Elizabeth Rolls - His Convenient Marchioness

‘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

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?’