How to Manage a Marquess (29 page)

Blast it, he hadn't meant to cause Alex to relive such a painful memory. Nate took a drink of his own ale and glanced around the room.

“Don't look now,” he said, “but it appears Miss Wilkinson is heading this way.” There was something about the woman Nate couldn't like.

Alex did not appear to share his antipathy. He grinned. “Yes, I see. And she looks quite peevish. I'll wager the Spinster House lottery did not go her way.”

The woman bore down upon them, her expression shifting with each step from disgruntled to determined.

“Well, Miss Wilkinson,” Alex said as soon as she drew near enough for conversation, “did you enjoy the wedding ceremony?”

Miss Wilkinson smiled through gritted teeth. “Of course. I'm always happy to see a spinster married, as long as it's not me.”

“Oh, I think your turn will come,” Alex said. “You just need to find the right man, one who values you for your many, er, strengths.”

Something was going on between these two, but Nate couldn't decide if it was fighting or flirting. Whatever it was, he didn't wish to observe it. “If you will excuse me, Miss Wilkinson? I shall leave you to brangle with Lord Evans to your heart's content.”

“Ah, your heart's content, Miss Wilkinson.” Alex grinned, his tone teasing . . . and something else. “Doesn't that sound splendid?”

Miss Wilkinson's eyes narrowed. “I believe Miss Davenport has need of you, Lord Haywood.”

“For what?” Alex asked. “To tell him she's the new Spinster House spinster? I assume she won the draw?”

Miss Wilkinson's eyes narrowed further and her nostrils flared. “She did.”

“Too bad.” Alex's tone was almost taunting.

Good Lord, did Alex wish to have the woman slap him—or perhaps box his ears? Her fingers had curled into fists.

“Well, I suppose I'll go along then and see what she wants. Is she at the Spinster House?”

“Yes.” Miss Wilkinson glanced at him. “She needs you to help her lose something.”

His brow shot up. “You mean find something.”

“That, too.”

How very odd. He left Alex and Miss Wilkinson glaring at each other and made his way briskly to the nearest door.

Chapter Twenty-One

Nate stepped out into the warm June day and felt the sun on his face. His spirits lifted . . . until he remembered.

He jerked the door shut behind him, but the sounds of the party—the lively music, the drone of conversation, the trill of laughter—spilled out through the open windows.

He had to get away from all the bloody merriment.

He started walking up through the churchyard.

Alex told him to believe love could break the curse, but even Alex admitted it was difficult to tell the difference between lust and love.

The noise of the party grew fainter, replaced by birdsong and the rustle of tree leaves and—

A cat's meowing.

The bloody Spinster House cat was following him.

He wandered in among the headstones. A bird hopped on one—but took flight at soon as it saw the cat, leaving behind its wet, white calling card. Even in death, there was no dignity.

He snorted. Of course there wasn't. Life went on. The dead were just a fading memory, mourned by a few who then died themselves.

He read the headstone—it was Isabelle Dorring's. Now
that
was one person who'd not been forgotten—unfortunately. It was bloody damnable that one woman—one
spinster
—could cause so much suffering—two hundred years of it....

Damnable? Precisely. He was tempted to spit on the blasted tombstone, but he'd let the bird's comment stand for his.

And now the curse was playing itself out in Marcus's life.
Zeus!
He really wanted to believe love would bring a happy ending to this sad tale—Marcus and his duchess deserved a long life and many children—but two hundred years of history said he'd be a fool if he did.

“The devil and Miss Dorring must be having their own party in hell today,” he muttered.

He startled. He'd forgotten the stupid cat was there. “What? You don't agree?”

The cat hissed—and then sat down to clean its side. He watched its tongue move over and over what appeared to be the same spot.

“Why don't you go home, if you don't like my opinion?”

The cat ignored him.

Nate sighed and looked across the road at the Spinster House.
Does Anne really need me?

No, of course not. Miss Wilkinson had likely made that up for her own unfathomable purposes. Miss Davenport must be too busy singing and dancing for joy to give him a thought.

In that regard, everything had worked out perfectly. The rumors of their stay at the Three Legged Dog were forgotten, Anne and Eleanor no longer had to live under the same roof, and Anne hadn't been forced to marry to achieve her freedom.

He frowned. Anne hadn't been forced to marry
him
.

That was a
good
thing, no matter what the boys thought. She must be happy. He, however . . .

“Merrow.”

The cat had finished its toilet, at least for the moment, and was now staring at him.

“I'm not especially fond of cats, you know.”

The cat twitched its tail in acknowledgment.

“And I especially don't like you after your antics in the Spinster House garden. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have ended up on the ground with Miss Davenport.”

The cat snarled.

Well, yes, perhaps that
was
overstating the case. The tangle of ivy had definitely contributed to the situation. And, on further reflection, he did have to admit the animal had distracted the Boltwood sisters at a crucial point, averting certain discovery.

“All right, what do you want?”

The cat stood and began walking toward the Spinster House. When Nate didn't immediately follow, it stopped and looked back at him.

It was losing patience.

And he was losing his mind. Cats didn't have thoughts. They ate and slept and took up space.

This one looked very determined.

“Very well.” He glanced around to be certain no one had witnessed this bizarre conversation before starting down the hill. Thankfully, everyone was still at the party and likely would be for hours to come. It was early yet, and there was a full moon tonight so late-night revelers could find their ways home—or back to London.

That's what he'd thought to do after the ceremony—go back to Town. Or he could stay at Cupid's Inn. Loves Castle was large, but sharing it with the newlyweds didn't feel right. He should have asked Alex his plans.

He followed the cat across the road, but when it turned down the walk to the Spinster House, he paused.

He wasn't suitable company for anyone at the moment, particularly Miss Davenport. It would be best if he went back to London at once. He'd done what he'd come to do—he'd supported Marcus and wished him well. He'd even kissed the bride. Now he was free to take his depressed and depressing self away.

He looked up to see a few threatening clouds off in the distance. Yes, the sooner he departed, the better.

He continued down the walk toward the inn.

“Merrow!” The cat jumped out of the bushes and attacked his boot.

“Good God, cat, leave my footwear alone.”

It let go, but it planted its rump in the middle of the pavement and . . . well, it really looked as if it was glaring at him.

“You're not going to let me go back to the inn, are you?”

The cat licked its paws.

Nate took a cautious step to the side to go round the animal.

The animal hissed.

“I
can
get past you if I want to, you know. I can certainly outrun you.”

It showed its teeth.

“Oh, very well. I suppose I
should
say good-bye to Miss Davenport.”

He retraced his steps and turned up the walk to the Spinster House, the cat following close behind.

* * *

Anne perched on the edge of the worn red settee in the Spinster House sitting room and stared at the one painting gracing the wall: a hunting dog with a dead bird in its mouth.

She stayed on the settee.

She'd toured the entire house. It was rather ugly, too. No one had spent much effort on it in years, if ever. There were many changes she should make. After all, this was going to be her home for the rest of her life.

Ugh.

She blew out a long breath and considered the painting again.

She'd been so nervous and excited when it had come time to draw lots, her stomach had felt as if a flock of birds were fighting over a crust of bread in there. So she'd been slow to react. But Jane hadn't been slow. She'd darted her hand out and made her choice at once. Anne had been left to take the lot she'd rejected.

The winner.

She propped her chin on her hands and studied the poor painted fowl's glassy eye. Jane had not been happy—and for one insane moment, Anne had contemplated letting her have the house anyway.

Idiot! Thank
God
she'd quashed that misguided impulse. With Eleanor now at the Hall, she needed this house far more than Jane.

She looked around at the beamed ceiling, the pale yellow walls, the dark, carved oak paneling—and the mirror over the mantel, which reflected her glum expression.

She forced herself to smile.

Blech—that was worse. She looked like she was wearing some garish mask.

She shifted on the settee and heard the springs creak. It was so quiet. She would have said Davenport Hall was quiet—before the boys arrived, that is—but it had never been
this
quiet.

If she wanted companionship, she should go over to the hall and join the celebration. Perhaps being around happy people would improve her mood.

Though she'd be careful to avoid Jane.

And Lord Haywood.

Mmm. He'd looked so handsome, but so stern, in church earlier, standing by the duke as the duke said his vows. Had he left for London yet?

She closed her eyes.
Oh, God. I might never see him again.

She jumped. Who was that at the door? Perhaps if she ignored them—

She sighed and forced herself off the settee and across the room. It was probably Papa come to see why she wasn't at the party.

She threw open the door.

It was not Papa.

“Oh.” She stared at Lord Haywood as Poppy darted past her feet. The marquess looked oddly uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Wilkinson said you needed me?”

A very hot need exploded from her womb outward. She was quite certain her face turned bright red.
Why would Jane say such a thing?

She must have said that last bit out loud, because Lord Haywood cleared his throat again and tugged on his waistcoat.

“Well, then. My mistake. I'll just be—”

Poppy suddenly reappeared to wrap her front legs around Lord Haywood's ankle.

“Good heavens! What has got into you, Poppy?” Anne had never seen this behavior before, not that she'd spent a great deal of time around cats.

Lord Haywood shook his leg, but Poppy held on. “Can you get your cat to release me, Miss Davenport?”

“She's not my cat, Lord Haywood. I might have won the Spinster House, but Poppy is not part of that bargain.” She couldn't help herself—she giggled. It did look rather funny, Lord Haywood having a cat attached to his leg. And his expression—it was a mix of horror, distaste, and, she thought, resignation.

“She's not biting you, is she?”

“No, but I fear my fingers would not fare well should I try to forcibly detach her.” He stopped moving his leg and sighed. “I'm afraid for some reason the cat wishes me to visit, Miss Davenport. I'd decided not to bother you, but when I tried to continue down the walk to the inn, it expressed its extreme displeasure.”

Poppy laid her ears back and hissed. How very odd.

“Well, then I suppose you had better come in before blood is drawn.”

The moment Lord Haywood crossed the threshold, Poppy released him, but this time she stationed herself at his heels.

“She's not going to let you change your mind, you know,” Anne said.

“Clearly.”

Anne closed the door—and found herself standing very close to the marquess. She could smell his
eau de Cologne
, the wool of his coat, him. The air vibrated between them—

Or would if he were paying her any attention. He was still watching Poppy.

“Are you afraid of cats, Lord Haywood?” She hoped she didn't sound as . . . annoyed as she felt.

“No. This one, however, seems possessed by a demon.”

Poppy yawned and stretched—but when the marquess took a step toward the door, she hissed and arched her back.

“I see. Well, since you're here—and it does look like Poppy wants you to stay here—shall I show you around?”

“Very well.” He stepped farther into the room, being careful to give Poppy a wide berth.

“There's a door into the garden, you know,” Anne whispered as they headed toward the back of house, “if you'd prefer to—”

She heard a snarl behind her.

Lord Haywood laughed. “No, I think I am confined here until your cat allows me to leave.”

“Poppy is
not
my cat.” What could she do with the man in the interim?

Good Lord, no! Where had that shockingly inappropriate thought come from? And in the Spinster House, of all places! Isabelle Dorring must be turning in her grave—if she had a grave to turn in, that is.

“There's a harpsichord in the room over here.” That's right—the man was a musician. It would be no trouble at all to keep him occupied until Poppy deigned to let him leave. “Would you like to see it?”

He grinned—and she caught her breath. His unguarded smile completely transformed his face.

“Harpsichords are out of fashion now,” he said, “but my grandfather played, so I grew up with one. I'd quite like to see it—and try it out, with your permission, of course.”

“Of course. I'd love to hear you play.”

She led him into a pleasant room with books and a desk—and the harpsichord.

“I'm afraid I'm sadly out of practice.”

“And I have no idea if it's in tune. I'm not musical, as I think I've told you. But the Duke of Benton—who married Miss Franklin, the spinster before Cat—
was
musical, and he was here rather frequently, though of course given the fact that Miss Franklin was increasing when they wed, I suppose he didn't spend all his time playing the—”

She pressed her lips together.
Lud, I didn't really say that, did I?

“Ah.” Lord Haywood gave her an intent look before turning to the instrument.

He sat down as if drawn to a magnet. His face stilled, his long fingers hovered over the keys, and then he began to play.