The Wild Marquis Page 14

  “Esty! This is your brother, John. You can tell me anything.”

  She paused and sniffed again. “I went into Mother’s sitting room.”

  “Yes?”

  “Papa was there. He whipped her, with a switch.”

  The bastard. The hypocritical bastard. His chest burned with impotent anger.

  “Did he ever hit you?” If his father were still alive he’d ride to Markley Chase and tear him apart with his bare hands.

  “No. Mother spanked me when I was naughty.”

  He hoped “spank” didn’t equate with the severe whippings he’d suffered at his father’s hands.

  “And our mother? Did he beat her again?”

  She looked away.

  “Esther?”

  “Yes. Mother explained to me he only did it when she misbehaved. I don’t know why. Mother is always good.”

  Guilt fastened like a vise on his gut. His life hadn’t always been easy, it was true. But he’d left his mother and sister in the hands of a violent monster.

  Chapter 12

  “Good afternoon, Juliana.”

  Cain entered the shop as though he’d just dropped by to take her to the auction.

  “My lord,” she said coldly. How dare he? He was a conscienceless whoremonger. And he hadn’t been near her in days.

  “You’re very formal.”

  “I think it best under the circumstances.”

  “That’s right. We quarreled. It seems like a long time ago.” He sighed.

  Quarto emerged from the back room, his peaceful afternoon nap on a large pillow disturbed by the doorbell.

  “The dog!” Cain said, as though he’d forgotten the creature’s existence. “No more disturbances in the night, I trust?”

  “None, thank you, my lord.”

  Quarto growled.

  “Splendid. I hope he greets everyone that way.”

  “As a matter of fact you seem to be the only person he dislikes. For every other man he rolls over and presents his stomach.” She didn’t mention the dog’s unfortunate sniffing habits when it came to females.

  She expected a ribald observation but Cain seemed distracted.

  “What can I do to help you? Have you come about a book? Something you need at the auction?”

  “Oh, that. No. Not today.” Instead of looking at her, he rocked back and forth on his heels and stared at the floor. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought him nervous.

  “Can we go upstairs?” he asked abruptly. “There is a private matter I need to discuss.”

  “I don’t believe, my lord, there is anything we need to say to each other that cannot be discussed here.”

  Her prim refusal at least drew a smile, though a pale shadow of his usual slashing grin.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not about to make you another indecent proposition. I’m rather afraid my indecent proposal days may be coming to an end. I might as well go about the business properly.”

  He went down on one knee before her and she stared, noting that he executed the maneuver with rare elegance. He looked absurdly romantic down there, perfectly fitting knitted pantaloons hugging his thighs and his fine wool topcoat spread around him.

  Quite princely, really.

  Looking up at her, his fathomless azure eyes expressed uncertainty, pleading even. He must be about to apologize. She kept her expression carefully blank. She might forgive him, and really she shouldn’t.

  He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Merton. Will you do me the great honor of granting me your hand in marriage?”

  She almost joined him on the floor in a graceless heap. A fleeting moment of joy was driven away by the knowledge that he’d employed a whore within the past two days.

  “Why?” she asked, once she found her voice.

  “Not quite the response I expected. I’d have preferred something along the lines of ‘Thank you, Cain. I would be delighted to be Marchioness of Chase.’”

  A marchioness! She was being offered such an exalted position. It was ridiculous.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Are you telling me you’ve fallen madly in love with me?”

  “Would that help?”

  “Not unless you meant it. And even then…”

  “Yes, I do understand. Why would you wish to marry a wastrel like me? Even if I did love you.”

  “Which is to say you don’t.”

  “I have too much respect for you to lie.”

  “Then answer my original question, please. Why?”

  “The short answer is, because I need to reform my life.” He sounded so mournful about it Juliana almost laughed. “The complete story will take longer. Are you sure we can’t go upstairs?” He stood up and raised a protesting hand with a laugh that sounded more like the old Cain. “I promise not to leap on you and I could use some…tea.”

  “My goodness, you are intent on reform.”

  “If I have to swallow tea to prove it, I will.”

  Seated at her table, Cain told her about Esther’s appearance in London. By the end of his recital Juliana was left in no doubt that he greatly loved his sister. The very knowledge of her existence completed the picture of his lost family life, and perhaps explained the mystery she’d sensed behind the matter-of-fact narration of his exile.

  What she didn’t understand was why the girl’s arrival had precipitated Cain’s proposal.

  “I can’t let my mother take Esther back.” He spoke quietly and his voice was deeper than ever in his determination. “I’ve just come from Lincoln’s Inn where I’ve been learning about the law. Luckily my father insisted she have a male guardian as well as my mother. Since one of her guardians has died and she’s more than fourteen years old, the law allows her to name the replacement herself.”

  “So she can chose you?”

  “Yes, but the court must approve her choice and I’ve given my mother many reasons to oppose it.”

  “Where do I come in?”

  “The barrister I consulted—and my solicitor says he’s the best—gave his opinion that my marriage to a woman of good reputation would help convince the court that I was a suitable guardian for a young woman, despite my past transgressions. You are the only woman I know that I could stand to be married to.”

  Juliana couldn’t help a rush of pleasure at his words, until he spoiled the compliment.

  “Besides,” he said, “you are the only woman I know with a good reputation.”

  “I think you must be mad,” she said acerbically, “if you think I am suitable. I make my living through trade. Not exactly the usual avocation of a future marchioness. Naturally I’m very flattered by your offer.”

  “You don’t sound it.” He smiled wanly. “You are a lady and had a lady’s upbringing. Your grandfather was a gentleman. He may have been a little eccentric but it’s not him I plan to marry.”

  “And now I run a bookshop.”

  “For God’s sake, Juliana. You need to win the approval of a gang of doddering old men who run the courts, not the Patronesses of Almack’s. There’s nothing about you anyone could conceivably object to. And if it comes to that, I wager those tiresome biddies would come around too.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Please.” He reached around the teacups and took her hand. “Please, Juliana. We’ll have fun. We’ll buy books together. You can buy every book in London if you wish, and even Sebastian Iverley will have to respect you.”

  Oh, he was good. He knew just how to appeal to her baser nature.

  “We’ll have a wonderful time.” His voice dropped again. “You know you’ll enjoy yourself in bed. And I will too.”

  It was lucky he reminded her of that. Enjoy himself in bed with her, and how many others? She’d already experienced one marriage of friendship. While Cain was correct that his intimate attentions were preferable, infinitely so, to Joseph’s, she wasn’t sure she wanted another marriage of convenience. It suddenly occurred to her that if she was to relinquish her independence and put herself in
the power of another man, she’d like it to involve a warmer sentiment.

  At least with Joseph she’d never doubted his fidelity.

  “I don’t wish to marry a rake.”

  Cain’s nod of agreement was disarming. “I don’t blame you. But I am going to be a reformed rake. I’m sure you will be a wonderfully good reformer. I need you, Juliana. I can talk to you. And I can give you everything you want. Jewels, clothes, servants. You won’t ever have to cook again. And you’ll love my sister. She’s a darling.”

  She’d have been inhuman not to be tempted. Very tempted. For a moment she envisioned herself as Cain’s wife: wealthy, powerful—and well pleasured. But all other reservations aside, there remained the unalterable truth.

  “It’s impossible,” she said.

  “But why? Why won’t you say yes?”

  She owed him the real explanation. “I will not serve your purpose.”

  Cain leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, ready to swat away any argument like a tiresome fly. “Go on. Bring up your objection.” He needed to be married and Juliana was the only wife he could contemplate.

  She stood and took a deep breath. “My birth is illegitimate.”

  Whatever Cain had expected, it wasn’t this. Juliana looked ready to spit blood. The admission had cost her dearly.

  “Then your mother, Cassandra—”

  “I don’t even know for certain she was my mother.” Her eyes glistened. “No, I am sure. But no one had ever admitted it to me. And I haven’t an inkling who my father was.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said softly.

  “I was brought to Mr. Fitterbourne’s house as an infant and grew up in the nursery at Fernley Court. My nurse had been nurse to my guardian’s only child, Cassandra. I grew up on tales of Miss Cassandra, played with her toys and read her books. When we had gooseberry tart Nurse told me Miss Cassandra loved it so it became my favorite too. I never saw any other children and I imagined Miss Cassandra lived in the nursery with me and she became my friend.”

  She’d been circling the room during her recitation. Now she stopped in front of the watercolor he’d noticed on his first visit. “Then one day Nurse showed me her portrait and I realized my friend was grownup. So I decided Miss Cassandra was my mother.”

  Poor child, Cain reflected. His own childhood had been on the bleak side but at least he had a mother, though she hadn’t much time for him, worn down as she was by a succession of fruitless pregnancies and obsessed with piety. He ached for the lonely girl and wondered if her parentage was as imaginary as her little friend.

  “I asked Nurse if it was so, if Cassandra was my mother.” Juliana closed her eyes as though picturing the moment. “She said no, but I knew she was lying. I could tell. She said Miss Cassandra was dead and had never been married.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you who your parents were?”

  “When I grew better acquainted with my guardian, I asked him. He said I was the daughter of distant cousins. But,” she added, “he would never talk about them.”

  “Perhaps he spoke the truth.”

  “Do you know what my name was?” she asked with a harsh little laugh. “Wayborn. Everyone knows that is a name given to bastards. And my second name is Cassandra. Why else would I be so named if I wasn’t his daughter’s child, born out of wedlock?”

  Cain could think of reasons. That Cassandra was a family name, for instance.

  “He was ashamed to admit I was his granddaughter. Why else was I never permitted to leave Fernley, except to go to church? I grew up knowing no one save servants, my governess, and a few booksellers who came to visit him. He was ashamed of me.”

  “How could anyone be ashamed of you?” Cain asked.

  She was not to be distracted from her tale, which was growing in pace and now tinged with anger. Taking her seat once more, she leaned across the table and glared.

  “Do you know what happened when my guardian died? His cousin”—she positively spat out the word—“Frederick Fitterbourne inherited the estate and told me I wasn’t welcome to live in the same house as his wife and children.”

  “He tossed you out without a penny?”

  “Oh no. He reminded me that I had the inestimable good fortune to possess a thousand pounds left me by Mr. Fitterbourne. Safely invested in the three percents, the income would be entirely adequate to the needs of one such as me. But he wouldn’t tell me who I was. He said if my guardian had wished me to know, he would have informed me himself.”

  What kind of man would abandon a young woman to her own devices? It was good to know that his own father was not the only bastard in the world, though that was hardly the right word under the circumstances. Mr. Frederick Fitterbourne was clearly of the same ilk.

  “You were only…how old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And he wouldn’t look after you, even though you were a member of his family?” His doubts about Juliana’s interpretation of the tale must have shown in his voice.

  “You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m imagining that Cassandra was my mother.”

  She rose again and removed the portrait from the wall.

  “Look!” she said, standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding the picture of the young woman in front of him. “This is Cassandra. I look like her. I have her eyes.”

  He twisted around to look at her face and back at the image. True, the girl in the amateurish watercolor had greenish eyes and could, if one looked hard, be said to bear a resemblance to Juliana, despite her dark hair. He turned back to the woman standing beside him and his expression dissatisfied her. Snatching the little picture to her breast she stepped back and began to cry, quietly but as though her heart would break.

  “Oh, love,” he said, leaping to his feet. “Hush. Don’t cry.” He pulled her hands away from her body and carefully loosened her fingers from the frame. “It’s all right,” he said, placing the portrait on the table with the care that befitted her greatest treasure. “I believe you. You look just like her.”

  And maybe she did. Juliana might very well be correct in her assumptions, and he decided to take her at her word.

  He knew what it was like not to be believed.

  He took the sobbing woman into his arms, enveloped her body for protection, held her fast for comfort, murmured words of consolation.

  He wanted to tell her he didn’t care if she’d been born to a Gypsy girl in a ditch. That what she’d become, the clever, witty, fiercely independent woman she’d made herself, was far more important than who she was. He wanted to make things right for Juliana, chase away her past, ensure she never felt another moment’s disquiet.

  And if he married her, an idea that suddenly seemed much more acceptable than the life sentence he’d arrived dreading, he could do so.

  But, damn it all, she was right about that. He could imagine the arguments of his mother’s counsel if he presented a tradeswoman with a dubious background as his bride. He’d never persuade anyone that he and Juliana were proper candidates for the care of the gently raised, well-endowed daughter of the Saintly Marquis.

  He was taking enough of a risk himself, allowing his mother to repeat her husband’s foul accusations for the world to judge.

  Chapter 13

  “Why can’t I have a purple dress?” Esther’s eyes followed Mel as the housekeeper left the room. Mel’s ensemble for the day featured a cotton twill dyed a particularly virulent shade of deep violet, startlingly trimmed with burnt orange ribbons.

  “Because you are sixteen and sixteen-year-olds don’t wear gowns like that. Eat your breakfast. Will you pour me some tea?”

  If anyone had told Cain he’d ever be preaching propriety to an unfledged girl, he’d have laughed his head off. That was before he found himself in charge of a sister who had discovered bright colors. He hardly knew how to tell Esther that Mel’s fashion choices were unsuitable for a lady of any age, let alone why. Fortunately the resourceful Mrs. Timms ha
d produced a few garments in a more appropriate style, castoffs from a ladybird whose former protector fancied his women dressed as schoolgirls. Mrs. Timms had been very happy to sell them to Mel, so Esther was unexceptionally clad in demure white muslin.

  Esther pouted a little but carefully performed her allotted task with the teapot.

  “At least we’ll be going out today,” she said, her face brightening. Esther had been sequestered in the house for several days and she was restive.

  “Will we?”

  “Of course. What time is church?”

  Cain hadn’t even noticed it was Sunday. “I think you can miss it this once.”

  “But John!” Esther’s mouth pursed in a shocked O. “It’s Easter.”

  “Wouldn’t you like me to teach you piquet?”

  “Yes, I would. Very much. But we must go to church for Easter.”

  Cain frowned. Though his sister showed every sign of making a speedy recovery from years of gloom at Markley Chase, he understood that her religious upbringing made it inconceivable to miss worship on such a day. Yet he couldn’t take her himself. Certainly not to join the fashionable throng at St. George’s or even the slightly less tonnish parishioners of St. James’s. Her presence remained a secret. Especially since her residence in his disreputable household could do nothing to enhance her reputation. It went without saying that none of his servants was a suitable escort for her.

  Some words chimed in his memory, Juliana’s claim that she left her childhood home only to attend church. He’d wager she maintained the habit. He scribbled a note and summoned one his footmen.

  “Deliver this to Mrs. Merton. And take the old carriage.”

  He hadn’t set foot in a church in eight years and didn’t need to today. But once Juliana had taken Esther up in the nondescript blue town coach, he’d found himself following them on foot.

  The church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields was full this Easter morning, every seat in the lower pews and galleries taken. Cain slipped in and placed himself with others standing in the side aisle, halfway back.