By Love Undone Read online

  “Lord Warefield, please tell us about London,” Sally begged, giggling. “Have you been to Almack’s?”

  “Of course he’s been to Almack’s,” Lydia countered in an exasperated tone. “He’s dined with the King.”

  “Is His Majesty as fat as they say?”

  “Sally!” Mrs. Fowler fanned her napkin in front of her face. “For heaven’s sake, mind your manners!”

  “But Mama, King George is fat. Everyone says so.”

  “Sally! Silence!” Jane Fowler leaned across the table to capture the marquis’s hand, nearly causing him to drop his forkful of sliced ham. “Pray forgive my daughter, my lord. She’s a little high strung, perhaps, but quite proficient in all the gentler arts. We had tutors for both girls, all the way from Surrey.”

  Lord Warefield glanced at Maddie, then set his fork back on his plate. “I have no doubts on that count, Mrs. Fowler. Miss Sally, I do occasionally go hunting with His Majesty, and he is a rather…well-rounded individual. If you ever meet him, though, I suggest you not mention it. He’s rather sensitive about the subject.”

  “You see?” Sally said gleefully, and took another biscuit from the bowl in the center of the table.

  “Please, my lord, eat.”

  The marquis retrieved his utensil and obligingly took a bite. The entire family watched as he chewed and swallowed. Maddie decided she didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him.

  “It’s quite good,” he said after a moment, taking a sip of wine.

  “And not a grain of salt used,” Mr. Fowler said proudly. “No spices at all.”

  The butler stepped into the dining room and came to attention. “Mr. and Mrs. Fowler, Lord Warefield, I am instructed to inform you that Mrs. Beauchamp has arrived.”

  “What? What is she doing—”

  Mrs. Beauchamp, wearing a low-cut gown two sizes too small for her ample bosom and two decades out of style, swept into the room. Warefield automatically came to his feet, though he looked somewhat startled. Mr. Fowler reluctantly rose a moment later, and Mrs. Beauchamp sank into a deep curtsey.

  “My lord,” she breathed, rising.

  For several seconds Maddie sat where she was, dumbfounded at her tremendous luck, before she roused herself enough to stand. “Lord Warefield, another of Langley’s esteemed neighbors, Mrs. Beauchamp.”

  The marquis nodded. “Mrs. Beauchamp. Charmed.”

  The lady came forward to clutch Lord Warefield’s proffered hand and curtsied again. “I am delighted to meet you, my lord.”

  Mrs. Fowler leaned over to examine her neighbor’s face. “Evelyn, whatever is that black spot on your cheek?”

  “Oh, you silly thing,” Mrs. Beauchamp tittered, fingering the small spot. “It’s a patch. They’re all the rage in London.” She lifted her heavy jowled face toward the marquis’s ear, still refusing to relinquish her grip on his hand. “My cousin is Baron Montesse,” she whispered conspiratorially. “You may know him.”

  The marquis’s lip twitched, and he cleared his throat. “Baron Montesse,” he mused. “Of Berkshire?”

  “Oh, no. Of Herefordshire, my lord.”

  “Ah. No, I don’t believe we are acquainted, then. But I don’t spend all that much time in London.”

  She frowned as Warefield finally managed to free his hand without pulling her over. “That’s odd,” she continued loudly, no doubt hoping the servants were listening. “I wrote that you were coming to Somerset, and he seemed familiar with you. Though he said something about your having a scar. But you don’t, do you? Hmm. Perhaps he was mis—”

  “A scar?” the marquis interrupted, and then smiled. “That explains it. He must be acquainted with my younger brother, Rafael. He was wounded at Waterloo. We do look something alike.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp’s expression brightened. “Yes, that must be it, then.” She gestured imperiously at one of the footmen to bring another chair forward. While Mrs. Fowler fumed, her neighbor sat on the far side of the marquis. “I knew we had mutual acquaintances. All of the nobility seems to know one another.”

  “Mother,” Lydia hissed in protest, as Mrs. Beauchamp usurped her place of honor.

  “Now, now, Lydia,” her mother soothed, resuming her own seat. “You’ll have your chance later, when you play for Lord Warefield.”

  Maddie cleared her throat and spread butter on her toasted bread. Again she felt the marquis’s gaze on her face, but she refused to look. Let him suffer. At least she was enjoying herself…

  Another footman brought a plate out for Mrs. Beauchamp, and she set to eating with her usual enthusiasm. Lord Warefield was barely able to touch his own plate, with all of the questions and absurd flattery sent in his direction. Maddie was amazed that the Fowlers and Mrs. Beauchamp were so eager to fawn over him. In all fairness, though, she’d grown up amid such nonsense and was used to it.

  Sally leaned over the table to point her knife at Mrs. Beauchamp’s soup. “I say, Mrs. Beauchamp, your patch has fallen off.”

  Laughter burst from Maddie’s lips before she could stop it. Holding her napkin to her face and coughing to cover it as well as she could, she pushed to her feet. “Excuse me for a moment,” she managed, and fled across the hall into the morning room. Pacing briskly, she tried to imagine something—anything—dull and somber.

  “Miss Willits, are you quite all right?”

  Still holding her hand over her mouth, Maddie whipped around. The marquis stood in the doorway gazing at her, while the dining room erupted in argument behind him. Attempting to cover her surprise, she leaned back against the couch. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I told them you had a bit of a cold, and that I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

  “Thank you. Though I don’t need you to make my excu—” She stopped, her heart skittering with unexpected disquiet as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. An unbidden image of Benjamin Spenser entered her mind, but she sternly pushed it aside. She was not the stupid girl she once had been, and she knew quite well how to deal with men. “My lord?”

  He took a deep breath and leaned back against the door. “Please, please, please tell me I may laugh at that,” he muttered.

  She stared at him and belatedly lowered the napkin from her lips. She’d half-expected an assault—not a conspiracy. “You…certainly don’t need my permission, my lord.”

  Warefield folded his arms. “I certainly don’t wish to give you another reason to scowl at me.”

  “I don’t scowl at you,” she shot back, trying to rally her anger again.

  “Yes, you do.” He pushed upright and took a step closer.

  She backed away. “You awe and amaze me with your presence,” she improvised weakly.

  “Liar.”

  “Please, my lord, do not chastise me. I could not bear it.”

  “Yes, you could.” He moved toward her again. “And how did you know the luncheon in there is not the height of elegance?”

  Damnation. “I don’t, my lord. I was simply judging by your reaction to—”

  “Lord Warefield, are you going to return to the dining room?” Sally called, rapping at the door.

  He didn’t even glance behind him. “In a moment. Miss Willits is having difficulty catching her breath.”

  “I am not!” Maddie swerved around the couch and made for the door. “Don’t use me to make excuses for your poor behavior, my lord. We should not be in here alone togeth—”

  With unexpected swiftness the marquis dodged sideways and cut off her escape. “You said this luncheon was the Fowlers’ ideal of elegance. Not yours.”

  She stopped, barely avoiding colliding with him. “I have been a governess in a variety of households, my lord. And your uncle is brother to the Duke of Highbarrow.” She took a breath, reaching for her scattered wits and anger as she looked up at his heated expression. He was practically accosting her, after all. “Do you assume everyone you encounter in the country to be ignorant of the finer ways, Lord Warefield?”

 
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “No. I do not.” For a long moment he looked at her. “May I tell you something you will undoubtedly find shocking and annoying?”

  Even more unsettled, Maddie swallowed. “Whatever pleases you, my lord.”

  “Sometimes—right at this moment, in fact—I have a rather strong urge to…kiss you.”

  Maddie flushed, her pulse suddenly pounding. “I—please restrain yourself, then, my lord,” was the best she could manage. What she really wanted to do was flee back to Langley and lock all the doors before he could realize that she also had the recurring desire to fall upon him, damn him.

  A slight, sensuous smile curved his mouth, and he nodded. “I shall attempt to do so.” His long, elegant fingers gestured at the door. “If you please, Miss Willits.”

  Maddie smoothed her skirt, then approached. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “But I do intend to find out why you dislike me so much, Maddie.”

  She hesitated, then pulled open the door and hurried through. Sally eyed her with bald curiosity, but she pretended not to notice. Warefield followed close behind and resumed his seat and the luncheon conversation as though he’d never left the table.

  Maddie glanced at him once. He was gazing directly at her, and she immediately looked away. The frustrated inquisitiveness in his eyes surprised and dismayed her. She’d expected anger—not this intense, extremely disconcerting curiosity. Nor had she expected him to be attracted to her, or her to him.

  She was going to have to be more careful. Driving him away from Langley was one thing—but having the Marquis of Warefield discover her true identity was completely another.

  Chapter 5

  After luncheon, the afternoon spiraled downward from merely painful to excruciating. They all crowded into the tiny drawing room, where Lydia Fowler sat at the pianoforte to regale them with a completely hideous interpretation of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.”

  Quin found himself sandwiched between Mrs. Fowler and Mrs. Beauchamp, while Maddie sat in the corner gazing peacefully out the window. Closer to fidgeting than since he had been a boy in church, he lasted in his chair until the piece ended. Then, still applauding, he stood.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” he said pleasantly, “but the fire is a bit too warm for me.”

  Immediately Mrs. Fowler jumped to her feet and grabbed for the servants’ bell. “I shall see to it at once, my lord!”

  “No need. I’ll just sit by the window for a bit.” He turned to the elder Fowler daughter. “Miss Fowler, please play us another.”

  Mrs. Fowler beamed delightedly, and Lydia obligingly began another piece. He had no idea what she might be rendering this time, but she seemed enthusiastic enough. Quin strolled over to where Maddie sat and took the seat beside her before she could escape.

  Something he’d said earlier—most likely his idiotic confession about wanting to kiss her—had her on the run, and he was intrigued enough to pursue his advantage. Since he’d arrived, he’d been defending himself against a myriad of attacks on his honor, his nobility, and his person, and he still had no real idea why.

  “Enjoying yourself, Miss Willits?” he asked quietly.

  She continued looking out the window. “Of course. I love Haydn.”

  So that’s what it was. He wondered how she happened to know that. If she had been a governess, she was a very well-educated one. For a country landlord’s mistress, she was simply extraordinary. His gaze lowered to the curving line of her throat, and the minute throbbing of her pulse beneath. Kissing her was only the beginning of what he wanted of Maddie Willits.

  Quin took a breath. “You’re aware that Mrs. Fowler has been planning a ball in my honor?”

  Finally she faced forward again. “She mentioned it to me a few days ago, yes.”

  “It would be a grand opportunity for Uncle Malcolm to make an appearance in his wheeled chair, don’t you think?”

  “If he feels up to it, yes, I suppose,” she answered grudgingly.

  “And you shall join us then, I presume?”

  She glanced at him, then away again. “I am Mr. Bancroft’s companion. If he wishes me to join him, I shall.”

  Quin would personally see to it that Malcolm did wish it. She hadn’t uttered one “my lord” yet, a good indication that she was still in full retreat. “And will you dance with me there?” he asked, pressing his advantage.

  “You are better aware of propriety than I am, my lord.”

  He scowled before he could cover it. Miss Willits, it seemed, regrouped quickly.

  “If you think it proper for a marquis to dance with his uncle’s companion, then I will do as you say,” she continued.

  Quin looked at her. “I would hardly order you to dance.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  They were back on even ground, it seemed. “But I would like to.”

  She faced him again, her gray eyes lit by the afternoon sun through the window. “To what, my lord?”

  “To dance with you.” He glanced at Mr. Fowler and Sally, but they were busily chatting and ignoring Lydia’s play. Quin edged closer to Maddie so that his knee brushed her skirt, and lowered his voice. “You have forbidden a kiss, and you seem to regard me as something of a monster, Miss Willits. I would like a chance to prove to you that I am nothing of the kind.”

  “I think nothing of you at all, my lord. It is not my place to do so.”

  He sighed. “Relentless, aren’t you?” he muttered.

  Her lips twitched, and she faced the pianoforte. “I’d like to think so, my lord.”

  She was amused at his expense—again. And somehow, though he’d never received such abuse in his life, he remained far more intrigued and diverted than angry. He’d always loved a good puzzle, and Maddie Willits was a virtual Sphinx’s Riddle.

  Yet he had no excuse whatsoever for his own very odd behavior. He was practically engaged to a perfectly lovely woman he’d known for twenty-three years, and at the same time he was lusting after a woman—his uncle’s mistress, yet—he’d known for only three days.

  As soon as he could politely do so, he made their excuses and they returned to Langley. Maddie was back to her previous hostile self, but Quin thought he detected more amusement in her demeanor than before. He hoped so, anyway. She vanished into the house as soon as he drove the curricle into the stable yard, so he really couldn’t ask her.

  Quin headed inside to change. He wanted to see how the plowing was progressing, and he needed to escape from Maddie’s intoxicating, infuriating presence. Before he could do anything, though, Garrett intercepted him at the foot of the stairs.

  “My lord, a letter arrived for you with the post.” The butler held up for Quin’s examination the silver tray containing the missive. “You said you wished to be notified.”

  “My thanks, Garrett.” Quin took the letter upstairs with him. He immediately recognized the neat, ornate script of the address. Eloise Stokesley hadn’t wasted any time in corresponding, but then she was always very prompt in such matters.

  He summoned his valet and opened the one-page missive.

  Dearest Quinlan,

  I was heartbroken to read in your last letter that you’ve been banished to Somerset. I had hoped you would be able to visit us at Stafford Green, as we had planned.

  “So had I,” he muttered, though the stay at Langley had been much less of an annoyance than he had anticipated.

  I know I shouldn’t say so, but I miss you, Quinlan. I count the days until we shall be together in London, and even more the days until we shall be married. Please, tell me of your adventures in Somerset. I await your return letter with greatest anticipation.

  Yours forever

  Eloise

  Bernard entered, and Quin set the letter on his dressing table. The best service he could do for Eloise was to get the planting and the ledgers finished and return to Warefield—hopefully by way of Stafford Green.

  He had no intention of asking Maddie to accompany him out to the
fields again. But if he allowed her to escape completely, she would have time to regroup and mount another attack.

  If she was bored here at Langley, since her full services were no longer required by Malcolm, perhaps he had happened along just in time to capture her wandering attention. That theory didn’t quite fit, since her actions were certainly not those of a woman trying to lure a man to her bed, but anything was worth a try.

  Quin paused, frowning. Good God, now he was contemplating stealing another man’s—his uncle’s—lady. Perhaps it was Somerset itself making him mad. It seemed to have had that effect on several of the locals.

  He went downstairs and out to the stable, stopping at the sound of voices coming from the garden.

  “No, Bill, you’re doing it all wrong.”

  “I am not, Miss Maddie.”

  “Yes, you are. You’ll dump him on the ground.”

  “I will not!”

  Quin leaned around the corner of the house. Bill Tomkins stood at the edge of the garden path. Malcolm, bundled in enough blankets to keep the entire Third Regiment warm in the middle of a Prussian winter, sat in the wheeled chair in front of the footman. Maddie stood beside them, scowling furiously.

  “Maddie, it’s all right.”

  “It is not, Mr. Bancroft. You need sunlight, not a dunking in the fish pond. Bill, leave off. I shall push him.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “You’d best do as she says, Bill.”

  The footman sighed heavily and relinquished his grip on the back of the chair. “Yes, Mr. Bancroft. Give me a yell when you want back up the stairs.”

  “Thank you, Bill.” The footman strolled off back to the house, and Maddie took over the steering of the chair. “You should keep to the path, my dear.”

  “Nonsense. I want to show you the new roses. And did you bring the book?”

  “The one thing that still works on me is my lap, Maddie.”

  She pushed him onto the soft grass, and they came to an abrupt halt. “Drat,” she muttered.

  “I think I’m sinking,” Malcolm noted calmly.