How to Manage a Marquess (14 page)

She pressed her lips harder against his.

He could be a statue for all the reaction he showed.

This was hopeless. She might be pot-valiant, but she wasn't completely soused. Lord Hellwood wasn't going to kiss her. In a moment, he'd shove her off his lap and stand, disgusted at
her
behavior. She should—

The marquess moved, but not to push her away. One of his hands cupped her face, while the other stroked down her back, pulling her closer.

Oh, yes. This was what she needed.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she welcomed him in. He slid deep, filling her with heat—and an odd feeling of contentment.

This was
exactly
what she needed—
whom
she needed.

Her fingers threaded through his thick, silky hair, but it wasn't enough. The image of him, naked to his waist, was burned into her memory. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin against hers.

She dropped her hands, burrowing under his coat and waistcoat to find his shirt and tug it free.

The marquess made a small sound—perhaps a growl or a moan or a sigh of disappointment—and grasped her hands, stopping their explorations. He drew away from her, and she suddenly felt chilled, even though the night was warm.

“Neither of us can travel that route, Miss Davenport,” he said firmly.

And regretfully? Did she hear that note in his voice, too? She tried to find it in his eyes, but the shadows were now too deep for her to see his expression clearly.

“You called me Anne before. I think we are now well enough acquainted that you can dispense with Miss Davenport.”

He laughed. “But think how shocked the other guests will be if I make free with your Christian name, Anne.”

She liked the sound of her name when he said it. She wished he'd give her leave to use his name, too.

“Then don't call me it in company.” She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and was encouraged to note that his eyes followed the motion. “Just when we are private”—she smiled at him—“like this.”

He frowned, all playfulness gone. “We cannot be private again, Miss Davenport.”

Drat. They were back to that.

He must have sensed her hurt because his lips turned up in a slight, perhaps regretful smile. “You are a woman of marriageable age, and I have no intentions of marrying for many more years.” He shrugged, and then said in a softer tone, “But if it happens that we are ever alone again, you may call me Nate.”

“Nate.” She was far too thrilled at that intimacy. She traced one of his eyebrows with the tip of her finger. “Nate.”

He caught her hand, turned it to press a kiss on her palm, and then stood, pulling her up with him. “And now we must—oh, blast.”

The precipitous change in position was not a good thing. The garden started spinning.

“You are going to be sick,” she heard Nate say as if from a distance, and then he held her as she bent over a hapless bush. Wave after wave of nausea racked her.

“Ohh.” Her stomach finally stopped heaving, but she was afraid to straighten in case she'd start it off again. She braced herself with her hands on her knees. She knew she should be mortified that the marquess had witnessed such an undignified and, well,
disgusting
sight, but she was too ill to feel anything but awful. She ran her tongue around her mouth. Ugh. The taste was going to make her sick again.

“I'm sorry,” she managed to croak.

“Well, it was to be expected.” The unfeeling man's voice was brisk. “If you'll remember, I did warn you to stop drinking.”

She squinted up at him. “Are you always this annoying?”

He grinned at her. “Perhaps next time you'll take my advice.”

“Humph.” Gaah. She made the mistake of observing the mess she'd deposited in the vegetation, and her stomach threatened to revolt again. She quickly averted her gaze. Hopefully no one else would come this way before a cleansing rainfall washed the evidence away.

“Come on, let's get you up to your room.”

She had embarrassed herself in front of him quite enough this evening. “You go along. I'll come up when I feel a bit more the thing.”

“Oh, no, I'm not leaving you here.” He grasped her elbow and eased her upright, more slowly this time.

She braced herself on his chest. It would serve him right if his coat paid the price of his interference. The trees spun round a bit, but settled down without costing her any more of her stomach's contents.

Well, her stomach did feel quite empty. It likely had no more to spend.

“It's actually a good thing you shot the cat,” Lord Hellwood—no, Lord Haywood—
Nate
—said in an annoyingly cheerful manner as he started to drag her along the walk. “You got some of the alcohol out of your system, so your head won't ache quite so much in the morning.”

“You mean there's more suffering to come?” She hung on to his arm and staggered along beside him.

“Well, it's hard to say for certain. And I hope to give you something to reduce any ill effects.”

“Ohh, I am never going to drink again.”

He laughed. “I don't think you have to go that far.” They stopped by a door, and he leaned her up against the side of the building. “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

Nate merely held his finger to his lips and slipped inside.

He wasn't deserting her, was he? She wrapped her arms around her waist and looked about. If she had to guess, she'd say she was near the kitchen—this looked like a kitchen garden. But it was quite shadowy. The sun had set while they were busy in the bower, leaving only the moon, the stars, and the glow from a few windows to illuminate her surroundings,

She shifted from foot to foot. How long had he been gone? It could have been five minutes or fifteen. Her stomach was beginning to churn again.

An owl hooted. Some small animal rustled through the nearby bushes, and she jumped.

She would count to one hundred. If he had not come back by then, she'd take her chances and follow him inside. If someone discovered her—she
hoped
someone discovered her—she'd claim she was lost. Well, that would be the truth, wouldn't it? Surely a footman or maid would take pity on her and show her the way to her room, where she could curl into a ball and die.

She wrapped her arms more tightly around her unhappy stomach and started counting. Unfortunately, every odd noise—and the night was full of odd noises—distracted her. She'd reached thirty-two, perhaps for the second or third time, when the door finally opened and Nate came out.

“Oh, thank God! I was afraid you'd forgotten me.”

“Sorry. It took me longer than I expected to find the ingredients.”

“The ingredients for what?” She saw he had a cup in his hand. She eyed it suspiciously.

“A cure for your affliction.” He offered it to her. “Drink up.”

She backed up a step and wrinkled her nose. “It smells evil. What's in it?”

He grinned. “You don't want to know, but I promise you it works.”

She covered her mouth, her stomach already protesting. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can. I won't lie to you—it tastes as bad as it smells, so it's best to gulp it down as quickly as possible.” He held the cup out again. “Come on. Be brave. I assure you you'll thank me later.”

Clearly, he wasn't going to take “no” for an answer. Gingerly, reluctantly, she took the cup. The concoction not only stank, it looked foul as well—brown and thick. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“Of course not. You really will thank me in the morning.”

“I'll be dead in the morning.”

“No, you won't. Now stop fussing and drink it.”

Oh, what did it matter? It was hard to imagine she could feel any worse than she did already. She took a deep breath—through her mouth to avoid the smell—and tried to pour the disgusting liquid down her throat without having it touch the inside of her mouth. She was not successful.

“Gah.” She thrust the cup back at him and tried not to gag. Now that she'd managed to get the revolting stuff down, she wanted it to stay down.

“Well done! And here, I have this piece of candied ginger for you. It will help get rid of the taste and settle your stomach.”

She sucked on the sweetmeat while Lord Haywood put the cup on a ledge by the door so the servants would find it in the morning. She was starting to feel almost human again. “I think I can make it to my room now without being sick.”

He took her arm and started walking. “See? It does work, doesn't it?”

“For the moment.” She wasn't ready to applaud his doctoring skills quite yet. “Why are you taking me farther into the shrubbery?”

“It's the way to the back door. We could go in through the kitchen, but I think that unwise. We would look very out of place together there. The cook remembers when I ran tame at the Manor, so she didn't think much of my showing up in her domain. And gentlemen are always mixing potions to deal with the aftereffects of over-imbibing. But I don't believe you wish to advertise the fact that you were the one who needed that concoction or that you've been out here with me quite so long. You know how servants talk.”

“Y-yes.” She waited to feel horror at the notion of people gossiping about her.

Apparently she was still too ill to care. And, now that she thought more about it, being horrified was pointless. The damage was already done.

“It's too late to worry about the servants talking. All the houseguests must have seen us leave the drawing room together.”

He paused to look down at her. She could see his expression, but she couldn't quite interpret it. It almost looked as if he felt sorry for her. “I suspect no one noticed, Anne.”

Oh, that's right. Everyone had been focused on Papa and Mrs. Eaton.

“This way.” Lord Haywood guided her down a side path. They skirted a rosebush and stopped by another door.

She looked around—now she knew where she was. “This is the door we used when we came back from the lake.”

“Right. So you know your way. I'll leave you here, then. I don't believe you'll encounter anyone on your way to your room, but if you do, just tell them you were out walking in the garden to clear your head—which is true.”

Barely.

“And if they
did
notice us leave the drawing room together and ask where you are?” she asked.

Lord Haywood's brows rose. “Surely you've been among the
ton
enough to have perfected a carefully puzzled stare?”

That made her laugh. “Yes.”

“Then employ it. And if anyone presses you on my whereabouts, which I'm sure won't happen, tell him or her you don't know where I am, which by then will also be true.”

“All right. I suppose I can do that.” She was oddly reluctant to leave him. Their interlude in the bower now felt like a dream. Had she dreamed his kindness, too?

No. The horrible potion had been all too real. Fortunately, as she was feeling quite a bit better. Her death was not as imminent as it had seemed just a short time ago.

“Thank you for your help, my lord.”

“Nate.” He grinned. “I think you'll feel even better by morning, but you might want to limit yourself to toast and tea for breakfast.”

“Ugh. I don't want to eat anything ever again.”

He smiled—and then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, before opening the door for her and vanishing into the shadows.

Chapter Ten

Nate leaned on the terrace balustrade, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers, and looked up at the stars. It was late. He should go to bed.

He took a contemplative sip.

The only honorable thing he
could
do was leave her alone. He certainly couldn't court her. He'd promised Mum he'd wait to marry so he could concentrate on keeping Marcus safe. And events had proved Mum right—the effects of the curse
had
worsened since Marcus's last birthday.

Blast it all.

So he'd go back to London to try to prevent his cousin from dashing into the bushes with marriageable maidens, and Miss Davenport would go back to Loves Bridge to live with her father and Eleanor and the boys.

But that didn't mean he couldn't feel for Anne. He scowled into the night. That scene in the drawing room . . . it had not been well done of Davenport. Not well done at all.

He shifted position.
And it was not well done of me to take Anne into the garden.

No, he'd had little choice about that. Miss Davenport had clearly needed to be saved from herself. Nothing good could have come from her getting further inebriated and brawling with Davenport and Eleanor. Or she might have succumbed to a violent fit of the vapors.

So, yes, he'd had little choice about the garden. The kiss, however . . .

She'd kissed him first, if one could call that awkward mashing of lips on his a kiss. He could easily have pulled back, made a joke of it, told her—

He shook his head, closed his eyes, remembered. She had looked so lost, so lonely.

He should have turned away, but at that moment, he couldn't. Anne had needed him. He'd felt it in his gut . . . in his heart. He snorted. For once, it had not been his cock driving him, though that organ had definitely endorsed his decision.

He drew in a deep breath of night air. It had felt good to be needed, especially now that Marcus was pushing him away.

But Miss Davenport didn't
really
need him. Once she got over the shock of the situation, she'd adjust. Anne was strong. Determined. Unlike Eleanor, she'd stand up for herself.

So if he wasn't going to offer her marriage—and he wasn't—he had to keep his distance, because he felt far more than simple concern for her. Zeus, just remembering the taste of her mouth, the touch of her hand on his skin . . .

And the door to the dressing room that couldn't be locked.

Oh, Lord. He took another swallow of brandy. He might need to drink himself into a stupor to keep from doing something very stupid.

“Ah, there you are.”

He looked over his shoulder to see Eleanor step through the terrace door. Fortunately, she was alone. He would have a hard time being civil to Davenport.

He might have a hard time being civil to Eleanor.

“Why are you out here in the dark? Oh!”

A stray breeze snuffed her candle. She froze.

“Don't worry. Your eyes will adjust.” He resisted the urge to go to her.

Eleanor was also to blame for the drawing room disaster. She could have stopped her brother from calling for champagne. She could have kept Davenport from telling everyone their news.

She'd lived with cruelty in her marriage. Why hadn't she anticipated the pain they'd inflict on Anne with their announcements?

“You always had far better night vision than I did.”

He heard a whisper of nervousness in her voice, saw her glance back at the drawing room. Clearly, she wanted to return to soft chairs and candlelight, and normally, he'd acquiesce without her saying another word, but not tonight. If she insisted, he'd go—he wasn't prepared to be outright rude—but he wasn't ready to leave the night.

And he wasn't at all certain he wished Eleanor to be able to see his expression clearly.

She made her way cautiously to the balustrade. “I've been looking for you, Nate. We need to talk.”

He doubted that.

“I'd offer you some brandy,” he said, ignoring her words, “but I have only one glass.”

“Thank you, but I'm not, er, thirsty.” She gripped her hands nervously in front of her.

He nodded and took another sip. He suspected he was going to need some alcoholic fortitude to get through this conversation.

“I wish to discuss Miss Davenport.”

“Oh?” He wanted to tell her he would not talk about Anne behind Anne's back. He wanted to tell her how badly he thought she'd behaved. He wanted to—

The words stuck in his throat. If he said anything, Eleanor would wonder why he was taking Anne—Miss Davenport's side.

She looked up at him, surprised at his curtness.

Well, he was surprised, too. If anyone had asked him yesterday, he would have sworn he'd defend Eleanor in any situation. He'd seen Anne as a threat. He'd certainly been suspicious of Davenport.

In the drawing room after dinner—if not before—his allegiance had changed.

Well, of course it had. Now that he knew there was a child on the way, there was no question that Davenport and Eleanor must wed. They were adults and had chosen this path. If they didn't marry, their poor, innocent infant would be branded a bastard for the rest of his life.

And as to Anne . . .

No. He could not examine his feelings for her, especially now with Eleanor watching him.

“We saw you take her outside after we announced our engagement and, ah, other news. I wanted to thank you. It was clear she'd been drinking. I'm sure you saved us an unfortunate scene.”

He took another sip of brandy and tried to stop anger from building in him.

“Oh, not that anyone would have talked about her.” She didn't sound completely certain about that. “I mean, we are all family, aren't we?”

That was too much. “The other houseguests are
your
family, Eleanor. The only family Miss Davenport has here is her father.”

Her eyes flashed up to his. “Surely you don't take her side in this, Nate?”

Remain calm.
“There shouldn't be sides to be taken.”

She bit her lip and looked away. “Well, of course there aren't.”

He couldn't stop himself.

“Why didn't Davenport tell his daughter the news before you told the house party, Eleanor? It would have been the kinder thing to have done.”

She sighed, and then nodded. “Yes, I suppose it would have been. Richard—Lord Davenport—told me he'd mentioned our coming marriage, just not in quite so many words, on their journey here, and she hadn't taken it well. He'd thought to give her a little time to get to know me before bringing it up again, but . . .” She studied her hands. “He didn't know about the baby then. I wasn't certain until a few days ago, and I wanted to tell him in person.”

Ah. So that had likely been what Eleanor and Davenport had been
discussing
before Anne had darted into his room.

“We'd still intended to wait, but then we encountered William and Olivia on our way down to dinner and, well, I was so happy I couldn't keep the news to myself.”

All right, he could understand that. Of course Eleanor would want her brother and sister-in-law to know. “But that doesn't excuse you allowing Banningly to break out the champagne.”

That caused her to scowl at him. “I was
happy
, Nate. Aren't I allowed to be happy?”

“Of course you are, but you still need to think about how your actions affect other people.”

She turned away from him. “Don't lecture me.”

He took another swallow of brandy to keep from saying anything he would regret.

“Miss Davenport is a grown woman,” she said. “She's a year older than I am, for God's sake. She saw us together at the last house party. She should not have been surprised.”

“I doubt surprise was her primary emotion, Eleanor.”

“No? So what was?”

An owl hooted off to the right, and another owl answered farther away, down toward the lake.

He was heading into dangerous territory where he truly had no right to tread. Miss Davenport was an acquaintance only—

His blasted cock took issue with that characterization of their connection.

Well, whatever she was, she wasn't family.

Yet
, his cock whispered.

“I can't presume to say, Eleanor, but Davenport
is
her father. Her only parent since her mother died many years ago. I'm sure she is concerned for his welfare.”

“Then she should be happy for him.” She put her hand on his arm. “He's been alone for a long time, Nate. He
loves
me. Why can't she understand that?”

Put that way, it did seem as if Miss Davenport was being incredibly selfish. And he'd agreed with that assessment until he'd given it more thought—and spent some time with Anne.

“How long have you known Davenport, Eleanor?”

“A few months.”

He suspected it was closer to two, but he let that pass. “And you are already carrying his child. That's fast work.”

“Nate! I can't believe you are saying such things to me.”

He was more than a bit surprised himself. “Are you truly happy with Davenport, Eleanor? It
has
all happened very quickly.”

She smiled. “Oh, yes, Nate. I'm very happy. Richard is nothing like Eaton, nothing at all. He's so kind and gentle.” She looked him in the eye, her voice firm. “I'm not a child, Nate, and Richard certainly isn't. We don't need years to know our own minds. Why can't his daughter see that?”

Probably because
she
wasn't caught up in the throes of new love. “Perhaps she hasn't had time to do so. Have you spent even a few minutes with her?”

“Well . . . no.”

“You should. At the very least, Davenport should talk to her in private—not that it is any of my affair, of course.”
What the hell has got into me? I'm not usually such a meddler.

“He plans to do so tomorrow.” She looked out over the garden, but gave him a sidelong glance. “And we were hoping it
was
a bit of your affair—Miss Davenport's well-being, that is.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand. Why would I be concerned about Miss Davenport?”

Eleanor turned to face him. “You took her out into the garden.”

It was his turn to look away. “I merely saw a situation that needed attention and attended to it.”

“You were watching her—that's how you noticed.”

“I was sitting next to her at dinner so her distress was hard to ignore.”

“Everyone else ignored it.”

He frowned at her. “Eleanor, what is your point?”

“Richard said you spent a considerable amount of time talking to Miss Davenport at a wedding in Loves Bridge, and, more importantly, he suspects you and she had some sort of . . . discussion a week or so earlier which neither of you acknowledge but from which Miss Davenport returned in a state of disarray.”

Good God!
“If Davenport thinks I dishonored his daughter, he should discuss the matter with me directly.” He was not about to betray Anne's confidence by admitting anything to Eleanor.

“Oh, he doesn't think you dishonored her,” Eleanor said quickly, “at least not in a way that would, er,
require
marriage. But he's done some asking around, and he thinks you'd make a splendid hus—”

She must finally have listened to what she was saying. “Ah, that is, he—we—thought . . . well, er . . .” She pressed her lips together and then said, in a small voice, “You're angry, aren't you?”

He was. Very angry, though that wasn't completely Eleanor's fault. The entire situation was impossible.

He took a calming breath. “Eleanor, you know I'm not free to marry now. I have to consider Marcus first.”

“Oh, Nate, you can't wait to live your life until Marcus—” She stopped herself. “That is, you need an heir, don't you?”

He certainly was not going to discuss that with Eleanor. “In any event, I am not going to marry to solve your problem.”

“I didn't mean that you should. I want you to be happy—as happy as I am—and Richard thought you were interested in his daughter.”

Likely Eleanor
did
wish him to be happy, but that did not permit her to busy herself in his business.

“My feelings for Miss Davenport—if I have any at all—are beside the point. She is Davenport's daughter. She will be your stepdaughter and living at Davenport Hall until she marries—
if
she marries. I hope you don't intend to make her feel unwelcome in her childhood home.”

“Make
her
feel unwelcome? Good God, Nate, she's the one who's being unwelcoming. She hates me and my children!”

This wasn't good. “Eleanor, if you view Miss Davenport as the enemy—without knowing her, I might point out—you are dooming everyone to a very unpleasant situation. You will set father against daughter and prejudice your boys to view their stepsister poorly. Even beyond that, Loves Bridge is a small village. Miss Davenport grew up there. As far as I could see during my brief visit, she is well liked. If you make her an enemy, you risk making the entire village an enemy, whereas if you can find common ground, she might be able to ease your way.”