The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
One
O
ut of mourning. It was difficult to fathom—she, Lady Virginia Maudsley was finally officially out of mourning. Well, officially it would be another month. Still, she was a widow and thrilled to be so. Ginny squelched the pinch of guilt slithering through her. Joy that her late husband was dead. Worse? She wished she’d been there to see the light go out of the blackguard’s eyes. A little shudder skittered up her spine at her venomous thoughts. But then… she’d come a long way from the naïve little fool she’d been a decade before.
Ginny ached to believe she’d matured into someone philosophical yet focused in her long-range goals. Goals that weren’t solidly fleshed out. She was the first to admit her single-minded determination when it came to her two young daughters, Irene and Cecilia. It was well known those of the upper echelon nobility spent little time with their children. Boys were sired for the purpose of carrying on a title, and girls for contracting a profitable marriage. Deep down, Ginny felt differently. Lord knows, with the love that filled her heart when it came to her daughters, she’d willingly kill to protect them.
She gave herself a mental shake, knowing that trail of thinking would undermine the necessary task ahead. Shoving out the negativity, she stood in the Peachornsbys’ arched ballroom doors and tugged at the long lace-trimmed sleeves, making certain she was covered down past her wrists. Though she wore gloves, she was self-conscious of the various scars she bore. She smoothed her palms over the forest green skirts. Hundreds of lit sconces filled the hall with a blazing heat, and with her tightened corset she dearly hoped she didn’t collapse in a dead faint for lack of oxygen.
The vast crowd of society’s upper echelon were already seated in row after row of chairs that faced a grand dais sporting a lovely pianoforte. Sometime ago, Ginny had been quite accomplished at both playing and singing. She rubbed her fingers over the catch in her left wrist. Her playing days were long since gone. Her singing days too, she feared. If she attempted to sing now, it might come out worse than the awful braying laugh that seem to erupt from her at the most inopportune moments. Heads turned in her direction, sprouting a bean of panic deep within her abdomen. Her anxiety quickly escalated to a noxious spread that coursed through her body. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.
Disgust mingling with panic rippled over her. Her insides quaked so fiercely the silk fabrics of her skirts rustled. Having been out of the public view the last year should not give one such jitters. Normally, her ungainly height and annoying laugh had given her plenty of practice turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the gaping stares and derisive remarks she’d suffered her entire life.
Berating her self-condemnation, Ginny strove to remember that presently she was an experienced woman. A worldly woman. A woman who’d emerged from a horrific marriage mostly intact. But finding herself under scrutiny after being out of it for almost a year was unnerving. She squared her shoulders and pulled on her inner determination. She was allowed a bout of fretfulness, blast it. Anyone would be tense at reentering a cynical and mocking society that favored men, deserving or not. Her trembling hands certainly believed her.
She battened down the waves of doubt. Let people gawk at her. Not many women were free to make their own decisions without some obnoxious lout hell bent on dictating their lives. She’d earned her rights. She could do this. Besides, she had friends.
“Oh, Ginny. There you are.” Lorelei Gray, Lady Kimpton, was suddenly at her side, drawing Ginny’s arm through hers. She was as petite as Ginny was tall, with lovely flaxen hair and eyes of cornflower. “You look lovely, dear. Come. I’ve secured us chairs at the back. I’m thrilled you made it.”
Ginny, acutely aware of her friend’s desire to see her properly settled, managed not to wince or let out a nervous laugh—only by sheer determination in clenching her jaw. She’d balked repeatedly at Lorelei insisting she abandon her widowed weeds to attend the modest musicale held. Modest? Ha. She’d wager the entire ensemble of ton were in attendance.
With gritted teeth, Ginny planted a small smile on her face, having no choice but to follow. Lorelei’s words plowed through her head at Ginny attending this so-called “modest” event. “It’s the perfect scenario for your reemergence, darling. If you wait any longer, people will think you hold a candle for your late husband.”
Lorelei had struck the perfect chord in jarring Ginny from her period of mourning. Maudsley had been a monster, and Ginny had no desire in allowing society to believe she coveted her late husband the tiniest regard, may he rot in hell.
Lorelei led them to two empty seats in the back row. Her shoulders eased at seeing only two. Lorelei was not subtle in her determination to marry Ginny off to John Brown, the Marquis of Brockway, at first opportunity. She didn’t truly believe her friend would force her hand by placing her in a compromising situation, but still, Ginny had witnessed and been a part of worse.
True, Lord Brockway had played an admirable hero, hiding her from her own loathsome abusive bastard of a husband when the man had beaten her to within an inch of her life. At great risk to himself. A wife was considered property in the eyes of the law, after all. But she and Brock had a history.
One Ginny did not care to repeat.
Lady Alymer, Maeve Pendleton, leaned in and whispered, “How lovely you could make it, Lady Maudsley.”
“Thank you, Maeve,” Ginny murmured. Her blue eyes seemed kind, but Ginny learned long ago that trusting her own judgment of others came at too high a price. Another quiver vibrated up her spine.
The music, a haunting violin concerto by Louis Sporh, filled the hall. Ginny closed her eyes and drank in the notes until long after the last chord rippled over her. It was nice to hang up her drab frocks for something rich and luxurious for a change. Emerald, rather than black or gray. Ginny sat there and soaked in the festive chatter going on around her.
“Lord Brockway. How delightful to see you.” Lady Alymer’s husky resonance jolted Ginny. Her eyes flew open and she flinched under the harsh piercing stare of Lord Brockway. The tranquility the music had blanketed her in was instantly stripped away.
Lorelei inclined her head. “Lord Brockway.” Ginny envied her friend’s demure competence, her very grace. It was a beautiful thing, and so far from Ginny’s clumsy reach.
“Ladies.” Brock’s grace rivaled Lorelei’s, Ginny thought, not without a smidge of disgust. She averted her eyes but could feel his gaze, a green that was the exact shade of her dress, flaying her skin. “Lady Maudsley, how lovely to see you out and about. Perhaps you would do me the honor of taking a turnabout the room?”
Lorelei and Maeve were on their feet in an instant. “Do excuse us, Lady Maudsley. Lord Brockway.”
Well, that was subtle. Seeing no other choice, Ginny took Brock’s outstretched hand and rose.
With his trademark arrogance, he placed her left hand—gently, she noted—in the crook of his arm and guided them toward a set of open French doors. One thing a person could count on from Brock was his analytical mind and excellent memory. His was a methodical approach to life. “I should return home. Check on the girls,” she said on a hot rush of breath.
His smile, something lethal, remained in place. “We must talk.”
“I have no wish to talk,” she said through a stiff smile as Lord Martindale strolled by. His eyes widened in surprise. He recovered quickly and inclining his head. But he continued on his way. Coward.
“You’ve avoided me for the better part of a year, my dear.” Brock told her. “We are going to talk.”
“Ha! Not for lack of your knocking on my door twice weekly, regular as sunrise,” she said through a gritted smile.
“And still, you managed quite deftly to avoid me at every turn.” He also spoke through a teethy smile, but he managed to infuse amusement.
Fury flamed her cheeks. “How utterly calm and dictatorial you are, my lord.” She matched her tone to his. The only sign she’d breached his patience was the tightening of his jaw. A small but satisfying coup. With Brock, one took one’s accolades however trite they might seem.
He growled, a low feral sound, deep from his chest. “Ginny. I don’t wish to create a scene, but God knows I will.”
Yes, he would. She had no doubt. But talking left too much opportunity for breaching walls she’d carefully erected to save herself from the pain of John Brown’s attentions. “Truly. It’s time I left. Irene will worry—” Ginny couldn’t tear her eyes from his and surrendered. “Fine.” She knew a dead end when it slapped her in the face. Like gloves from the challenge of a morning appointment.
He grinned, the unabashed one from years past. The one that had stolen her heart in the loft of her family’s barn, along with her innocence. “Excellent. Now, tell me. How are Ladies Irene and Cecilia? I’ve quite missed them.”
“Missed them!” Oh, he had a nerve. The fingers of her right hand clenched into a fist at her side. She forced a steadying breath, flexed her stiff fingers. The air left her in a soft whoosh. How could she blame him for wanting to know? He’d single-handedly saved the lives of all three of them the year before.
“Certainly. I’ve kept up with them through Lord and Lady Kimpton. They went quite through an ordeal, if you remember.”
Oh, how he baited her; her temper flared. “Of course I remember the ‘ordeal.’” Like she could ever forget. But she had no wish to rehash the past. Things should stay just that…in the past.
A complicated past. The bottom line was he’d taken her innocence then left her at her parents’ mercy. And for that she would never forgive him.
He leaned in and, as if he read her mind, whispered, stirring the curls at her ears, “Can’t you see your way past my sins?”
Ginny’s gaze snapped to his and a shudder of pure desire passed through her. Oh, how she wanted to hurt him as he’d hurt her. Blast him for deserting her. But life had altered the time she’d needed him most, hadn’t it? Once again, he’d stepped in. She opened her mouth to lash out her frustration, blast him on how unfair life was, remind him their time was lost forever. Tell him the scars she bore were due to him and him alone. She’d never break down and tell him how she’d physically fought her parents to wait two weeks for him to return. Two weeks had been a lifetime. She couldn’t talk about this now. If ever. “How is your father, my lord?”
“My father—” Something like pain skittered over his expression before his society mask slipped firmly back in place. “The duke is fine. Any news of his health or otherwise would be widely reported, as you well know.”
Yes, she did. She also knew, as did the whole of London, that he had not spoken to his grace for almost a decade. Therein lay the mystery—
“Lady Maudsley. How delightful to see you.”
With a start, the spell of Brock’s locked gaze broke. Ginny tugged her hand from his suffocating heat and turned to the newcomer, irritated at the mildest comfort she’d drawn from Brock’s touch. The uptick in her pulse. The hair-raising awareness he seemed to evoke at every possible opportunity. She despised the debt she owed him.
In an automated gesture, her left hand fluttered up to the tingling sensation on her forehead, but she managed to drop her hand before touching the artfully arranged curls that covered the barely faded scar tissue. A parting, yet lasting, gift from her late husband. “Lord Griston,” she said, with a short curtsey and a strained smile. “Thank you. It has been a very long year.” If he only knew.
“Griston.” Brock’s brusqueness surprised her.
The Earl of Griston ignored Brock, speaking directly to Ginny. “Lovely concerto tonight. It pales considerably by your very presence, my lady.”
The heat in her face was sudden and hot and likely clashed with her pale, freckled skin horrifically. “You are too kind, sir.” It was difficult not to be flattered by the attention. It had been years after all. Ten, to be exact.
The earl appeared somewhere in his early thirties. If memory served, he’d already sired an heir. The man was posh. His frame was tall and slender. His carefully mussed blond locks showed he likely spent more time on his toilette than most of the women of the ton. Of course, he didn’t have the tortuous corset with which to contend.
The urge to laugh for the first time in literally years banded her chest. And not the nervous shrill that in recent past had sent grown men running and women tittering behind their fashionable fans.
“Griston, if you’ll pardon us, Lady Maudsley and I are in a private conversation.” Brock used his unending height and bulk to intimidating perfection. Lord Griston took a short step back.
Aggravated, Ginny tapped Brock’s shoulder sharply with her fan, and her laughter—the nervous shrill one she abhorred—erupted. “Don’t be silly, Lord Brockway.”
Brock gauged her with a speculative look she chose to ignore. “I beg your pardon, madam. I was under the impression it was your urgent desire to return home.”
More heat crawled up her neck. Wiping the scowl from her face, she looked Griston. “I’m certain I can spare a moment,” she murmured.
The earl’s earnest expression grew concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“All is fine, my lord.” A sheepish smile stole through her. “I…well…this is my first outing since—well…I admit, I’m concerned for my daughters. They’ve suffered much this past year.”
“Of course, my lady. If need be, I can summon your carriage?”
“No. No, need. It’s silly, really. I’m sure they’re fine. I just feel… so out of touch,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as daft as she feared.
“You don’t in the least. Perhaps a turnabout the room?”
“Um, well—” Ginny caught Brock’s smirk and squared her shoulders. Brock’s arrogance knew no bounds. “I would be delighted, sir. Perhaps a quick turn, then, I really must go.”
Griston’s taunting gaze raked over Brock before swiveling back to her. The two treated her as if she were a bone between two starving dogs. Griston took her hand, bowing over it. “You are too generous, Lady Maudsley.”
“Yes, you are,” Brock muttered under his breath.
Thorne Gray, Lord Kimpton, stepped into the fray. “Ah, Brock. A word if you please.”
“Not now, Kimpton.” The tension in Brock’s wide shoulders looked ready to snap. His eyes never wavered from Griston. Griston showed verve, however, regaining the step he’d relinquished a minute earlier.
“Sorry, old man. This won’t wait. I’ve word on the package we’ve been after.” Kimpton spoke sharply.
“So mysterious, Lord Kimpton?” Ginny said, curiosity teasing her, what with Griston’s abrupt stillness and the reluctant turn of Brock’s head.
After a long awkward pause, Brock’s stubbornness seemed to give way to common sense. “Of course, Kimpton. Lady Maudsley, we’ll speak later.” The phrase was uttered in his usual arrogant and abrasive manner—a command, not a request.
“Perhaps,” she said, determined to have the last word.
Irritated and disgustingly curious, Ginny watched as Brock and Kimpton strode out the French doors, disappearing in the darkness beyond. Mixed feelings rained over her like the four seasons within a span of seconds: tepid, freezing, hot, cool. Each one at their most dramatic.
“Protective, is he not?” Griston said, smiling.
“Protective?” She laughed. The laugh fell in line with the boisterous, high-strung shrill that she’d prayed had died with her late husband. “Arrogant, certainly.” Ginny slid a glance to her companion from the corner of her eye. A spark of hope lit within. Lord Griston did not seem at all put out by her annoying laugh. Instead, he grabbed her hand, placing it on his arm. For the second time that night, she molded her features bland from the stitch of pain that streaked up her arm. The horrible break her wrist had suffered from Maudsley’s last beating was still sensitive to sudden jerks and twists.
Griston was oblivious. She was grateful, of course. It would be mortifying for anyone to learn the lengths she’d gone to hide the ravaged fate of her marriage. “How is your son, Lord Griston? Viscount Yates? If memory serves, he’s the same age as my eldest daughter, Irene.”
“Quite well. Thank you for inquiring. He’ll be at Eaton in the fall. His first year.” He led her on a stroll, keeping to the perimeter of the room. “I’m most proud.”
“Oh my. I must admit, I’m glad to have daughters. I don’t know where I would be if I had to send them away to school at such young ages,” she said, thinking of Irene’s unprecedented need to care for others and Celia’s natural exuberance and knack for mischief.
He chuckled. “Yes. It seems we share a common oddity in that we interact with our children rather than keeping them out of sight.”
She stopped and looked at him. Really looked at him. “I—yes. I suppose that is true.” She gave him a brilliant smile that seemed to take him aback.
“You have a lovely mouth, Lady Maudsley. I’d never realized,” he murmured. The silence between them built, then he said, “I wish to invite you to my country home.”
A fiery heat of outrage burned up her neck like a rush of flowing lava. She jerked her hand from him, biting back the sharp twinge. “Sir! I am not—”
Surprise then chagrin covered his features that dulled his face to red. “My apologies, Lady Maudsley. Please. Allow me to clarify.”
It took a full minute for Ginny’s heart rate to even out from its erratic chaos. She was poised to flee but forced herself to breathe in slow leveled inhalations, reminding herself she was in full view of society. Nothing would happen to her there. It was reputed that Lord Griston did have a care for his name. “I’m waiting, sir.”
“I am hosting a house party at my country home in Colchester and only wish to include you. ’Tis nothing extravagant, mind. My mother is there and will act as hostess.” He gave her a brilliant smile. “I’m hoping to change that in the near future.”
For her? Ginny’s breath hitched in a different rush of emotion. Her gaze shifted quickly to the open French doors.
Unencumbered, Griston went on. “The invites went out weeks ago.” A careless shrug lifted one shoulder. “You’ve been in mourning and it would have been beyond rude of me to intrude upon your privacy. But seeing you here tonight…”
“Th-thank you for the invitation, my lord—”
“Please. Call me Loren. Or Griston, if you feel I’m being too forward. Your friends Lord and Lady Kimpton have already accepted,” he said, smoothly cutting off her rejection. “Along with the Peachornsbys, Lady Alymer, and the Martindales—” He waved a hand in the air. “Others too, I suppose.” Smiling, he took her hand again, setting it atop his arm. “I’m unsure of who all. The invitations are under my mother’s charge.”
The invitation seemed far too sudden. She was barely out of mourning. If you wait any longer, people will think you hold a candle for your late husband. Lorelei’s words flittered through her. Perhaps she could use a bit of entertainment. But leaving the girls… “I don’t know—”
Griston’s hand rested on his heart, his eyes begging. “Please, my lady. I would be devastated if you turned me down.”
Perhaps it was time to look to the future. Brock was her past. Maudsley was dead. What could it hurt?
“Take the evening to decide, my lady,” he said quickly. “I shall come by tomorrow for my answer. Would you do me the honor of a carriage ride through the park?”
“Thank you, my lord. I should be happy to accept that invitation.”
John Brown, the Marquis of Brockway, found himself both frustrated and mesmerized by Virginia Wimbley Ninnis, Lady Maudsley. A man was only allowed one misstep when dealing with such a woman, and he’d committed his sole allotment a decade prior. Ginny had the unerring ability to flay a person alive with one amber-cut glance. And now Griston had the unmitigated gall to encroach on Brock’s single moment to salvage his honor in her eyes.
What possible interest could that rotter have in Ginny? He wasn’t worthy to kiss her silk-covered slippers. She belonged to Brock. Every five-foot, ten-inch height of her. Every delicate bone in her body. Every indelible scar—inside and out—that horrid cad Maudsley had left on her belonged to Brock.
His heart walloped a beating on his ribs. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Griston. He lead her to the refreshment table, talking all the while. All sugar and eloquence. There wasn’t the least bit of solid substance in Griston that Brock could see. The scoundrel was smooth, Brock was forced to admit. Pretty too, if the current run of debutantes and marriage-minded mamas were anything to judge by. Brock hated admitting Griston had grabbed the advantage in that unfortunate exchange—with Ginny’s help, of course. But Brock already proved to himself he was in for the long haul. His and Ginny’s destinies were entwined for eternity, and nothing she could say or do would change that.
The problem, as Brock saw it, was fate and his own clumsy declarations that had botched his good intentions all those years ago. What a lousy excuse. Fate and his own stupidity? His insides tightened with loss. With regret. Yes, he’d been forced to put Ginny from his mind because of a dangerous crisis involving Rachel, his younger sister. God knows his failure had been spectacular. And now Brock lived with the responsibility of the abuse Ginny had suffered at Maudsley’s hands.
But standing here now, he knew it was more than losing her all those years ago. He might not deserve her, but his feelings hadn’t changed over the years. If anything, they’d intensified. He damn sure wanted her back.
Through the open doors, he watched Griston fix and hand Ginny a small plate, smiling his perfect smile, using his perfect manners. Jealousy crashed over him in waves.
“Er, Brock… did you even hear a word?” Kimpton’s voice yanked him out of his green-filled doldrums. Sort of.
Brock jerked his gaze from the touching scene. “What was that?”
“Look, man, Lady Maudsley will be there tomorrow. I said I’ve word of Harlowe.”
Brock reluctantly forced his attention from the man trying to steal away his lifeline back to his friend. Lady Kimpton’s brother had disappeared the previous year with no indication as to his whereabouts, and Brock had been assisting Kimpton in trying to locate him.
Discordant laughter reached across the hall to the open night, manacling his chest in cast iron. Laughter that felt a touch apprehensive-sounding to him, laced with panic. He squeezed his hand into a fist. She was in a ballroom surrounded by a hundred people, make that ninety-eight. Storming in like a charging rhino to rescue her was not something she would appreciate. Still, he kept one eye on her. “Harlowe? What have you heard?”
“Well.” An awkward hesitation followed.
The last any word had surfaced on Harlowe had been a cryptic note to the man’s sister, Lorelei, Lady Kimpton, letting her know he was still among the living, and that was months ago. Needless to say, Brock’s patience teetered on nil. “What?” he demanded, squelching the flinch from the abrasive growl Ginny would no doubt chastise him over. Still, Kimpton had just usurped Brock’s first attempt in months to get back into her good graces.
With colossal effort, Brock forced himself to concentrate. He owed Kimpton for his discretion in allowing Brock to protect Ginny’s reputation and her life from the low-life husband who’d beaten her to a pulp, the blackguard who’d left her to die on her bedchamber floor.
All in view of her own children. Brock’s heart clenched thinking of what those two young innocents had witnessed.
Admittedly, he didn’t know them well, but the connection he’d felt with Ginny’s daughters was sheer honesty. A new fury surged through Brock. How dare Ginny discount that? How dare she disregard his care for her? His protection of her? She, in fact, owed him. At the least, a sliver of her undivided attention.
Kimpton’s short cough drew Brock’s consideration from Ginny’s hand on that fop’s arm. They stayed in sight, which was a blessing and a curse. “Harlowe’s trail has been cold a year now,” Brock said, his gaze never straying from Ginny’s lovely backside.
“I’m the first to admit that what I have isn’t much, but the information is worth checking out. According to this lead, there was a man left for dead on a road near Goldhanger.”
That startled him. “Goldhanger. There’s nothing there but a long stretch of eroding coastline.”
“Yes. Specifically, the coastline north of Maldon. My sources tell me the man was unrecognizable and had no memory of who he was or how he’d arrived there.”
“Was?” Brock frowned. “Is he de—”
“No, thank God. At least, not at last word.”
Again, Brock’s patience gave way, and again, Ginny’s criticism of his arrogance bled through. He really was an arrogant dolt. “Then how do you figure this man is Harlowe?”
Kimpton grinned, albeit grimly. “He paints. Paintings.”
Surrender took hold. “Ah. That indeed warrants checking out.” There was no question of Harlowe’s artistic skills. Before the man had vanished, he’d managed to send a series of his own paintings to his sister Lady Kimpton, each one depicting a notable traitor throughout history incorporating a menacing scythe. Unfortunately, there were no explanations. Not for the sending of the works nor the reasons for the scythes and traitors. “So, where is he now?”
“That’s the problem. He seems to have disappeared. Again.” Kimpton shook his head. “I can’t bring myself to raise Lorelei’s hopes. I want sound knowledge about this latest development before bringing this information to her.”
“All right,” Brock said slowly. “So, we go to Goldhanger and work our way from there…” Blast. He’d never get into Ginny’s good graces if he had to leave town.
“Excellent.” He stopped. “Hell. There’s that damned house party of Griston’s to attend. I suppose if we leave a day or two early, I can meet up with Lorelei there.” Kimpton’s gaze cut to the ballroom. “The man is too exquisitely dressed, if you ask me. He has that poetical air about him I find less than trustworthy.”
Brock followed his gaze. “You’ll get no argument from me.” Griston hovered over Ginny, and Brock’s jaw tightened. Patience, he told himself. Something he apparently needed in droves.
Brock had no intention of spending an entire weekend in the country away from Ginny. He would go with Kimpton, return to London, and utilize his advantage over Griston to woo Ginny to her senses. “I can be ready early afternoon tomorrow. Will that suffice?” After he managed at least one audience with Lady Virginia Maudsley.
