A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Read online

  “I am capable of accompanying your daughter,” Emma said.

  “Not for me to pay for you.” Mrs. Carberry threw her hands toward the ceiling, as if optimistic someone from the heavens might conjure Emma’s brother. “You’ll win the marquess.”

  “I have no intention of marrying him.”

  Her brother was sufficiently trying. She didn’t need a man in her life who would have even more control of her.

  “Everyone wants to marry a marquess,” Mrs. Carberry said sullenly, moving her hands to her waist.

  “And I will do what I can to ensure your daughter wins him,” Emma said. “Besides, my brother has already left. He’s–er–going on a holiday. I don’t know how to contact him.”

  Mrs. Carberry pursed her lips. “I suppose I will have to trust you. But please note, I will make things unpleasant for you if my daughter does not do well.”

  Emma nodded.

  “I will tell the maid we are ready to leave,” Mrs. Carberry said. “I trust you can entertain yourselves? You won’t require tea?”

  Emma shook her head hastily.

  Mrs. Carberry sniffed. “Good. You’ve been already sufficiently expensive.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Carberry whispered again, once her mother left. “She can be...passionate.”

  “It’s of no concern,” Emma said. “You don’t need to apologize for her.”

  Miss Carberry gave her a tight smile. “I’m afraid she won’t apologize.”

  “Well...thank you.” The words came awkwardly to Emma. She’d never gone about apologizing for her brother’s various ineptitudes. Perhaps she should have.

  “It’s my hair,” Miss Carberry said. “It’s too thick and too dark and too curly.”

  “Thick hair has its advantages.”

  Miss Carberry shook her head. “Then they are exaggerated ones.” She looked down. “But you’re correct. It’s not only my hair. I never wanted to join this house party.”

  Emma despised Miss Carberry’s lack of confidence. Miss Carberry shouldn’t have a mother who thought so little of her. Emma knew the trials of having a relative who aggressively pursued unwelcome goals. She vowed to ensure Miss Carberry would win, even if the prize was questionable.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE SKY WAS GRAY, AND rain drizzled upon the grounds. Hugh strode through the garden, undeterred by the rain. Soon the estate would fill with eight women and various chaperones, and he would discover who would become his future bride. He scanned the gardens, lest he spot a stray wheelbarrow or a precariously perched shovel that might hamper the women’s experience.

  The gardens were immaculate, just as they should be.

  Perhaps the French roses appeared less plump than was their norm, as if struggling to retain regal stances in the rain, but soon they’d appreciate their struggle. Soon, the soil would be everything they desired.

  “You don’t need to inspect this yourself,” Jasper grumbled.

  Despite the vast favorable qualities that made Jasper an appropriate best friend, the duke was curiously intolerant of precipitation. He squinted in the rainfall, and his brow creased as if they were both on the fields of Waterloo, rather than at Hugh’s estate.

  “I am the host and I intend to make certain nothing can go wrong at this party,” Hugh said.

  “I’d rather be at Hades’ Lair,” Jasper grumbled.

  Hugh’s lips twitched. They’d spent many long evenings at that club. Jasper might have a point. There was something not entirely unpleasant about gambling in the comfort of the club with the company of his friends.

  A carriage ground against the gravel.

  “That must be some new arrivals,” Jasper said, striding toward the sound.

  “Don’t let them see you,” Hugh warned.

  Jasper laughed. “Worried they’ll take a fancy to me?”

  “Nonsense,” Hugh grumbled. He wasn’t going to meet them now. He had a better plan. He’d already told his servants to tell the women he was not home. What better way to observe how they behaved when they thought he was not present?

  Jasper bounded toward the hedge and climbed on a rock.

  Hugh sighed and then stepped onto the same rock and peered over the newly groomed topiary.

  If anyone had told Hugh love at first sight existed, he would have scoffed at their naivety. Naivety was not a trait to encourage, even in Hugh’s most far flung acquaintances. Had anyone told Hugh he would fall victim himself, he would have severed the acquaintanceship and suggested a rest cure.

  Hugh did not fall in love when he saw the young lady with the golden hair and the large dark eyes.

  Naturally not.

  The thought would be absurd, and absurdity was also not to be encouraged.

  Still, he noticed the glossiness of her tendrils and the elegance of her features. She was appropriately curved. In fact, another man would have termed her beautiful and declared an immediate vocation to be an artist so he might spend time observing every feature.

  Hugh was not that man.

  Another woman stepped from the carriage behind her. She had dark hair and a round, pale face, as if she’d seldom seen the sun. Both women stared at the building, and Hugh’s heart swelled. Sometimes he managed to forget just how splendid this castle was, but he was conscious again how fortunate he was for this to be his home.

  His heart twinged, and for a moment he longed for his father. The man was supposed to be riding on the grounds, his hair flopping. He was supposed to be here.

  He wasn’t, and he would never be again.

  Hugh sighed and resolved again to do the best he could. Soon, he would have a wife, and then the castle would be a place for festivities again.

  He returned his gaze in the direction of the blonde woman, but she had evidently entered.

  “I’m going to investigate what your cook has prepared for the house party,” Jasper announced.

  “You just want some of her jam tartlets,” Hugh said.

  Jasper winked.

  “Don’t let them know I’m here,” Hugh said. “And you should stay hidden too.”

  “I am the soul of discretion.” Jasper turned toward the servant’s entrance, adopting a quick pace that Hugh hoped was because of the temptation of tartlets or his hatred of the rain, and not because he didn’t want another interrogation.

  The sky shifted to a darker gray.

  Damnation.

  Hugh waited until the women were certain to be in their rooms, and then exited the garden and strode toward the castle entrance. He needed to change his attire. Rain was never an enhancement to clothes, and today was no exception. At least he’d had the foresight to put on his buckskin breeches.

  He entered his home.

  “Good afternoon, Your Lordship,” the butler said as he opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, Fletcher.” Hugh lowered his voice. “I trust most of the guests are here?”

  “Two young ladies entered a few minutes ago,” Fletcher said, fortunately matching Hugh’s lowered tone. “And three other women arrived about an hour ago. One of them was American.”

  Hugh grinned. “That would be Miss Stonehutton. There’s an Austrian chit coming too. Her brother’s a baron.”

  “Ah, I believe she just arrived. Had an odd sounding surname. Mrs. Holland is showing her and her companions to their rooms.”

  “Splendid.”

  In truth, Hugh didn’t know much about Miss Braunschweig, but Mrs. Carberry had insisted she accompany her daughter and had listed impressive qualifications. Hugh fancied jaunting to the Austrian Empire to visit any relatives Miss Braunschweig had there, were they to marry. Since the war had ended, he’d always ventured south on those occasions he’d visited Europe, though the news from the Congress of Vienna had hinted at a wondrous country that emanated mystery and the promise of castles perched on craggy mountains and well-kept villages.

  “Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” Hugh reminded him.

  “The servants are informed,” Fle
tcher said. Hugh did not fail to note the slight suspicion in the man’s voice.

  Evidently, his mother was not the only one who’d happened upon the article in Matchmaking for Wallflowers. No doubt the entire staff was gossiping about it.

  No matter.

  They would soon see he’d found his wife and their new mistress. He’d created such a vigorous itinerary it would be impossible to not see who thrived and who didn’t.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THIS WASN’T THE FIRST grand home Emma had visited.

  Her brother had seen to that.

  Emma had seen airy townhouses with ivory columns that stretched toward celestial ceilings, embellished with cherubs and consistently fluffy clouds. Similarly, she’d visited stately homes built with a sturdiness that indicated the architect was not entirely unconvinced local peasants might decide to wage war on the inhabitants, filled with dark heavy furniture that matched dark wooden paneling obscured by the constant puffs of smoke from ill-maintained fireplaces.

  This place resembled the latter variety, though the fireplaces gave every indication of working correctly.

  The housekeeper had greeted Emma and Miss Carberry in the hallway and was ushering them to their rooms.

  “Lord Metcalfe is not here?” Mrs. Carberry asked.

  “No,” the housekeeper said, “but your rooms are prepared.”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Carberry said. “In Scotland we greet our guests.”

  “Because they’re such a rarity,” Miss Carberry muttered, and Emma was grateful she was striding behind Mrs. Carberry and the older woman couldn’t see her smile.

  “Your rooms are prepared, and Lord Metcalfe is looking forward to meeting you tomorrow,” the housekeeper said.

  “Tomorrow?” Mrs. Carberry exclaimed. “Please tell me we have not arrived early.”

  “N-no,” the housekeeper said with rather less confidence than she’d displayed before. “He simply thought you would like to rest before the activities.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Carberry said, though her voice remained dubious, as if she would have favored being consulted. She trailed her fingers over the dark circles below her daughter’s eyes. She stared glumly, as if she’d been for a second hopeful she could change her daughter’s appearance. “I suppose rest would not be entirely unwelcome.”

  They followed the housekeeper up a set of stairs. Despite the vastness of the walls, the marquess and his ancestors had made use of every inch. Paintings in gilt frames dotted the walls. In general, beauty was something Emma found overrated. Her brother’s commitment to beautiful things had seemed excessive, unworthy of the harm he caused in order to obtain it, but her eyes still rounded.

  Medieval armor graced a corner of the hall, where someone else may have placed a statue. Had the original Marquess of Metcalfe marched about in it, his visor snapping shut if he moved too suddenly? Or had this marquess purchased the armor in an effort to appear courageous?

  Emma would almost suspect it. What sort of man chose his wife in this manner? Some devotee to debauchery? Or merely someone who’d read Don Quixote too many times? She glanced about the corridor, half-expecting to see some bespectacled man with a thin frame glance fearfully in her direction from behind a curtain.

  Miss Carberry stiffened.

  Voices sounded from a room, and Emma glanced inside. Three women her age were sitting on a bed. They were laughing together, and Emma’s heart squeezed.

  “Shall I introduce you?” the housekeeper asked uncertainly.

  “In Edinburgh, a housekeeper is not responsible for introducing guests,” Mrs. Carberry grumbled.

  Emma supposed it might be an advantage she was no longer focusing her attention on her daughter.

  “You’ll meet them tonight,” the housekeeper said, striding past the door.

  “Oh?” Miss Carberry’s brow wrinkled.

  “Lord Metcalfe insisted you dine together.”

  “Even though he is gone?”

  “Indeed.” The housekeeper’s eyes darted to the door. “You will meet his mother.”

  “She could introduce herself to us now,” Miss Carberry grumbled.

  The housekeeper gave a tight smile.

  A group of exquisitely attired women filed in behind them, led by a chamber maid.

  “Excuse me,” the housekeeper said, leading them hastily down the corridor. “Today is busy.”

  “Naturally,” Mrs. Carberry said in an affable manner Emma did not associate with her.

  Still... No doubt Mrs. Carberry was correct. It was always a wise decision to be kind to servants, but perhaps in this situation kindness would reap larger rewards than a newly hot brick tucked under one’s covers at bedtime.

  “The marquess requests your presence in the parlor at half seven,” the housekeeper said, as they continued down the corridor. “Dinner will be at eight.”

  Finally, the housekeeper halted. She turned to Mrs. Carberry. “I’m afraid we have only two rooms allotted for you. Miss Braunschweig was, after all, a late addition. Would you like to share a room with your daughter? ”

  Mrs. Carberry sniffed. “I suppose the house isn’t that fine after all.”

  “The castle does not normally accommodate so many people,” the housekeeper said, giving a slight emphasis on castle, even though it clearly had never been intended to be used for defense purposes, even when it was first built. “Shall I show you the rooms?”

  “Please,” Mrs. Carberry said.

  The housekeeper unlocked a door and gestured for them to enter. Sumptuous curtains swept over the four-poster bed, and a large oriental carpet cushioned the floor from the gleaming floorboards.

  But it was the view, of a large garden, only partially obscured by another wing of the castle, that captured Emma’s attention. A river was in the distance, and boats floated regally upon it. Her brother and she had been living in Brighton, a place much adored by the ton, but it had been this–trees, gardens and bushes, that Emma had missed. This reminded her of the Austrian Empire, of home.

  “This is tolerable,” Mrs. Carberry said with obvious reluctance, settling her gaze upon gleaming gilt candelabras.

  “The other room is similar.”

  Mrs. Carberry opened the adjoining room. She stepped into another bedroom, with equally sumptuous linens, and an equally awe-inducing view.

  “It’s smaller,” Mrs. Carberry declared. She paused, as if waiting for the others to applaud her mathematical acumen in estimation. “Young ladies, you will sleep in here.”

  “Very well,” Emma said.

  “It would be most improper for Miss Braunschweig to sleep alone,” Mrs. Carberry explained.

  The housekeeper fixed a bland smile on her face and curtsied. “Please ring the bell if you require anything.”

  “Just tell our maid to help us unpack.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Carberry.” The housekeeper left the room.

  “There are far too many guests here,” Mrs. Carberry said. “It is obvious the staff is not handling it well.”

  “Is it?” Miss Carberry asked.

  “Naturally,” Mrs. Carberry huffed. “Now I am going to take a nap. I want to be rested for tonight. Please be quiet, girls. I will not tolerate being awoken.”

  Mrs. Carberry marched from the room, muttering about the virtues of sleep and the necessity of not being disturbed.

  The door closed, and Emma and Miss Carberry were alone.

  Miss Carberry gave her a weak smile. “Would you like to nap?”

  Emma turned toward the bed.

  The prospect of sleep was tempting.

  Carriage journeys tended toward being unpleasant, and this had been no exception. Her back still hurt from the times when the driver had stopped abruptly, and her eyes had that groggy quality unique to such travel. The air in the tiny, cramped carriage had been imperfect. Mrs. Carberry’s frequent diatribes on the importance of winning the marquess, the trials of having a daughter in possession of the same nose prevalent in her husband’s family, and
her general worry that Emma would prove to be an expense without benefit, had been exhausting. If Mr. Carberry had made it his life’s work to make money, Mrs. Carberry seemed to have made it her life’s work not to waste any.

  Emma forced her attention from the bed and the assortment of plump pillows. She’d experience the bed soon enough. This house party would last two weeks.

  There was something else she could do.

  “I’m going to explore the castle,” Emma said.

  Miss Carberry widened her eyes. “You think that’s wise?”

  “I think it’s essential. I’ll see what I can learn about the marquess for you.”

  A worried expression flitted over Miss Carberry’s face. “You could get into trouble.”

  “Then that’s what will happen.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You rest,” Emma said firmly. She’d been paid, even if that money was going to her brother, and not her.

  Besides, she intended to see if she could find the marquess’s room. If he had secrets, he would keep them away from casual visitors.

  She strode toward the door and exited before Miss Carberry could find another reason for her to stay. Emma tiptoed through the home, keeping to the thick oriental carpets, so the noise of her walking could be masked.

  The marquess wouldn’t have his room in this wing. He would be located far from the women. Some houses divided men and women by floors, but this was a castle, not an ordinary manor house.

  She scurried past the grand staircase, glancing below. The butler sat near the door, prepared to open it and greet any arrivals, and she held her breath. But he did not notice her.

  Finally, she stood before a great wooden door opposite the wing she’d come from.

  The door was closed.

  She stared at the heavy carved wood. It seemed masculine and imposing, but she grabbed hold of the handle and pushed the door, thankful the marquess had been satisfied with closing the door to this wing, rather than locking it entirely.

  Evidently, he’d underestimated the desire of women to marry him, and certainly, their ability to do mischief.

  The wing did not appear immediately different from the other one. There was no sudden dearth of flowers, nor was there a sudden prevalence of hunter green or tweed accents.