How to Impress a Marquess Read online

  This was too much. He should have known Lilith would have no compunction about manipulating Penelope, turning her into a pawn in their greater battle. He should never have left them alone. Good God, was he going to have to cancel every engagement he had for the next few days and watch Lilith like a nursemaid?

  “You were to study proper etiquette,” he barked. “Not enlist my unsuspecting sister in making a mockery of my orders. I’m trying to help you.”

  Penelope’s happy expression fell. “But it was…was my idea. I didn’t know…I thought…I’m sorry.” She bit her lip. “It seemed like a fun idea at the time.”

  George felt like the lowest cur. Penelope was finally laughing for the first time in years, and he had to ruin it by harsh remarks intended for Lilith.

  “I’m very sorry,” his sister pleaded. “Please forgiv—”

  “Well, I’m not sorry.” Lilith rose from the sofa. “It’s a brilliant game. In fact, I challenge Lord Marylewick to play.”

  A word he never thought to associate with Lilith came to his mind: gratitude. She always fought even if the battles were foolish and unwinnable. He remembered her childhood tantrums when his father and uncle called her an unmanageable termagant. But this time she fought to vindicate his sister.

  “I’m raising the stakes,” Lilith continued. “We will not use The Lonely Suitor’s Guide because Lord Marylewick disapproves of it and finds it a dead bore, being such an accomplished flirt. No, the questions shall come from the books he so kindly ordered me to study. Lord Marylewick will choose the questions and I will answer. Did you not say you would check my progress?”

  George glanced at Penelope. Her face was pale, her eyes moist and glassy. “I did,” he agreed.

  “For every question I get right, Lord Marylewick must drink. However, we will not use the watered-down elderberry wine Penelope wisely suggested for our previous game. For as she aptly pointed out, it’s rather unbecoming for ladies to become tipsy or, heaven forbid, bosky. No, no. For this game, we will have a more manly drink suitable for our manly marquess.” She walked to the side table and picked up the crystal decanter. “Brandy. Hard, teeth-clenching, burn-your-mouth brandy.” She arched a brow, daring him.

  “You just stated that it’s unbecoming to be foxed,” he said. “You don’t even follow your own wise counsel.”

  “But you see, Lord Marylewick,” Lilith said, setting the bottle and tumbler on the table beside him, “I don’t intend to drink. I shall sit here all proper and virtuous. See if I don’t. Ask me a question.”

  He didn’t approve, but held his tongue. Very well, then. No doubt a few sips of brandy in and she would be pleading for mercy. He poured a generous amount of brandy into the tumbler, enough to make Lilith regret her decision, and then opened the top book on the stack, What Every Young Lady of Quality Should Know Upon Entering into Society and Marriage: A Guide to Gentle Breeding, and began to scan the lines. The first chapters were prudish ranting on duty and modesty. Around page fifteen he almost picked up the tumbler of brandy for relief when the author finally decided to write something of concrete value. “Ha! What is the standard hour for luncheon?”

  “The standard hour for luncheon. Ah, I must think.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. “Ooh, what is it? What is it? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Of course it is. You don’t know, do you?”

  “Wait, I remember now.” She snapped her fingers and a cool smirk lifted her lip. “Two o’clock in the summer, half past one in the winter, and always one o’clock in the country. Am I correct?” She held up the glass. Her dancing dark eyes were hypnotic over the rim.

  “Yes,” he admitted. In fact, Lilith was more thorough than the book, but he wouldn’t tell her so. He couldn’t cede any territory to his brandy-pouring enemy.

  “So drink,” she said. “No, no, not a tiny sip. The entire glass. Toss it back the way they do in the gin palaces where the etiquette drinking game is all the rage.”

  He had poured the glass, he had asked the question, there was nothing to do but take his medicine. The rush of liquid burned going down his throat, but for some reason, he enjoyed the pain. It was primal and heady. His blood rushed as he gnashed his teeth. Lilith retrieved his empty glass from his fingers. He tried to ignore the electric tingle where their skin touched.

  “Another question, please.” She refilled the glass.

  He loosened his tie. “What time of year do country balls begin?” She wouldn’t know this one. She’d lived in boarding schools or London for her entire life.

  “When hunting begins in November, and they continue until Lent. Members of the aristocracy—that’s you, Lord Marylewick, and your blue-blooded partner—safely stay at the top of the ballroom, whereas I, a member of the great unwashed, loiter about the bottom. And no invitations are necessary, but in certain circumstances you may require a voucher.” Lilith tapped the glass with her finger. “I do believe you must drink again, Lord Marylewick.”

  What had he done? He steeled himself and gulped fast. No more burning in his throat, but his head was feeling lighter when he asked the next question. “What does a young lady—for instance, say you, if you behaved properly—do after every dance?”

  She refilled the glass and handed it to him. “If, for some mad reason, I choose to behave properly, I would return to my chaperone.” She stifled a feigned yawn. “Really, George, this is hardly challenging. For God’s sake, don’t bore me.”

  Penelope chuckled, color returning to her face.

  Why did he think this would teach her a lesson? And he didn’t need to learn the lesson of too much brandy yet again. He had to switch to more advanced etiquette studies before he was foxed out of his wits. He set What Every Young Lady of Quality Should Know aside and picked up Letters to a Debutante and New Wife on the Subject of Correct Social Usage and Good Form. But it was useless. Lilith made mockery of that and dissected The Deportment of Proper Young Ladies in Society and Abroad. Could he have conducted his exams at Oxford with such precision and thoroughness?

  Seven questions later, Lilith held the decanter, threatening to pour more of that devil’s brew. The words in the books were swimming about the page and Lilith’s smile and hypnotic eyes were doing things they shouldn’t be doing to his male parts.

  “Shall I pour or do you surrender?” She let a tiny drop of brandy venom fall and pool on the bottom of the glass. His gut turned.

  “No more, no more,” he begged.

  “Then say, ‘Miss Dahlgren, you are the all-knowing goddess of etiquette. I humbly beseech your forgiveness that I should have doubted your social brilliance.’”

  He would never utter such nonsense nor could he come up with a clever retort. A wave of brandy-induced lightness crested over his brain. “Ugh. I think I need some coffee and a sandwich.”

  “Good heavens, are you foxed?” Lilith scooted down to the end of the sofa and flicked her fingers in a shooing motion. “Stay away from me, you black rake. I am a well-behaved lady. Lord Marylewick would be furious if he knew I associated with low drunks. Penelope, call the butler and have this louse tossed into the street.”

  “I have met the devil and he is a woman,” he moaned. “Penelope, my dearest, beloved sister, take compassion upon me and please ring the bell for a pot of coffee and a sandwich. I have a musical murder to attend this evening.”

  “Musical murder?” Lilith asked. “Are you going to bludgeon someone to death with a French horn?”

  “A musical party,” Penelope explained as she crossed the room to the bellpull. “George despises musical parties and calls them musical murders of Bach, Haydn, and such.”

  “I don’t despise musical parties,” he protested. “In fact, there is nothing I enjoy more than a good musical party.” He pressed his hand to his temples, trying to stop the sensation of a rolling sea in his head. “And therein lies the probl
em.”

  “Then why not stay home with us?” Lilith said, surprising him. She nestled into the cushion, her blue floral robe flowing about her. With the fire behind her, her hair gleamed like reddish copper and dots of light shone in her cocoa eyes. “We shall have our own musical evening. Penelope, you play and sing so beautifully. What do you say?”

  Penelope answered something, but George didn’t hear because he continued to study Lilith. Something was missing from the lovely picture she made. The composition wasn’t correct. There needed to be an object on the side table, maybe a lamp with copper fixtures, casting an orange glow to balance the left side of the would-be painting.

  “George? George?” Lilith was saying, her voice seeming to be miles away. “Stop staring at me in that faraway manner and answer.”

  He bolted up in his seat, embarrassed to be caught gawking.

  “We are asking you a question,” Lilith continued. “Will you stay home and join us for our own domestic musical murder? Penelope says you’ve been looking tired lately and should rest. And I say you won’t do Parliament any good if you show up bosky. No one likes to be romanced by a drunk, politically or otherwise. It’s against all proper etiquette. And as you know, I am the all-knowing goddess of the subject.”

  “Then why don’t you apply it?” he barked out of his own frustration and then instantly regretted it when Lilith’s mouth fell open.

  “George!” Penelope cried. The drowsy, lulling magic of the moment was seeping away again.

  Damn Lilith serving him brandy and being so lovely, laughing, and taunting. And damn him for getting lost in her beauty again.

  He rushed to salvage the old feeling. “Please forgive me, Miss Dahlgren. I am too bosky if I’m being rude to my sister and cousin. It wouldn’t do to appear in public.” What was he saying? He had made promises to converse with a certain MP tonight. He had confirmed his presence with hostesses. He had a responsibility to appear. He wouldn’t say anything at the moment, but in half an hour or so, he would quietly steal away after sobering up.

  Lilith linked her arm through his and smiled. Beneath the thin silk of her robe, he could feel the soft mound of her breast. Was she not wearing a corset again? He decided not to make a point of it but instead enjoy the pleasing sensation of her body brushing against his as they walked arm-in-arm to the music room.

  Nine

  The coffee and sandwiches were redirected to the music room. George sat with his legs stretched out, enjoying warm bread, beef, and tangy mustard. Penelope played and sang in a gentle soprano, her voice blending with the low roar of the fire and the rain beating on the window. Lilith turned the music pages, yet often George would lower his coffee after taking a sip to find her watching him and not the music. She would quickly avert her gaze, but not before sparking him with the magic in those mysterious eyes. The mountains of work that had piled up over the last days and the parties he was missing seemed miles away as he relaxed in the hazy lull of brandy, the music, and Lilith’s beauty.

  Then Penelope told Lilith that it was her turn to sing.

  “But my voice has been compared to a tone-deaf barn owl,” Lilith protested. “And I don’t think that is being fair to tone-deaf barn owls.”

  “Come, it’s not as bad as that,” Penelope assured her.

  “It could potentially be worse.”

  “You are being modest,” Penelope said. “Sing.”

  Unfortunately, Lilith wasn’t being modest. Tone-deaf barn owls, unoiled hinges, and amorous bullfrogs were more melodious. George struggled to contain his laughter. He could see that his sister labored under the same problem but gamely continued playing until Lilith smashed into a high C, and then warbled down to a B flat. Penelope’s eyes drifted to George and they broke down.

  “This isn’t fair,” Lilith cried, hurt, but with a twinkle in her eyes. “You asked me to sing. I can only assume you wanted to hear.” She continued singing with great zest, exaggerating her horrific, wobbly voice.

  “Lilith, Lilith, you are beautiful,” George said. “You speak the poetry of angels and you are the all-knowing goddess of etiquette, but dear God, you can’t sing.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Let us hear you, Lord Severe Critic. How nice to sit in a comfy chair, sipping coffee, eating sandwiches, and smugly judging others.”

  “George has a fine voice,” Penelope said unhelpfully, “but he never lets anyone hear it.”

  “Does he, now?” Lilith cast him a glance from under her long lashes. “George is a man of many hidden talents, and we must bring them all to light. Sing for us. It’s your turn.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t be removed from this chair. Some viciously polite ladies plied me with too much brandy and trapped me in their musical lair.”

  “No?” Lilith said. “Well then, Penelope, what is a song with many sharps and flats that will best suit my voice? I shall endeavor to torture it for many measures. After all, we promised Lord Marylewick an evening of domestic musical murder and you didn’t harm a thing with your beautiful voice.”

  “You are always going to have your way, aren’t you, Lilith?” George rose from his chair.

  “I especially adore having my way with you,” she retorted. Penelope dissolved into giggles.

  “Scoot over, my wicked-minded ladies.” He slid onto the edge of the piano bench. “Pray, let me get my turn over with because I fear I won’t get any peace until I do.”

  Penelope flipped through her hand-scribed book of songs. “Ah, ‘Caro Mio Ben’ would suit you. Have you heard it?”

  “Once or twice or a thousand times these few years,” he dryly quipped.

  He gamely sang along as Penelope played. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lilith watching with unguarded admiration on her face. Her approval split his emotions. Part of him wanted to spread his vocal feathers like a peacock, and another part figured if Lilith approved of something, it must be dangerously wrong.

  To hell with it all. He closed Penelope’s music book.

  “George!” his sister cried.

  “Enough of this boring music. Don’t we have something more lively? Something even Lilith can sing.” She made a face. He winked at her. “What about ‘Nut-Brown Ale’ or ‘A Health to All Good Fellowes’?”

  “Good heavens, drinking games and now tavern songs,” Lilith marveled. “What low place have you brought me to, Lord Marylewick?”

  “It’s all part of the education of Miss Lilith Dahlgren,” he replied, bland-faced. “You missed the last item on my list: tavern songs. I believe in a well-rounded education.” He nudged his sister. “Come now, Penelope, spice it up.”

  Penelope’s eyeballs rolled upward as she thought for a moment, then she broke into a raucous version of “Song of a Fallen Angel Over a Bowl of Rum-Punch.”

  Lilith clapped. “I didn’t realize you had this in you.”

  “Just sing,” Penelope ordered.

  And they did. Lilith’s voice was so wretched it was comical, but what she lacked in musical talent she made up for in fearless gusto. Competition and perfection characterized George and his world. Aside from Penelope, all the other ladies of his acquaintance vied for the prize of being the most accomplished, the most beautiful, the most charming. For now, he enjoyed basking in the shockingly terrible. (However, he would ask Lilith not to sing to a potential suitor until after the marriage, when it was too late.) Penelope continued playing, never putting a break between songs, and Lilith kept glancing at him. Being around her lightened his mind and pushed back the heavy mantle of his daily concerns and worries.

  But then Lilith took her magic away. She rose, interrupting Penelope as she played the beginning notes to a new song.

  “I’m sorry,” Lilith said. “I’m rather tired. I should go to bed.”

  George didn’t want to admit to himself the cold disappointment in his chest. What could he do to grow i
mmune to this woman? Everything she did lit him up. He bit back the words but you stay up until the wee hours every night at those wild bohemian parties you attend. Instead he said, “That is wise, Miss Dahlgren. Sleep calms the excitable nature.”

  “But I rather enjoy being exciting.” She rallied and then said to Penelope, “Thank you for cheering me up today. I’m so happy…” She paused, as if searching for correct words. “I’m so happy I’ve gotten to know you better.”

  “And I’m so glad you are coming to the house party,” Penelope replied. “Dear cousin.” Some of the mysterious, unspoken female communication, the kind that always confused and terrified men, passed between the ladies. Then Lilith smiled and left.

  He and Penelope were back to their own company. She tried to start playing again, but the spirit was gone.

  “I wish she wasn’t tired.” Penelope’s features had returned to the usual distressed lines. “The evening was perfectly lovely.”

  “You must be careful around Lilith,” he cautioned his sister, but the warning was for him, as well. “Behind that dazzling facade are sharp fangs.”

  Penelope played a quiet G. The note reverberated and slowly died away. “I think there is only hurt behind the facade.” She stared where her finger remained on the key.

  “Talk to me, Penelope. You know you can tell me anything.”

  He tried to put his arm around her in a hug, but Penelope slid off the bench. “Good night, brother. I think the education of Lilith proceeded very well.”

  He now sat in the empty room. He pondered Penelope’s words: I think there is only hurt behind the facade. He suspected as much, but whenever he tried to help Lilith, she lashed out. When he attempted to talk to Penelope about her life or marriage, she turned quiet. He wished he knew how to talk to them. Hell, he wished he knew how to talk to Parliament.

  He glanced at the mantel clock: quarter past ten. It would be too late to attend the musical evening. To atone for his social sins he would make a stab at the mounds of work waiting on his desk. He headed to his study. His secretary had divided the documents that required the marquess’s attention into three towering piles: Parliament, business, and estate. He felt tired and disinterested gazing at the stacks.