Page 23 of A Marriage for the Marquess (Barrington’s Brigade #1)

April 22, 1820

I n the drawing room of Barrington Hall, Lady Aurington paced in front of the hearth. “Are you certain he will be here?”

“I sent him the message this morning.” Hughes was sitting at the writing desk, papers in hand. “Ewan will be here,”

Lord Aurington had not raised his head. He sat on the sofa, continuing to read the London Chronicle. “Pacing like that will not make him arrive any faster. And you will wear a hole in Barrington’s fine carpet.”

“One would find it difficult to believe that only hours ago, you were at death’s door. ” Lady Aurington had stopped pacing long enough to admonish her husband. “How do you plan on explaining that to Ewan?”

The clatter of coach wheels drew Lady Aurington to the window. “He’s here.” She hurried and sat beside her husband, picked up her embroidery, took a deep breath, and created a casual scene.

The rapid footsteps across the marble floor echoed through the entrance hall. Sanderson, the butler, called out just a beat behind them, “Good morning, my lord. They’re in the drawing room.”

Glenraven’s stride faltered as he entered the drawing room. “Father!” his eyes locked on his father, sitting comfortably reading a newspaper. The initial relief that he was alive and well swiftly turned into a surge of anger. It was obvious the man had not been as gravely injured as he was led to believe. His chest was on fire with the urge to confront him, to demand answers.

“It’s obvious you’re on your deathbed. Why the deception?” Glenraven challenged him, his thoughts a tumultuous storm against the calm facade he struggled to maintain.

Lord Aurington looked up, his eyes meeting Glenraven’s. “Ewan,” he said, with a calmness that contradicted the gravity of the situation. “It is good to have you home.”

“And when Barrington brought me into your room,” Glenraven fought to control his voice, but his fists were clenched at his sides. “Letting me believe you were at death’s door.” The hurt was obvious by the tremor that ran along his clenched jaw. “How could you not tell me?” he whispered.

His mother, her embroidery forgotten, stepped forward, her presence a steady force. “We feared for you.” Her voice broke through his anger. “I know you well.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm. Her fingers rested there, warm and reassuring. “You would have charged into danger, and you wouldn’t have rested until you found what or who you were looking for, just like you did on your quest to find the oldest oak tree in our woods. Nothing stood in your way.”

Glenraven’s breath caught, his anger fading like mist in the morning sun. He turned to look into his mother’s eyes. She was right. The realization settled in him with the heaviness of a stone in his stomach, but it dulled the edge of his frustration.

He let out his breath slowly. “I should have been told,” he insisted, though the fire behind his words had reduced to a smolder.

Lord Aurington’s composure was as steadfast as ever, yet there was a certain depth to his gaze, quiet evidence of the past week’s strain. Trembling hands folded the newspaper, and there was a new deliberateness to his movements.

Glenraven detected these minute changes, the quiet signs of a man who had faced his mortality and carried the responsibility of his family’s safety on his shoulders.

“It was to protect you,” His father said as he set aside the newspaper and rose. “Barrington shared a great deal with you. There is more.”

The words hung between them as Glenraven’s anger ebbed away, replaced by the undeniable truth of his father’s love and the lengths to which he would go to safeguard his family. Glenraven’s resistance crumbled, and he stepped forward, embracing his parents.

“It was your news last night that had me out of bed. Congratulations.”

“Yes. I have married,” Ewan announced, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

Curiosity danced in his parents’ eyes. “To whom, my boy?” There was excitement and concern in his father’s voice.

“I cannot say. As with you, Father, there’s been a threat. For now, her identity must remain a secret from you and her family.”

The room fell into a hushed silence, the gravity of his words settling like dust over the family portraits. His mother’s hand fluttered to her chest, her eyes wide with worry. “A threat? But why—”

“It’s a matter we’re handling,” Hughes interjected, offering a reassuring nod. “Glenraven’s actions are for the protection of all involved.”

Lady Aurington glared at Hughes. “You know who our son married.”

He nodded. “Yes, I do. And I took the necessary actions to ensure its legality. We spoke about this when His Grace gave me power of attorney. It was to facilitate securing the continuation of the line while maintaining the illusion of His Grace’s grave condition. In that, we have been successful.”

“Was there a marriage settlement?” his mother asked. “There must have been.” She sat back, proud of her approach to sleuthing.

“I assure you the young lady is a peer of the realm, smart, witty, and quite charming. Yes, there is a marriage settlement. Glenraven has been generous. And before you ask, as your solicitor with power of attorney, I have signed the agreement. And as for the Glenraven inheritance stipulation, I have also submitted the papers signed by the archbishop who performed the weddings to attest to it all.”

“How do you plan to keep your marriage a secret? You’re the most eligible bachelor in London. Won’t it seem strange that you and the young lady are missing from events or attending together?” He had to admit his mother tried every ploy to get his wife’s name.

“We’ve agreed to attend the social events separately. We will both be attending Lady Gladstone’s Soiree this evening. Will you and Father be joining me?”

“Of course not.” His mother’s defiant answer didn’t surprise him, although it did make his father chuckle. “How can you be in the same place together but apart, and no one deduce what you two are about?”

“Rest assured, no one will be aware of our marriage until we choose to reveal it. The secret will remain intact.” He took a seat next to his father. “I have another matter to discuss with you, the Ace of Hearts you left for me. Was that part of the deception as well?” Ewan’s question loomed over them, heavy with implications.

His father’s response came with a slow shake of the head, his gaze never wavering from his son’s. “I wish it were,”

*

The evening air was crisp as carriages lined the cobbled street leading to Gladstone Hall in Berkeley Square. The coaches drew up to the entrance one by one, where footmen waited to hand down the passengers. Among the arrivals were two carriages bearing the crests of the houses of Rosefield and Glenraven.

Ewan, his coach fourth in line, waited with Barrington as footmen assisted Aunt Geraldine and Juliet from the Rosefield coach, shook their skirts, and went inside. His gaze lingered on the entrance to the hall long after Juliet and Aunt Geraldine had disappeared into the house. He reclined in his seat, turning to Barrington with a quizzical look. “What?” His friend could barely contain his amusement.

Barrington’s eyes twinkled as he composed himself. “Just be mindful of your expression when you look at Miss Hayward,” he said with a chuckle. “The whole of London needn’t know your heart’s been stolen.”

As the carriage door swung open, the footman unfolded the steps. Ewan stepped out first, then turned to assist Barrington. With subtle but unmistakable pride, he said, “And I will remind you, my friend, that is not Miss Hayward. That is Lady Glenraven—my wife.”

“Let’s hope you keep that information close to your chest this evening. Tonight, you are still an eligible bachelor. Come, it won’t be too bad. You don’t even have to stay long.” Barrington’s words carried a note of caution, along with the fellowship shared between close friends. The two men entered the busy hall, ready to face the evening’s charade.

The ballroom was elegant, with candles and spring flowers. Couples danced gracefully across the polished floor. The soft strains of a string quartet filled the air, complementing the murmur of conversations and the subtle rustling of silk gowns.

In the midst of the revelry, Juliet, in a lavender gown that made her eyes sparkle like stars, moved gracefully among the guests. Her smile was courteous, yet he wondered if her heart ached as his heart did with the secret they kept hidden. From his place across the room, drinking wine with Barrington, Glenraven glanced at her over the rim of the glass as he brought it to his lips. He waited patiently for the right moment.

As the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, Glenraven put down his glass and made his way to Juliet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the room fell into a hush. The next dance will be a waltz. I invite you to find your partners as the musicians prepare.” A murmur of excitement filled every corner of the ballroom.

“May I have this dance?” Glenraven extended his hand to Juliet, his voice barely above a whisper.

“With pleasure, my lord.” Juliet put her hand in his, and they took their place on the dance floor. For a brief moment, as they moved in perfect harmony, they were not marquess and lady but simply two souls intertwined.

“I don’t see Lady Rosefield.” He scanned the room but didn’t see the woman. “I’ll stay here until she returns.”

“No, you will not. That is certain to begin tongues wagging. I am quite safe here.” She nodded. “Thank you, Lord Glenraven. It was a pleasure dancing with you.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Hayward, for a most enjoyable waltz.”

Juliet nodded, and Glenraven turned on his heel and headed to Barrington, who was speaking to a group of men.

Lady Madeline Ashfield, resplendent in her emerald silks, approached Juliet with the eagerness of one bearing exciting news.

“My dear Juliet,” Lady Ashfield began, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “I must introduce you to a gentleman of considerable interest. Mr. Sebastian Morgrave, a man whose fortunes have been most… intriguing lately.”

As if summoned by the very mention of his name, Sebastian appeared beside Lady Ashfield, his smile practiced and his bow flawless.

“Allow me to present Miss Juliet Hayward, the daughter of the Baron of Fairmont.” Lady Ashfield faced Juliet. “Miss Hayward, may I introduce Mr. Sebastian Morgrave?”

“Lady Juliet Hayward,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance finally.”

Juliet politely nodded. “Mr. Morgrave,” she replied, her voice steady, “the pleasure is mine.”

Lady Ashfield d the exchange with the satisfaction of a chess master moving her pieces into place. “I shall leave you to converse.” Her mission accomplished, she drifted away and disappeared into the crowd.

“Lady Juliet, your beauty outshines the grandeur of this ball.” Morgrave gave a slight bow. “I was a friend of your brothers. I was sad to hear of his passing. He confided in me. If there is anything I can do,” He placed his hand on hers. “Do not hesitate to contact me.”

Juliet maintained her composure, her smile polite yet distant. “Mr. Morgrave, I appreciate your offer of support.” She kept her tone gracious but firm while she gently withdrew her hand from his grasp and set a subtle but clear boundary. “Should the need arise, I shall keep your kindness in mind.” Juliet’s smile did not reach her eyes.

Juliet was overcome with a surge of relief when Glenraven approached. His presence was a welcome interruption to Sebastian’s overtures. Though she and Glenraven were little more than acquaintances in the eyes of society, his timely arrival felt like a silent pledge of protection.

“Morgrave, Miss Hayward,” Glenraven greeted them, his tone effortlessly polite. “I trust the evening finds you well?”

The subtle shift in his stance, placing himself slightly closer to Juliet, was all the reassurance she needed. Her pulse steadied, and the knot of worry in her stomach unwound. She offered him a small but sincere smile, her eyes conveying a silent message of gratitude for his timely intervention.

Sebastian’s gaze shifted to Glenraven, a preceptive glint in his eye. “Ah, Glenraven, celebrating another year, I hear? A man of your stature should be careful not to let time slip by,” he teased.

As Sebastian’s words drew attention, Glenraven’s concern was not for the barbs he threw but for Juliet’s comfort. With a discreet glance, he sought assurance in her eyes that she remained untroubled by the exchange. “Time will tell, Mr. Morgrave. Now, let’s return our attention to the festivities.”

“Mr. Morgrave.” They turned to see Lady Ashfield approach. “There is someone I must introduce you to.” She glanced at Glenraven and Juliet with a weak smile and guided Morgrave away.

In the quiet wake of Lady Ashfield’s intervention, Juliet and Glenraven found themselves alone amidst the throng of the ballroom. Their eyes met, a silent conversation filled with words they dared not speak aloud. Aunt Geraldine’s soft, deliberate cough pierced their silent reverie, her presence a gentle reminder of the night’s progression.

“I believe it’s time we retired for the evening,” Aunt Geraldine suggested, her voice low but firm, her eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and subtle urgency.

Juliet nodded. “Of course.” As she drew closer to Ewan, her breath a whisper against his ear, she imparted words meant solely for him.

He straightened. Their gazes met, and he offered her a slight nod, acknowledging their shared secret.

He stood at the library window as the two women prepared to leave. The echo of Juliet’s whisper remained a silent pledge that bound them together even as they parted. “Time will tell,” he whispered to himself.