The Lady Courts a Marquess (Ladies of Seduction #2)

Chapter Twelve

May 1813

“O i!” Jack’s bellowing voice carried up the stairs at Hill House, rousing Kitty from her restless slumber.

After her and William’s fraught discussion in his bed following their lovemaking, she’d had trouble sleeping. For five nights she had tossed and turned while pretending everything was fine in the light of day. Much longer and she’d no longer be able to disguise the shadows under her eyes. Something had to be done. She just didn’t know what that something was.

“There’s a man ’ere!” Jack went on. “Says he wants to speak to the Marquess of Kentwood. Whoever the bloody ’ell that is. I told him we ain’t got no marquess ’ere, but he won’t listen.”

Where , Kitty thought crossly as she dragged a pillow across her face and gave serious consideration to smothering herself with it, were the damned servants?

As a countess, sleeping in past the ten o’clock hour was a luxury afforded her by the various maids, footmen, housekeeper, and butler that kept the household running like clockwork. At last count, Hill House had a full staff of eighteen, while Radcliffe Park employed over fifty. Why, then, couldn’t one of them deal with Jack’s carrying on at—she lowered the pillow to glare at the mahogany longcase clock in the corner of her bedchamber—half past seven in the morning?

“KITTY! ARE YE AWAKE? THERE’S A MAN ’ERE—”

“I heard you the first time!” she shouted, throwing the pillow onto the floor and following it with her feet. Grabbing the blue silk wrapper hanging from her bedpost, she knotted it around her waist before stomping into the hallway where she passed a scullery maid carrying a basket of linens.

“Have you seen Mr. Davies?” she asked, referring the butler. “Or Mrs. Wilson?” The housekeeper. “Or Stevens?” Her husband’s valet, dreadful man that he was, should at least have been somewhere about. She would have asked for her personal attendant, Elizabeth, but the poor girl had been under the weather for the past three days and Kitty didn’t want to wake her if she was resting.

“I—I believe they’re in a meeting, my lady.”

“Meeting?” said Kitty, mystified. “What meeting?”

“On the first Monday of every month, Mr. Davies gathers all the staff to discuss our duties, my lady. We meet in the summer kitchen behind the manor, so as not to disturb you or Lord Radcliffe.” The maid hesitated. “Should I fetch Mr. Davies for you, my lady? Or is there something I can help you with? You’re up unusually early.”

“I’m aware.” Kitty leaned a hip against the wall. “Don’t you hear the yelling?”

“Do you mean Miss Jack, my lady?”

“Yes, I mean Miss Jack.”

“Mr. Stevens has instructed us to . . . ah . . .”

“Go on,” she said when the maid paused, her cheeks filling with color. “What has the delightful Mr. Stevens instructed you to do?”

“Ignore her, my lady.”

Kitty’s eyes narrowed. “Oh he has, has he?”

“Yes, my lady. He was quite insistent.”

“I see. And my husband?”

“Lord Radcliffe left, my lady. Nearly an hour ago. A sunrise ride in the park, I believe.”

“Thank you... I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Emily, my lady.”

“Thank you, Emily. I’ll see to Jack.” And then to Stevens , Kitty added silently as she continued on down the stairs to where Jack was standing in the middle of the front hall, dressed in her borrowed brown trousers and white linen shirt with her red hair stuffed under the floppy hat she’d insisted on buying to replace her old one.

“Where are the clothes I bought you?” Kitty sighed, crossing her arms.

“They make me sneeze.”

“Clothes cannot make you sneeze . Especially when they’re woven of the finest fabric money can buy.” Clothes that Kitty would have sold her left arm for when she was Jack’s age. Lifting a ratty curl poking out from her young charge’s hat, she sighed again. “You’re a girl, Jacqueline. You cannot continue to parade about in boys’ attire. It’s unseemly.”

“Can’t run in a dress. Or skip. Or climb through an empty window to pinch a piece of silver.”

“Young ladies do not run, or skip, or steal .”

“Being a young lady is boring. I’d rather act like a boy.”

“While you’re living under my roof, you’ll act like a girl.” She tugged on Jack’s curl before releasing it. “A girl who wears dresses and chews food with her mouth closed and doesn’t wake the entire household by screaming nonsense before morning tea has been prepared.”

“Wasn’t nonsense,” Jack said with a belligerent jerk of her chin. “And maybe I don’t want to live under your roof anymore. Maybe I want to go back to where I was living.”

Kitty arched a brow even as a chord of panic ran through her at the idea of Jack leaving. As loud and disruptive as the little hellion may have been, she couldn’t imagine living without her. What had begun as an uncharacteristic act of charity had turned into so much more. Jack wasn’t just an orphan. She was... she was turning into family. And she couldn’t leave. Kitty wouldn’t allow it.

“There will be no divorce. You won’t leave me.”

Unbidden, William’s words rose to mind and she pushed them away. It wasn’t the same. Her keeping Jack here and William keeping her in their marriage were two different things. She wanted Jack to remain because she cared for her and wanted to keep her safe, while William...

“I care for you, Kitty. Deeply.”

It was different, she told herself.

Completely different.

“You want to live on the streets?” she snapped, returning her attention to Jack. “With the stench of summer soon to arrive? I think not. In a few weeks’ time we’ll be packing our trunks and leaving London for the countryside where you can practice your ambitious climbing skills on a tree, so long as you’re wearing a dress. Until then, I’ll ask you to keep your voice to a dull roar until after luncheon and if you’re bored, you can practice your embroidery. There’s no need to invent visitors for attention.”

Jack’s face wrinkled as if she’d just bitten into a lemon. “I hate embroidery. Jabbed a needle clear through my thumb the last time you made me try it. Bled like a stuck pig. And I wasn’t inventing nothin’. There is a man here. He was poundin’ at the door and no one was around to let him in, so I did. Seemed all important like. Was carryin’ a bunch of papers and said he had to speak to the Marquess of Ken... Ken... I don’t remember the bloody name.”

“Don’t curse, and it is Kentwood,” Kitty said automatically, her mind beginning to spin. “He’s seeking Lord Kentwood, but I don’t know why he thinks he’d find him here.”

She could count on one hand the number of encounters she’d had with William’s father. The Marquess and Marchioness of Kentwood had been at her wedding, of course, along with William’s grandfather, the Duke of Cumberland. She’d also enjoyed—tolerated might be a better word—Lady Kentwood’s attentions before she and William were married. But since then, William’s family had been conspicuously absent from their lives... and any time she’d attempted to broach the subject, he’d quickly turned to a different topic of conversation.

Given that estranged in-laws weren’t the worst thing in the world, she’d never gotten to the bottom of why William kept such a distance from his parents and grandfather. After all, she knew better than most what a burden family could be. But she was quite curious what would bring a stranger here at such an unfashionable hour, and why he would request an audience with the Marquess of Kentwood instead of the Earl of Radcliffe.

“Where did you put him?” she asked Jack.

“In there.” Jack jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the receiving parlor, a room directly off the foyer tastefully decorated in shades of blue.

“Don’t let him leave. I’ll be right back.” Dashing up the stairs to her bedchamber, Kitty once again passed Emily in the hallway and this time beckoned for the maid to follow her. “I need to dress,” she said, already untying her wrapper. “Quickly.”

In a matter of minutes—no small feat—she had changed from her night clothes into a yellow frock with capped sleeves and a burgundy sash that fit snugly beneath the natural curve of her bosom. Pearls at her ears matched the pearl comb that Emily expertly affixed to her blonde curls, sweeping them up into a wispy chignon that accentuated the defining arch of Kitty’s cheekbones.

“You’re quite good at this,” she complimented the maid, and Emily blushed in response.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said shyly, averting her gaze from the oval mirror where Kitty was openly admiring her reflection. “You’re too kind.”

“And you are now my second lady’s maid.”

Emily’s mouth dropped open. In the hierarchy of the serving staff, a scullery maid—her prior position—was as far removed from a lady’s maid as a footman was from a butler, and such a promotion was practically unheard of. “Oh, no, my lady, I couldn’t—”

“It’s already done.” Back down the stairs Kitty went, through the foyer, and breathlessly into the parlor where she found a man waiting for her, holding a clutch of papers to his chest just as Jack had described. But she’d failed to mention the man’s dour expression or the moustache that ran across his top lip like a long, scraggly caterpillar.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly, nudging the door closed behind her with a discreet push of her heel. “How can I help you, Mister...?”

“Thomas Greer.” Mr. Greer had pale-gray eyes that darted around the room before landing on Kitty. The caterpillar gave a vague twitch. “I am a solicitor charged with a very specific task this morning. I should like to speak with Lord Kentwood at once. It is a most urgent matter.”

“I am afraid your urgency is misplaced, Mr. Greer, as Lord Kentwood is not here. Should you like to speak with his son—”

“Son?” the solicitor interrupted. The caterpillar wiggled in annoyance. “I was not aware Lord Kentwood had yet produced a male heir. I shall have to update the entail at once.”

Something strange was going on.

Pouring herself a glass of lemonade from a pitcher sitting beside a vase filled with freshly picked daffodils, Kitty took a measured sip as she studied Mr. Greer over the rim of her glass. “I confess to being somewhat bemused, sir. Why is it you wish an audience with Lord Kentwood?”

“That is a private matter best discussed with the marquess.”

Kitty decided to change tactics. “Lemonade?” she said sweetly, pouring a second glass and holding it out. “It’s a tad sweet for my personal taste, but you know what they say about sugar and honey. And do have a seat. My husband should be returning from his morning ride soon. Once he arrives, I’m sure we can sort this matter out.”

The caterpillar jerked in surprise. “Lord Kentwood doesn’t know, does he? Or you, for that matter. I had assumed a family member would have reached out, or at the very least sent a note, but perhaps...”

“Lord Kentwood doesn’t know what ?” she said with growing exasperation. “Mr. Greer, my husband—”

“With all due condolences, my lady, Lord Kentwood is now your husband. Pending a petition to the Crown to claim the title, naturally. His father passed from this world early yesterday morning. Peacefully in his sleep, by all accounts. I’ve been sent by the Duke of Cumberland to ensure that his new heir’s affairs are all in order, and that Lord Kentwood makes his petition with all haste. His Grace should like a smooth transition.”

Kitty nearly dropped her glass. Lemonade sloshed over the top as she set it hastily aside on the nearest table and stared at Mr. Greer with her mouth agape, not bothering to disguise her shock. “My father-in-law is... dead?” And I am now a marchioness.

Once, such a thought would have filled her with giddy elation. Given the current state of her marriage, however, it did nothing more than place a sour taste on the back of her tongue. Divorcing an earl, while remarkably difficult, wouldn’t have been completely impossible. But there was no way Parliament would act to permit her to legally separate herself from the direct heir of a dukedom. As a marchioness, her duty was clear: produce a male child and continue the proper succession of one of the country’s oldest, most prestigious family lines. A line already fraught with tension and tragedy. A line that wouldn’t look the other way if she disavowed herself of her marriage.

In truth, Kitty acknowledged with a sinking feeling, this was always to have been her fate. William’s father was mortal, after all, and mortal men succumbed to all sorts of maladies. She’d never imagined it would happen this soon, but it was bound to happen someday. Time granted mercy to no one.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Greer, but I must ask you to leave and return later this afternoon.” The shock slipped from her countenance and was replaced with a cool resolve. “I should like to deliver this sad news to my husband without the presence of his grandfather’s solicitor. He should be allowed to mourn before being required to sign papers.”

The caterpillar twitched with disapproval even as Mr. Greer gathered his belongings and walked stiffly to the door. “I shall be at my offices. Please have Lord Kentwood send for me before the end of day.”

“I shall ensure that he does.”

*

The funeral of the late Marquess of Kentwood was a somber affair attended by some of the ton ’s most prestigious and influential members, including a personal envoy of King George. Kitty sat at the front of the church in a hard wooden pew squished between William’s mother and grandmother, both of whom wept daintily into monogrammed handkerchiefs.

While the priest droned on, she cast a quick glance at William who was seated beside his grandfather, the Duke of Cumberland, in the pew directly across from theirs. His attention was fixed on the pulpit and the elm coffin in front of it, and he gave no indication that he felt her stare aside from the flicker of a muscle high on his freshly shaven jaw. A muscle ticking in her own jaw, she turned her gaze forward.

Over the past week, while preparations were made, papers and deeds were signed (under the watchful eye of Mr. Greer), and the late marquess’s body was transported to London, where he would be buried alongside his brother in the private family tomb, Kitty and William had hardly seen each other, let alone spoken.

Whilst the house had been draped in swaths of black and Kitty had exchanged her lush, colorful wardrobe for obsidian silks and ebony tulle (such a dreadful shade, it paired horribly with her complexion), William had spent most of his time either in his office or with his grandfather. Becoming the direct heir of one of the largest, most powerful dukedoms in England was no small task, but it appeared the newly minted Marquess of Kentwood had stepped into the role with the iron determination that he was renowned for.

As soon as his father was laid to rest, they were bound for Radcliffe Park, a stone’s throw from Kentwood Manor, where his mother would continue to reside. As the Marquess of Kentwood and Earl of Radcliffe, William now owned some of the most impressive estates, houses, and hunting lodges in Great Britain, surpassed only by his grandfather and Mara’s husband, the Duke of Southwick, whose sprawling countryside manor encompassed more than ten thousand acres.

Finally, Kitty had everything that she’d ever dreamed of when she was a debutante wearing hand-me-down dresses and glass jewelry: the wealth, the title, the prestige. One day, she and Mara would both be duchesses. A far cry from their humble beginnings as the abused daughters of a lowly viscount. Kitty should have been happy. She should have been ecstatic . But as she snuck a second glance at her husband, she only felt a lingering sense of despair. Yes, she might have had everything she’d ever dreamed of, but without William’s love, she was still living in a nightmare.

Later, when the last of the guests had trickled from the house after expressing their condolences and Jack was snoring in her room down the hall and William was shut away in his office, Kitty sat in front of her dressing mirror brushing her hair by candlelight. The rhythmic motion of pulling the bristles through her blonde tendrils was soothing, a mindless task that allowed her to rest after a long, exhausting day of being on display. Her mouth ached from all of the smiles she’d given. And her heart... well, her heart ached from something else entirely.

We fuck and we fight, William had told her that night. There’s nothing in between.

Truer words, she thought, her tired lips twisting in a wry smile as she worked the brush through a stubborn tangle. She’d given a half-hearted attempt at speaking to him tonight, but neither had been ready for the conversation they needed to have, and they’d retreated to their respective chambers after wishing each other a cordial evening.

Tomorrow, after breakfast, they would leave for Radcliffe Park, she and Jack in one carriage and William in another. Why share a barouche when they didn’t share a bedroom? Once they were at their country estate, it would become even easier to lead separate lives. To be polite when they were seen together in public and then retreat to their own spaces in private. They’d spend their days apart and then have dinner together at night. If one or both of them indulged in a bit too much wine, they’d likely find themselves in a compromising position. Then she would go back to her chamber, or he would return to his, and when the sun rose all would be as it had been.

After the ground turned silver with frost and their obligatory mourning period had expired, they would return to London and make their official debut as the new Marquess and Marchioness of Kentwood. Parties and balls and charity dinners would require they spend more time together, but not much. Then the bite of winter would ease, the heat of summer would roll in, and back to the country they’d go. Maybe with a babe in her belly this time. Maybe not. And another year would pass. Then another. And another. With nothing changing and no escape from the life she had convinced herself she wanted.

“ Ouch! ” she exclaimed when she gave the brush an extra hard yank and it snagged on another tangle. Glaring at the brush as if it were the source of all her problems, she tossed it into a basket along with all of the other personal items she was bringing to Radcliffe Park. Combs, ribbons, pins, and silk stockings. Sliding open the drawer of her dressing table to make sure she wasn’t missing anything of importance, her gaze landed on a thin book shoved toward the back, its spine covered in faded green fabric. Brow furrowing, she pulled the book from the drawer and opened it on her lap. Mara was the reader in the family, not her. If it wasn’t a newspaper filled with titillating gossip or a magazine bursting with the latest fashions from Paris, then she wasn’t interested. Why, then, was this book tucked away among her most personal possessions?

She flipped through the first few pages and found them blank, indicating it was intended to be a journal comprised of her innermost thoughts and feelings. One that she’d obviously never used in the past and wasn’t likely to use in the future. She started to close the book when something fell from amidst the thin sheets of ivory parchment. It floated to the floor in a spiral of graceful motion and then slid, quite inconveniently, under her chair.

With a huff of breath, she took the candle from her dressing table and used the flickering yellow light to guide her eye as she got down on her hands and knees. When she saw what had fallen from the journal, her heart stilled. There, resting on the flat polished surface of an oak floorboard, was a perfectly preserved lilac bloom.

Being pressed between the pages of the journal had flattened the petals and time had stolen its color, but a hint of violet still clung to the delicate corolla. With trembling fingers, she picked up the lilac by its brittle stem and slowly pressed it to her chest. Just as she’d done when William had given it to her during their first carriage ride together two years ago.

So much had happened since then. So much heartbreak. So much miscommunication. So much hurt. And yet... and yet, some things remained the same. She and William were still together. Not as happy and blissfully hopeful as they’d been on that beautiful spring day in May, but together nevertheless. Bound by the laws of marriage and the deep well of secrets that they shared.

Unbidden, her sister’s voice rang her head as she sat on the floor in a pool of flickering candlelight with the dried lilac held to her breast.

Make sure it’s your husband that you’re running from , Mara had told her. And she’d brushed the words off, as a younger sibling often did when it was the older speaking them. But now they resonated. Now, at last, they made sense.

She’d become so fixated with running away from William that she had never stopped to consider what might happen if she ran toward him. Toward the man she loved despite everything. Toward the man who made her pulse race and her skin tingle. Toward the man who frustrated her. The man who angered her. The man who had given her a lilac blossom she’d treasured enough to keep protected even during the most tumultuous of storms.

Rising from the floor, she carefully tucked the flower back between the pages of the journal and placed the journal in the basket beside the brush. Then she met her own doe-eyed gaze in the mirror above the dressing table as a smile—this one genuine—curved her lips.

She, Lady Katherine Colborne, Marchioness of Kentwood and Countess of Radcliffe, was going to do the unthinkable. Perhaps even the impossible.

She was going to court her husband.