C*cky Marquess by Annabelle Anders

 

Chapter 1

The Marquess of Greystone was not happy.

“I must admit, at the turn of the year, I would not have guessed four of my school chums would marry before summer,” he said, making light of the companionship he’d taken for granted. Stifling a yawn, he crossed one leg over the other and reclined into his favorite chair. “And without warning… First Westerley, then you, then Spencer—even Manningham-Tissinton got himself a shackle. Not well done, Chaswick. I thought you were my friends”

“Your time will come, Greys. And I only hope you end up in a marriage as idyllic as mine.” Chase, the Baron of Chaswick, murmured before puckering his lips around one of his ubiquitous cigars. “But for now, I need to find prospective suitors for at least one of my sisters.”

Having married Lady Bethany Fitzwilliam under duress the first week of the Season, Greys’ longtime friend was now launching his two recently of-age half-sisters into society.

His two illegitimate half-sisters.

Greys himself faced a seemingly similar chore involving his ward—his niece—but marrying her off oughtn’t to be nearly as challenging as Chase’s predicament. Lady Posy was proving slightly difficult, but at least her parents had been married to one another. Greys didn’t envy Chaswick’s task of trying to marry off the daughters of his father’s mistress.

“And how is that endeavor coming along?” Greys eyed his friend. Chaswick’s sisters were more than good-looking enough. Miss Collette Jones, the eldest, was a quiet blonde, and her younger sister, Miss Diana, an enigmatic girl who, although something of a hellion, was also quite striking, with her burnished brown hair and pale blue eyes.

Both girls were educated and refined, and yet Greys doubted those traits were going to be enough to entice any respectable gentleman into marrying one of them.

Greys had only become aware of their existence a few years prior when he’d run into Chaswick escorting them to Gunter’s one afternoon. Their father had kept their existence, and the existence of their mother, who happened to be his mistress, a secret until his death. That wasn’t the sort of history an upstanding gentleman readily embraced.

Chase rolled his shoulders. “Collette has adamantly declared herself uninterested in marrying and is only going to attend the Season’s events to provide companionship for Diana.”

Greys frowned. “Will she remain a companion to your wife once the season is over, then?”

“Not at all. Miss Primm is willing to take her on at her ladies' seminary to teach language beginning this autumn. Collette has an amazing grasp of Latin and French.”

“So you only need land a husband for one of them?”

“Diana initially informed me that she would prefer to be a dancing girl, but as I’ve put my foot down to that ridiculousness, she’s willing to marry so long as her husband is ‘handsome and brave’.” Chaswick was looking appropriately pained. “She cares not that he be titled; in fact, I believe she’d prefer he not be. Which reminds me to ask, do you know much about Captain Sterling Edgeworth?”

Greys searched his mind but came up mostly empty.

Give him a mathematical problem to solve or a scientific theory to discuss. He far preferred to discuss either of those topics than the suitability of other bachelors. Although dash it all, with his niece in town for the season, he supposed he ought to take more of an interest.

“I only know that he is the Earl of Rosewood’s youngest brother. Impressive military record. No indiscretions that I’ve heard of, or anything else that would disqualify him as a suitable match. Has the Captain expressed an interest in courting Miss Diana?” Greys would be surprised if he had.

The trouble was, if Edgewood was honorable, proper, and all that would qualify him as a good match, it was not likely he’d have noble intentions toward a young woman born on the wrong side of the blanket.

“Unfortunately, no. Diana is trying to catch his eye but hasn’t met with any success.”

“Pity that,” Greys offered.

“I hate for her to join the ranks of the wallflowers.”

Greys smoothed out the lace at his wrist. “One of those gents will eventually chance the Ton’s disapproval. No doubt other pups will come forward after that.”

“My thoughts precisely,” Chaswick eyed Greys, and then cocked a brow. “One gent.”

… Good God.Greys frowned. “Surely you aren’t suggesting I should be that gent. I’m far too old for her.” And far too… everything.

“And yet the woman you are contemplating for your Marchioness is two years younger than Diana.” Chase pointed out. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about Lady Isabella?”

“No.” Greys shook his head. Even at the tender age of seven and ten, Lady Isabella had been deemed the best choice by both himself and his aunt. She was born of an impeccable line and raised to marry a nobleman, and furthermore, Greys had already discussed the possibility of a match with her father, the Earl of Huntly.

“I’m not asking you to court Diana. Simply single her out a time or two. Row her across the lake at a few garden parties and then take her driving through Hyde Park one afternoon. That ought to be enough.”

“I might as well declare our betrothal,” Greys quipped sarcastically.

“Don’t be absurd.” Chase waved away Greys’ excuse. “A trip around the lake and then down Rotten Row will do wonders for her reputation. Then, after you’ve performed those two little acts of kindness, you may quietly step away with no one the wiser.” Chase flicked the ash at the tip of his cigar onto the ornate dish which had been designated for just that purpose. “Consider it practice,” Chaswick laughed.

“Practice?”

“At courting. You do intend to eventually court your future marchioness, don’t you? From what I’ve seen so far, your efforts have been lackluster at best. You could stand to learn a thing or two from my sister.”

Ridiculous.Greys rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and slumped deeper into his favorite chair.

It wasn’t often Chaswick asked such a favor, though, and their friendship was a most valued one. And it was true that any young woman escorted by a gentleman as proper as himself would benefit from the association. And, while many of the gents he carried on with had rakish tendencies, Greys exhibited the utmost decorum in all things that mattered.

Just as his father had done, and his grandfather and great-grandfather before him, etc., etc., etc. The Greystone Marquessate was one of the oldest titles in England, and Greys wasn’t about to be the guardian who would tarnish it.

Lady Isabella might be younger than he’d prefer, but she had been born into a similarly respectable family. So respectable that Greys knew even his grandfather would have approved of the match.

He folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes.

Unfortunately for Chaswick, from what Greys had noticed, Miss Diana was not only illegitimate, but also bold, impudent, and far too outspoken for her own good.

At least, she had been on the few occasions he’d met her. The chit could use all the assistance available.

“Why don’t you ask Peter Spencer?” Greys suggested. As the third son of an earl, Peter Spencer would be perfect for her.

“He’s gone down to Brighten for his musical apprenticeship.”

“Ah, yes.” Greys had forgotten, dash it all. “But what if she thinks my attentions are genuine? What if—God forbid—your sister falls in love with me?”

Chase laughed at that. “She won’t,” he asserted with far too much confidence for Greys’ liking.

“Aren’t you the flatterer?” He leaned forward in feigned outrage.

“She goes into raptures at a man in uniform.” Chase flicked a hand up and down, indicating Greys’ attire. “You’re quite safe in your armor.” And then he chuckled.

“Huh,” Greys grunted. He liked wearing colorful clothing. He liked wearing the latest fashions and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.

“You’re one of the last bachelors left that I would trust. For obvious reasons, I cannot ask Blackheart to do it,” Chaswick said.

The baron wasn’t wrong.

The Duke of Blackheart, who also happened to be the only other unmarried friend of theirs, had lost a bet to Greys earlier that year. To make good on the wager, he must perform Butler duties at Knight House for the duration of the season with Greys as his employer. The conditions of the bet required that Blackheart did not publicly reveal his identity and, but for a few exceptions, wasn’t likely to make an appearance at any of society’s events.

All things considered, Greys could not imagine any other unmarried gentleman who he would trust with a woman in his protection.

Chaswick needed his assistance, and Greys had no real reason not to provide it. “Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll seek her out at the Duchess of Corbridge’s Garden party, and I’ll take her for a drive.”

But that would be the end of it. As Chaswick had reminded him—Greys had his own courtship to set into motion.

“You have my thanks.” Chase leaned forward and flicked off another piece of ash. “On an altogether different front, I have to ask, if Blackheart fails to uphold the wager, would you really insist that he marry a lady of your choosing?” That little caveat had been added onto the back end of the wager providing redress in case the duke made the charade public or failed to finish out the season successfully as Greys’ butler. Such stakes had been ludicrous. That neither of them could easily recall the exact details of the initial bet, was proof of exactly how ridiculous it had been to begin with—something to do with Westerley and the lady who would later become his Countess…

“He’ll succeed. Blackheart’s honor won’t allow for anything else.” Greys said.

“My honor won’t allow for what exactly?” Blackheart himself interrupted their musings.

The duke, or Mr. Cockfield as his employees addressed him, had silently stepped into the billiard, looking as imposing dressed as Greys’ Butler as he ever had in his ducal attire.

“Failing to fulfill the conditions of the wager, or doubling down. Not that I’m inclined to agree to either.” Greys felt it necessary to add, lest he appear soft.

“Neither will be necessary.” Blackheart shrugged and then wiped a white-gloved finger along one of the shelves. Having injured his wrist recently in a brawl with assassins who had been intent on killing another of their chums, the duke had immobilized his left arm against his chest in a black sling. Lucky for his staff and for Greys, “poor, dear, Mr. Cockfield” was right-handed.

His Aunt Iris was quite taken with Greys’ newfound butler.

“Your niece,” Blackheart stared at the tip of his finger in satisfaction and then flicked a glance to Greys, “And your sisters,” he addressed Chaswick. “Have requested that the two of you join them in the ballroom. They are anxious to practice the steps they’ve learned from their dancing master with actual gentlemen.” Then, without blinking, the duke added, “But I suppose the two of you will have to suffice instead.”

Greys ignored the slight even as Chaswick rubbed his hands together.

“Ah, yes, Collette told me they were to practice the waltz today.”

“The last time Posy insisted on practicing dancing, three of my toes turned blue.” Greys groaned inwardly at the prospect. His niece and ward, Lady Posy, along with his cousin Viola Faraday and his Great-Aunt Iris, were all keeping residence at Knight House this spring to present Posy to society. Posy had become only slightly more enthusiastic after having been introduced to Chaswick’s sisters.

“Lady Posy is improving.” Blackheart held the door as the men exited the billiard room into the foyer.

“I’d hate to imagine what my toes would look like if she were to get worse,” Greys said.

Piano music floated down the corridor and increased in volume as they neared Greys’ rarely used ballroom. He vaguely remembered being forced to practice with Viola long ago—as most offspring of nobility typically were. One could not get along amongst the Ton without having mastered all the popular dances.

But when he pulled open one of the giant doors and looked inside, expecting to find his niece and Chaswick’s sisters practicing the waltz with one another, his eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

Miss Collette Jones sat at the piano-forte while Posy stood along the wall, but none of that concerned him. It was the third amongst them—moving about the dance floor like a forest nymph rather than a well-behaved young lady of the Ton—that had him freezing in place.

Miss Diana Jones was twirling and leaping, crouching, and moving her arms gracefully with each movement as she performed what appeared to be an almost ceremonial dance for her small audience. Her skirts and her hair whipped around her face as she spun and then collapsed into a heap on the floor at the music’s end. Posy applauded enthusiastically, looking more than a little entranced, and the girl's sister smiled proudly.

The two of them ought to be scandalized.

“Diana, what in the name of God are you doing?” Chaswick rushed across to assist his sister off the floor while Blackheart managed to clap his gloved hands slowly, even with one of them in a sling, and turned to meet Greys’ gaze. By the duke’s amused expression, it was apparent he’d been privy to other such performances.

Greys shook his head in disapproval. It wasn’t at all appropriate for his ward to be exposed to such unladylike conduct. Already, she was proving contrary enough.

If any other members of the Ton were to witness such a vulgar display of passionate exuberance, Miss Diana Jones would find herself ruined. Chaswick was right in thinking she needed his help.

What he had just witnessed of her short performance had been passionate, evocative… and sensual. Proper ladies contained such outbursts of emotion. If, that was, they experienced them at all.

If Chaswick’s sister were to act like this in public, she’d not only embarrass the hell out of her brother and his wife but cement her position as a societal outcast.

“You know I love to dance, Chase,” she defended herself while at the same time fussing to repair her chignon with a few strategically placed pins.

“Never do that out in the open.” Chaswick glanced around the room. “Never. Ever. Do you understand? Where the devil are your instructor and Miss Faraday?”

“Language.” The older Miss Jones smothered a smile even as she chastised her brother.

“I would never dance like that in front of anybody.” The girl’s blue eyes sparkled teasingly at her brother but not without more than an inkling of defiance. Trouble. Miss Diana Jones was going to bring his friend nothing but trouble. “I’m not an idiot, Chase.”

Chaswick looked pointedly at Greys and Blackheart, but the chit merely scrunched up her nose.

“Your friends don’t count.”

Chaswick made a choking sound and scrubbed a hand down his face. “After you’ve married, once you’re no longer my responsibility, then you can dance all you want. I’m more than confident your husband will happily manage these, er, outbursts of choreography.”

Greys tamped down the image of having a wife who danced for him thusly while Blackhead discreetly coughed into his hand.

But Miss Diana Jones was not finished. “Bethany says it’s almost like ballet.”

Greys stared at the lace at the end of his sleeve, biting back a smile. Whatever Miss Diana had been doing a moment ago, regardless of what the baroness had told her, was a far cry from classical ballet.

Properly trained ballerinas didn’t rotate their hips, nor did they close their eyes while dancing and make expressions that resembled the moment she...

Cutting off that thought, Greys crossed the room to a nearby sideboard and poured himself a glass of water.

“I thought the three of you were working on the waltz.” Chase changed the subject.

“Monsieur Jean Luc left early today. Aunt Violet went to see if any of uncle’s manservants know how to waltz. Because, Lord Chaswick, there are three of us and only two of you.” Posy offered

“And it’s important to be able to dance amidst other couples.” Diana’s older sister pointed out even as she shot Mr. Cockfield a suspicious glance. Ah, yes. She seemed to be working out his true identity. Chaswick had likely introduced Blackheart to his second family at some time or another before the bet had come into play.

Greys placed his now empty glass on a side table. “I have it on excellent authority that my Butler is proficient enough at the waltz to step in. Ah, there you are, Violet.” His cousin returned alone, looking disappointed.

“Mr. Cockfield is going to act as third partner this afternoon,” Chase offered.

Violet, who was not quite a year younger than himself, glanced toward Posy and then over at Blackheart suspiciously. “If you are quite certain, Greys.”

Although Violet’s coloring was the same as Posy’s, their similarities ended there. Greys’ niece was petite and curvy and had the unruliest curls he’d ever encountered on a woman, whereas his cousin was taller and slimmer. The last time he’d seen Violet with even a single strand of hair out of place, the two of them had been eleven or twelve and gotten themselves into trouble for sneaking outside to hide in the garden rather than playing quietly in the nursery as they’d been told.

A very long time ago. Why did he suddenly feel so ancient?

“Greys?” Violet’s prompt pulled him out of the unexpected memory.

“Even with only one good arm, Mr. Cockfield will suffice as a partner.”

Blackheart stepped forward and offered the noblest of legs to Posy. Meanwhile, Miss Collette had drawn her brother onto the floor, leaving Greys to dance with Miss Diana.

She slid him a sideways glance in what appeared to be something of a dare.

Impudent chit.

He removed his gloves from where he kept them tucked in the band of his breeches and very deliberately slid them over his fingers.

With more of a flourish than even Blackheart could execute, Greys turned to the energetic young woman and bowed low, sweeping an arm toward the floor as he bent over his stockinged leg and polished shoes.

As Greys waited, he felt her staring down at him.

He glanced up to see she had her hands positioned behind her back. “Your hand, my lady?” He resisted the urge to scowl at her blatant disregard for propriety.

She smoothed her palms along her skirts and then grudgingly presented her hand as he’d requested.

Her bare hand.

“I’ve misplaced my gloves,” she muttered defensively.

Although slight and feminine, her hands were not as soft or fragile as most ladies’. Greys was vaguely aware of Violet’s gaze on them. The other couples were already standing in their proper position, waiting.

“May I have this dance, Miss Diana?”

“Why, of course, my lord.” She curtseyed so deeply that he had no doubt she was mocking him. Not so deeply, however, that the others might think she was exhibiting anything other than outrageous decorum.

Upon rising, she allowed Greys to take her arm and lead her to where the others awaited.

“Don’t count us down, Auntie,” Posy instructed from where she stood, one hand on Blackheart’s shoulder, the other in his grasp. “There won’t be anyone to do that at an actual ball, and I don’t want to require it.” Silly of his niece, because any gentleman partnering her would guide her into the dance at the appropriate time. No man worth his salt would fail to do otherwise.

Greys positioned Miss Diana’s palm in one hand and placed his other on the small of her back. Her skin was warm beneath her gown from her earlier exertions, and this close, the mingled scent of her soap and perfume teased him. Brilliant blue eyes stared up at him, and her cheeks glowed a delicate pink.

Recognizing the tune, Greys stepped forward, leading her with long strides along the length of the floor. She held her frame straight and firm, and yet she also moved with unusual grace, naturally lifting herself onto the balls of her feet so that he barely had to exert any direction when he turned her in a spin and then steered them around Chaswick and her sister.

“I do believe, my lord, that the lace at your cuff is more elaborate than the lace on my finest gown. And this color—” her gaze danced with mischief as it flicked to his satin waistcoat, a shimmery grey material more subdued than what he typically wore “—is the same color as your eyes.”

Was she flirting with him? But she was not. She was mocking him.

Good Lord, couldn’t she pretend for a few moments to be an actual lady?

“We cannot all have eyes that perfectly match the color of the sea on a summer day.” Greys stared down at her with narrowed eyes, and as he suspected she would, she nervously glanced away.

When she plucked the courage to look up at him again, she grimaced. “If that is a compliment, then I thank you.”

“It was,” Greys answered honestly. If one looked hard enough at any one person, ninety-nine percent of the time, one could find something to compliment.

“The color is the same as my father’s and brother’s.” She followed his lead as though she was an extension of himself. The sensation proved unusually satisfying as he spun her in a twirl. “My sister’s eyes are brighter.” She told him from over her shoulder.

“Flutter your lashes,” Greys said, shaking his head. “And say ‘thank you, my lord’.”

“What?”

“That is the proper way to acknowledge a gentleman when he compliments you. Didn’t your governess teach you anything?”

She stiffened beneath his hand but didn’t miss a step. “Our governess taught us history and math and languages. In between that, we cared for my mother and our youngest sister, Sarah.”

Greys nodded. “But of course. My mistake. Your mother and youngest sister have removed to Chaswick’s country estate, have they not? How are they faring?” The youngest of Chaswick’s three sisters had been born without her sight. Greys had met her on a few of those same occasions when he’d first become acquainted with this one.

“My brother has hired Sarah a special tutor who is going to teach her how to read from raised dots on paper, and she has a specially trained dog.” Miss Diana spoke as though all of this was for the best, but some of the light seemed to leave her eyes.

“You miss her.”

She sighed, but continued floating along, nonetheless. “Although I’ve no doubt the country air suits them both, Sarah is only nine and I worry that she will be lonely without Collette and me.”

Greys experienced an unfamiliar softening toward her. She was unruly and exuberant, but she was young, and it was evident that she’d never been allowed to cultivate the expectations a genteel lady would have grown up with naturally.

“But she is with your mother.”

Miss Diana nodded.

“And Chaswick would have hired only the best. Nine is a good age for your sister to learn some independence.” He found himself wanting to alleviate her worries.

“I know.” Her voice came out clipped sounding—proud little minx.

“Of course, you do.” Greys performed a more complicated step, almost hoping to catch her off guard, but alas, she responded perfectly.

Chaswick might have had more success finding his sister employment at the new ballet theatre operating near St. Martin’s Street.