The Best Marquess by Nicola Davidson

Chapter 10

Finn yawned and stretched, rotating his ankles until they clicked before rolling onto his side and burrowing further into his pillow. He and mornings had never been friends, and today he felt particularly reluctant to get up, after having the best sleep of his life.

Because you are wedded and bedded!

All the events of the previous day—and night—crashed into his brain and his eyes flew open. “Pippa?” he said, bolting upright in the bed that would forever be enshrined as a sacred location of two momentous first-time events: feasting on England’s sweetest pussy and losing his virginity.

“Over here.”

At the sight of his wife curled up on a chair in front of a stoked fire, quill in hand and a piece of parchment balancing on a book, hot color flooded his cheeks. He was officially the worst husband in history; bedding her then falling asleep without so much as a kiss goodnight or an offer to fetch a warm washcloth. What kind of man did that?

Finn bowed his head. “Viscount Knighton pleads guilty to multiple crimes, your honor. Messiness, allergy to mornings, and neglecting his new wife after a most magnificent evening. He is utterly repentant and hopes very much to atone.”

She snorted. “The court concedes mitigating circumstances. Anyone who has to manage lawyers, bankers, physicians, the Archbishop of Canterbury, a seriously ill father, a tearful mother, and my villainous grandmother, may rest without prejudice.”

“But I didn’t take care of you properly.”

“You took care of me in a most satisfactory fashion. One might almost say…very well,” Pippa replied, her cheeks pink. “Besides, I like to wake early and attend to correspondence. I’m just writing to Lilian with all the details of the wedding.”

“All the details?”

Pink darkened to scarlet. “I’ll save the juiciest gossip for when we take tea. If my sister applauds next time she sees you, you’ll know why.”

He nodded, although his cheeks were probably the same shade. No, darker. “Gabriel and I have made peace with the fact that you share a great many details. So, you are…well?”

“Under interrogation I might admit to being a bit tender in certain places. But I will freely declare hunger. It would be a good idea to feed me before I start gnawing on the furniture.”

Relieved to have a task to make up for his shocking lapse in hero behavior, Finn climbed out of bed and grabbed his heavy silk robe from the iron hook nearby. “Tea and toast? Or something more substantial? In all honesty I think I could empty the larder. It won’t be a storm or an earthquake London hears, but my stomach.”

“Something substantial. I am partial to sliced ham and coddled eggs. Oh, and sautéed potato. Toasted bread with butter and marmalade. And, ah…a pot of chocolate.”

He grinned. “That’s all?”

“It’s a trifle early for caramels,” she replied pertly.

“Blasphemy.”

Finn tugged on the bellpull. When a maid arrived, he requested a breakfast tray, then returned and sat down next to Pippa. Somehow, she looked even more beautiful this morning, with her hair unbound and rumpled, wearing just her spectacles, chemise, and a blue dressing gown.

“If you were wondering,” she added, “there has been no word about your father from the physicians. I’m of the opinion that no news is good news.”

“I’m trying not to think about him at all. But I wanted to thank you. For everything. I know yesterday was…a lot, but you were so stoic. Gabriel may gnash his teeth, but it is obvious I married the greatest Nash; Princess Pippet, long may she reign.”

Pippa patted his hand. “Yes, you did. And as I suspect you supervised the transformation of your father’s chamber and made me paper flowers…I wanted to express my thanks. I do not like theatrics, but small, personal gestures are most welcome. You made the wedding as lovely as it could be.”

“I would do anything to make you happy,” Finn murmured. “Anything at all.”

She blinked. “Ah…yes. Well. It’s a bit too soon to start worshipping at the Pippa altar. Wait until you learn my darkest secrets; such as I transform into a selkie when the moon is full, and also require regular fresh corpses for my bloodthirsty pet tiger…Bubbles.”

“Bubbles?”

“I panicked. Names are hard. That is why I read the books rather than write them.”

Finn hesitated. They had always jested with one another, their own language of support and care in times of turmoil. Most often about their complicated families and the uncomfortable emotions they unleashed; she knew exactly how it felt to live under the boot of someone who wielded power like a hammer. But today her humor seemed…brittle. Was it just the fact that she’d woken up married in a strange house after a hasty bedchamber wedding? Or something more?

“Pippa…you would tell me if there was something on your mind, wouldn’t you? I mean, you can tell me anything. Ask me anything. I’m not going to say your ears are too delicate or some such horseshit. I know we shared a lot as friends, but I hope we can be, er…closer as husband and wife. Truly share the darkest secrets.”

She stared at him for a long moment. But just as she opened her mouth, there was a tap at the door and a muffled voice said, “Breakfast, my lord, my lady.”

“Hold that thought,” he said, hurrying over and opening it for the two footmen carrying trays of heavenly-scented food. After placing the trays on the low table in front of the fireplace, the footmen inclined their heads and swiftly departed.

“Mmmm,” said Pippa, picking up a warmed china plate and adding a large spoonful of coddled eggs, three pieces of thinly sliced ham, a small mountain of sautéed potato, and some toasted bread thickly spread with butter and orange marmalade. “Cold food is a crime, so let us eat.”

“May I pour you a cup of chocolate?”

“You may,” she replied, gracious as a queen.

They ate in silence, until he couldn’t eat another bite, yet Pippa still perused the trays. Damnation. Something was wrong. Picking at a tray to avoid conversation was a tactic he’d seen Pippa employ with her grandmother; he examined jacket sleeves when his father sailed past the point of unbearable.

Never had he thought she would do that with him, though.

Finn swallowed hard. “Pippa, just tell me. Whatever it is. No matter how delicate or taboo. I know there is something on your mind. No piece of ham is that interesting.”

She stilled, then put her plate down. “I did the picking thing.”

“You did,” he said lightly.

“There is something. Perhaps I am overthinking it. Perhaps it doesn’t matter at all and there is an excellent explanation. But last night when we were in bed, you—”

Another knock sounded, sharp this time, and Finn swore under his breath.

“Enter,” he barked.

A maid poked her head around the door. “Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady, but the physicians ask you to come at once.”

Icy cold tendrils shot down his spine and tangled around his heart.

No. Please God no.

“We’ll go together,” said Pippa, taking his hand and lacing her fingers with his, once again providing him strength.

Hand in hand, clad only in dressing gowns, they left his bedchamber and walked down the hallway to his father’s room. His temples dripped with sweat, the food he’d just eaten churned in his belly, and he had to force his feet onward; every step felt spiked yet slippery as though closer and closer to purgatory.

As soon as they entered the room, the stench of camphor and impending death hit him like a sickly slap. Smothering his senses. Paralyzing them.

No. Please God no.

His mother flew over to him, her face twisted in tearstained agony. “Finlay…do something. They say soon. Don’t let Pinehurst die. Help him.”

Finn staggered over to his father’s bedside, but even before he got near, he knew nothing could be done. That rattling, choking breathing…those hands twisted into claws, those sunken, unfocused eyes…

His vision grew blurry as he fell to his knees. Fuck. Fuck.

The final moments of this man, this heartless monster who had carelessly and cruelly hurt others his whole life, should not provoke any emotion other than relief and elation. And yet Finn found himself reaching for that twisted hand. Holding it.

Pinehurst stared at him, his gaze focusing momentarily. “Weak,” he hissed. “Be better.”

Then his father exhaled in a rush, his eyes closed, and his hand grew limp. One of the physicians leaped forward, bending down to place his ear next to the marquess’s mouth. Next, he snatched up Pinehurst’s wrist and pressed two fingers to it. But eventually, he gently set it back down.

“It is my sad duty to inform you, Lord Knighton, that your father the Marquess of Pinehurst has passed,” he said gravely. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

Evangeline screamed and collapsed onto the floor, her wails of grief echoing in the bedchamber and clawing at his ears.

Black dots danced in front of Finn’s eyes, and for a horrible moment he thought he might faint. He was cold. So damned cold, like he’d walked for hours in a snowstorm. Then slender arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

“Breathe, my lord husband,” Pippa said, stroking his hair so soothingly he tilted his head to get closer. “In and out. In and out.”

But destiny and duty had caught him. He was heir no more, and soon would officially be Marquess of Pinehurst and all that entailed.

Oh fuck.

It was the calm before the mourning storm.

With more patience than she thought she possessed, Pippa stood on a cushioned stool in her mother-in-law’s bedchamber and held up her arms so the modiste could take measurements of her bust, waist, and hips. She would have been quite content with one black gown that could then be accidentally set on fire by a rogue spark, but as she had to wear black for the next three months before moving into the mauves, browns, grays and whites of half-mourning, she required more than that. Damn it all.

She utterly resented this display for the cretinous late marquess, as did poor Finn, who had lived under his control for so long. But ignoring propriety would only lead to gossip. Besides, at least it wasn’t a year as the dowager marchioness would have to do. Nor had they been forced to venture into town for their new wardrobe; the modiste had been delighted to make a house call for such an exalted lord’s widow.

“What do you think of this pattern, Pippa darling?” asked Evangeline, holding up a fashion plate.

“Lovely,” she replied, trying not to stare longingly at the door.

“I’ll have that in black, and perhaps lilac for my daughter-in-law—”

“Not lilac,” said Pippa shortly.

Evangeline looked at her in surprise. “You don’t like lilac? With your fair hair it would certainly suit.”

She shifted uncomfortably on the stool. Even the thought of wearing the color Grandmother wore each day like a badge of honor made her recoil. She needed no reminders of the dowager Lady Kingsford in her wardrobe. None.

“I would prefer white,” Pippa said, offering a smile to atone for her bluntness. “Perhaps with a violet trim?”

“Of course, madam, that is no trouble,” said the modiste smoothly, her eyes flint-hard. Such mettle was no doubt essential when catering to the whims of society ladies. “But one gown for half-mourning surely isn’t sufficient for a lady of your standing. The granddaughter of a society grande dame…sister to a duchess…a new marchioness…”

Gah. She could hardly say no thank you, I refuse to pretend mourn that bile-ridden skunk in front of someone who had loved the late Lord Pinehurst. Although quite why Evangeline did was a mystery. It wasn’t like he had loved her, or even treated her with consideration and civility. He’d been as cold and cruel toward her as he’d been toward Finn.

Then again, she couldn’t judge, not when her own sister remained utterly infatuated with someone who didn’t even make her come during their secret assignations. After the wedding ceremony, Georgiana had taken her aside and guiltily confessed to succumbing to the gentleman’s pleas and meeting him once again. In a bloody coat room. The whole situation made her want to hunt this scoundrel down and string him up by the cock; hopefully Xavier and his mysterious contacts, whoever they were, would have a name soon. Gigi deserved respect. Tender care. And copious orgasms, damn it.

She could highly recommend a husband who provided all three. And listened to her point of view.

“Three black gowns, a white, a violet, and er…brown,” said Pippa reluctantly. “But not light brown, dark brown like chocolate. I have a fondness for the color.”

“Very good, my lady. It is no trouble to return should you discover that six gowns are grossly inadequate for your needs.”

She pursed her lips. Shopping pained at her at the best of times, but spending money on mourning and half-mourning gowns for Finn’s father grated her last nerve. The only benefit to all this nonsense was that she had a watertight excuse to decline party invitations and host no balls. If she could stretch it to midsummer, the ton would be retiring to their country estates, in which case she wouldn’t have to entertain at all.

Perfect.

Pippa glanced over at her mother-in-law as she stepped down from the stool. “Do you need any further gowns, Evangeline? I’m quite satisfied with six.”

The older woman sighed. “I think I have sufficient gowns until summer at least.”

The modiste looked utterly woebegone, but rallied herself, curtsied, and departed the chamber after promising to deliver the first black gowns in the morning.

Grateful her brief submission to society norms was over, Pippa slumped into the chair beside Evangeline. “How are you feeling after that?”

“I’m not sure,” said her mother-in-law. “The year is stretching ahead of me like an abyss. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself except wear black, which really won’t do anything to improve my mood.”

Pippa nodded and poured them both a cup of tea from the tray. “Black gowns, black gloves, black bonnets with black veils, black jewelry…precisely nothing to make you feel better. Fortunately, there is cake. Really, we should have flouted convention and ordered an entire shop’s worth of cakes, pastries, and tarts. I think we are going to need a lot of fortification in the days to come.”

“Indeed,” said Evangeline morosely, as she sipped her tea. “That was lovely before, though, you saying you are fond of dark brown.”

“Why?”

“Finlay’s eyes are dark brown.”

Pippa’s brow furrowed. No. That sounded far too sentimental, and she wasn’t a sentimental person. She liked many things that were dark brown. A cup of chocolate. Rich beef stew. The leather of her kidskin half-boots. She certainly had not just ordered a gown because the color reminded her of her husband’s eyes. Had she?

Finn’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins. Then there are those ridiculously long lashes which I would sell Grandmother for. Even his thick eyebrows have a certain charm, especially when he raises one. Or quirks it. Forget the language of flowers, people should talk about the language of Finn’s eyebrows…

Good grief. Waxing lyrical over eyebrows. She’d obviously had too much tea and needed to open a brandy bottle.

“So they are,” she said eventually. “Just like his father.”

Evangeline finished her tea. “Do you know, I think I fell in love with those eyes before I even knew Pinehurst’s name.”

“Really?” said Pippa, genuinely curious to know what this woman had seen in the late marquess, about the opposite of a romance hero. “Do tell.”

“I was the greenest of green girls. Pinehurst attended one of my mother’s soirees, and she introduced us. I was smitten, he said she’ll do. Ha. The highest of compliments from him. I was so excited to land a marquess that I didn’t sleep a wink that night; the following morning he signed the contracts with my father. Pinehurst then bowed over my hand and informed me that we would be married in the parlor by special license a week hence. It’s strange, but I remember the ceremony as though it were yesterday; not over twenty-five years ago. What do you think?”

I think that is the saddest tale I’ve ever heard.

“Er…I can picture it exactly,” said Pippa. “That is interesting, you and his lordship wedding by special license then Finn and I doing the same all these years later.”

Evangeline sat forward and took her hand. “I know it was unexpected, but I’ll be forever grateful you agreed to that. My husband was as well, even if he couldn’t say so, being too ill. Seeing his heir properly married…that was always his fondest wish. And a wife from the Nash family, well I doubt Finlay could have chosen anyone more suitable. Pinehurst felt extremely strongly about lineage.”

“He did indeed.”

“Now Finlay’s most important task is securing the title with an heir of his own. I cannot wait to be a grandmother; it’s the only thing keeping me from sinking into melancholia. You two will make the most adorable babies, that, I am sure.”

Argh. This discussion had gotten progressively worse, but it certainly wasn’t the right time to tell Evangeline that there might not be babies anytime soon. Not as long as Finn spilled on his wife’s belly, at least. In truth, after witnessing Amanda’s birth she wasn’t in any hurry to get pregnant. But Finn should have talked to her, damn it. They should have made the decision together. It nagged at her that they hadn’t, but there was just too much going on in the household to broach the subject.

“Children will come eventually, I’m sure,” said Pippa.

Evangeline dropped Pippa’s hand. “Why would you delay? Surely you know your duty as Marchioness of Pinehurst. Even I knew my duty, and I was seventeen years old. You are nearly twenty-one. Exactly the right age to have a baby.”

“Ah…”

“My son has such affection for you, and I’m sure he wishes for a family. But I wonder how you truly feel about him, if you would deny him his heart’s desire.”

“Finn has been my best friend for sixteen years,” said Pippa, floundering at the accusatory tone.

“That is not what I asked.”

Good lord. The other woman was sniffling now; such overt emotion made her supremely uncomfortable. “I’m causing you distress. Perhaps I should leave.”

The dowager shook her head. “We have duties to attend.”

Her heart sank. Surely not. “You mean…”

Evangeline smiled grimly. “My late husband’s valet has agreed to bathe and dress his corpse before it is laid out so visitors might pay their last respects. But he cannot perform such a delicate task alone. We will assist him. Come along, Pippa.”

Oh God.

Bad enough she had to wear mourning for the cretin, but now she had to bathe and dress his dead body as well? This was nothing short of vengeance from beyond the grave.

It was hard to imagine a less enticing place to be the family rock than Kingsford House. But here, it was indeed the worst position in the world.

There wasn’t nearly enough talk about how overwhelming it was to inherit a title.

Rubbing a weary hand across his jaw, Finn stood next to the street-facing window in the library, the only spot in the room where he didn’t feel like he would be buried alive in dark paneled walls, crimson trim, stag heads, and paintings of gruesome biblical scenes.

Ugh. He hated the décor, only worsening his current emotional state.

It didn’t matter whether the death was sudden or expected, it was still a lot to work through. And unless you were a soulless ghoul—and society certainly had its share of unscrupulous heirs—it was a time of mind-twisting upheaval. From one minute to the next, he didn’t know whether to cry or hurl breakable objects. And yet they all expected him to be a stoic soldier of the British Stiff Upper Lip Brigade and lock away his feelings in the cellar. It was no wonder the ton gambled and had affairs and drank themselves into a catatonic state. If they had to answer the question ‘how are you’ truthfully, the empire would collapse.

But looking out the window was infinitely preferable to paper or parchment. Everything was blending together now; if he wasn’t careful, he would be thanking someone for a modiste bill instead of a condolence card. Far worse, he missed Pippa terribly; this might be perhaps the longest they had gone without a proper discussion in sixteen years. Yet she had enough to manage on her own, helping to prepare his father’s body for the hordes of visitors they would soon have, answering correspondence related to the wedding and the upcoming funeral, learning to manage a new household, and getting her belongings moved in. He would not cause his rock to shatter.

Finn yawned. He’d not slept since his father’s death, and his body ached like he’d run from London to Bath. God. Twenty-four, and feeling at least twice that. A part of him yearned for the carefree heir days, to just love Pippa and return to his business; concentrating on nothing more taxing than the trim of a demi mask or whether a romance novel was explicit enough to join the Bliss collection. But he couldn’t. He was marquess now, with a boulder’s worth of history and expectations sitting on his shoulders, and bankers, lawyers, stewards, secretaries, and clerks all wanting a slice of him.

At the sound of a delicate throat clearing, he glanced over to see Travers standing in the library doorway. “Yes?”

“Beg pardon, my lord, but ah…you have a visitor.”

“Who?” said Finn impatiently, in no mood whatsoever to see another old man.

“There is…er…a woman at the door. A Mrs. Overton. She has a young child and claims you will see her. That you…er…know each other well. I didn’t think I’d seen her before, and yet she is somewhat familiar, so perhaps I have. What are your instructions?”

Abby.

Joy warred with surprise that she would come here, knowing her loathing of the aristocracy and the name Pinehurst. Yet it wasn’t his place to fully identify her without permission. She might still wish to remain anonymous.

“My instructions,” said Finn pleasantly, “are that Mrs. Overton and her child are welcome in this house at any time. Warmly welcome. I would appreciate a tea tray. Perhaps a few squares of marzipan if there are any sweets in the kitchens.”

Travers blinked and smacked his lips together, no doubt gulping back at least a thousand questions. “Very good, my lord. I shall escort them in here and see about a tray.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later, Abby walked into the library, Nessie perched on her hip. Both looked incredibly uneasy; the brown-haired toddler was clinging to her mother and the cloth toy Miss Wabbit like a barnacle.

“Abby!” he said walking forward with his hands outstretched.

She stared at him for a bit, then sank into a curtsy. “Lord Pinehurst.”

Nessie frowned. “Not Piney. Sweetie.”

Unable to stop himself, Finn chuckled. Nessie didn’t know he was her uncle, for the sole reason that small children had a unique ability to blurt out secrets at the worst possible moment. While she probably called him Sweetie solely because he brought her marzipan, a part of him stubbornly believed it was for love alone. “Clever Nessie. You have the right of it, I won’t be Pinehurst officially until after the funeral.”

His niece relaxed and held up Miss Wabbit. “Kiss.”

After the past week, something so normal and simple as this greeting ritual was as welcome as rain to parched earth. He leaned down and pecked the cloth rabbit on its dusty cheek, then opened his arms as Nessie wriggled to get to him for a hug. She smelled of rain and lavender soap and toddler, there was a smudge of berry preserve on the hem of her linen smock and he almost lost his composure. “It is very, very good to see you, little miss.”

Nessie patted his cravat. “Sweetie.”

Abby’s eyes danced with laughter. “Stop mining for marzipan, you scamp. Play with Miss Wabbit on the rug there.”

“I have a tea tray coming,” said Finn.

“That is kind. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. Travers, that’s the butler, has been informed that you and Nessie are welcome at any time. Please, take a seat. Let’s talk. There is much to discuss.”

“Is there?” said Abby, her gaze turning suspicious as she gingerly perched on the chaise next to him, while Nessie hopped her toy up and down on the floor.

Travers returned with a full tea tray, including some lemon marzipan squares, and placed it on the low table in front of them, then discreetly withdrew without offering to pour. Finn was grateful for the man’s unflappable nature; it seemed only his arch nemesis Cunningham truly ruffled his feathers. But he hoped Abby would agree to some sort of family connection identifier, otherwise the servants would be speculating she was his mistress or some such foolishness.

God. Even the thought of Pippa hearing that made his insides shrivel up.

“I’m glad you came,” he said gruffly. “I know it wouldn’t have been easy.”

“There are no other circumstances that I would set foot in this place,” Abby replied. “But I wanted to see how you were, and a letter seemed too impersonal. Inherited the title and married Lady Pippa. Or should that be the other way around?”

“At Father’s command, I wed Pippa by special license beside his sickbed, then I inherited yesterday morning.”

“Oh God. Finlay…”

His vision blurred, and he angrily dashed a hand across his face. “No need for sympathy, far worse things than having an ancient title, multiple estates, and a large fortune. Abby, I swear…do not look at me like that. I’m barely holding onto my sanity here.”

“There is no shame in crying,” she said kindly.

“I have nothing to cry about! I should be dancing a jig. Cartwheeling down the street. I hated h-him…”

To his horror, he choked on a sob, and Nessie glanced up. Frowning, she hopped Miss Wabbit up his leg and into his lap, took two marzipan squares, then clambered up herself.

“Shhhhh, Sweetie,” she cooed, patting his cheek before attempting to feed him the marzipan.

Tears began to trickle down his face, and he muttered a curse.

Abby took his hand. “Do you know I cried when I saw the death notice in this morning’s newspaper? Not because I mourned him. Because of what might have been, if he’d had a heart. I thought having no father was the worst outcome. But you had his spite and games of control every day. I never envied you. Not for a minute. He rejected my mother before I was even born, so she had to make the best of it. While she worked herself to death, another thing I will never forgive him for, I was fiercely loved, even when we had nothing but a damp, cold room and stale bread to eat. That might not have happened if Mama had been subjected to him for a long period of time. I’m grateful she wasn’t.”

“I’m going to purchase the house in Golden Square,” he said abruptly as he rubbed his niece’s back. “With the deed in your name. I will also open a bank account for you and Nessie, into which I’ll pay a quarterly allowance. You won’t ever have to worry about food or rent or money again.”

“Finlay…”

“Don’t argue, Abby. Security is the least I can do.”

“I well…ah…” his sister blinked furiously. “Damn it. Aristocrats are awful. How are you so loveable?”

“Because I surround myself with good women. My wife, who is also my best friend. My mother. My sister.”

“Speaking of wives…how is Lady Pippa? She must have whiplash as well.”

Finn nodded. “She is upstairs right now helping to bath and dress Father’s body. I’m not sure how I will ever make this up to her. Do you want to be introduced? I can go and get her.”

“Not today,” said Abby gently. “I need to manage my own thoughts and emotions about Pinehurst’s death before meeting anyone. But soon. Now, I need to get this poppet home for her nap or she’ll turn into England’s smallest despot. Take care, Finlay. And know there is a friendly ear and sticky toddler hugs at Golden Square whenever you need them.”

He swallowed hard. “I am grateful to have you in my life.”

“I feel the same about you. But Nessie isn’t the only one who needs a nap. You look dreadful. Off you go.”

Finn laughed reluctantly.

About the soundest advice he’d heard all day.