The Marquis Takes a Bride (7 page)

Made desperate by fatigue, he returned to the lodge and rang the bell. This time there was no reply and the gates remained firmly closed. He could see the lodge keeper sitting by the open window in his shirt sleeves, smoking a clay pipe, but although he rang and shouted, the old man appeared to have gone unaccountably deaf.

After dark, he tried leading his horse through a break in the hedge and found himself looking down the long barrel of a gamekeeper’s gun and it took a score of lies and apologies to extricate himself.

He then rode wearily to the local inn to be told by a surly landlord that there was no room. He asked for ale, and was told there was nothing to drink, and tired and intimidated by the sullen stares of the local yokels in the tap, he took himself off.

“What is the name of this cursed hostelry?” he asked himself, as he mounted his weary horse. He glanced up. The sign said, “The Marquis of Charrington” and Chemmy’s painted, bland and amiable features stared down at him.

“Damn him!” thought Guy. “He saw through my story and is making sure I do not get near Jennie. Mayhap Alice will have some suggestion.”

By the time he returned to London, two days later, he was in time to be informed that Mrs. Waring had left for the opera.

He hurried to his lodgings to change into his evening coat and knee breeches and managed to reach the Haymarket Theater by the first interval.

He went straight to Mrs. Waring’s box, ignoring in his hurry the gentleman seated next to her, and demanded a few words with her in private.

Alice’s eyes glowed with triumph and malice. “Certainly not!” she said. “Darling, tell this… person… to go away.”

Guy looked at her companion and found himself staring into the thin, painted, malicious features of the Earl of Freize.

“Take yourself off,” said the Earl, turning his gaze away from Guy. “You bore the lady.”

“Mrs. Waring and I are
intimate
friends,” grated Guy.

The Earl raised one finger. “Get rid of it,” he said.

Two burly footmen appeared from the shadows at the back of the box.

Taken by surprise, Guy had no time to fight back. He was carried down the stairs like a sack of potatoes and out into the street, where he was dropped face down in the filth of the kennel in the middle of the road.

He staggered to his feet consumed with hate. Hate for the Marquis, hate for Alice who had so quickly found herself a new protector. And what did they have that he did not? Money. Money, and therefore, power.

There was nothing he could do now but wait for Jennie’s return. By ruining Jennie he would cut her off from her grandparents and bring that smiling idiot of a Marquis to his knees.

After he had bathed and changed, he joined his cronies at Tothill and spent a splendid night roaming the streets with them, frightening and humiliating the weak and helpless. When a sultry dawn came up over London, he had boxed several Charlies, rolled several old people in the mud and had raped a serving girl on her way home. His
amour propre
was restored. He felt powerful again.

All he had to do was wait….

The Marquis rustled impatiently through his correspondence while a footman moved quietly about the room lighting candles, although it was only midday.

His lordship and a deluge of typically English weather had arrived back in London together. Rain thudded down on the roof and chuckled in the gutters. Rain streamed in waterfalls down the plate glass of the windows beyond which Albemarle Street wavered and danced as if all its gray buildings had found themselves at the bottom of the Thames.

“I would have thought she would have given up by now,” said the Marquis to himself. “Perhaps she really does love that horrible home of hers after all,” and then out loud, “What is it, Dobbins?”

“A Mr. Guy Chalmers has called.”

“Tell Mr. Chalmers that my lord and my lady are not yet returned from the country,” said the Marquis and then muttered, “Persistent beast!” after the footman had gone.

He started to sharpen a quill and prepared to deal with his correspondence, vowing for the umpteenth time to hire himself a secretary.

Once more he was interrupted by the entrance of the footman.

“Excuse me, my lord,” said Dobbins, looking very worried, “but there is a young lady in the hall who says she is the Marchioness of Charrington.”

A slow smile curved the Marquis’ lips. “I’m very sure it is, Dobbins. Show her in!”

He got to his feet and turned around. A small bedraggled figure, clutching a bandbox, stood in the doorway.

It was indeed Jennie. She was wearing a white dimity dress which was miles too short, a bedraggled straw hat with two dripping feathers and a much-worn pelisse. She was clutching a bandbox in one hand and the remains of a parasol in the other.

She looked around in awe at the stately drawing room with its silk-paneled walls, elegant furniture and Chinese rugs, and at the apple wood fire crackling on the hearth. Finally she turned her eyes to her husband, taking in the exquisite cut of his coat of Bath Superfine, dove gray pantaloons and gleaming boots.

“I came,” she said defiantly.

“So I see,” remarked her husband pleasantly, “and I am very flattered that you have managed to tear yourself away from the pastoral joys of your home.”

“I felt my duty was to be with my husband,” said Jennie stiffly.

“Very proper,” said the Marquis. “Before we continue our conversation, I will get the housekeeper to show you to your rooms. We will talk further after you have changed.”

“I want to talk
now!
” said Jennie, stamping her foot.

“Later,” he said gently, as the housekeeper rustled into the room. “Mrs. Benton. Take her ladyship to her rooms and make sure that all that is necessary is done for her.”

Mrs. Benton, an awe-inspiring figure in black bombazine, majestically led the way and Jennie meekly followed, little rivulets of water running from her sodden clothes.

It had been another hot, humid, sunny day when she had escaped from her home. Her previous pleas that she be allowed to join her husband had been met by shocked opposition from both her grandparents. It was her duty to wait quietly at home until her husband sent for her, they had said.

Jennie had begun to burn with a steady fury against the absent Marquis, whom she imagined dancing and partying from dawn to dusk.

She had bought herself an outside seat on the coach after walking several weary miles to the crossroads.

As the coach had clattered down the long hill towards London, the purple clouds which had been massing all afternoon suddenly burst. She had been soaked to the skin by the time the coach had set her down at her destination and then the hack, which she had hired to take her to Albemarle Street, had dropped her at the wrong address. By the time she had found the Marquis’ home, she had felt she would never be dry again.

She became aware that Mrs. Benton was pushing open a mahogany door and Jennie blinked at the splendor of the rooms in front of her. An exquisite little sitting room decorated in rose and gold led into a spacious bedroom, with a great Chinese lacquered bed.

Mrs. Benton looked at her doubtfully. “Have you your lady’s maid with you, my lady?” she asked.

“No,” said Jennie, biting her lip. “She… er… preferred to stay in the country. She is very old.” This was somewhat the truth since the lady’s maid that Jennie had shared with her grandmother had died two years ago and would have been in the region of ninety had she lived. “I shall manage for the present,” said Jennie, trying to adopt a haughty manner and failing miserably.

“Then I shall send two footmen up with your bath,” said Mrs. Benton. “As my lord probably informed you, you will find your new wardrobe in the little dressing room over there. If you need anything further, my lady, please ring. I shall call to conduct you to my lord in an hour.”

Jennie waited impatiently until Mrs. Benton had curtsied herself out and then flew to the dressing room, which was off the bedroom.

She opened the doors of the closets and stared, wide-eyed.

There were morning dresses, opera gowns, ball gowns, carriage dresses and walking costumes—a whole treasure trove of silk and lace and muslin met her startled eyes. She slowly slid open the long drawers of a low boy and found them brim full of lace and silk underthings. In the top drawers were gloves and fans. A stack of hat boxes stood in one corner and rows of dainty shoes, slippers and boots stood neatly arranged at the foot of the closet.

How had he known her size so exactly? Why had he not written asking her to come—since he had gone to all this trouble?

But Jennie was too young and feminine to worry too much. And too excited over so many new and beautiful things. She thought of Guy’s handsome face lighting up in surprise as he saw the transformation.

She bathed thoroughly, relishing the luxury of not having to carry away the dirty bath water herself.

With fingers that trembled slightly, she pulled a few of the lacy undergarments from the drawers and then searched along the row of dresses.

She finally chose a silk plaid dress with a high lace collar and long tight sleeves trimmed with lace at the cuffs. She then sat down at the dressing table and tried to twist her curls into some semblance of a fashionable hairstyle.

When Mrs. Benton escorted her down the stairs again, Jennie was conscious of a rising sense of excitement. What would her husband say when he saw how pretty she looked?

The Marquis was already seated at the luncheon table when Jennie was ushered in. He gave her a welcoming smile but, to Jennie’s disappointment, made no comment on her transformation.

“Sit down my dear,” he said, “and tell me your news. I have missed you.”

“Then why did you leave me at home?” demanded Jennie sulkily, shaking out her napkin.

The Marquis looked shocked. “Me? Take you away from your beloved home? No, my heart, I left that decision entirely to you. Do your grandparents know where you are?”

“I wrote them a real letter,” said Jennie proudly.

“A
real
letter,” said the Marquis, much amused. “What, then, is an unreal letter?”

Jennie gave him a sullen look and flushed to the roots of her hair. How could she tell him of the hours she had labored over the dictionary or, in fact, of the hours she had taken to find that elusive book.

“We are invited to the Devey’s ball tonight,” said the Marquis. “Would you care to go?”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Jennie, her sullen expression vanishing to be replaced by one of delight.

“Then I suggest after you have finished your lunch, you lie down for the afternoon and rest. I shall choose something for you to wear.”

“You’ll
what?
” said Jennie, dropping her fork. “I would have you know, my lord, that I am perfectly capable of choosing my own gown.”

“You will be, very soon,” he said calmly. “But for the moment you will be guided by me.”

“Either I choose my own gown,” said Jennie, very slowly and distinctly. “Or I do not go.”

“As you will,” replied her lord with great good humor.

“You are infuriating,” hissed Jennie. “I mean to go to that ball and I mean to go in a gown of my own choosing. Either you agree to it or I shall… I shall… I shall hold my breath.”

“No, I won’t agree,” said the Marquis, equably.

“Then I shall hold my breath and if you do not agree to let me have my way, I shall
die!
”

She took a deep breath and screwed up her eyes. The Marquis sat back in his chair and surveyed her with interest.

Jennie waited in agony for him to give in and at least try to coax and cajole her. The delicious smell of the food on her plate was making her feel weak with hunger. She had never smelled such delicious food before.

Tears of frustration began to gather in the corner of her eyes and the Marquis took pity on her.

He moved around the table in a leisurely way and gave her a resounding slap on the back.

She gasped and choked and glared at him like an angry kitten. “I shall let you have your way this time,” she muttered. “But it is dangerous to cross me, my lord.” She looked across the table at him. He had returned to his seat and was holding his napkin up to his face. His eyes were as tearful as Jennie’s and she realized he was trying not to laugh out loud.

She looked at him angrily from under the spikes of her eyelashes and then said reluctantly, “Oh, very well. Just this time.”

“Come, my dear,” smiled the Marquis. “Tell me you are at least pleased with your new clothes.

Jennie had the grace to blush. She should have thanked him immediately. “I am v-very g-grateful for all the beautiful gowns,” she muttered in a voice which sounded to her own ears very ungracious.

“It is my pleasure to give you gifts. Not every husband is blessed with so elegant a wife,” he said, leaning back in his chair and watching her with lazy amusement. “Now, tell me, how was your summer?”

“Oh, it was vastly amusing,” cried Jennie, rallying quickly. Not for one minute would she let this enigmatic husband of hers know of the long days of boredom. “We had a few parties and balls in the county, so the days passed very well.”

“Indeed,” he smiled. “You must have been very sad to leave it all. Why did you leave your grandparents a letter and then endure such a tedious journey? You should have written to me and I would have made all the arrangements for your journey to town.”

He studied the top of his wife’s dark curls as she bent her head suddenly over her plate. “They said I should wait until you sent for me,” she said at last. She looked up quickly but his face betrayed nothing more than amiable interest. “I acted on an impulse.”

“I am flattered,” he said. “It must have been frightful traveling in the storm. You did not take the stage, I trust.”

“Oh, but I did!” said Jennie, “and I rode outside.” Forgetting her defiant role, she began to describe the journey, the discomfort of the stage, gaily mimicking the voices of the other passengers, so engrossed in her story that she failed to notice the dawning look of admiration on her husband’s face.