Never Marry a Marquess Read online

  There was that strength again. It called to him, beckoned him closer. He took a step without thinking.

  The door rattled a moment before swinging open, and Miss Thorn strode into the room, eyes flashing like a sword. He’d once approached the woman for help with the idea that she and her cat were some sort of matchmakers. After all, the Duke of Wey, Sir Harold Orwell, Lord Worthington, and their host tonight, the Earl of Carrolton, had found brides through her. Now she looked like nothing so much as a winged Fury as she swept toward the sofa and held out one hand.

  “Come, Ivy. Your sister is looking for you.”

  Ivy rose and hurried to her side. “Forgive me. The door jammed.”

  “Doors tend to do that when someone shoves a candelabra through the latches,” she replied with a look in his direction.

  He spread his hands. “May I remind you, madam, that I was trapped as well?”

  “And may I remind you, sir, that I understand your purpose for being in London.”

  Kendall stiffened. He hardly wanted it known he sought a marriage of convenience. That would attract all the wrong kinds of interest.

  She put an arm around Ivy’s waist as if determined to protect her. “You will call on me tomorrow, Lord Kendall, and we can discuss reparations.”

  Ivy pulled away from her. “Reparations? But nothing happened, Miss Thorn. I promise you.”

  “I believe you,” the lady replied, look softening. “But others may not. Think of Daisy’s reception if you will not think of your own.” She nodded to Kendall. “Tomorrow, my lord. I am usually receiving by eleven. I expect you then, with an offer.”

  And she pulled her charge from the room before he could decide just who was manipulating whom.

  Chapter Two

  “But nothing happened,” Ivy protested again once they were seated in the coach and headed for Miss Thorn’s home. “We were alone less than a quarter hour.”

  “Lots of interesting things can happen in less than a quarter hour,” Daisy put in helpfully. “A touch of hands, a kiss or two.”

  “Do you speak from experience?” Miss Thorn asked coolly.

  “No,” Ivy assured her with a look to her sister. “Daisy knows how to behave like a lady. We both do. That’s why I have no intention of trapping Lord Kendall in this odious manner.”

  Daisy threw up her gloved hands. “He likes you; you like him. There’s no trapping about it.”

  “Alas, a strategically placed candelabra says otherwise,” Miss Thorn replied. “Who could have taken you in such dislike, Ivy, to put you in this untenable position?”

  Mrs. Villers came to mind, but surely that lady had better things to do. And, feeling as she did about the inferiority of the Bateman family, she would hardly want to arrange matters so Ivy had a chance of becoming a marchioness. Ivy could think of no other person who disliked her. She was generally content to stay in the background. That sort of life did not lend itself well to making enemies. Though there was another possibility…

  “I don’t believe anyone dislikes me to that extent,” she told their chaperone. “But perhaps the person was Lord Kendall’s enemy, not mine. He is the one being forced to propose.”

  Daisy glanced between her and Miss Thorn. “Why are you both so Friday-faced? Ivy’s going to marry a marquess. That’s good for all of us.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Thorn allowed as the carriage drew up in front of her townhouse. “We can speak further in the morning. I asked Lord Kendall to call at eleven. I expect you downstairs at least an hour before, Ivy.”

  “Of course,” Ivy agreed as they climbed out of the carriage.

  Mr. Cowls, Miss Thorn’s elderly butler, opened the door for them. His thinning white hair, usually pomaded into sleek lines about his head, now stuck out in all directions, and his black jacket hung crookedly on his tall frame.

  “Master Rufus made an appearance,” he said as if he noticed them staring.

  “Is Fortune safe?” Miss Thorn demanded, hurrying past him into the entry hall.

  “Miss Fortune appeared to enjoy his company the most,” he replied, shutting the door behind them. “She is with Miss Petunia in the withdrawing room. The hound has been banished to the rear yard for the moment.”

  “I’m not going to ruin my gown to see to him,” Daisy declared, marching for the stairs. “That dog is a disaster.”

  “I heard that!” Petunia, their youngest sister, stepped out onto the second-floor landing, the grey cat in her thin arms, hair far less mussed than Mr. Cowls’s. “Rufus is a good dog. He just wanted to play.”

  Miss Thorn picked up her skirts and swept up the stairs behind Daisy, who continued to the chamber story, nose in the air as if she didn’t see Petunia’s glare. Ivy followed their hostess. Miss Thorn paused to examine her pet, who gazed up at her with copper-colored eyes.

  “And how many scratches did Rufus sustain this time?” she asked Tuny, hand stroking the grey fur. Fortune lifted her chin as if to suggest she deserved a reward for her victory.

  “Only a couple,” Petunia acknowledged, offering their hostess the cat. “And it was his own fault for sticking his nose where he shouldn’t.”

  “What am I to do with you two?” Miss Thorn asked her pet as she tucked Fortune closer. Then she raised her head to meet Ivy’s gaze. “What am I to do with all of you?”

  Petunia glanced between them, brown eyes turning down in concern. “Did something happen at the soiree?”

  “Nothing of any import,” Ivy assured her. “And I do wish we could cease discussing it.”

  “Very well,” Miss Thorn said before calling down to her butler. “We are expecting an important visitor at eleven tomorrow, Mr. Cowls. Please see that the withdrawing room is set to rights by then.” She dismissed Ivy with a nod.

  Tuny followed Ivy up the stairs to the chamber story. Miss Thorn had given them each a bedchamber while they were staying with her, lovely rooms with box beds and pretty wallpaper. Ivy still didn’t understand why they couldn’t have stayed in their own house off Covent Garden. No one had questioned her ability to look after her sisters until Matthew had been elevated. They’d lived simply, quietly.

  Frugally.

  She shoved the thought away. At one of the balls they had attended, some had mentioned Charlotte’s inheritance. Ivy wasn’t sure of the amount or if it would stretch to cover any children Charlotte and Matthew might have. Matthew was already spending a pretty penny to have her and Daisy in Society. She must make the most of his kindness.

  But that did not mean she had to marry the marquess.

  “Something happened,” Tuny said, catching Ivy’s arm before she could go into her bedchamber. “Who’s coming tomorrow?”

  Might as well let her sister in on the matter. Petunia had a way of finding things out and sometimes drawing the wrong conclusions.

  “The Marquess of Kendall is calling,” Ivy explained with a sigh. “Someone locked us in the Earl of Carrolton’s library tonight, and now everyone is concerned about my reputation. It’s a tempest in a teapot. He was a gentleman.”

  Tuny put her hands on her hips. “So, who locked you in?”

  “No one knows,” Ivy said. “Now, off to bed. I want a word with Daisy.”

  Tuny hugged her, then did as she was bid. Once she closed the bedchamber door, Ivy moved to Daisy’s.

  Her sister was sitting on the padded seat before the dressing table, waiting for Enid, Miss Thorn’s maid, to assist her in undressing. She’d taken the pins from her hair to let it spill about her shoulders, the brown waves dark against the pink of her gown. Ivy came up behind her and met her gaze in the dressing table mirror. “Why did you do it, Daisy?”

  Daisy’s eyes widened. “Do what?”

  “You know very well. I didn’t tell Miss Thorn about the note, but you sent it. I recognized your hand. I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t penned it before we left home. You led me to the library, and I suspect you somehow led Lord Kendall as well. Whose idea was the candelabra, yours or
Sir William’s?”

  Daisy rearranged the brush and comb on the dressing table. “Sir William’s. I just thought if I brought you and Lord Kendall together, nature would take its course. Sir William wanted to help it along. It was all in fun.”

  “Fun?” Ivy straightened. “Is that what you call forcing a man to propose to a woman he doesn’t love?”

  Daisy swiveled to face her. “Well, he wasn’t going to do it otherwise! And who says he doesn’t love you? You are very lovable, you know.”

  Perhaps, for her family. But they were used to her. The other ladies in her sphere were so much more accomplished. Her new sister-in-law Charlotte was poised, confident. Daisy could talk to anyone, about anything. Too often, Ivy felt like the world was too big, or perhaps she was too small. How could a man of Lord Kendall’s wealth and sophistication see her as a potential wife? She couldn’t see herself that way.

  “I have my strengths,” she acknowledged to her sister. “But I am better suited to a family than the dictates of Society. Lord Kendall was wise enough to see that, until you forced his hand.”

  Daisy tossed her head. “If you ask me, you should thank me for bringing him up to scratch.”

  “I will thank you to keep out of my affairs,” Ivy replied. “Or do you think I don’t know my own mind? That I require help in choosing my future?”

  Daisy had the good sense to drop her gaze. “No. You’ve always known what you were about, Ivy. I just think you aim too low when you could be so much more.”

  “And maybe I am content with what I am,” Ivy chided her. “Besides, if Lord Kendall has decided we will not suit, I hardly want to push him into marriage.”

  “The more fool you, then,” Daisy said, turning to her reflection and showing cheeks pinkening. “I wouldn’t refuse a rich, handsome marquess if he proposed.”

  Perhaps she really was a fool, for that was exactly what she intended to do.

  ~~~

  Kendall knocked at Miss Thorn’s door at precisely eleven. He felt not the least trepidation, but that was nothing new. Feelings, of any kind, had been scarce since Adelaide had left him behind. At times, the world seemed distant, shrouded in mist, and he hadn’t the energy to push through.

  But for Sophia, he would move mountains.

  Doctor Penrose’s concern had only steeled his resolve.

  “I have tried everything I can find,” the young physician had explained as they’d talked outside the nursery a few weeks ago, listening to the nursemaid attempt to quiet Sophia’s cries. “Various formulations of gruel, vigorous rubbing, poultices, even bleeding. She is not gaining weight, is not exhibiting the characteristics of a seven-month-old child. Such cases are all too common when the mother is taken from a child early. Your daughter is naturally frail, my lord. I fear without her mother she may not reach her first year.”

  Without her mother. Without a woman determined to love her. But Sophia’s delicate nature, inherited from his dear Adelaide, would not cost her her life. He would make sure of it. He had come to London with a purpose, and though he made the trip to his estate in Surrey every few days, the physician having determined that travel might prove fatal for Sophia, he was not about to abandon his purpose now. This business with Ivy Bateman had forced his hand. But there was every possibility that she might be the woman Sophia needed.

  Miss Thorn was waiting in her withdrawing room, perched upon a satin-striped sofa with her pet in the lap of her lavender-colored gown. Like the lady, the room was elegant, the epitome of good taste with its yellow and white appointments and collection of pottery displayed behind glass.

  “Miss Bateman is not disposed to accept your offer,” his hostess informed him, the cat’s tail swishing lazily back and forth.

  He paused in the act of sitting on the chair opposite them. “You seem certain I intend to propose.”

  Her hands stroked the cat, who eyed him with a faintly chiding look. “You are a gentleman. And you seek a wife.”

  “Both true, but I did not trap Miss Bateman to gain one.” He settled himself on the chair. The cat roused herself to slip from her mistress’ lap and pace back and forth in front of him as if distrusting his motives.

  “So you say,” Miss Thorn replied. “Yet here we are. Do you intend to offer?”

  He inclined his head.

  She stood. “I’ll allow her to meet with you, but I expect complete honesty about your proposal, sir. Ivy must know how little you offer.”

  Something tightened inside him. “Some would not consider a country estate, a townhouse, the funds to maintain them in style, and an ancient title paltry matters.”

  “Some choose to marry for love.”

  He flinched as the shame of the statement hit home. He had married Adelaide because they loved each other, their minds attuned to every little thing. They laughed at the same situations, finished each other’s sentences. They enjoyed the same music, the same literature. Her health prevented her from taking part in his daily life, true. She had visited his beloved pavement room to admire the Roman mosaic once and spent the next three days sneezing. Still, he liked to think their love would have lasted through financial hardships, life’s tragedies. Offering Miss Bateman less seemed a sacrilege, a betrayal of his vows.

  He should apologize and go, return to his empty home, the void in his life.

  Sophia. He was doing this for Sophia.

  He drew in a breath. “I will tell Miss Bateman,” he vowed. “I will put no pressure on her to accept.”

  “Very well,” she said. Her gaze went to her cat. “See that he honors his promise, Fortune.”

  He was certain Fortune nodded in agreement.

  He eyed the creature as Miss Thorn left the room and he waited for Ivy. She was a handsome animal, blue-grey coat interrupted by white around her neck and throat, as if she wore a cravat, paws tipped in white as if she wore gloves. She moved along the sofa with the languid grace of her breed, as if he was nothing and no one to her.

  At the end of the sofa, she turned to eye him, watching him, unblinking.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  He would not have been surprised if she had answered. But the door opened again, and Fortune bolted behind the sofa.

  He rose as Ivy came into the room in a simple blue cambric dress. Morning dress, Adelaide had called it, the informal gown a lady wore in the privacy of her home. Ivy clearly had not set out to impress him. Still, did she realize the gown called attention to her curves and contrasted with the sunny blond of her hair, swept up properly behind her head? She took a seat on the sofa, and Fortune jumped up on the back, then slipped down beside her. Why was Ivy’s gaze no less easy to ignore?

  He took his seat. “Miss Bateman, thank you for receiving me.”

  “Of course,” she said with a gentle smile. “We are friends.”

  Friends. Yes. Nothing said he could not be friends with a lady. “And as your friend, I must express my concern over what happened last night.”

  She raised a hand as if to stop him. “It was nothing. I wish you wouldn’t refine on it.”

  “I find it difficult not to refine on it, though I agree that neither of us was to blame.”

  Her gaze brushed the door and returned to him. “Then let us continue as we were and say no more on the matter.”

  She was making it easy for him to walk out that door. His feet urged him to follow her implied suggestion. But he had been in London for three months and had found no other lady who even came close to being suited to the role he needed to fill.

  Kendall leaned forward, determined to make his case. “Miss Bateman— May I call you Ivy?”

  She blinked as if surprised, then pink crept into her round cheeks. “Yes, of course.”

  “Ivy, then. I do not know what you’ve heard of me, but I wanted to explain my purpose in London. I came to find a bride, a mother for my infant daughter.”

  A light sprang into her dark eyes. “You have a daughter?”

  Sophia’s face swam into
his mind as he’d last seen her, the way she was so often: red-faced, eyes screwed shut, mouth open as she wailed. He could almost feel her pain, her confusion.

  “Yes,” he managed. “Her name is Sophia. Her mother, my wife, died in giving her life.”

  Her face sagged. “Oh, Lord Kendall, I’m so sorry.” As if in full sympathy, Fortune abandoned her pose to cuddle closer, rubbing her head against Ivy’s arm.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. This should not be so hard. He’d thought it through a dozen times. It was the only way. It was the right thing for Sophia. It didn’t matter whether it was the right thing for him.

  “It has been difficult,” he acknowledged. “But I am convinced it is best to carry on. I believe I have much to offer a lady: comfort, ease, dare I say luxury?”

  She dropped her gaze to the cat. “You are accorded quite the catch.”

  He grimaced. “You are too kind. But just as I know the benefits I bring to a marriage, I am fully aware of the deficits. I take a wife only for Sophia’s sake. I do not intend to give my heart again. I will leave Sophia a generous bequest and provide amply for my wife. My title and lands will go to my younger brother or his son, should he have one.”

  She glanced up to regard him with a slight frown. “You do not intend a true marriage?”

  “Only one of convenience,” he explained. “Though in my case, I might call it a marriage of necessity. My daughter is ill. She fails to thrive. We have tried everything our physician can devise, consulted with others around the country and the Continent. Still she struggles.”

  Her fingers pressed against the chest of her gown, as if he had hurt her heart. “How terrible! You must be so worried.”

  Her concern pushed him to his feet and set them to moving. “I cannot stop thinking of her. She is all I have of Adelaide, my wife. She is so tiny, so innocent. How can I look in her eyes and tell her I failed to do my utmost?”

  “You cannot,” she said in conviction. “No one who cares for a child can.”

  He came back to her, knelt on the floor at her feet. The cat leaped away behind the sofa as if he had invaded her space. Perhaps he had. Ivy sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap.