How to Impress a Marquess Read online

  He knew it was improper and unwise, but he wanted to feel more of her. He brushed a stray lock, the color of brandy and firelight, from her face. How could he make her mind as delicate as her nose, her manners as pleasing as her lips, and her ways as soft as her silky hair? If only he could find a way to temper her wild, disorderly nature and keep her as gentle as this moment.

  He lingered five minutes longer, savoring the soothing rhythm of her breath on his face, until he couldn’t put off his responsibilities any longer.

  “Come.” He tenderly gathered her up. “Let’s tuck you in bed.”

  * * *

  George’s carriage rambled through the streets as he contemplated the Lilith problem. Away from her, cold reason set in again. The truth was she was too great a risk at the house party. Politics was a careful, subtle dance in a house of cards. One jarring move, one misspoken word, and all his good work would fall apart.

  He couldn’t let her attend, no matter how this might deflate Lord Charles. In fact, George took secret pleasure in thwarting the man.

  He straightened his parliamentary wig and made his decision. On the eve of the house party, Lilith would contract a chill and be temporarily removed to a nest of spinster relations housed in Chester, where she would adhere to a strict regimen of improvement as laid out by George. Then, for the rest of the spring, she would remain under Penelope’s feminine tutelage, with George acting as the firm authoritarian whenever Lilith strained Penelope’s delicate countenance. By late summer, he hoped to have Lilith’s wild tendencies ironed out. Then he would quietly establish her.

  Yes, that would be the best plan of action, he thought as he stepped out of the carriage at the Palace of Westminster.

  Six hours later, he had different thoughts as he stood by the dance floor at Lord Winterston’s ball. He seethed inside but kept his features composed in a pleasant, nonmurderous expression. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. And if Lilith Dahlgren is involved in said plans, they go spiraling down into the pit of hell.

  He just waited for yet another powerful member of Parliament, whose vote the Tory party had been courting since the winter, to approach him and say, Lord Charles tells me that you have a delightful cousin attending your house party. I will enjoy making her acquaintance, or Lord Charles tells me that Miss Lilith Dahlgren will attend your house party. How wonderful that I shall finally meet her. My sister sang her praises at school, or the oddest one of all, coming from Lord Harrowsby, the oldest member of the House of Lords, I hear from Lord Charles that you’ve kept a charming little dove hidden from us; we are all actually looking forward to your house party this year.

  What did that mean? Did no one enjoy his house party?

  George thought he was the better man, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy.

  He had spent months trying to bring the Stamp Duty Extension Bill to people’s attention. Meanwhile, Lilith showed up at the park one afternoon and suddenly England’s politicians were on fire. But he knew the truth of Lilith. She dazzled people in bright, short bursts, but if they lingered any longer, her charming facade soon began to melt and there would be George, behind the glitter and glow, mopping up her mess again.

  On the dance floor, the waltz had ended and partners were beginning to form for a quadrille. George’s temples ached. He wanted to go home and crawl in bed with Colette, but he needed to dance with the Whig host’s daughter, play a rubber with an MP from Sheffield, and then drive five blocks to another ball and dance with more daughters and play more cards. It was no use standing here, silently cursing Lilith and letting her steal any more of his precious time. He turned and headed for the host. He preferred the old-fashioned, courteous method of asking a lady to dance: inquiring of the father.

  He had not gone two steps when he heard, “Lord Marylewick, dear boy.”

  Lord Charles sauntered over, his blond-red hair shiny under the huge chandelier. In an easy motion, he grabbed two champagne glasses from a passing servant, handed one to Marylewick, and then took a sip from the other. “How is it that Miss Dahlgren was in your possession all this time? You could have been a regular fellow and mentioned it earlier. I’m quite cut up at your shabby treatment of me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve made no secret of Miss Dahlgren.”

  Charles’s azure eyes glittered as they had when he had cheered on his schoolmates to toss George’s shoes and coat up in the trees. “Don’t tell me you have your own plans for her—down on one knee in an orangery, babbling of undying sentiments and devotion.”

  “Don’t be daft! I’m her guardian,” he said, simplifying the complex relationship. “I oversee all aspects of her life.”

  “Ah, I see. Then I must romance you, if I’m to romance her.”

  “You seem quite taken by a lady you met just this afternoon.” George didn’t hide his incredulity. He knew Charles cut a wide swath with London’s more willing ladies. Now the man seemed to be waging a campaign for a woman he hardly knew.

  Charles pressed his fist to his chest. “But in my heart, I’ve known her an eternity. I’m rather romantic.”

  “I’m sure that in a week’s time you will have forgotten about Miss Dahlgren and found another quarry.”

  “There is no other woman but Miss Dahlgren. All is Miss Lilith Dahlgren, I assure you. Come now, consider my suit: I’m the third son of a duke and that makes me a lord with all the usual paraphernalia—estate, funds, and so forth, but without the stringent matrimonial requirements of my elder brothers. I stand in Parliament, so I’m not a completely useless fribble. I vote on issues of national importance, such as stamp duties. You know about those. I believe you and your Tory kind in the House of Commons are trying to shove one down this nation’s throat.”

  His true meaning flowed beneath his drollness. You have something I want romantically, and I have something you want politically.

  George drew a long sip of bubbling spirits. “My cousin is not a political pawn.”

  “I’m not sure what prompted you to say that. How could I sully pure, innocent affection with filthy politics? I merely tell you that my intentions are honorable, and I ask that I be allowed to pursue them at your house party.”

  Charles’s gaze met George’s—a challenge more than an entreaty. George felt that gut-churning sensation of having been bested by Charles again. Except this time the victory was more subtle than young George sniveling in his dormitory bed, his backside aching from a paddling, and all the candies Penelope had sent him stolen.

  “I warn you, you have much worthy competition.” George couldn’t deny Charles, but he would be damned if he’d let the man roll over him.

  “As I understand. All the eligible politicians are sharpening their jousting sticks, ready to win the fair maiden’s hand. Which gallant knight shall succeed, Lord Marylewick?” He gestured to the room. George found the eyes of young men watching their conversation with great interest.

  Damn Lilith Dahlgren, he thought. Damn her to her own special frigid hell of white empty walls, books without words, poems without meter, and Schumann on a harpsichord. He was backed into a political corner. Lilith must attend the house party.

  “We shall see,” George replied coolly and bowed. “Good evening, Lord Charles.”

  George wanted to stomp to the cloakroom, retrieve his hat and other accoutrements, and go home to Colette. But as Admiral Nelson said, “England expects that every man will do his duty.” And George unflinchingly performed his. So he approached the host, complimented his daughter, Lady Cornelia, and asked her for the next dance.

  * * *

  Four hours later, George stalked into his library. He had learned several enlightening things that evening. First, no one really enjoyed the Marylewick annual house party, and second, if Lilith didn’t attend this year’s painfully boring party, the earth might stop going around the sun.

  He pour
ed a glass of brandy, sank into a wing chair, and rubbed his temple. He had only a few days to turn Lilith into some semblance of a proper lady. It was impossible. He sipped and stared at the glowing coals. How to create a meek lady out of that termagant?

  His father’s voice echoed in his head. I’m going to turn you into a man, Goddammit! What was George supposed to do? Obviously his father’s solutions wouldn’t work. He couldn’t force her into the boxing ring to be pummeled while he shouted Fight back, damn you, or give her a rifle and order her to shoot the orphaned fawn, or pour brandy down her throat until she vomited. He wasn’t making a man, but the ideal female.

  What was the ideal female, anyway?

  His eyes lit on McAllister’s Magazine resting on the table beside his chair where he had left it the previous evening.

  Colette.

  She was the perfect woman. Most likely because she was created by a man.

  He carried the journal to his desk, picked up a pen and tapped the page. How could he create a modern Colette in a matter of days? And out of Lilith?

  He rubbed his tired, burning eyes, dipped the pen and scrawled on a piece of his stationery: The Education of Lilith Dahlgren.

  Six

  The morning light warmed Lilith’s face. She wasn’t ready to wake up yet. She wanted to loll in this peaceful, drowsy feeling longer. She snuggled into the soft sheets and drifted back into her dream where she was clad in Colette’s robes and veil and dancing in a flower garden. She was completely free, her spirit unencumbered. She lifted her smiling face to the brilliant sky.

  Tap tap.

  Colette stopped. How did a door suddenly appear in her garden?

  Tap tap.

  “Miss Dahlgren, Lord Marylewick requests your presence at breakfast,” a timid female voice said.

  Lilith’s lids shot open. Brilliant light flooded in from two huge windows on the opposite wall, hurting her eyes. She wasn’t dancing in a garden. Where was she? And how did she get in this nightgown?

  “Shall I help you dress?” the voice said.

  Lilith pressed her hand to her thundering heart. What was happening? Her sleep-dulled mind slowly sharpened. The previous day’s memory returned. She had been betrayed again. Frances and Edgar had deserted her. Her lovely life in the world of art and words had been ripped away.

  She drew her knees to her chest. She didn’t have the strength to get up.

  “Miss?” The determined young servant slipped into the room. “Are you well?” she cried when she spied Lilith huddled on the bed.

  An anxious thought exploded in Lilith’s mind. The story! Where was the story? If George found out…

  Lilith bolted up. “Where are my…my things?” Oh God! She studied her chamber—a bright, airy room in George’s Grosvenor Square prison. She had slept in a large mahogany canopy bed. On the left wall stood a mirrored wardrobe, and on the other wall, a washing stand and carved bureau writing desk sandwiched the chimney-piece.

  “I put your clothes and toiletries in the wardrobe,” the maid said.

  Lilith rushed to the wardrobe and tore open the doors. Her gowns and chemises were neatly pressed and hung. Her reticule dangled from a hook. The drawers housed her folded stockings and pantalets. But her portmanteau and portfolio remained missing. She released a panicked squeal.

  “I’m Lucy,” the servant said, not commenting on Lilith’s frantic fossicking. “I thought your nightgown was too worn. Lord Marylewick’s sister kindly lent one. Shall I help you dress?”

  “My portfolio!” Lilith cried. “Dear God! Where is my portfolio? Did George take it?”

  Lucy blushed. “I-I don’t recall Lord Marylewick visiting your chamber last night. I placed it in the bureau. I thought that’s where you would want it, miss.”

  Lilith pulled down the bureau desktop to find the portfolio still locked and resting in a cubby below her volume of Keats. She yanked them out and hugged them.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” she whispered, sinking into the chair. Tears formed in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Lilith picked up the pen from the inkwell. Her fingers were shaking around the point. She had to write. It was the only way she knew to make sense of what had happened, else she would fall apart. “P-pray, tell Lord Marylewick that I’m indisposed and desire a nice pot of tea—and toffee if available—brought to my room.”

  The servant’s mouth dropped open as if she had been asked to climb onto the roof and then jump. “You…you really want me to tell my lord that? Are you quite certain, miss?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Lucy swayed on her feet as if waiting for Lilith to change her mind. When Lilith didn’t, she curtsied and edged fearfully out of the room.

  Lilith felt sorry for Lucy. No doubt Lord Marylewick marched about his house like Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts, cutting off the heads of anyone who dared to defy him.

  She couldn’t face him yet. She had to gather her emotions and plant them in neat rows of prose. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out her key from her reticule. Back at the bureau, she unlocked the portfolio and then grabbed a piece of stationery with a big gold M embossed on it.

  She marked through the M until she couldn’t see it anymore. “Please be present for me, Muse. I need you.”

  Colette blinked, drowsy from the poison the sultan had forced her to drink. She could make out vivid drapes in deep reds and purples and the gleam of gold ornaments.

  A shadow moved from the dim corners of the tent. “You’re awake, my fair one.” The sultan came into the sparse light.

  She struggled to rise, clutching at the blanket to cover her bare skin. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life—her clothes, her identity, everything that was hers, stripped away. “What are you going to do with me?”

  He shrugged. “Take you to my palace.”

  “You’re not going to…to…”

  He raised a black brow. “To what, my lovely dove?”

  She raised her head boldly, refusing to show fear. “Ravish me?”

  He chuckled darkly, a strangely musical sound. “You think me a monster.”He twined her hair about his finger. Her body trembled with terror…and pleasure. “I will ravish you in good time,” he growled. “Rest now, soon we will travel.” He strode to the tent’s entrance. “And don’t think of escaping.” He opened the flap with his sword and strolled out. She heard him order the guards outside,“Give her anything she desires, but don’t let her leave.”

  Colette buried her head in her hands and wept…

  and wept…

  and wept…

  and wept some more.

  “Muse, I realize she’s distraught, but how does she get out? She needs a plan. She needs hope.”

  “Why have I lived only to know pain?” Colette cried out. “I can go on no longer. My soul is tired and desires to rest in the heavens.”

  What? Lilith stared at the pages. Colette couldn’t die. “No, no, Muse. She must live. This can’t be a tragedy. Tell me she escapes.”

  Her pen waited, poised on the page. But no words came.

  “No.” Her eyes grew moist again.

  Tap tap.

  “Pardon, Miss Dahlgren,” Lucy called.

  She jammed the pages into her portfolio, locked it again, and wiped her eyes on the nightgown sleeve. “Yes.”

  The door cracked enough for Lucy to slip through. “His lordship still requests your presence downstairs.” She kept her gaze averted.

  “Tell him that I’m sorry, but I prefer my presence in this chamber.”

  “He said…” Lucy swallowed. “He said that we don’t practice the loose and lazy hours you are accustomed to. If you don’t come to the dining room, he shall personally drag you there.”

  “Ooh,” said Lilith after a beat. “Very well, then.” She rose and marched from her room.

  “Miss
Dahlgren, wait!” Lucy scurried behind her. “You’re still in your nightclothes. I think your blue gown would be lovely. Shall I put it on you? And your hair? Please, miss, please!”

  Lilith continued down the grand stairs. “I’m sorry, Lucy. But I would be loath to keep Lord Marylewick waiting over something as trivial as clothing.”

  * * *

  Lilith flung open the dining room doors. She interrupted what appeared to be a serious conversation between George and his sister across the vast table. Stacks of books crowded about a plate set between sister and brother.

  “Good morning, Georgie!” Lilith cried. “Isn’t it a glorious day?” She twirled on her toes, the motion lifting her hem.

  The ever proper Penelope shrieked and then pressed her hand to her mouth, no doubt shocked to have emitted a sound above a feminine whisper.

  George shot up from this chair, splashing his tea onto the pristine tablecloth. “Lilith, go put on decent clothes immediately.”

  “But I had to hurry down in terror of being dragged to breakfast. Really, George, you are positively barbaric.”

  “Y-you shouldn’t say such things about Lord Marylewick, especially after all he’s done for you,” Penelope ventured and then looked to her brother to see if her words met his approval.

  “Is this my seat?” Lilith asked. “By these books? How lovely, I shall be hidden.”

  “Lady Fenmore has graciously lent those to you,” George said through his tight jaw.

  Lilith picked up a volume. What Every Young Lady of Quality Should Know Upon Entering into Society and Marriage: A Guide to Gentle Breeding. Then she saw the document resting beside her plate—The Education of Lilith Dahlgren.

  1. Daily calisthenics. 2. Practice manners of better society…

  Lilith’s mouth dropped.

  “Shall I pour some tea, Miss Dahlgren?” the footman asked.

  “No, I’ll have hemlock with two lumps of sugar.” Lilith turned to George, her face aflame with anger. “What is this?”

  “It is a schedule for your improvement,” he responded, taking his seat again and placing his linen back in his lap.