How to Manage a Marquess (8 page)

Oh, Lord, she could not be faced with the only modest man in the
ton
. “It must take hours of practice to be able to play so well.”

He frowned at her, clearly annoyed by her attempt to distract him but too polite to say so. “Yes, but I enjoy practicing.”

He
enjoyed
the drudgery of going over and over a piece and memorizing it? She'd noticed he'd not used any written music.

“I hate it,” she said. “Or, I hated it. I don't even attempt to play anymore. I must tell you I was quite the bane of Mr. Luntley's existence. He was the Loves Bridge music teacher even when I was a girl. Oh, I like the idea of being able to play the pianoforte—I would never attempt the organ—and I'm very impressed by people who can play, especially as well as you do. Envious, really. But I don't have the patience or desire to spend the hours and hours it takes to master a piece.”

She smiled at him. He was looking a bit dazed by her chatter.

“I
can
sing, though, but only for my own amusement. I get very nervous when I have an audience. I suppose that's what amazes me the most about people who perform. You looked so calm and in control when you played. Doesn't it bother you to have everyone watching you? Do you ever lose your place or have your mind go blank? Truthfully, I think my hands would be shaking too much to press the keys.”

She paused. She'd run out of breath and things to say. Surely now he would hold forth about musical performance. She'd done everything she could to get him talking: flattered him, fawned over him, admitted her inferiority, asked him to share his superior knowledge. She should be able to stand back and listen to him drone on until it was time for him to resume playing. It was certainly what the other men of her acquaintance would do, even if they didn't have such a lofty title—or any title at all.

Apparently, Lord Hellwood was not like the other men of her acquaintance.

“Miss Davenport, I would be happy to discuss musical performance at some other time. What I wish to know now is why you spread rumors about Miss Catherine Hutting when you promised not to.”

“I didn't promise anything.” She was very certain about that. “And I didn't spread rumors.”

Lord Hellwood's brow arched up again, blast it.

“Well, not precisely. I did tell Jane, and we might have said something within the Boltwoods' hearing—”

“The Boltwoods!”

“Shh, not so loud. Do you want them to hear
you
?”

His eyes narrowed. “We are off in a corner, Miss Davenport, and the room is loud with other people's chatter. The Boltwoods will not hear me.”

They
were
in a corner. Why wasn't someone coming over to join their conversation? More to the point, why wasn't Jane coming over to rescue her?

Because Jane was too busy conversing with Lord Hellwood's friend Lord Evans, that's why. Well, Jane could easily steer the earl in this direction. If only Anne could catch her eye . . .

No hope of that. Jane had now turned her back, likely intentionally.

“But you have a very deep and carrying voice, my lord.”

Lord Hellwood pressed his lips together, but when he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper—which turned out to be even more unsettling.

“As you can imagine, Miss Davenport, I was not best pleased when I arrived yesterday to discover the duke had felt compelled by rumors to offer marriage to Miss Hutting, rumors that
you
started.”

“I didn't—”

Both his brows went up. She didn't see him move, but she felt as if he were looming over her.

She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Yes, well, but Cat turned the duke down and no one is shunning her, so no damage was done.” Though she hoped something was happening now. Neither Cat nor the duke had returned. They might not be together, but if they were . . .

She and Jane might have another chance at the Spinster House.

“Yes, thank God, which is why I'm not throttling you.”

She lifted her chin, though she was shaking inside. “I hope you would never offer a female violence, Lord Haywood.”

He reared back as if she'd slapped him. “Of course I wouldn't. Why would you think I'd do something so dastardly?”

“Because you just said you would.”

“I did no—oh, you mean about throttling you? That, Miss Davenport, was an example of hyperbole. Though . . .” This time, he definitely stepped closer.

She stepped back—and bumped against the wall.

She was trapped.

No, she was in a room with the entire village—except Cat and the duke. If she screamed, everyone would come running—and it would be a dreadful scandal.

She must remain calm. She need only keep Lord Hellwood occupied for a few more minutes. Surely Mrs. Hutting would come looking for him soon and shoo him back to the pianoforte.

She took a settling breath and inhaled Lord Hellwood's scent—and remembered precisely in far, far too much detail what had happened in the Spinster House garden.

He was scowling again. “Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly annoying, Miss Davenport?”

That's right. He hadn't wanted to do any of the things they'd done in the garden. His male instinct had taken control of his actions. He didn't care about
her
.

“No.”

“Well, I am sure they are merely too polite to say so.”

“Which you are not.”

He inclined his head. “I believe in plain speaking.” His brows angled down. “You do understand how serious the situation is, don't you? It's
literally
a matter of life and death.”

He was
not
going to be happy if he ever discovered she'd seen both Cat and the duke leave the room. But they hadn't left at the same time, so they might not be together. And she'd had nothing to do with their departures.

“You mean that silly curse? No one believes in that.”

He was looming over her again.

“I do. The duke does.”

“Well, I'm sorry for it.”

She might have heard his teeth grinding. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Right, then. Fortunately it doesn't matter. No permanent harm was done, and now Miss Hutting is happily established in the Spinster House. The duke and Lord Evans and I return to Town in the morning.”

That was her head talking. Her heart had sunk down to her slippers.

He cleared his throat and looked at his hands briefly. “The other issue I wish to raise with you concerns us more closely.”

Lud, she
was
an idiot. When he said
us
her heart did a foolish little dance. Stupid! There was no connection between them. None at all. “And what would that be?”

He frowned at her. He was
always
frowning at her. “I was quite, er, surprised, that your father went out of his way to introduce himself to me before the wedding
and
that he said he knew you and I had met before.”

Surprised? She'd been so shocked she'd thought she'd faint dead away for the first time in her life. “I suppose he just assumed our paths had crossed.”

The marquess had a very penetrating gaze. She glanced around the room to avoid it.

Mr. Linden was on his second, if not his third, glass of ale, but then his fiddling often became more inspired the more alcohol he consumed.

“That is not what you suppose at all. You turned an interesting shade of greenish-white when he mentioned our meeting—in a rather significant fashion, I might add.”

What
had
Papa meant by it?

“You are imagining things.” If she looked Lord Hellwood in the eye, he'd know she was lying. She smoothed her gloves with great attention. “Perhaps the lighting in the church misled you.”

He snorted. Eloquently. “Did you mention meeting me at the inn the day His Grace posted the Spinster House notices?”

“No, I didn't, though I did tell him I'd met the duke.”
How do you like that, Lord Hellwood?
“He'd already heard from the vicar that His Grace had arrived in the village.”

“Then the only other time we encountered each other was—” He scowled at her. “You didn't say anything to him about our activities in the Spinster House garden, did you?”

A lovely surge of anger cleared any remaining romantic cobwebs from her brain.

“Of course not. I'm not a dunderhead.”

And Papa hadn't known about it, at least when she'd got home that night, because he'd suggested Lord Hellwood as a possible husband. What would the marquess think about that?

She raised her chin. “I assure you that if I'd told my father what happened in that garden, this would not have been the first time you'd met him. He would have chased you all the way to London and dragged you back to meet me at the altar.” She raised her chin higher. “Not that I would have agreed to marry you, of course.”

“Don't be ridiculous. If word of what occurred in the garden got out, your reputation would be ruined. Honor would compel me to offer for you.”

She sniffed—in derision, of course. “Set your
natural male instinct
on your bloo-blasted honor. It will tear it to shreds and you can go happily back to London unencumbered by such inconvenient feelings.”

He gave her a very odd look, a mélange of anger and annoyance and frustration and perhaps something else. “You cannot believe I would leave you to your fate.”

She didn't trust herself to speak, so she merely raised what she hoped was an expressive eyebrow. If she was being honest, she'd admit she didn't know how she felt about that interlude in the garden. Some odd mix of mortification and excitement. But she definitely didn't wish to marry this man simply to appease his conscience.

He was scowling again.

“You best take care or your face will freeze that way.”

“What way?”

“This way.” She touched her finger to the deep V without thinking—and then snatched it back.
Did anyone see me?

She glanced around.

Jane was smirking at her, but no one else was looking her way.

“I
would
offer for you,” Lord Hellwood was saying, “and you would accept. Miss Hutting is fortunate the gossip of her trip to the bushes with the duke died quickly—and that she had the Spinster House to fall back on.”

“Well, since there's no gossip about us, we do not have to worry about the matter.”

If there'd been even an ember of gossip, Jane would have blown it into a conflagration and danced in delight in the light of the flames. Should Anne and Cat both fall into parson's mousetrap, Jane would be the last spinster standing and could waltz right into the Spinster House.

“But how did your father know we'd met if you didn't tell him?”

How
had
Papa found out? He didn't make a habit of coming into the village, and he
never
spoke to the Boltwood sisters.

She thought back over that evening.... Of course. “Mrs. Greeley!”

“Mrs. Greeley?”

“Yes. Remember the stout, bespectacled woman we saw when we were walking back to Cupid's Inn?” Fortunately Mrs. Greeley's vision wasn't very good. She could not have seen their expressions. “She's the village dressmaker. She's also Mrs. Bigley's—our housekeeper's—cousin. She must have told Mrs. Bigley, who told Mr. Bigley, who told my father.”

She felt a hand on her arm and blinked up at Lord Hellwood. He looked quite concerned.

“You've gone a bit greenish-white again, Miss Davenport. Are you all right?”

“Y-yes.” She was being silly. If Papa thought Lord Hellwood had dishonored her, he'd insist the marquess wed her. Her marriage would kill two birds with one stone, after all: it would repair any damage to her reputation
and
get her out of the house before he brought Mrs. Eaton in.

“As I said, my lord, you do not have to worry. My father would have wasted no time in trying to force you to offer for me if he knew about our . . . activities in the Spinster House garden. He puts as much stock in reputations and honor as you do.”

Lord Hellwood nodded. “As well he should.”

“
And
he wants to get rid of me.”

Oh, blast. Now Lord Hellwood was looking concerned again. She didn't want that. “But Papa hasn't spoken to you, so you can gallop happily home to London without a backward glance.”

The marquess's jaw hardened again. If he kept that up, he'd grind his teeth to dust.

“I am indeed relieved. Marriage does not fit into my plans at this time.”

Marriage didn't fit into her plans ever, but she couldn't keep her unruly tongue from saying, “Why? Because you've designated yourself the duke's guardian? I can't imagine he likes that much.”

Which was a mistake. She certainly didn't wish to remind the marquess that he might want to look around to see where His Grace had got to. Which is, of course, exactly what he did.