’ Thank God he’d deflected her from Emma Lacy. ‘Just let me know when Amelia is expected in town.’ Letty was right; for a man who wanted a convenient wife, Amelia would be the perfect choice. Convenience was often a trifle dull.

However, he would return Miss Georgie’s handkerchief. He was going to make quite sure Lady Emma understood that the Marquess of Huntercombe only trolled for books in Hatchard’s.


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

Disappointment and rage lashed at Emma over the next two days. Disappointment that Huntercombe’s apparently disinterested kindliness towards the children had been anything but disinterested and rage that he had used them in his attempt to get close to her.

Harry and Georgie could talk of little but Lord Huntercombe and Fergus. Emma even overheard Harry tell his sister what a jolly good idea she’d had with the handkerchief. ‘Because no matter what Mama says, I’m sure he’ll bring it back!’

Georgie, openly smug about the predicted success of her scheme, asked Emma, ever so casually, just how long it took to launder a handkerchief. ‘In a big house, Mama.’

It might have been funny had Emma not been so angry. And if she were honest, angry with herself for feeling even for an instant that betraying flicker of interest. Had she accidentally encouraged him? Did she have to be rude to every gentleman who spoke to her to avoid this sort of thing? And somewhere in all that there was hurt. Why she had thought Huntercombe would be different, she had no idea. After eleven years she knew how society viewed her.

She did not have the heart to disabuse the children of their conviction that Huntercombe would call. How could she, without giving an explanation as to why she was so sure he would not? Six and ten was far too young for them to realise how gentlemen viewed their mother. Instead she took advantage of any dry weather to get them out for walks as much as possible, trying everything she could think of to keep them busy and distracted.

And yet walks inevitably brought on chatter of how fast Fergus could run, how he twisted in mid-air to catch the ball and when they might see him again.

So the knock on the door on the third morning was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. Nor did Emma appreciate the involuntary leap of her own pulse. Harry and Georgie, just sat down for their morning lessons, looked up, eyes bright.

‘It might be him, Mama!’

Emma gave Georgie a quelling look. ‘Him? The cat’s father?’

‘Fergus!’

She changed her snort of laughter into a cough. The Marquess of Huntercombe, outranked by his own dog. Bessie’s footsteps hurried down the short hallway and the door creaked open. A velvet-dark voice spoke, the tone questioning, and Emma’s pulse skittered. Anger, she assured herself. Unfortunately it didn’t feel like anger, but that did not change how she was going to deal with this.

‘Yes, yer honour. What? Right. I’ll ask her then.’

‘Mama!’ Georgie and Harry jigged in their seats.

‘Stay where you are.’ She held them in place with a raised hand. ‘It might be a complete stranger.’

More hurried steps and Bessie opened the door, face pink. ‘It’s a lordship, mum! Do I let him in?’

Despite her anger, Emma suppressed another laugh. The Most Noble Marquess of Huntercombe left kicking his heels on the doorstep...

‘It is him!’ Harry and Georgie let out a unison shriek of delight, surged from their seats and stampeded past Bessie and into the hall.

‘Sir! Good morning!’

‘Look! It’s Fergus!’

Bessie held out a visiting card. ‘Said ’is name was Huntercombe, mum. Not Fergus.’

‘The dog,’ Emma said. Damn his eyes! Must he make it so difficult? But it was not only Huntercombe who was making it difficult. She had repelled other men with ease. It was her own unruly attraction to him that was difficult. The others had been annoying. Huntercombe’s approach infuriated her.

Huntercombe’s deep, quiet voice returned the children’s greetings.

‘Come in, sir!’

His lordship’s response to Harry’s invitation was dismissed by Georgie. ‘Of course she won’t. It’s this way.’

A moment later his broad shoulders filled the doorway. ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Emma.’ A tinge of colour stained his cheekbones. ‘I did ask your servant if you were at home, but—’

‘We’re nearly always at home,’ Georgie said. ‘Except when we aren’t.’

Huntercombe’s eyes crinkled. ‘I see. The thing is, Miss Georgie, a gentleman should always give a lady the chance to send him to the right-a-bout if she does not wish to see him.’

The smile in the grey eyes as he looked at Georgie was completely disarming. Emma had to remind herself that he was married, that he had no business calling on her alone, disarming her—even unintentionally—or causing her pulse to skip with that smile that stayed in his eyes and warmed her from the inside out. And he was years older than she was, although that didn’t seem to matter as much as it had when she was twenty. To Emma, at twenty, the greying hair on Sir Augustus Bolt, the man her father had decreed she was to marry, had horrified her. But now, curse it, on Huntercombe the greying dark hair—especially those silvery patches, just there at the temples—was simply gorgeous. And unlike Sir Augustus, who had run sadly to seed by forty-nine along with a pronounced stoop to his shoulders, Huntercombe was still straight, broad-shouldered and looked as though he kept himself fit.

She forced her mind to function. What mattered, she reminded herself, was that he was married and she had two children to protect. Very well. He’d called. So she’d take his advice and send him to the right-a-bout. And since there was no way she could be even remotely private with someone in a house this size—

‘As it happens, sir, we are about to go for a walk,’ she said. ‘Would you care to join us?’

Harry stared at her. ‘You said we had to do our lessons.’

Emma wondered why children always contradicted you like that. ‘I’ve changed my mind. The sun is out now, but I wouldn’t care to wager upon it staying that way.’

‘But, Mama,’ Georgie looked up from patting Fergus, eyes wide, ‘When Harry said that at breakfast, you said—’

‘Don’t you want to come for a walk?’ Huntercombe asked mildly.

‘Of course we do,’ Harry said.

Huntercombe nodded. ‘Then stop reminding your mother about lessons. Her conscience may get the better of her.’

Emma stifled another laugh, wishing his dry sense of humour wasn’t so wickedly appealing.

Harry grinned. ‘Yes, sir. Come on, Georgie. We’ll fetch our things.’

* * *

He’d meant to return the handkerchief, assure Lady Emma that she had been thoroughly mistaken and leave. But now he was going for a walk with the dreadful creature. Although he had to admit explaining Lady Emma’s mistake in that tiny house with two children present might have been awkward.

Hunt noted that Emma again kept the conversation in the realm of polite generalities as they waited for the children. Nor by so much as a flicker did her demeanour suggest that she had received him in anything less than the most elegant drawing room.

Whatever he had expected of her home, Hunt realised, it had not been the reality of this shabby-genteel, whitewashed parlour. It was spotlessly clean and he wondered if she did the dusting herself. The floorboards—no carpet, just scrubbed, bare boards—were swept. The furniture, what there was of it, was polished to a gleam and books crammed a battered set of shelves beside the window. An elderly lamp stood on the table and a plain wooden clock ticked on the shelf over the clean and empty grate. The chill in the room suggested that the fire was lit only in the evenings.

Emma Lacy, he realised, lived on the edge of very real poverty and that puzzled him. Surely she had something to live on? Unless Lacy had muddled their money away. That was quite possible. Anyone brought up as Lacy and Emma had been would struggle to manage on much less. The younger sons of dukes, having been raised to luxury, then left with relatively little, were notoriously expensive and debt-ridden. A very pertinent reason why fathers preferred not to marry their daughters to them.

She invited him to sit down and chatted about the renewed war with France. Not for long though. Harry and Georgie appeared in their outdoor things very quickly.

‘We brought yours, too, Mama.’ Harry had a brown pelisse over one shoulder and Georgie clutched a bonnet and gloves.

‘Thank you.’ Emma smiled at them. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’

‘We wanted to have lots of time to throw the ball for Fergus,’ Harry explained.

‘Ah. Silly me.’ Emma’s eyes danced and something inside Hunt warmed as he saw again the open affection in her face. Whatever else this house might lack it was not deficient in love. And the thought crept up on him: this was not a woman who would leave her children to marry again.

‘That reminds me—’ He drew Georgie’s laundered handkerchief—God knew what his valet had thought when handed it with a request for an immediate wash—from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Thank you. I’ve brought an extra one of my own today.’

‘Oh.’ Georgie looked crestfallen as she tucked the scrap of cambric into her sleeve. ‘I wouldn’t have minded lending you another.’

Emma cleared her throat. ‘Georgie, Lord Huntercombe cannot keep visiting merely to return your belongings.’

Shards of ice edged her voice, but this was not the moment to launch into explanations. Time enough for that when the children were out of earshot. ‘Shall we go?’ he suggested.

* * *

The children raced ahead with Fergus, but obeyed Emma’s injunction not to get too far in front. A biting wind whipped around them, bringing bright colour to her pale cheeks. She had ignored his offered arm, tucking her gloved hands into a threadbare velvet muff. He wondered just how old it was, if she had owned it before her elopement.

‘You should not have come,’ she said.

Hunt raised his brows at the cool, not to say imperious, tone. She had dropped the veneer of affability like a brick. ‘No? Why not, ma’am?’

Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘I told you the other day that I am not interested. And I resent you using my children to force my compliance this morning!’

He raised his brows. ‘I am sorry to contradict you, ma’am, but I had no intention of going for a walk. You informed me that you were going for a walk and invited me to join you. However, since you have raised the issue, let us be very clear on one thing; I am not looking for a mistress!’

She stopped dead and he halted obligingly. Amused, he saw that her eyes were blank; he’d managed to shock her. ‘That is what you thought, is it not?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded strangled, as if she were having trouble getting any sound out at all. ‘But, still, even if that is true—your wife, what will she think if anyone sees us together?’

He froze. ‘My wife?’

She glared at him. ‘Yes. I may have been out of society for a long time, sir, but I remember Lady Huntercombe perfectly well.’

‘Do you?’ How did this equate with the dreadful creature Letty assumed had accosted him boldly in Hatchard’s? A woman furious with him because she believed he was about to make improper advances to her and doubly furious because she remembered his wife?

‘Yes. I liked her. She was kind.’

He couldn’t help smiling at her. ‘She was, wasn’t she?’

Emma stopped, stared up at him. ‘Was?’

He nodded curtly. ‘I have been a widower for some years, Lady Emma.’

‘Oh. I’m... I’m very sorry, sir.’

He felt himself stiffen. ‘No need. A misunderstanding. As you said, you have been out of society. You weren’t to know.’

‘I meant,’ some of the astringency returned, ‘that I am sorry for your loss. She was lovely.’

It was a very long time since anyone had offered their condolences. Of course, it had been a long time since Anne and the children died.

‘Thank you.’ He let out a breath. Eleven years gone and he was thinking about marrying Amelia Trumble. Maybe. If he could screw his good sense to the sticking place.

‘Mama! Watch this!’

They turned to watch Harry hurl the ball far and high. Fergus raced underneath, leaping with a lithe twist to take the catch in mid-air.

‘See, Mama! Just like we said!’

Fergus came racing back, spat the ball out at Harry’s feet.

Emma turned back to him, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry I was so rude. But I’m not going to be sorry that I accidentally forced you to come for a walk. This is such a treat for them.’

A treat. Taking a dog for a walk and throwing a ball. And she had been about to give them their morning lessons when he arrived. Amelia had a child. A young boy who would remain in his grandfather’s custody if his mother remarried, doubtless with a nanny and tutors, but still...without his mother. He hadn’t really thought about it. Just that it was helpful to know she was fertile... He hadn’t thought about the child, or children. Was it right for a woman to be forced to abandon her children? Would Trumble allow the child to spend time with them if he did marry Amelia? She is not unduly sentimental. Wouldn’t Amelia want the child with her?

‘Tell me, Lady Emma, if you ever remarried, would you consent to leave your children behind?’

‘What?’

What insanity had prompted him to ask that? ‘An academic question.’ There. That was better—a calm, logical approach. ‘You see, I am considering marriage and I wish to know what is reasonable to expect of a woman. Should she be expected to leave her children if she remarries? If, say, her father-in-law is their legal guardian?’

Those dancing blue eyes chilled. ‘No. But the law doesn’t agree with me. Nor would most men.’ Her mouth flattened. ‘You, for example, seemed to assume that Keswick must be my children’s guardian. He is not.’

Hunt frowned. ‘He is not their legal guardian?’

‘No. I am. Keswick has nothing to do with them.’

He tried to imagine Amelia, virtuously conventional, spurning her father-in-law’s authority at all, let alone so brazenly. He ought to be shocked that Lady Emma had done so. Instead, he was shocked that he wasn’t shocked.

‘So a gentleman offering you marriage would have to take the children?’

‘A very academic question, my lord, but yes. And I would retain guardianship.’

An iceberg would sound warmer. Yet somehow all his calm, logical reasons for considering Amelia were sliding into ruin. And in their place...

No. Impossible. Emma Lacy was not at all the sort of bride he ought to consider. And if he were to consider her he would need to know her a great deal better. But how could he further their acquaintance without her believing that he was, after all, pursuing her with less than honourable intent?

He took a very deep, careful breath. ‘I should make it absolutely clear, ma’am that I am not, at this moment, offering you marriage.’

‘I never imagined that you—’ She stared. ‘“At this moment?”’

‘However, I must marry again and you fit my...requirements.’

He heard the sharp intake of breath and braced.

‘Requirements?’

He was not fool enough to be lulled by those dulcet tones.

‘A clumsy word, Lady Emma, but honest. I am too old—’ and too emptied out ʻ—to be tumbling into love, so I am not looking for a giddy young girl. I require a woman of maturity, but still young enough to bear children.’

There. That was perfectly logical and rational. He’d touched on all the relevant points.

‘I see. You want a proven breeder, not an untried filly.’

His mouth opened. He knew that. Unfortunately nothing came out.

‘Speechless, my lord?’

He laughed. He simply couldn’t help it as that warlike glint in her eyes started to dance again. Eventually he stopped laughing. ‘Touché, ma’am. At this point I should probably do better if I cut my own tongue out.’

‘Yes.’ She gave him a puzzled glance. ‘So, you wish to remarry—’

‘Yes.’

‘And for some reason you think I might do.’

He winced. ‘I beg your pardon if I gave the impression that it was a matter of you might do. I was trying to be sensible, not insulting. But, yes, you do, er—’

‘Fit your requirements.’

The long-forgotten burning sensation informed Hunt that he had actually blushed. ‘Something like that.’ Why did the ground simply not open up and swallow him?

‘And along with your requirements are you also going to ask for references?’ Her chin was up. ‘Because I am afraid I cannot offer any. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

He looked at her. Really looked at her. The brief hint of laughter was gone again. In its place was...bitterness? No, not that. Resignation. As if she expected a rejection. Letty’s words burned into him: ‘Dersingham cast her off regardless, of course. And naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’

‘If you will forgive the impertinence, Emma, I think your children are your references.’

She stared at him. ‘Oh.’ Just that. Oh. And that lovely, soft mouth trembled into a smile that shook him to his very foundations. Was he insane? Hadn’t Letty warned him? He wanted a wife who would not turn his life inside out. Now it would serve him right if he found himself fronting the altar with London’s most notorious widow! Only...could she really have done anything truly scandalous? He was finding it harder and harder to believe...

* * *

Emma swallowed. Your children are your references. Just words. Probably meaningless ones. Yet she was melting like a puddle! He had not offered for her. She had to remember that. ‘Then this is in the nature of a...courtship.’

He frowned. ‘I suppose so. In a way. I—that is we—would need to know each other better. If I were to offer for you, I would be offering a marriage of convenience. I need an heir. In return, Harry and Georgie would be provided for and you would have a generous settlement and jointure. However, I have not done so.’

She flinched. His voice was cool, unemotional, his eyes shuttered. Totally at odds with the man who had enchanted Harry and Georgie, and kept his dog’s revolting cricket ball in his pocket. The man who had said the children were her references.

His mouth tightened. ‘I did not wish you to think my intentions were dishonourable.’

‘No. I quite understand that—’ Children... I require an heir... ‘Sir, you say you need an heir, but I thought—’

‘Smallpox.’ He said it in a very distant voice. ‘My wife and all three of our children. Then my half-brother died last year.’

Sometimes distance was all that could protect you from pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply.

For a moment he was silent. Then, ‘It was a long time ago. But you see why I must marry again.’

She did. It was exactly the sort of marriage her father had arranged eleven years ago, and that she had fled from. Or was it? Was Huntercombe really offering what Augustus Bolt had offered? She didn’t think so and now was not the time to discuss that. But Huntercombe was a very different man from Sir Augustus. Bolt had been arrogant, condescending, seeing her only as a well-bred, hopefully fertile, vessel for his political ambitions...and Dersingham had approved Bolt as exactly the man to curb a headstrong girl... That brought her back to reality with a jolt. Did Huntercombe know the whole story?

She took a deep breath. ‘Are you aware that I was betrothed to Sir Augustus Bolt?’

Huntercombe frowned. ‘I knew there had been another betrothal. It was to Bolt? I dare say Dersingham wanted the match.’

She nodded. ‘I might have agreed in the end, but I had met Peter, you see, and—’

‘You fell in love.’

Emma heard the guarded tone. She could imagine what he’d heard and she doubted the truth would be any more acceptable to him, even if he believed it.

‘The wedding with Sir Augustus was set for my twenty-first birthday. But when Dersingham delivered me to the altar I refused my vows and walked out of St George’s.’

There. It was out. And judging by his stunned expression he hadn’t known. In a moment, when he had recovered from the shock, he would take his leave politely and she’d never see him again. No well-bred young lady jilted a man at all, let alone literally walking out on him at the altar straight into the arms of another man. Only now, when she had burned all her ships and bridges, did she know exactly how much she had wanted this chance. How much she had wanted someone to understand. Not forgive. She had never considered her marriage to require forgiveness.

* * *

Hunt could only stare at the woman before him, her chin up, defiant. He tried, and failed, to imagine any other young lady he had ever known doing something so utterly scandalous. Letty hadn’t exaggerated at all. For once the gossip had been literal truth.

Although... Gus Bolt? The man must have been nearly fifty at the time. Exactly the sort of marriage Letty and Caro had assumed he would make. If the idea had horrified him, how must it have looked to a girl of twenty-one?

He stuck to practicalities. ‘Was Lacy waiting outside the church?’

She flushed. ‘In a way. We hadn’t arranged it, although my parents thought we had. He had no idea what I was going to do. He just wanted to see me.’ Her eyes became distant, remembering. ‘I didn’t know I was going to do it until I walked out. And, well, there he was. We didn’t stop to think. He took me to his great-aunt, Lady Bartle. She loathed Keswick and I stayed with her while the banns were called.’ She gave him a very direct look. ‘No one ever remembers that, or that Peter went to my father, asked permission to marry me and was refused. According to most of the stories Peter and I lived openly in sin until he deigned to make an honest woman of me.’

Hunt was silent. She had handed him what any sane man would consider sufficient cause for withdrawing. She was not at all an eligible bride for the Marquess of Huntercombe.

But what about Hunt? Would she be a comfortable wife for him?

A little voice crept into his head... What would you have done if Anne’s father had ordered her to marry someone else all those years ago? What, more to the point, would Anne have done?

Peter Lacy had not been a bad match. Except for the fact that Dersingham and Keswick hated each other. Some quarrel decades ago and neither could let it go.

Emma’s voice dragged him back to the present. ‘I have shocked you, sir, but I thought it better that you knew the truth.’

Hunt took a deep breath. Headstrong, managing and distressingly independent she might be, but Emma’s honesty was bone-deep. She had told him in the full expectation that he would walk away without a backward glance. She would not even blame him. ‘Do you mind dogs in the house?’ he asked.

She blinked. ‘No, but what does that—’

‘Excellent.’ There was really nothing to say about her scandalous marriage. It was not his place to approve or disapprove. After all, it was in the past and if it meant she did not wish to give her heart again...well, he wasn’t offering his own heart. Just his hand in marriage.

Now she was staring, those deep blue eyes slightly suspicious. ‘I just told you I’m a walking scandal and you’re worried about dogs in the house?’

He ought to be scandalised at what she’d done. Such behaviour argued that she was ungovernable. He knew that. And, yes, it would definitely cause a stir if he married her. But somehow that didn’t worry him. Emma Lacy was the sort who stuck to her word. She hadn’t tried to sugar-coat what she’d done, let alone hide it. She’d thrown it in his face before he could commit himself in any way. And if she had married Gus Bolt she’d still be married to him and he’d be dodging Amelia Trumble. Or worse.

‘Were you happy with Lacy?’ he asked at last and caught his breath.

A tender smile softened the stubborn set of her mouth.

‘Oh, yes. Although what that has to say to—’

‘Good.’ He possessed himself of her hand and tucked it safely into the crook of his elbow as they started walking again. It felt right there. Completely right. This felt right. Logical. As long as he didn’t imagine her one day smiling that way at the thought of him. ‘I don’t think you would have enjoyed marriage to Gus. God knows I wouldn’t.’ Her jaw dropped. Now he thought about it, it would be as bad as being married to Amelia. ‘The man’s a dead bore,’ he went on. ‘You’ll need time to consider, but while you do so you may as well know exactly what I am—what I would be—offering.’

* * *

She hadn’t said no outright. Hunt told himself that as he walked them home in the lengthening shadows. A light drizzle had started, nothing very much, but no one wanted the children to take a chill.

She hadn’t said no. Instead she had listened to his suggested settlement for herself and the children, and agreed to what he asked; that he be allowed to call on her while they considered. Walk with them, get to know her and the children. She had very firmly stipulated no gifts of any sort, whatsoever. Reluctantly she had agreed that he might buy the children a few sweets. He understood that; she did not wish to build hope in the children, only to crush it if either of them did not, in the end, want the marriage. He suspected that she fully expected him to step back.

So he escorted them home and hoped. This could work. There was no reason it would not. He was attracted to her; more, he liked her. He liked the children. She was of his world, familiar with it, if temporarily out of place. She had not leapt at the chance of marriage. Even now she employed no arts to attract. If anything she was rather quiet, as if thinking. And yet the silence between them was not awkward. It was...companionable, that was the word. They had said what needed to be said for now, so they could just enjoy each other’s company. At least he hoped she was enjoying his company. Perhaps she thought he was boring, like Gus Bolt.

As they reached her front door, she looked up at him, her expression serious. ‘Thank you for understanding that I need to think about this.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It is a huge step, marriage.’ It was a good thing that she would take the time to think about it logically and rationally. As he had done.

She smiled. ‘Most men would think that they were the only ones who need to do any thinking about it. That a woman, especially in my situation, should simply say thank you very much—yes, please.’

‘Is that what Gus Bolt thought?’

She flushed. ‘I suppose he might have. My father told me that Sir Augustus had offered and he had accepted. That it was all settled. Sir Augustus was presented to me as my betrothed. I doubt either of them expected me to say anything about it at all. As far as my father was concerned it was none of my business.’ She bit her lip. ‘When I protested my father said I was being missish. That the marriage would work well enough if I just did as I was bid.’

Would Anne’s father have insisted on the marriage even if Anne had been repulsed? It didn’t bear thinking about. And here he was, perilously close to pushing Emma into marriage just because he could see no reason against it. She knew next to nothing about him. For all she knew he could be the sort of bastard who beat his wife. She had no one to protect her and ensure that the marriage settlement was equitable, or that her children would be protected. Women took a far greater risk in marriage than men.

Predictably, the children were lagging behind. They came up, faces a little downcast. Georgie took his hand and tugged on it. ‘Will you come again, sir?’

He smiled, his fingers closing on the little hand. That felt right, too. ‘Oh, yes. Your mother has said that I may. The day after tomorrow? If the weather is bad we could have an indoor picnic.’ Tomorrow he would see his solicitor and have the most careful and decent marriage settlement drawn up that he could devise. If he pretended that he was overseeing a marriage settlement for Marianne...he bit his lip. Or Georgie. Would he one day negotiate a match for Georgie?

‘An indoor picnic?’ Georgie giggled. ‘How do you do that?’

The question pushed back the abyss. ‘You spread a picnic rug on the floor and sit on that, and you eat picnic food,’ he said. Surely if he sent a message to the kitchen for food suitable to an indoor picnic his cook would rise to the occasion?

‘What sort of food do you have for an indoor picnic, Mama?’ Harry demanded.

Emma opened her mouth and shut it again, clearly uncertain.

‘That,’ Hunt said, ‘is a secret. You’ll have to wait and see.’ Along with himself.

‘But Mama has to know,’ Harry argued. ‘Because she’ll have to cook it with Bessie.’

Hunt shook his head. ‘Not when I’ve invited you to a picnic. That means I bring the picnic, you provide the games and entertainment.’

Georgie brightened. ‘Backgammon. Mama’s teaching me. And Harry can play chess.’

‘And what does Mama do?’ Emma’s voice was very dry, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

‘You keep us all in order,’ Hunt informed her. ‘I have no doubt that you’re very good at it.’

She sighed. ‘Wonderful.’ Laughter danced in her eyes, luring him. ‘A managing female.’ She slipped a hand into her worn pelisse and drew out the house key. Hunt took it from her gently. There was little enough he could do for her until she agreed to marry him, but he could do this. He could show her that the Marquess of Huntercombe would be a courteous, kindly husband.

‘I’ll do that.’ And wondered if he had overstepped the mark. But she smiled, a little wistfully he thought, as he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. A courtesy and a minor one at that. But he liked the thought of doing things for her.

Emma made the children say their goodbyes as soon as they were inside. ‘Off to the kitchen, both of you. Hang your damp things by the fire and tell Bessie I said you could have some hot milk.’

‘And cake?’ Harry wheedled.

‘A small piece,’ Emma allowed, as she pulled off her gloves. ‘Say goodbye to Lord Huntercombe.’

Georgie knelt down, hugged Fergus and shrieked with laughter as he licked her face. She jumped up, gave Hunt a ravishing smile. ‘You don’t need my hankie, do you, sir?’

Laughter welled up at the child’s certainty. He shook his head. ‘Not this time, Georgie. Enjoy your cake.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Harry held out his hand and Hunt shook it.

He watched the children as they rushed down the short hallway, waving at the door into the kitchen. It banged behind them.

That left Emma. He took a deep breath as he pulled off his own gloves. There was only one way to say farewell to a woman you had sort of asked to marry you...he caught her hands and his breath jerked at that first touch of his bare hands on hers. He felt the warmth of her skin, the slight roughness of her hands that told him she did indeed do some of the housework. Those deep eyes, drowning blue, widened as he drew her closer. ‘You permit?’ He wanted to kiss her. Every fibre in his body urged him to do just that. But she was not a woman who either gave herself, or could be taken lightly.

For a moment she looked utterly confused. ‘Permit? Oh!’ A flush crept over her cheeks. He thought her fingers trembled a little, or perhaps his did. Whichever it was, his heart was suddenly pounding. Yes, he was definitely attracted to her. Rather more than that if he were to be honest about it. He wanted her and every instinct clamoured for him to take her in his arms and show her that.

But this was supposed to be a polite, decorous courtship. A chaste kiss would be more the thing.

‘I think... I think I may have forgotten...’

Heat shot through him at the soft confession. ‘I haven’t,’ he assured her. Releasing her hands, he took her in his arms and drew her closer until their bodies touched and his blood hammered in a rhythm he had thought lost. It was not as though he had been a monk these past few years, but this was different. And not merely because he was thinking of marriage. It was just...different. She felt right in his arms, soft breasts against him, her eyes dark in her flushed face. She smelled of soap, just soap, rain-damp wool, and warm, sweet Emma.

‘My lord—’

‘Hunt.’ He put his hand under her chin. Lord, she was soft. Peach soft, silk soft. ‘My friends call me Hunt. Will you be my friend for now, Emma?’ He stroked the delicate line of her throat, knew the leap and quiver of her pulse under his fingers. And wanted. Burned. A chaste kiss.

‘Yes.’ It was no more than a whisper, yet he heard it in every corner of his being as he lowered his mouth to hers and feathered the lightest, briefest kiss over her lips. It nearly broke his control, because her lips flowered under his, opening on the sweetest, softest sigh, inviting him in. Everything in him leapt to meet her response and he took the kiss deeper, tasting the warmth and shy welcome of her mouth. She met him, took the rhythm from him and their tongues matched, danced. Her body moulded to his, supple and pliant under his hands. He found the curve of her bottom, pressed to bring her more fully against his aching shaft and heard the soft gasp of shock.

A kiss. Just a kiss. This was more than just a kiss.

And he was going to want more than just sex... Damn.

Somehow he broke the kiss, released her and stepped back, his body taut with protest. Just a kiss. He would not give her the least reason to think he subscribed to society’s usual attitude to widows with a shady past. Even if his body had no discretion, he didn’t have to give it free rein. Not until he had her to wife. And even then, this was to be a marriage of convenience. The sort where a gentleman visited his wife’s bed, then retired to his own.

‘Au revoir, ma’am.’ He raised his hat, put his gloves back on and left. Before he could change his mind. The door safely closed behind him, Hunt used the short walk back to the inn where he had left his carriage to remind himself exactly what a marriage of convenience entailed. An alliance of mutual benefit. A contract, an arrangement that would not require any changes to the routine of his life. Except for regular sex. As enjoyable as he could make it for both of them. But not passion. They would be friends with an affectionate regard for one another. Not lovers in any more than the physical sense of the word.

* * *

Emma only permitted herself to think about Hunt’s not-quite offer after she had kissed Harry goodnight. She went back down to the parlour and tried to consider it dispassionately.

There were no logical arguments against. Not if he could accept her past.

Hunt was offering a future for the children. Without even waiting to be asked he had said that he would dower Georgie as if she were his own daughter and named a sum that had nearly made Emma’s jaw drop. Harry could have a good tutor, go to school, university and be trained for a profession. There would be money settled on him as if he were Hunt’s younger son. Money would be settled on her to provide for her in the event of Hunt’s death.

I’m not precisely a spring chicken. She smiled at the memory of his wry voice. How old was he? She was no spring chicken herself.

He offered passage back into the world from which she had been exiled. She had never regretted the exile for herself, only the difficulties of providing for the children. But now she had a way back and a future for her children. All she had to do was marry him without love on either side. Instead she would have respect, some affection and kindness. And the title of Marchioness of Huntercombe.

She liked him. He was a good man, honourable to the core. She had enjoyed his company both the other day and today. But she had loved Peter. Passionately. If she married Hunt she would be marrying for advantage. Though she could not pretend it would only be for the children’s sake. She wouldn’t insult Hunt by wearing pretty clothes again and accepting jewels from him, while pretending they were sack cloth and ashes she wore for the sake of Harry and Georgie. Nor could she pretend that she would not enjoy sharing her bed with a man again.

No. Not just any man—Hunt. Her breath caught. She wanted him. Her whole body hummed at the memory of that kiss. Hours later and the shock of awareness lingered, with the faint enticing odour of sandalwood soap, damp wool and warm male. She could still feel the fierce strength of his arms as he held her and her breath hitched at the remembered taste of his kiss, hot and male, as her mouth had trembled into that swift, shocking response. Heat crept over her cheeks at the memory of his erection pressed against her belly. Had her response shocked him? Would he think her a wanton or, even worse, desperate to have responded so fast? So freely? He had called her ma’am afterwards and left immediately, but—she was being foolish. He was the one who had initiated the kiss. If he didn’t want a response then he should have delivered a chaste peck to the cheek. He was the one who had pulled her against him.

But she had wanted him, still wanted him, and it bothered her. Other men had made advances to her in the last few years. None of them had interested her and not just because they had offered nothing more than an affair. She hadn’t even been attracted, let alone tempted. If Hunt had wanted an affair, well, she hoped she would have refused, but she could admit to herself that without the children to consider it would be tempting.

He had asked her to be his friend, but with very little encouragement, or perhaps none at all, she could do very much more than simply like him. There was something about the quiet confidence, the dignity that was far more than his rank—that was simply him. And he was kind. Not in a patronising sort of way; that could annoy. His kindness was bone-deep. And, she smiled, there was something very appealing about a man so obviously fond of his dog. He had been open with her, honest. She would be a fool to refuse...if, in the end, he offered for her. Because he had not offered marriage as yet. He had asked to court her, to have a chance for them to become acquainted.

And there was the other thing that bothered her; she already knew her answer. Just as she had with Peter almost from the first moment of meeting him at that house party so long ago. They had ridden out in a large group, but somehow it had been as if no one else existed from that moment. And she had known, just as she knew now. Although it was a little different. With Peter she had known that she was falling in love; with Hunt she simply knew that she wanted to marry him, that she could be happy with him.

She who, according to her parents, had flung her life away for love was now prepared to marry for convenience.

For safety. For her children’s future.

Only there had been that kiss... Something inside her fluttered, something she had thought if not dead, then asleep.


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

In the ensuing week Emma was careful not to allow the children to think of Hunt as anything more than a friend of their father’s. He called three times, including two indoor picnics, and by the end of the third outing—a walk, since the weather relented—Emma had no doubts at all. If he offered she would accept. How could she do otherwise with a man who read fairy tales to Georgie on a rainy afternoon? And the way he slipped on his reading glasses was ridiculously attractive in a bookish and scholarly way. Under his tutelage Harry’s chess had improved greatly. He had lent Harry a small book on tactics which Harry had his nose in whenever permitted.

They had not discussed marriage, but she assumed if he was still visiting, then he was still considering it. Only...he hadn’t really kissed her again. Oh, he kissed her goodbye each time, a careful, chaste brush of his lips on her cheek. Exactly as he might kiss a sister.

That bothered her more than she liked. Not that she wanted him making advances to her, but when he had kissed her that first time...

Perhaps he had thought she was too eager and wished to indicate that their marriage should be conducted along more decorous lines. She hoped she could take a hint, but while she thought she could manage a marriage of convenience, she wasn’t sure she would be entirely happy in a marriage where she would be expected to curb her enjoyment of the marriage bed. On the other hand, in a perverse way, she might feel less disloyal to Peter if she wasn’t looking forward to the marriage quite so much in quite that way.

But she liked Hunt and looked forward to his visits, perhaps a little more than was wise. But now, sewing in the parlour while the children played upstairs, she wondered if he would raise the subject of marriage again this afternoon. When he had left the day before yesterday he had said that they should talk next time...they had talked, just not about marriage, so presumably that was what he wanted to talk about. As long as they could be friends, if Huntercombe preferred a marriage where the marriage bed was only for the procreation of heirs, then she would accept that.

So the thrill that shot through Emma at the knock on the door was less than welcome as well as unexpected. It was barely two o’clock. Hunt was early and that embarrassing little leap of delight rubbed in the fact that she had been watching the clock for the past hour.

‘Be the door, mum.’ Bessie appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You want me to get it?’

Emma rose. ‘No, it’s all right, Bessie. It will be his lordship, so—’

Harry and Georgie clattered downstairs. ‘Is it Lord Huntercombe, Mama? And Fergus?’ Georgie demanded.

Emma smiled. ‘Why don’t I open the door and find out?’

‘It’s not raining,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll be able to walk Fergus again.’

Emma thought ruefully that it would be his dog as much as himself that would render Hunt acceptable to her children as a stepfather.

She opened the door and blinked at the liveried footman.

He looked down his nose at her. ‘The residence of Lady Emma Lacy, if you please.’

Emma took a proper look at the livery. It was only too familiar. ‘This is it.’

The young man’s expression registered shock, then condescension. ‘Inform her ladyship that she has a visitor, my good woman.’

Emma narrowed her eyes. The impudent puppy couldn’t be more than twenty. ‘Do you always take that tone with your elders?’ She used an imperious voice she never bothered with for Bessie.

His jaw dropped.

‘Straighten your shoulders!’ She knew an unholy glee as he snapped to attention. ‘You may tell me yourself who is calling.’ She knew perfectly well, but saw no reason to let him off the hook.

He looked winded. ‘Ah—’

‘Roger! Do they know the correct address, or not?’

The querulous voice had not changed in the least. ‘Good day, Mother.’ Emma stepped around the goggling Roger and walked to the carriage. ‘Whatever brings you here?’

Lady Dersingham stared in disbelief, first at Emma then the house. ‘I thought I must have the direction wrong. What a hovel!’

Emma took a firm grip on her temper. ‘It’s lovely to see you, too, Mother. Won’t you come in?’

Louisa Dersingham actually hesitated, then said in wilting tones, ‘The steps, Roger.’

Emma moved aside as the footman opened the carriage door and lowered the steps. She gritted her teeth as her mother descended as though tottering to her doom. She fixed the footman with a steely glare. ‘Take her ladyship’s bricks to the kitchen and ask my servant to reheat them.’

She knew her mother. Hell would freeze over before Louisa ventured out to Chelsea in November without hot bricks to her feet.

‘Really, Emma.’ Louisa’s voice quavered piteously. ‘If you must live out here, surely a nice villa by the river would be a more eligible situation. I believe they can be had quite reasonably.’

‘No doubt. Come in, Mother, and have a cup of tea to warm you.’

Louisa shuddered. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes.’ Emma offered her arm to support Louisa across the pavement to the house.

‘And what, pray, is that dreadful noise?’ Louisa demanded as they reached the doorstep.

For a moment Emma could not think what she meant. ‘Oh. That’s the stone yard behind us.’ She was so used to the banging that she scarcely heard it any more.

‘A stone yard?’ Louisa made it sound slightly less respectable than a brothel. ‘Well, Roger must step around to ask them to make less noise. Indeed, I am sure they can stop work completely for a little while.’

Emma didn’t quite roll her eyes. ‘Mother, they have their livelihoods to earn.’

Louisa stared. ‘What on earth has that to say to anything?’

Emma reached for patience. ‘All that will happen is that Mr Adams, who is my landlord, will tell Roger to get out of the way.’ In fact, she thought the stonemason would probably tell Roger to go to hell. She ushered Louisa over the threshold. ‘Welcome, Mother.’

The children had disappeared, but a stifled gasp from upstairs told her that at least one pair of small ears was flapping.

Bessie appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Tea, mum?’ She cleared her throat. ‘I can see as how ye’ve got a special guest.’

‘Yes, Bessie.’ Emma knew exactly what the maidservant was asking; should she re-use the breakfast tea leaves, or use fresh? ‘A very special guest—my mother, Lady Dersingham.’

‘Oh, well, I’m sure I’m pleased ter meet yer ladyship.’ Bessie dropped a very respectful curtsy.

Louisa looked pained. ‘Yes, yes, my good woman.’

Quelling an insane desire to laugh, or just scream, Emma said, ‘A nice cup of tea will be most welcome, Bessie. And her ladyship’s footman needs to reheat the carriage bricks.’ Difficult to judge who was the most outraged—her mother or the footman. ‘Come into the parlour, Mother.’

* * *

Louisa gave a shuddering glance around the parlour. ‘Oh, dear. Emma, please see that Roger brings the tea in. Really! That woman! Of course creatures of that sort never know their place.’ She eyed the battered sofa to which Emma had conducted her with grave suspicion and sat as though she expected it to bite.

Thinking that Hunt had not shown by as much as a blink that he had noticed her shabby parlour, nor been rude about Bessie, Emma spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Bessie gives complete satisfaction, Mother, and I certainly will not offend her in any way.’

Louisa closed her eyes and spoke in failing accents. ‘My dear Emma, if I am obliged to set eyes upon that creature again—’

‘Then keep them closed.’

Louisa’s eyes snapped open, all pretence of languor gone. ‘Really, Emma! Is that any way to speak to your mother?’

‘This is my house, Mother.’ Emma sat down. ‘What brings you here? You haven’t visited me since Peter died.’ Emma’s fingers curled to fists at the memory. ‘Nor have you acknowledged any of my letters, including the one that informed you we had moved.’

Louisa dismissed that with an airy wave. ‘I am afraid I am but an indifferent correspondent. I am sure I did write. Perhaps my maid neglected to put a letter out for Dersingham to frank. And really, after the dreadful way you have behaved—!’

The door opened to admit Bessie bearing a tray. ‘Here we are, mum. Lovely, fresh cuppa. Had the kettle nice an’ hot. Don’t take a minnit, then.’ Adorned in a clean apron, Bessie set the tray on the table. ‘An’ I put a little plate of biscuits besides.’

‘Thank you, Bessie.’

Bessie beamed, addressing herself to Louisa. ‘An’ the bricks is heatin’ up nice on the fire, me lady.’

Louisa winced. ‘Er...very good.’

‘Nippy, it’s turned,’ Bessie said, cheerfully unaware of shibboleths shattered and taboos toppled. ‘Not but what ye’d be as cosy as a bug in that big carriage.’

‘Bugs?’ Louisa’s mouth fell open. ‘I assure you, my good woman, there are no bugs in my carriage!’

A second knock on the front door deflected whatever Bessie might have replied. ‘I dessay that’ll be his lordship, mum.’ She smoothed her apron and hurried out.

Louisa sank back on the sofa, encountered the very hard back and straightened. ‘For goodness sake, Emma! If you cannot conduct yourself with greater discretion, you cannot wonder—’

‘Now, that’s real kind, yer lordship. Reckon me lady’ll be right pleased!’

Huntercombe’s deep voice responded cheerfully as Louisa shuddered. ‘Whatever possessed you to hire that creature?’

‘This way, yer lordship. Me lady’s mam is here, an’ a fine lady she is.’

Emma bit the inside of her cheek to stop the laughter escaping. ‘High praise, indeed, Mother.’

The door opened. ‘His lordship, mum,’ Bessie announced. ‘An’ I’ll bring another tea cup as quick as quick.’

Hunt strolled into the room, hat and gloves tucked under his arm, Fergus at his heels. His brows lifted at the sight of Louisa, but he smiled at Emma. ‘Lady Emma. How do you do?’ He bowed over her hand.

‘Ah, Huntercombe. It is you.’ Louisa’s voice was delicately pained. ‘Rather an odd hour for you to call.’

Hunt gave Louisa a puzzled glance and said to Emma, ‘I thought this was a perfectly acceptable time to call on Georgie.’ He glanced at the battered old clock on the chimneypiece. ‘I am a little early, I confess.’ He smiled and Emma’s pulse skipped. Oh, foolish! A marriage of convenience was what he wanted. Convenience and some liking and affection. Not this girlish fluttering at the mere sight of him.

He bowed to Louisa. ‘How do you do, ma’am? Is Dersingham well?’

‘Perfectly, thank you.’ Louisa’s brow creased. ‘Who, may I ask, is Georgie? Is that the dog’s name?’

Hunt simply stared and Emma couldn’t blame him. ‘Georgie is my daughter, Mother. Your granddaughter,’ she added, in case there was any confusion. And couldn’t resist saying, ‘You were invited to her christening over six years ago.’

Louisa’s mouth pinched. ‘Oh, I dare say. But one has so many things to take up one’s time, I am sure keeping track of—’ She broke off as Bessie came in with another tea cup.

‘There y’are, your lordship. Pretty, ain’t it, with all them flowers round the edge.’

He took it with a smile. ‘Thank you, Bessie. I’m sure the tea will taste even nicer in such a lovely cup. Would you take Fergus to the kitchen with you?’

Bessie beamed. ‘Oh, yes, yer lordship. Be a pleasure. And proper, fresh tea it is. Made special for her ladyship.’ She bobbed in Louisa’s direction.

‘Thank you, Bessie,’ Emma said. ‘Could you please tell Master Harry and Miss Georgie that I am unable to take them for their walk just now?’

‘Yes, mum. Come along now, Fergus.’ Bessie curtsied and closed the door behind herself and the dog.

Emma turned to Hunt. ‘I am so sorry, sir, but we will be unable to go for our walk.’

There was a faint, a very faint, twinkle in his eye as he handed her the tea cup. ‘Of course you can’t. Not with such a delightful, and I think unexpected, visitor.’

‘Quite unexpected,’ Emma agreed. The less said about delightful the better.

A twitch of Hunt’s lips suggested he had noted the omission. ‘But,’ he went on, as Emma poured his tea with just the tiny splash of milk he liked and handed it to him, ‘perhaps once I have done justice to the tea and this cup, and the children have made their bows to their grandmother, I could take them out while you enjoy a quiet visit with Lady Dersingham?’ He smiled at Louisa. ‘Your grandchildren must be such a pleasure to you, ma’am. No doubt they will be delighted to see you.’

If Emma had harboured doubts about his acuity, the edge on those final remarks would have put them to bed with a shovel.

Louisa frowned. ‘I do hope their governess has taught them better than to enact a great deal of vulgar nonsense over—’

The door burst open and Georgie and Harry rushed in. Georgie flung herself at Emma. ‘Mama! Bessie says we mayn’t go for our walk! Please, Mama!’

‘Georgie.’ Hunt’s firm voice drew the child’s attention. ‘We will have our walk, but first you must make your curtsy to your grandmother.’

‘Grandmother?’ Harry stared at Louisa, who bridled, in obvious shock.

‘Well, really! I must say—’

‘Yes, Harry.’ Emma cut Louisa off without hesitation and gave her son a warning glance. ‘You will remember my mother, Lady Dersingham.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Harry took the hint and executed a bow. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. How do you do?’

Louisa sniffed. ‘Harry? There is no Harry in the family.’

‘He is named for his godfather,’ Emma said, through gritted teeth. ‘Harry Fitzwalter, a friend of Peter’s.’ Much notice any member of either family had paid to Harry’s birth. Or Georgie’s for that matter.

Georgie slipped her hand into Emma’s, staring at Louisa. ‘So if she’s your mama, then that makes her our grandmama?’

Louisa tittered. ‘Good heavens! Is the child backward?’

Harry beat Emma’s choking rage into speech. ‘She is not!’ He glared at Louisa. ‘She’s only six and she didn’t even know we had a grandmother!’

Louisa opened her mouth and Emma braced for battle.

‘Harry?’ Hunt’s voice was quite calm. ‘Would you take your sister upstairs and get ready?’

His face crimson, Harry nodded. ‘Yes, sir. May Fergus come with us?’

Hunt glanced at Emma. ‘If your mother says so.’

Saying a silent prayer of thanks for a storm delayed, if not averted, Emma nodded. ‘Yes. That’s all right. Off you go.’

Harry took Georgie’s hand. ‘Come on. Let’s get Fergus.’ He tugged her along, then seemed to remember something. Executing a very stiff bow in Louisa’s direction, he said, ‘Good day to you, ma’am. It was very nice to meet you again.’

* * *

Having drunk a cup of tea she barely tasted, in an atmosphere brimming with arctic ice and unvoiced feminine outrage, Emma saw Hunt off with the children.

‘Mama, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Harry whispered, none too softly. ‘But—’

‘Papa would expect you always to stand up for your sister, Harry,’ Emma said, checking his gloves.

‘And I didn’t know we had a grandmama!’ Georgie was sucking her thumb, her gloves clutched in the other hand.

Emma hugged her. ‘Never mind, sweetheart.’ She removed the thumb from Georgie’s mouth and tugged on the worn little gloves. ‘Enjoy your walk.’ She rubbed Fergus’s silky ears and he licked her hand enthusiastically. ‘You have fun, too,’ she told him.

Straightening, she looked at Hunt. ‘Thank you.’ There was so much more she wanted to say, but with the children listening it was impossible.

His eyes were grave, but he took her hand—the one Fergus had not anointed—and kissed it. Her pulse did a great deal more than skip at the touch of his lips, and her breath caught.

His fingers tightened for an instant, but he said only, ‘You’d better not rub my ears.’

She managed a weak chuckle as Harry shouted with laughter. Georgie smiled around her thumb. Her glove was off again, the thumb back in her mouth.

‘Right.’ Hunt looked at the pair of them. ‘Fergus is in charge, so stay close until we reach the Common. Come along.’

Emma closed the door behind them and leaned on it for a moment, resisting the temptation to abandon her mother and bolt out the door after them. After not bothering to write or visit since just after Peter’s death, Louisa had to pick this afternoon.

Summoning up all her restraint, Emma went back to the parlour.

Louisa was poking into the drawer of Emma’s little kneehole desk. She looked around unblushing and shut the drawer.

‘Well, I’m relieved you know better than to keep incriminating letters, but you should not permit Huntercombe to visit in broad daylight!’

Emma took a very careful breath. ‘He came to take the children for a walk.’

Louisa snorted. ‘Oh, the pair of you did a creditable job of passing it off, but when one already knows—’ She waved an airy hand.

‘Knows what, Mother?’ Did Louisa think she was having an affair with Hunt?

Louisa’s laugh tinkled. ‘Why, that Huntercombe is your latest paramour. Everyone is talking about it.’

‘What?’ She tried to think. Latest? Of course it was possible people had seen them together and she supposed Hunt’s servants were as likely to gossip as anyone else’s, but latest? ‘Just to be clear, Mother,’ she said flatly, ‘Huntercombe is not my lover. Nor,’ she added, her temper rising, ‘has anyone else been my lover!’

Louisa’s amused smile sliced to the bone. ‘Emma, we’re both grown women—we all have lovers after we marry, but it’s best if we are discreet.’ She sat down again. ‘I was quite in demand in my day.’

Emma could not find a single coherent thought, let alone word. She didn’t want to think about Louisa—her mother—having sex at all, let alone with a parade of faceless and nameless—please, God, let them remain nameless—gentlemen.

‘Your mistake, dear,’ Louisa continued, ‘was to insist on marrying Lacy. No one, including Bolt, would have minded in the least had you conducted a discreet affair once you were safely enceinte. And he would not have cared about any other petits pacquets once you had provided an heir and a spare.’

Sickened, Emma found something that resembled her voice. ‘Is that what you did?’

Louisa shrugged. ‘Of course. I couldn’t swear that you are Dersingham’s get yourself.’

Emma struggled with that for a moment. ‘And my brothers?’

‘Oh, they are. Naturally I made sure the first two were his. So convenient that they were both boys, so I had the heir and the spare out of the way.’

‘And who do you think might have sired me?’ Emma demanded.

Louisa appeared to give that serious thought. ‘Oh, well. Eltringham comes to mind as the most likely. But it could have been Havelock. Or even Dersingham for that matter. Although that is not very likely.’ She pursed her lips. ‘He was quite taken up with that dreadful Amaranth Hayes-Boyle at the time.’

Belatedly Emma recalled that she didn’t want to think about her mother having sex, or know the names of her lovers, let alone Dersingham’s lovers. She pulled herself together. ‘Mother, surely you didn’t call merely to inform me that the world believes me to be engaged in an affair with Huntercombe.’ She’d be damned if she’d tell Louisa why Hunt was calling on her. It was none of her business.

Louisa’s mouth thinned. ‘Your father—Dersingham, that is—is renewing his offer to take you back. We both feel that you have had sufficient time to come to your senses. He is willing to reinstate your dowry.’

Emma stilled. ‘In return for what?’

‘That you sign over guardianship of both children to him.’ Louisa’s lip curled. ‘Hardly a sacrifice one would think. Then you may make a marriage of sorts. Dersingham has some merchant in mind. You will have to be a great deal more discreet than you have been with Huntercombe and Pickford, of course.’

‘Pickford?’ She had stamped on Pickford’s insulting offer with less thought than she would have accorded a cockroach.

Louisa sighed. ‘My dear Emma. Everyone knows that Pickford was your lover earlier in the year. He certainly makes no secret of it. Now, this merchant has agreed to the marriage, but he refuses to be bothered with the children. You couldn’t expect that.’

‘No?’ She heard the snap in her voice and took a steadying breath.

Louisa shrugged. ‘A widow in your circumstances cannot be choosy. Dersingham will arrange schools for them.’

Emma was startled to find herself on her feet, fists clenched. Fury burned in every fibre of her body. A clear, cold voice spoke at a slight distance, telling her mother that she might go to hell and take Dersingham, along with his offer, with her.





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