The Marquess and Miss Davies Read Free

from Cornwall—to show more interest in the gentlemen of the ton . Any gentleman, it sometimes seemed, as long as he was presentable and reasonably rich. She had made it clear, on depressingly regular occasions, that marriage should be the focus of a daughter’s existence, leaving the vivacious Isolde to her own resources, but despairing of Carys, who was ever the subject of admonition and advice.
    “My dear, you must go to the Terrences’ ball.”
    “Lady Braebere is having a musicale tonight, which I’m sure will be delightful. You must go, my dear.”
    “Dearest, why did you turn down Lord Cartwell for the waltz?”
    In the beginning, when they had just returned to Cardingham House and everything was new and still exciting, her twin had acceded to these requests, but Carys was now saying ‘no’ with frequency, the effect of which was to make their mother ask doubly often.
    Isolde knew that Carys was restless, tired to death of ton society, and liable to do something unpredictable. She wished that her sister liked London as much as she did—Isa found it wonderful—but she did not, and there was an end to it.
    Perhaps Tal and Lady Reggie would like a visitor, once the baby was born. Carys could take care of the child—
    But Isa did not believe that the role of spinster aunt would suit her sister either. There was a passionate nature underneath that calm demeanor.
    And when it found its outlet—watch out.
     

Chapter 3: Responsibilities and a Query
     
    Lord Leighton returned to his own home by a roundabout way that morning, avoiding the busier streets where he might be recognized. Once fully awake and on his feet, he realized that his appearance was, if not scandalous, at least remarkable, in the sense that he could already imagine the remarks that might be made by the wits of the ton .
    “My dear marquess, up with the cabbages were we? Smelling of them as well, I hear!”
    And once the remarks began, the dowager marchioness would hear, and once his mother sunk her teeth into the matter there would be no end to it. Discretion was necessary, therefore; fortunately the back roads of west London were familiar to him, the consequence of a well-misspent youth. He arrived at Clare Manor in good order, and climbed the fence at the far corner of the garden, his route for escape as a boy. His trousers did not survive the final jump intact, but his lordship was past caring about trifles.
    The beggar’s coat already lay abandoned in a dank alleyway some distance away, where it would, with any luck, be eaten by the rats.
    The marquess crept through the entranceway and foyer of the house as quietly as he could. The familiar sounds of his servants going about their business reached him from behind various doors, and he hoped that none of them would choose that moment to emerge into the hall.
    Or, heaven forfend, that his mother might already be awake and taking one of her morning rambles. The marquess crept a bit faster. His own suite was his goal, the only reliable haven of order and peace in the house, and he reached it without problem, shutting the door behind him gratefully.
    Only to hear a familiar scratching moments later. Sighing, the marquess opened the door.
    “My lord,” said Pettersby, his valet. He had a carafe of strong tea in hand. “I assume you will be requiring the bath.”
    There was no fooling Pettersby.
    * * * *
     The tea was fortifying, and by the time Lord Leighton had taken his bath and consumed a substantial breakfast—such were the strengths of a young and healthy man—most of the remaining marks of the night’s escapade were gone. The dowager marchioness was, thankfully, already occupied in the music room and Anthony settled into his study at a reasonable hour, where the duties of the day included a review of needed repairs with Mr Grimes, the house steward.
    “The back staircase,” said the steward, with a note of utter gloom.
    The marquess bit back a groan. He suspected that Grime’s