How to Impress a Marquess Read online

  “Maybe your sister should show some respect to me,” Fenmore choked. “Maybe she needs to learn how to be a proper wife.”

  He lifted Fenmore by his collar until the man’s toes grazed the pavers and then slammed him against the bricks again. Air roared through George’s nostrils. It would be so easy to punch the straying rogue. Again and again, with his bare knuckles, breaking apart that vacant, arrogant expression the man always wore.

  Fenmore, realizing his peril, kept his stupid mouth shut, but he emitted humming, frightened whimpers.

  George kept Fenmore suspended as he reined in his rage. His love for his sister was the only thing sparing Fenmore injury at the moment. He didn’t want to further humiliate her with the talk that would arise if George beat her husband to a pulp.

  “One week.” George shoved Fenmore again, releasing his grip.

  The man, dazed, slumped against the wall.

  George turned on his heel, retrieved his cane, and walked away, fury still trapped in his veins and no relief in sight.

  Sixteen

  “I must kill the sultan,” Lilith said, alone in the safety of her chamber. She broke off a bit of toffee and chewed nervously on it. “A merciful death.”

  After witnessing the scuffle between George and Fenmore, she had rushed down the lane and hid in the cheese shop as George passed. Amid the stinking cheeses, she had fought back her tears. The more she learned of George’s sensitive heart and quiet honor, the more ashamed she felt. She was as guilty as his father and Charles of mocking him, except she had ridiculed him before the entire world under a cowardly nom de plume.

  She was the cruelest one of all.

  She couldn’t continue writing, knowing that each word betrayed George. The best thing she could do in this tangled, heart-wrenching situation was quickly end the story. Everyone wanted the sultan to die, a classic good-over-evil tale. Why not give them what they wanted and be done with it?

  The valide sultan allowed Colette neither food nor water the next day. Colette’s mind turned hazy, but still she would not confess the formula of Greek Fire. In her confused state, her memory drifted back to the sultan’s thrilling kiss in the garden and the secret in the mysterious box. What was this secret the sultan desired her to see?

  In the early hours of the morning, weak with hunger and driven by some dark compulsion that she couldn’t comprehend, Colette stumbled to the garden. She found the sultan waiting, as if knowing she would come.

  He sat on a bench. His turban was gone and his dark locks flowed freely. The plain box now rested on his lap. In his powerful hands, he held a bunch of grapes.

  “My dove, you are ravenous,” he said. “Come eat the fruit from my mouth.” He bit into a grape, letting the juices drip down his lips and chin. Hunger drove away her natural reservations. She readily sucked the sweet juice from his lips and took in the fruit.

  “You have come again because of the secret,” he whispered. “It drives you into the night. It pounds in your mind like the beating of your own loving heart. Do not torture yourself, my dove. Sate your curiosity. Open the box.”

  She could resist no longer. She knelt before him, lifted the lid slowly, and peered inside. In the dim light she could see nothing.

  “It’s empty,” she cried. “You have tricked me.”

  “It is merely too dark to see the thinnest of paper. So old that the text fades, but I know the words by heart.”

  “What are they?”

  “The secret to Greek Fire.”

  “W-what?” cried Colette.

  “What!” cried the author too. “Muse, do you mean the sultan had the secret the entire time? You’re supposed to be painlessly killing him via some dreadful accident, not turning the entire story around and…” Lilith paused, the implications sinking in.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh,” again.

  And then, “Ooooh!”

  Her pen flew across the pages, barely able to keep up with her ideas.

  * * *

  George sat in his study, surrounded by dour paintings of his forefathers. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ease the dull throb in his skull. Between Fenmore, Lilith, his mother, his sister, Charles, the house party, and Disraeli, he felt as though he had been holding back the tide. But the waters were growing stronger.

  He did the only thing he knew to do: work. He flipped through letters from his properties and various relatives, when he came to Disraeli’s correspondence again. He released a frustrated “ahh.” He couldn’t resist and reopened it. There was Lilith, nude and waiting. He ran his pen over her curves, remembering the feel of her nipples as they strained beneath her silk robe. His mouth grew wet to lap and suck her once more. A blob of ink spread outward from her left breast, covering where Disraeli had written “a most critical objective.” Dammit.

  He glanced at the clock. In a few minutes the luncheon would begin, and he had to be the marquess again: restrained, congenial, diplomatic, and certainly not aroused. He didn’t have the strength at the moment and that made him feel even weaker, especially as his father and grandfathers looked on.

  He gazed at naked Lilith now marred by a huge blob of ink and Disraeli’s scrawl. That was the last thing he really remembered until he heard a tap at the door and a timid voice on the other side announce “luncheon.” He checked the clock. Thirty minutes had elapsed! But his headache had vanished, and on the letter, covering the prime minister’s handwriting, rested Lilith’s bare body, now contoured and shaded.

  He slid the missive under a pile of letters. He rose, feeling the painted eyes of all his forefathers on him. He slicked back his hair, straightened his tie and collar, and ambled down to the dining room to find everyone assembled and waiting.

  “There you are, my dear Lord Marylewick.” His mother advanced with Beatrice in her wake.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “Of course not,” she said in a tone implying exactly the opposite. “Now we can begin.”

  “Lilith isn’t here,” Beatrice pointed out.

  “What a shame, dear,” his mother said. “Do have a servant see if she is well and tell her not to trouble herself a bit on our account. She should rest in her bed for the entire day or week if need be.”

  George turned at the echoing footfalls of someone running through the corridors. Lilith halted at the corner and composed herself, smoothing her gown. It was a shock to see her clothed, as he had spent the last half hour envisioning her naked. Her hair was pinned up except for a long braid that curled down her neck. Color heightened her cheeks, but there was something different about her eyes. That usual tenacious glitter was gone, replaced with a dreamy, hazy glow.

  “Hello,” she said in a faraway voice. “So sorry that I’m late.”

  “Everyone’s been waiting on you,” his mother said sweetly.

  Lilith remained distracted through luncheon even as Charles asked her opinion about various radical artists, boring the guests who didn’t know them and offending the ones who did.

  Lilith, usually enthusiastic for all subjects that outraged, mumbled a few comments and then gazed off.

  Who was this incarnation? George had spent the last half hour capturing another Lilith only to have her turn up as someone else. Once he looked up from his roasted pigeon to find her staring at him, her mouth open, the tiny edge of her teeth showing beneath her lips. A wave of heat rushed through his body. Then she blinked, her face flushed, and she turned abruptly away.

  A few minutes later, she stared with the same intensity at the salt cellar. Her lips moved slowly as if she were having a silent conversation with it. He began to wonder if dreamy, ethereal Lilith had been smoking opium in her room.

  Before he could ascertain anything of her peculiar behavior, she fled again, leaving the other ladies to an afternoon of archery and giddy talk of the coming ba
ll, and the men to billiards and not-so-giddy talk of politics.

  * * *

  Lilith locked her door, fished her portfolio from her wardrobe, unlocked it, and drew out all her pages. She shouldn’t leave Penelope alone with her mother and Fenmore, but the muse’s words raged like a wild river swollen from days of rain. She scanned what she had already written—lines of impassioned prose splattered the page like mental vomit. Marylewick, Marylewick, Marylewick. His name jumped out as did the words “bare, engorged male instrument,” “hard, burning tips,” and “swollen petals of love.”

  Ye Gods!

  Never mind that. She would change his name to Sultan Murada and mark through pulsating body parts later.

  Without bothering to change into her robe or kick off her shoes, she sat, dipped her pen, and fell into the manuscript where she had left off.

  Several minutes later she heard a tap on the door. Ugh! Could she work without being disturbed every fifteen minutes? She glanced at the clock to find that she had, in fact, been writing undisturbed for over four hours. Pages littered the desk; her pile of toffee had been reduced to a few pieces. Had she really eaten all that?

  There was another tap.

  She rushed to the door, cracked it open, and hid her ink-stained fingers behind her back.

  A female servant curtsied. “Tea is being served, miss. Shall I help you dress?”

  Tea already! She had left Penelope stranded all afternoon! And she had consented to meet Lord Charles in the garden after tea. She groaned and then thanked the servant, replying that she would remain in her current crumpled gown. She shut the door and locked it.

  She would write a few more words…

  It wasn’t until she couldn’t see what she was writing anymore for the dying daylight that she realized she had missed tea entirely, as well as her meeting with Lord Charles.

  This time she truly panicked. Muse, you need a watch!

  She popped her last toffee into her mouth and hurriedly hid her pages. Her fingers were so stained she turned her wash water blue trying to clean them.

  She had finished putting away her portfolio when the servant tapped on the door again. “Dinner, miss. Shall I help you dress?”

  * * *

  “Where have you been?” Penelope assailed Lilith as she entered the parlor outside the dining room. “Fenmore has been hounding me all day. I think I’m going to come undone, and I already ate all the toffees you gave me.”

  “I’m sorry…I…” Lilith so wanted to tell Penelope the truth. But what would she say? I was working on the latest installment of Colette and the Sultan. My muse wants to redeem the villain whom I’ve based on George. She doubted Penelope would be sympathetic. “I had a headache.” What a weak excuse.

  “I have one too,” said Penelope. “I think Fenmore is drunk already.”

  Lilith squeezed Penelope’s hand. “One day, you, me, Beatrice, and even George, if we can convince him to come along, are going on a lovely holiday. One where we get to live the lives we want and do as we please.”

  “I’m not sure I know how,” Penelope said as the servant entered and announced dinner.

  Lilith gazed across the room to find George studying her. Good God, the man was handsome in his formal evening clothes. She had to glance away before she melted on the spot, and came eye-to-eye with Lord Charles. She flashed him an I’m-so-sorry-please-forgive-me look. His upper lip twitched and he turned on his heel, giving her a cut.

  Just capital! His feelings were hurt. He was like a little boy who had to be cajoled when things didn’t go his way. Very well, she would play his game for George’s sake. She straightened her spine and smiled, transforming herself into the charming, gracious lady. She could not let George down.

  * * *

  After dinner, Lilith followed the ladies to the music room, leaving the men to their port. The harp and piano had been moved to the center of the room with chairs and sofas clustered about. The ladies who were singing began warming up their voices, while others learned the feel of the instruments.

  When the gentlemen joined them a half hour later, Penelope grabbed Lilith’s hand. “Sit on the small blue sofa with me. Make sure our gowns take up the space. Don’t let Fenmore near me.”

  Lilith obeyed, spreading her bustle across the cushions, which kept her distracted from ogling George. But she could feel him around her, causing her heart to quicken.

  The ladies performed one by one as they had the previous evening. Afterwards Lady Marylewick bestowed each with a cutting compliment that the young ladies lapped up. Lilith remembered how George described the evenings as musical murders, and she allowed herself to sneak a single glance to see how he was holding up. He sat straight in his chair, hands on the armrest, appearing politely attentive. Dear George, who only wanted to do what was proper. His gaze flicked to her. She thought she would melt right there on the sofa. A puddle of Lilith.

  Then Lady Cornelia rose to sing. Hers was a bright, lovely soprano that danced agilely upon the notes. George shifted forward in his seat, gazing at her with those smoldering eyes, enraptured. Lilith’s heart squeezed into a tiny aching ball.

  When Cornelia finished, she blushed and smiled shyly, clearly uncomfortable with the audience’s enthusiastic applause. The performance was flawless and the guests awaited Lady Marylewick’s praise.

  A sinking sensation of dread filled Lilith for her rival, who so desired Lady Marylewick’s blessing, like a puppy wanting to be petted. But Lady Marylewick preyed on weakness and couldn’t stomach seeing perfection in others.

  “Quite tolerable,” was all her ladyship could muster.

  An embarrassed pall hung over the room. Lilith saw George implore Penelope with his eyes. Lilith realized he couldn’t say anything for fear of appearing partial. Yet his sister stared at her lap, her mind miles away.

  “What a wonderful performance,” Lilith said in gracious tones. “Thank you for delighting us with your truly angelic voice, Lady Cornelia.”

  “Yes, thank you,” George safely agreed. “Quite nice.”

  Lady Marylewick shot Lilith a malicious look as Cornelia returned to her seat, a shy smile on her blushing face.

  “My dear Lady Fenmore,” Lady Marylewick said, seizing control of the evening again.

  Penelope snapped to attention at her mother’s voice.

  “Why don’t you play ‘A Devoted Wife Adoreth Her Husband.’” Lady Marylewick clapped her hands together.“How I adored Lord Marylewick.”

  Penelope’s mouth dropped with a soft cry.

  “But I was going to sing that,” Lilith interceded.

  “You?” cried Lady Marylewick as if Lilith were a filthy street urchin who dared to speak up to the queen.

  “Why, yes. It’s my favorite song. I would be delighted to perform it now. Lady Fenmore, will you be so kind as to accompany me?”

  Penelope stared, stricken, then broke into giggles. She could only nod her consent.

  “I do not see anything funny,” declared Lady Marylewick.

  “Neither do I, your ladyship,” Lilith replied as she stationed herself by the piano. Penelope gave Lilith her opening note, assuming Lilith could hit it, and then proceeded to play the first stanzas. Lilith sucked in a dramatic breath and then opened her mouth, releasing her voice onto the pandering piece.

  She struggled to maintain an earnest face as she watched the uncomfortable twitching of the guests. Only George perceived the joke. He raised his hand to his face, his shoulders shaking with laughter. His joy, even at her expense, fueled her musical ambition. She reached mightily for those pesky high Cs and Ds and missed them by a good half note or more. Soon Charles had figured out the little jest. He watched on with a delighted grin.

  “Brava!” he cried, when Penelope mercifully ended the torture. “A quite tolerable performance, indeed.”

  Lady Marylewick’s smi
le had hardened to a rictus. “Aren’t you a clever jester? I am so amused.” Her laugh was devoid of all humor. In fact, it sounded rather murderous. Tension permeated the air.

  “I enjoyed it immensely,” said Lord Marylewick, overriding his mother and setting the guests at ease again. “My sister and ward are up to all the rigs. Thank you, ladies.”

  As Lilith returned to the sofa, she could feel Lady Marylewick’s anger like a hot breeze rushing over her. But Lilith refused to be cowed.

  * * *

  The guests began to disperse after Lilith and Penelope’s infamous song. Lilith lingered about the parlor, long enough to engage in a few conversations, and then made her escape. Her muse found her in the corridor, bursting with changes and improvements to what she had written.

  “But I’m exhausted!” Lilith complained aloud.

  “Are you now,” a male voice said. Lilith jumped.

  Oh God! She had been caught talking to herself. She spun around to find Charles.

  “Whom were you talking to?” he asked, clearly amused as he swaggered forward.

  “To the fairies, of course,” she replied with dead earnestness. “Delightful conversationalists, all of them.”

  He tossed back his head and laughed. “Fair lady, you destroy me.” In an easy, graceful motion, he clasped her arm and drew her into the library.

  Really, it should be mentioned in the guidebooks that ladies visiting Tyburn are often yanked into various rooms without their consent.

  “You broke my heart this afternoon,” he said. “I tried to be angry with you, but then you sang and undid me again.” He closed the door behind them. “I beg you, my dearest, to tell me who I am.”

  She made a point of reopening the door. “You are Lord Charles. You possess reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, and—”

  “I am the third son of a duke.” He captured her hands and held them between his. “My lair may not be a grand Tyburn Hall, but what I possess is rather impressive. I receive a generous annual income. In other words, I am a most desirable bachelor. Most ladies would cut off their toes to fit into the glass slipper I’m offering. But you…you…” He swallowed, losing his wry facade. “You treat me cruelly.”