How to Manage a Marquess

 

 

Novellas
In the Spinster's Bed
The Duchess of Love
The Naked Prince
The Naked Laird

 

 

H
OW
T
O
M
ANAGE
A
M
ARQUESS

S
ALLY
M
AC
K
ENZIE

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Prologue

 

Ten-year-old Nate stopped with his hand on the library door.

“I just got word from Wilkinson,” he heard his father, the Marquess of Haywood, say from inside the room. “The Spinster House spinster has died.”

Something—a book?—slammed into something else. “
God's blood!
And now poor Marcus will have to choose the new spinster. Oh, how I
hate
Isabelle Dorring. I hope she's burning in hell.”

Nate gasped. His mother never talked that way.

His parents must have heard him, because the door swung open.

“Nate! What are you doing lurking there?” Father asked.

“I-I left a book in the library, Father.” Nate swallowed. His cousin Marcus lived with them because Marcus's father had died from Isabelle Dorring's curse. “Is Marcus all right?”

Father smiled, putting a comforting hand on Nate's shoulder. “Of course he is. He just has to go to Loves Bridge and choose a new tenant for the Spinster House, that's all.”

Nate didn't like that. His mother had told him many, many times how her father and Marcus's father, how
all
the Dukes of Hart since the third duke, had died before their heirs were born, all because Isabelle Dorring had cursed their line. He was certain Isabelle was an evil old ghost, haunting the Spinster House.

“Can I come, too?” He was two weeks older than Marcus. He was used to watching out for his cousin.

Father's smile widened. “That would be splendid, Nate. I'm sure Marcus will be happier with you there.” He looked at Mum and said, with false enthusiasm, “We can make an outing of it.”

Mum frowned and shook her head. “No. No, I wish I could go with you. You know I do. But I can't bear that place.” She came over to hug Nate. “Keep Marcus safe for me, Natey.”

Mum always said that. And Nate answered the way he always did.

“Of course I will, Mum.”

 

 

 

Nate sat by his mother's bed, heart heavy. His father had died the month before; he was afraid his mother was dying now. It was as if she'd lost all desire to live in a world that did not include her Philip. Still, he hadn't thought she'd fade this quickly. She'd been fine—well, sad, but still alert—last night. This morning, however . . .

She was so pale and shrunken. She'd been in and out of consciousness ever since her maid had called him to her bedside an hour ago.

He frowned. Marcus would want to be here. He'd sent word to London, but it was unlikely his cousin would arrive in time. Mum's breathing was so labored—

Her eyes flew open. “Gerald,” she croaked, mistaking him for her long-dead brother.

“It's Nate, Mum.” He leaned close so she could see his face. “Do you want a sip of water?”

“Nate!” She grabbed his hand, ignoring his offer. “Nate.” She swallowed. “Keep Marcus safe.”

He patted her fingers to calm her, swallowing his brief annoyance that she was using her last breaths to talk about his cousin rather than him. “I will, Mum. You know I will.”

“I couldn't”—she struggled for air. “I couldn't keep Gerald safe.”

She was too agitated. He needed to calm her, but how?

He
hated
feeling so helpless.

“It's all right, Mum.”

She acted as if she hadn't heard him. “If I hadn't been so selfish . . . if I hadn't married Philip . . .”

“But you loved Father.” He'd never doubted that. His friends' parents might have taken lovers, but not his. Their dedication to each other had been as much a constant in his life as the sun rising.

Her head moved fretfully on the pillow. “Yes, but Philip could have married anyone. Gerald had only me.” Her hold tightened, her nails digging into his skin. “Keep Marcus safe for me, Natey.”

“Of course I will, Mum.” The words flowed from long practice.

“The curse . . . it will get stronger. When Marcus turns thirty, you'll have to watch him very, very closely.”

She tried to sit up.

He pressed her gently back against the pillows. “Perhaps Marcus will fall in love, Mum,” he said soothingly, “and break the curse.”

For a woman who appeared to be on the verge of death, her grip was like iron. “No, he won't.”

“But he might, Mum.” Love matches weren't common among the
ton
, but they did happen. “He's only twenty-one. He's got time. And when he does find a girl to love, the curse will end. It will all be over.”

“No!”
Her fingers convulsed, her eyes boring into his, a wild desperation in their depths. “Don't you see? The curse
can't
be broken.”

“Of course it can. If a Duke of Hart marries for love—”

Her face twisted. “That's a
lie
. My father loved my mother. I
know
he did. And he still died.”

Mum had never said this before.

She must be confused. It wouldn't be surprising. No matter how strongly one believed in an afterlife, facing death must be terrifying.

And if love wouldn't break the curse, Marcus was condemned to a long, lonely life.

Well, not a
long
life.

Nate made soothing noises. He didn't know what else to do.

“Promise me—” Mum gasped for air. “Promise me you'll keep Marcus safe”—she swallowed—“for as long as you can. Even if you have to put off marrying yourself.
Nothing
is more important than Marcus's safety, Nate.”

Poor Mum. He would promise her anything if it would ease her passing.

He struggled to speak calmly. “Yes, Mum. Don't worry. I'll watch over Marcus. I swear I will.”

At last the stiff fear drained from her face. She let go of his hand, giving him a sweet smile. “You're such a good boy, Natey. I know you'll keep your word.”

And then she lay back, her eyes drifting closed. A look of peace flitted over her face just before the last bit of color left it.

His mother was dead.

Chapter One

 

Nathaniel, Marquess of Haywood, strode across the road from Cupid's Inn, arguing with himself.

Oh, hell.

He stopped and took a deep breath. This was Loves Bridge, not London, and Miss Hutting, the woman he feared wished to trap his cousin into marriage, was a vicar's daughter, not a conniving Society chit.

And
Marcus had told him she wanted to be the next Spinster House spinster, not the next Duchess of Hart.

But she spent hours alone with Marcus the other day,
including
some time in the Spinster House. Think what could have happened there!

Nate clenched his teeth and started walking again.

He should have been more suspicious when Marcus accepted this dinner invitation. A sane man wouldn't voluntarily sit down to a meal with a vicar, his wife, and their countless children.

He'd let his guard down, that was it. Loves Bridge was the curse's birthplace, so he'd thought the villagers would realize the Duke of Hart had to avoid marriage at all costs. Once the duke said his vows and bedded his wife, the poor man started counting the months left him on this earth. For two hundred years, no Duke of Hart had lived to see his heir born.

I am not going to let that happen to Marcus. I
have
to remain alert, especially now that Marcus is thirty.

Just look what had happened when he'd let his attention wander in London a few days ago: Marcus had ended up in the bushes with that Rathbone hussy, her dress falling down for all to see.

Hell, Lady Dunlee, London's leading gossip,
had
seen.

Marcus wouldn't end up in the bushes at the vicarage, of course, but that didn't mean—

“Good evening, Lord Haywood.”

“Ah!” Nate took several quick steps back.
Oh, Lord, talk about not remaining alert.

Two old ladies with white hair and bright, prying eyes blinked up at him. They must be the Boltwood sisters, the leading gossips of this little village. What wretched luck.

He forced his lips into a smile and bowed slightly. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Looking for some company, my lord?” The shorter of the two batted her eyelashes at him.

Nate repressed a shudder. “No. My thoughts are company enough, madam.”

The other old woman clicked her tongue. “A handsome young lord like you alone with your thoughts? That will never do.”

Her sister nodded and then waggled her thin white eyebrows suggestively. “We happened to see Miss Davenport loitering around the Spinster House.”

“She was looking quite lonely.”

A very inappropriate part of him stirred.

Miss Davenport had arrived at the inn the other day just as he and his friend Alex, the Earl of Evans, were coming to have a pint and wait for Marcus to finish posting the Spinster House vacancy notices—accompanied by Miss Hutting. Later, Marcus had told them Miss Davenport was also hoping to become the next Spinster House spinster.

Unbelievable! She should have men lining up to beg for her hand in marriage. That day at the inn, the sun had touched her smooth honey-blond hair, making it glow. He'd gazed down into her blue eyes as he'd opened the door for her and felt himself being pulled deeper and deeper....

He frowned. He'd seen dark currents swirling below her polite expression and had a sudden, bizarre urge to ask what was troubling her. Thank God Alex had spoken then. She'd looked away, and the odd connection he'd felt with her had broken.

And it would
stay
broken. He was not in the market for a wife. Of course not. Not only did he have to guard Marcus for as long as he could, he was only thirty, too—far too young to consider marriage.

Oh, blast. Now the Misses Boltwood were snickering and nudging each other.

He sniffed in his haughtiest manner and looked down his nose at them. “I am quite certain Miss Davenport would not welcome my intrusion into her solitude, ladies.”

No. The woman's matrimonial plans—or lack thereof—were none of his concern.

“That Spinster House!” The shorter of the Misses Boltwood curled her lip and snorted. “I can't imagine what Isabelle Dorring was thinking. Spinsterhood is an unnatural state.”

The other Miss Boltwood nodded. “A woman needs a man to protect her and give her children.”

Her sister elbowed her, waggling her eyebrows again. “And keep her warm at night.”

Since both ladies looked to have reached their sixth or seventh decade without nabbing a husband themselves, their enthusiasm for the activities of the marriage bed was more than a little alarming.

“As you must know,” Nate said, “Miss Dorring had good reason to distrust men. It's not surprising she would wish to offer other women a way to live comfortably without a husband.”

The taller Miss Boltwood shrugged and flicked her fingers at him. “Bah. From all accounts, Isabelle knew what she was about. Her mistake was letting the duke into her bed before she'd got him to the altar.”

“Though you must admit, Gertrude, that if
that
duke looked anything like
this
duke, poor Isabelle can be forgiven for getting her priorities confused.” The shorter Miss Boltwood's lips curved in what could only be considered a lascivious fashion. “Have you seen the man's calves? His shoulders?”

These elderly ladies
can't
be lusting after Marcus.

The thought was too horrifying to contemplate.

“I'm not blind, am I, Cordelia? And what about his—”

“I'm afraid I must continue on my way, ladies.” It might be rude to interrupt them, but it was necessary. Some things could never be unheard.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Miss Gertrude winked. “Here we are, keeping you cooling your heels when you must be anxious to meet Miss Davenport.”

“I am not meeting Miss Davenport.”

No! Where the hell had that thought come from? There was nothing unfortunate about it. He had no time for nor interest in a marriageable woman.

“You aren't the duke, my lord,” Miss Cordelia said. “You don't have to worry about the silly curse.”

Miss Gertrude nodded. “And Miss Davenport is a comely armful in need of a husband.”

Very
comely . . .

He must get these wayward thoughts under control. Miss Davenport might be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was not for him.

“I doubt if Miss Davenport would agree she's in need of a husband.” He bowed again. “If you will excuse me?”

He didn't wait for their permission. He wanted to get out of earshot as quickly as possible.

He wasn't quick enough.

“The marquess has an impressive set of shoulders, too, Gertrude.”

“Yes, indeed. Miss Davenport is a very lucky woman.”

He resisted the urge to turn and shout back at them that he had no interest in Miss Davenport.

But he could have no interest in the woman. What he had—must have—was an immediate interest in Marcus's safety.

He strode—

And he wasn't spying, precisely. He was merely keeping a watchful eye out.

He strolled toward the vicarage, which just happened to be directly across from the Spinster House. Was Miss Davenport still there? He didn't wish to encourage any gossip, but surely it wouldn't be remarkable to engage the woman in conversation if he encountered her. Actually, it would be an excellent thing to do. That way, he could watch for Marcus without being obvious about it.

Splendid. Miss Davenport
was
still there, dressed in a blue gown that he'd wager was the same shade as her eyes. A matching blue bonnet covered her lovely blond hair. She was slender, though not too slender, and just the right height. If he held her in his arms, her head would come up to his—

He jerked his eyes away from her—an action that was far harder than it should have been—to look toward the vicarage. What luck! Marcus was just leaving. Miss Hutting was with him, but in a moment the girl would—

He stopped and blinked to clear his vision. No, his eyes had not deceived him. Miss Hutting had just pulled Marcus into a concealing clump of bushes.

Hadn't Marcus learned
anything
from the disaster with Miss Rathbone?

It was the blasted curse. Marcus wouldn't do anything so cabbage-headed if he was in his right mind.

He glanced back at Miss Davenport. Oh hell, she was staring, too. If she told anyone what she saw—

His blood ran cold. If those gossipy Boltwood sisters got wind of this, Marcus would be hard-pressed to avoid parson's mousetrap, particularly as Miss Hutting's father was the parson.

Well, this was something he
could
attend to. He'd have a word with Miss Davenport. Surely he could persuade her to keep mum.

* * *

Baron Davenport's daughter, Miss Anne Davenport looked at the Spinster House. It wasn't a remarkable edifice. In fact, the place looked like all the other village houses—two stories, thatched roof, of average size. It was much smaller than Davenport Hall, the comfortable house she shared with her father.

Lud!

Anne's fingers closed into two tight fists.
How can Papa wish to marry a woman a year younger than I am?

She forced her fingers to uncurl. There was nothing mysterious about the situation. Mrs. Eaton was a widow with two young sons. She'd proved her procreative abilities—and Papa needed an heir.

Ugh.

And if—
when
—Papa married Mrs. Eaton, Anne would have to turn over all control of Davenport Hall to her, after almost a decade of making the household decisions herself. That thought had been so distressing, she'd considered marrying anything in pantaloons just to have a home of her own.

But then she'd thought what must happen when the pantaloons came off.

She shivered—and not with anticipation. Not that she knew
precisely
what happened in the marriage bed, but she had a general idea. And even if a woman's marital duties were no more demanding than shaking a man's hand, that would be too much. She'd yet to find a male she wished to spend five minutes with, let alone a lifetime.

She looked back at the Spinster House. It would be spacious for a woman living alone.

She'd not given the place much thought before. She'd been only six when Miss Franklin, the current—no, the
former
—spinster had moved in. Miss Franklin had been very young at the time. Everyone expected her to be the Spinster House spinster for forty or fifty or even sixty years, if she enjoyed good health. So when Papa had taken up with Mrs. Eaton, Anne hadn't thought the house might offer a solution to her problem.

But just days ago, to the surprise and shock of the entire village, Miss Franklin had run off with Mr. Wattles, the music teacher, who had turned out to be the son of the Duke of Benton and was now, with his father's passing, the duke himself. Even the Boltwood sisters hadn't sniffed out
that
story, and they were almost as accomplished at ferreting out secrets as Lady Dunlee, London's premier gabble grinder.

Which all meant the Spinster House spinster position was open again. The Almighty—or possibly Isabelle Dorring—had answered Anne's prayers.

Jane Wilkinson and Catherine Hutting were her closest friends, Jane a little older than Anne, Cat a little younger. They'd grown up together, giggled together, shared confidences, cried on each other's shoulders. Cat and Jane had comforted her just the other day when she'd told them the sorry tale of Papa and Mrs. Eaton. She would do anything for them.

Speaking of Cat, was that her voice she heard? She glanced across the road, up the hill to the vicarage—

Her jaw dropped, and she blinked. No, she hadn't imagined the scene. Cat had just darted into the trysting bushes—and the Duke of Hart had gone in after her!

Her thoughts raced. What should she do? Run for the vicar? No, Cat might be ravished before she got back with him. Scream? That would only have people rush to help
her
.

She took a step toward the vicarage—and stopped.

Perhaps he was the one who needed rescuing.

Anne stared at the shrubbery. It had been several minutes, and neither Cat nor the duke had emerged. There was no screaming. The branches weren't thrashing about. Clearly no one was struggling to get free.