This Marquess of Mine: (Romancing the Rogue Book 2)

Chapter One

Lady Olivia Blakely was not, and never would be, one of the great minds of her time. She had, however, learned a thing or two in her twenty years on this earth, and one such lesson was the power in a good accessory.

Knowing precisely the right moment to wield such power was another.

“Thank you for a most enjoyable outing, Your Grace,” she said as the Duke of Paxton escorted her up the sun-lit steps to the front door of her Mayfair townhouse. Her lady’s maid, Nellie, stood on the pavement below, watching the carriages go by while she waited.

“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Olivia,” the young duke replied with a gallant bow of his head. “Will I see you tonight at Lady Tobin’s ball?”

With his thick auburn hair and handsome, friendly face, the Duke of Paxton was precisely the sort of man every young lady hoped to marry. Olivia included.

Donning her most fetching smile, she fanned her gloved fingers across the simple strand of ps resting above the swell of her breasts, gratified when the duke’s dark eyes flared with interest. “I will be there, yes,” she said.

He grinned. “Then you must save me a waltz.”

“Must I?” she teased, arching a playful brow.

“I will be devastated if you do not,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart. “And there is no telling what I might do if you refuse.”

“Oh, dear.” She twisted the pearls around her fingers, battling a smile. “Then I suppose I have no choice but to agree.”

Lifting her free hand to his lips, Paxton brushed a kiss across her knuckles, his admiring gaze never leaving hers. “Thank you, my lady. I will ensure you do not regret it.”

Olivia watched as Paxton bounded down the steps and hopped into his canary yellow phaeton, a satisfied smile turning her lips as he waved farewell and set off down the street in a clatter of wheels and hooves.

Another successful outing, she thought, as she turned to the door. It is only a matter of time now.

She let herself inside, slipping into the cozy entrance hall with Nellie only a few steps behind her.

“Forgive my forwardness, my lady,” the young maid whispered as she shut the door behind her, “but His Lordship seems to grow more and more smitten with you every day. Why, for a moment there, I actually thought he was going to kiss you on the front steps for all and sundry to see.”

The exhilarated gleam in Nellie’s pale green eyes brought a smile to Olivia’s lips. “Good,” she said as she worked at the buttons on her powder blue spencer jacket. “That was precisely what I was hoping he would want to do.”

Nellie giggled as Olivia handed her the spencer before moving on to her bonnet strings, pulling them free with an impatient tug. “Lord above, this bonnet was beginning to make my head ache,” she muttered, lifting the beribboned torture device from her skull. “It is amazing, isn’t it? The things we women will endure to snag a husband?”

Nellie nodded, her brown curls swaying beneath her plain white cap. “Aye, my lady, it is,” she said. “Though I expect it will all be worth it for you, in the end.”

“I certainly hope you’re right, Nellie.” Olivia handed the girl her bonnet and kid gloves before making her way to the drawing room, her heeled slippers clapping on the spotless marble floor.

She’d been after the Duke of Paxton for weeks now, and she was fairly certain she had him in the palm of her hand. Of course, she should already have a wedding band on that hand, and she would have, if only…

Her lips pursed. If only I hadn’t bungled the whole thing last Season.

Paxton had asked for her hand once before but, like a fool, she’d turned him down. A fact his mother seemed unable—or unwilling—to forget. Or forgive. And if there was one person Paxton might hold in higher regard even than Olivia, it was the Duchess of Paxton.

The duke adored his mother, and because he adored her so much, he could not bear to see her unhappy and did everything in his power to please her. If the duchess did not approve of her son’s wish to marry Olivia, it was unlikely to happen. Paxton did not go against his mother’s wishes, which made the duchess the sole obstacle standing between Olivia and a second proposal of marriage.

Try as she might, though—and she had tried—she could not seem to win the woman’s forgiveness.

A frustrated sigh escaped her as she reached the drawing room door. She needed more time.

Time, however, was in short supply. This Season was her last chance to nab the duke. If she could not manage it within the next few months, she would be forced to marry another man.

Someone of her father’s choosing.

Pasting a bright smile to her lips, she shoved all thoughts of her father’s ultimatum to the back of her mind as she walked through the door into the sunny drawing room with its pretty floral furnishings and cheerful, pink-and-white-striped wallpaper.

“Good afternoon, Aunt Augusta,” she said, bending down to buss her guardian’s cheek before taking a seat beside her on the chintz sofa.

Lady Augusta Crenshaw, a tall, handsome woman with graying blonde hair and a regal bearing, looked up from the letter in her hand and gave Olivia an affectionate smile. “Good afternoon, dearest. How was your drive with the duke?”

“Excellent, as always,” Olivia quipped before kicking off her nankeen slippers. She rubbed her stocking feet on the dense wool rug, her soles still aching from all the dancing she’d done last night. “And how was your visit with Lady Keswick? Is she faring any better today?”

Aunt Augusta’s hazel eyes dimmed as she blew out a beleaguered sigh. “She is faring as well as can be expected, considering she has a sprained ankle.” Her mouth firmed into an unhappy line. “I feel so guilty. I hate feeling guilty.”

Olivia gave her aunt a comforting pat on the arm. “It was an accident,” she said soothingly. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“As it was my walking stick that brought the poor woman down, how can I not blame myself?” She threw a glare at the offending article, which sat propped against the rosewood armchair beside her. If a single look held the power to kill, that walking stick would be nothing but a pile of ash.

Biting back a smile, Olivia snagged a lemon biscuit from the tea tray on the sofa table and curled her legs beneath her skirts.

At sixty years of age, Aunt Augusta was still spry and fleet of foot, and only used the walking stick because she thought it paired so strikingly with the bold velvet gowns she favored.

A perfectly good reason, so far as Olivia was concerned.

Still, she could understand why her aunt was upset to have injured someone—her dearest friend, no less—with a walking stick she didn’t strictly need. And in front of a ballroom full of people, no less.

Never in a thousand years had Olivia imagined the stately, elegant Marchioness of Keswick would one day wind up sprawled on the floor with rum punch dripping down her face and her skirts nearly up to her knees.

“Well, I am certain Lady Keswick does not blame you,” Olivia said, trying not to grimace at the memory of that night. “And even if she does, she is a forgiving woman. She will not be cross with you for long.” She bit into the still-warm biscuit, savoring the tangy lemon flavor coating her tongue.

“That’s just it,” Aunt Augusta said. “She isn’t cross with me at all. And it’s driving me positively mad.”

Olivia couldn’t help but smile at the disgust in her aunt’s voice. “But why? Do you want her to be cross with you?”

“Yes!” Aunt Augusta threw her arms out in exasperation, crinkling the letter she still held in one hand. “I want her to shout at me or refuse to speak to me for a week or two, like a reasonable person would do. Instead, she’s been nothing but kind and gracious and it’s making me feel worse. Diabolical woman.”

Olivia took another bite of biscuit, smothering the urge to laugh. Aunt Augusta and Lady Lavinia Keswick had known each other for years, ever since Lady Keswick married the Marquess of Keswick, who was close friend and cousin to Aunt Augusta’s husband, the Earl of Crenshaw.

Both gentlemen died many years ago, but the two ladies remained as close as sisters to this day.

“In any case,” Aunt Augusta went on, “I promised Lavinia I would do everything in my power to make it up to her. Even if it kills me.” She huffed out a sigh then held up the letter in her hand. “At least your cousin is having a good week. She writes from Venice and says she and Dearborn are having a marvelous time on their wedding trip.”

Olivia smiled as she brushed the biscuit crumbs from her lap. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, reaching for the stack of correspondence lying on the sofa table. “They certainly deserve to be happy after everything they went through.”

Aunt Augusta hummed her agreement. “Indeed, they do.”

Sophie, Olivia’s cousin and one of her two dearest friends in the world, had just married James, the Earl of Dearborn, a man they knew as children and met again earlier this year at a country house party hosted by Lady Keswick.

Sophie and James fell in love, but a man from James’s past bent on revenge had nearly ruined their chance at happiness together. Olivia was so grateful it had all worked out in the end. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Sophie, and Olivia loved that her friend—her sister, really—had married a man who cherished her as she ought to be cherished.

Sophie’s parents died when she was just a little girl, which thrust her under the guardianship of Earl Blakely, her mother’s brother and Olivia’s father, an uncle Sophie had never laid eyes on before. Olivia, two years younger than Sophie, was thrilled to have a new friend to play with, and even more ecstatic when her great-aunt Augusta took over the girls’ care.

Before that, it had always been just Olivia and her father, a man who could barely stand to look at her. When Sophie and their aunt came along, Olivia finally knew what it was to have a family who loved her.

“I’ve always wanted to visit Venice,” Aunt Augusta murmured as she munched on a biscuit. “Your cousin’s letters leave a lot to be desired in the way of details, but I suppose that is to be expected with a wedding trip. I intend to ask her to elaborate when I see her next.”

Olivia smiled. “I am sure Sophie will be more than happy to tell you all about her trip,” she said as she riffled through the stack of letters and invitations. She paused when she came upon a letter with her name on it, the address written in a familiar, swooping hand.

“Oh, look. A letter has come from Caroline,” she said, referring to her stepmother. She broke the seal and began to skim the letter’s contents. “I wonder how her sister is faring after the…” Her words trailed off as the words she read began to sink in.

“Olivia? Is something the matter?” Concern edged her aunt’s voice.

Lowering the letter to her lap, Olivia slowly shook her head. “Yes. No.” She drew in a calming breath. “No, everything is fine. I—I’ve just received some surprising news, that’s all.”

“Oh? What news?”

She swallowed, her mind oddly numb. “Caroline is going to have a baby.”

A baby.Her stepmother was pregnant.

It was silly to be so bemused by the news. Her father married Caroline more than a year ago. She knew this day would come eventually. Still, the image of her father with a new little family had always seemed strange and abstract, a reality for the distant future.

That it was nearly upon her now…

She could not seem to wrap her mind around it.

“I see,” Aunt Augusta said softly, her gaze trained on Olivia’s face. “Well, your father will be pleased.”

Olivia huffed out a humorless laugh. “He certainly will be if the child is male.”

The words stung her throat, and her chest ached, though she knew it shouldn’t. Not anymore. She’d had these last twenty years to accept her father’s disregard, after all. So why did it still hurt so much?

“Are you all right, my dear?” Sympathy shone in her aunt’s eyes.

Olivia forced a smile she knew would fool no one, and chirped, “Of course! I knew this news was imminent. It is the reason my father decreed this will be my last Season, and the reason I must find a husband before it ends. Father needs to economize.”

Her gaze fell to the letter in her lap, and she absent-mindedly smoothed her fingers along the creases in the paper. She hated that her father was forcing her hand this way, making her choose a husband to keep him from choosing one for her, even as a part of her understood his reasons. A London Season was not inexpensive, and he’d granted her three of them. Three Seasons ought to be plenty of time for an earl’s daughter to make a satisfactory match.

Still, it hurt that he didn’t seem to care who she married. And that his new family mattered to him so much more than she did.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” Aunt Augusta said with a squeeze to Olivia’s shoulder. “I wish I could talk some sense into your father. I wish I could change things for you.”

Olivia nodded. “I know you do,” she said. “But there is no sense in dwelling on that, is there? And I’m thrilled for Caroline. Truly I am. I know how much she longs to be a mother.”

“Yes,” Aunt Augusta said. “She will be a wonderful mother. And you will be a sister soon.”

Olivia stilled as the words penetrated her brain. The thought hadn’t occurred to her. How strange. “Yes, I suppose I will,” she said softly. Though how well she would come to know her new sibling remained to be seen.

Aunt Augusta’s gaze was assessing, her silence probing, and Olivia rose to her feet, eager to escape. “Well, I think I shall change out of this gown now and do a little pruning in the garden.”

With her letter in hand and her smile firmly in place, she headed for the door, hopeful that some time spent in her little garden amongst the marigolds and lavender and the warm spring sun would set her to rights again. Or, at the very least, distract her.

“Olivia, dear…”

Aunt Augusta’s voice beckoned her to stay, but Olivia did not pause on her way to the door. She already knew what her aunt would say, and she had no desire to listen to words of comfort. Not when her emotions were so close to the surface.

She was happy for Caroline. She’d meant that. She did not know her stepmother well, but she liked her, and liked that she seemed to make her father happy when he’d had so little happiness since Olivia’s mother died.

Caroline would make him happier still with the birth of this child. Perhaps it would be the boy he’d always wanted, the boy he’d always wished Olivia had been.

Perhaps Earl Blakely would finally get his heir. And then, perhaps, he would finally stop hating her.