Page 1 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

Morendale Manor, Shortly Before Breakfast

The room spun, faster and faster. It reminded Neil of those wooden spinning tops he’d played with as a child. The inevitable spinning competitions he conducted with his cousins would always end up with somebody’s top spinning right off the table, or crashing into a wall, leaving the top dented, splintered, or even cracked. Ruined, irreparably so.

Nausea lurched inside him, and he clutched the edges of his desk. Closing his eyes seemed to make it all so much worse. His half-consumed cup of tea had been overturned at some juncture, the liquid accumulating upon the surface of the desk, cascading over the edge. His seat was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. He would certainly not be able to put one foot in front of the other, let alone limp over to his seat.

How long had he been there, swaying in place and trying desperately to make the world stop turning? A minute? Two? Hours, perhaps? There seemed to be no way of telling.

Neil was just considering that perhaps his inevitable fall would be less painful if he lowered himself to the ground ahead of time, when his balance gave out entirely.

Thud .

Somehow, it was better to get the fall over with. So far, Neil had not seriously hurt himself during his collapses, but there was always time. He was frankly amazed that he hadn’t broken a limb, or perhaps cracked his head open. Bruises and scrapes seemed strangely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Odd details caught his attention as he lay there, like the scratch of the carpet against his cheek, and the angle of the pattern stretching away from his gaze.

So this is how I die, then. Lying on the floor of my study after a fit, quietly fading away as the hours tick by.

Still a better death than Father had.

About five or ten minutes ticked by, although it was of course hard to keep track. He was facing away from the door, and so only heard the creak of the door opening and the muffled gasp from whoever stood there.

“Neil!”

Neil made a noise that was supposed to be a call for help, but only came out as a defeated grunt.

In a few seconds, strong hands gripped his upper arms and hauled him up into a sitting position. He would have slumped right back onto the carpet again if he hadn’t been carefully supported by his saviour.

Blinking hard through his double vision, Neil managed to focus on the drawn, worried face of his cousin.

“Harry,” Neil managed, through numb lips. “I fell over.”

“Yes, I can see that. Come, let me assist you to your feet. I shall summon the physician forthwith and…”

“No physicians. You know why. Only Mr. Blackburn. He’s the only physician we can trust.”

Harry pressed his lips together in a thin line of disapproval but said nothing. Neil was fairly certain the man would not go behind his back about this. His cousin might not like Mr. Blackburn – who was, admittedly, a snob – but there were good reasons why the family physician was the only one who could be consulted in this matter. And even then, Neil knew what the man would say. More drops, Lord Morendale. Just take more drops. As many as you need, as often as you need them. They’re quite safe.

He allowed himself to be manoeuvred up until he was sitting in a wide-armed chair placed behind his desk, high-backed and sturdy.

The worst of the dizziness had almost gone, but the nausea remained. The attacks were never very long, but according to his own records, they were getting longer. And more frequent. He had tried his best to find a pattern, to try and predict when the fits might occur, but to no avail. He had already stopped attending parties and paying visits, in case a fit should happen in public. That would be too much humiliation to stand.

Harry stood back, hands on his hips, and surveyed Neil with a frown.

“You look awful.”

Neil tipped back his head. “Thanks, old friend. I feel much better after hearing your kind words.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better. Thank heavens I came up when I did. You might have lain there for hours and not gotten up. You shouldn’t spend so much time alone, Neil.”

Neil bit his lip and said nothing. It was true the assaults rendered him as feeble as a newborn kitten.

He glanced at the clock, intending to record the length of this most recent attack of disorientation, but it was no good. He’d allowed himself to become immersed in his work and had not been keeping an eye on the time.

A simpleton, Neil, just a fool. Didn’t you already promise yourself not to make the same mistakes as Father?

“It’s almost time for breakfast,” Harry added, a trifle unnecessarily. “I’ll tell them you aren’t coming down.”

“You will do no such thing, Harry. I will be fine in just a moment. Better late than never, after all.”

Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling large, gold-green eyes up towards the ceiling. The green eyes were a family trait. One might stroll along the long, narrow Great Hall and survey the endless portraits of severe-faced Tidemores, and one would always see those startling green-gold eyes. Harry’s surname was not Tidemore, but Westbrook, but it seemed that there was enough of the old blood in his veins to make his eyes large, green, and incisive. They were not exactly cousins – third or fourth removed, if he was not mistaken – but they had grown up together, and Harry was a dear friend and an efficient steward. Few of the old and infamous Tidemores boasted the same shock of vivid red hair as Harry, but the eyes were certainly there.

Their family name was old, and their title large and cumbersome. The estate of the Marquess of Morendale was a large one, requiring a great deal of managing.

Especially when the Marquess himself was on the cusp of madness and death.

Familiar panic gripped Neil’s chest and he suddenly became afraid that if he did not get up quickly, he would die right there on the floor of his study as his father had, foaming at the mouth, with his large gold-green eyes bloodshot and dark.

He forced himself upright before Harry could object, staggering, arms flailing. He did manage to stay on his feet and allowed himself a brief moment of triumph.

“There you are, you see,” Neil said, dusting off his waistcoat. “I’m quite alright. Now, did you say they were already in the dining room?”

Harry blinked tiredly. “I daresay they shall be by now.”

“Why don’t you come and take breakfast with us?”

“That isn’t a good idea.”

There was a tense pause.

“This is my house,” Neil said carefully. “Mine. If I want to have my friend sitting at my dining table with me, then my mother and sister will simply have to make their peace with it.”

Harry ran a hand through his tousled locks, which were neatly trimmed at the sides and allowed to cascade in wild spirals upon the crown of his head. “I’d rather not cause trouble, if it’s all the same. Your health is so delicate at the moment I believe that any arguments will only make you worse.”

Neil bit the inside of his cheek. It was humiliating, being such an invalid that people did not dare even argue with you in case you might fall down dead from apoplexy, or something along those lines. Harry was generally very careful about that, never letting Neil feel too weak and foolish, but to an extent, it was unavoidable.

He was glad that Harry had said health rather than mental state , even though they both knew what he meant. And it was true that Harry’s presence would surely spark an argument. Not everybody agreed with a steward eating with his “betters”, regardless of whether he were related to them or not. Cynthia did not mind, however, since the demise of her husband, Neil's mother had grown increasingly rigid in her adherence to propriety and decorum. He supposed he should be more understanding, but it was difficult.

“Besides,” Harry added, “I can take breakfast down in the kitchen, and have a little peace to read this.”

He held aloft a slender, well-thumbed volume, encased in dark blue cloth, the title picked out in gold lettering so faded that Neil could scarcely read it.

“ Coriolanus ,” he read aloud. “More Shakespeare, eh? You really are a glutton for punishment. Haven’t you read that one before?”

Harry grinned. “Indeed, and I’m reading it again. And you cannot make snide comments about the Bard, not when you love Mrs. Radcliff’s novels so very much! I’ve caught you engrossed in Mysteries of Udolpho more times than I can count.”

Neil chuckled, shaking his head. It was perhaps not considered gentlemanly to enjoy popular novels so much, especially the ones with fainting heroines, improbably villainous plots, and almost-haunted abbeys. Even so, he loved them.

“Come on, then,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “If you insist on going down for breakfast, I insist on escorting you there.”

Neil’s pride would have compelled him to descend the stairs unaided; however, his quaking knees had other ideas. With a reluctant air, he acquiesced to Harry's offered arm.

***

There was never a finer time to note the Tidemore family’s resemblance than at the dinner table.

Lady Emma Tidemore, the dowager Marchioness of Morendale, had taken to sitting at the head of the table during her husband’s illness and attacks of… well, it was best to call it disorientation . Now that the old Marquess was gone and Neil was in his place, Lady Emma had not seen fit to give up her place of honour at the head of the table.

It was a silly thing to feel irritated over, and yet Neil could not suppress a flash of annoyance as he moved over to his usual seat at his mother’s right-hand side and slumped down. He thought he was moving with a steady enough gait, even without Harry’s assistance, but his sister eyed him for a long moment and then spoke.

“You’re limping, Neil.”

He tried for a smile. “Pray, Cynthia, I have scarcely partaken of my morning repast, and already you are prattling on at me? I am not limping.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes, a most unladylike gesture. Neil considered remarking upon it, but decided that, in the end, it was not worth the trouble.

Of course, Cynthia had the traditional green-gold Tidemore eyes. Their mother had plain grey eyes, slate-grey and rather blank at the best of times, but both of her children had inherited her delicate, pointed features, as well as her long, thick hair. However, it was Tidemore hair, which meant that it was as black as jet, wild and wavy and almost untameable.

Cynthia had managed to tame hers, of course, slicking parts of it into a complex pile of knotted braids and twists on top of her hair, the front and sides forced into unnatural little ringlets hanging around her face. Very fashionable, and not, in Neil’s opinion, particularly becoming.

Cynthia narrowed her eyes at him, setting down her cup of tea with a clack.

“What are you staring at, Neil? Are you looking at my hair?”

“Perhaps,” he retorted. “You look like a wild tumbleweed, caught in a gust of wind.”

Cynthia made a movement as if she were going to kick him under the table, then seemed to recall that she was a Proper Young Lady of two and twenty and would not stoop to such nonsense.

“Fine talk from a man whose hair looks as though it has not seen a brush this past week,” Cynthia snapped, once she had regained most of her composure.

“That is enough,” their mother interrupted, quelling them both with a glare. “Neil, do not make fun of your sister’s looks. I think she has been through quite enough without that.”

There was a taut, nervous silence after that, spreading over the table like a thick, uncomfortable blanket. He immediately felt guilty. Cynthia had only returned from Bath that week, and it seemed that she was not quite recovered. The papers had finally stopped talking about her broken betrothal, moving on to the next scandal, but she had not forgotten. Besides, Society seemed to believe that two-and-twenty was positively ancient.

Only for a woman, of course. Neil was seven-and-twenty, and people tended to tell him that he was in his prime .

“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” he murmured, chastised. “I didn’t mean…”

“Enough of that,” Emma interrupted again. “I’m glad you came down, Neil, because I have something important to discuss with you.”

He tilted back his head and closed his eyes. A headache was pounding between his temples. Squeezing the narrow bridge of his nose could provide a heartbeat’s relief, but that was all. He could scarcely remember a time when he did not have a headache.

“Pray tell me, dear Mother, that this matter does not concern marriage. We have discoursed upon the subject so extensively that my ears are quite weary of it.”

“Of course it is about your marriage,” Emma responded, gesturing for a footman to take away her plate. “And I shall not stop talking about it until you are safely betrothed.”

“I am not well, Mother. I don’t want to talk about…”

“That is exactly why we must give the subject our attention,” Emma said at once. “You are not well. If you were to… to die without an heir, awful as it is to consider, the estate would pass to your cousin. And none of us want that.”

There was a brief silence as they all weighed up the realities and consequences of such a thing.

Your cousin did not, of course, refer to Harry. No, it was Lord Clayton Tidemore, jokingly called the handsome Tidemore, full of charm and wit and blessed with a gentlemanly love of hunting. Nobody said as much, but it was generally considered that he would make an excellent Marquess.

No ladies would baulk at marrying him, especially since…

“He’s not mad,” Neil muttered aloud.

Emma stiffened at once. “And neither are you. Neither was your father. Regardless of what it appeared to be like, I can assure you that he…”

Neil surged to his feet. “He was mad, Mother. He died mad, raving and foaming with no idea who he was or who was around him, and it’s likely that I shall die the same way. Perhaps it is not just our remarkable green eyes that is a family trait.”

“Stop it, Neil!” Cynthia snapped, rising from her chair. “You’re upsetting Mama.”

“You are both mad already if you think that Society doesn’t know about our condition ,” Neil responded. “I have tried to find a suitable bride, Mother, truly I have. But nobody will have me, and I cannot blame them. It’s been three years, and unlike Cynthia, I haven’t even had one betrothal .”

That was cruel, and Neil immediately regretted his words. Cynthia flinched, dropping her gaze, and he could have bitten off the tip of his tongue.

He opened his mouth, intending to apologize, but it seemed that the words simply would not come. He just stood there, jaw agape.

Emma was the one who broke the silence.

“These episodes of yours have only begun over the past year,” she said quietly. “It took your father longer than that to die. You still have time, Neil.”

“It’s not fair, Mother, it’s not…” he began, but then his vision lurched.

Oh dear, not again.

The nausea surged anew, the scents wafting from the breakfast table causing him to feel a wave of revulsion. He bent forward in his seat, clutching the back of his chair in a vain attempt to steady himself, yet it proved futile.

He tumbled to the ground, feeling as though he were falling for a very long time. Distantly, he heard Cynthia give a cry of alarm.

“Fetch Harry,” Emma said, voice muffled.

For the second time that morning, Neil found himself sprawled out on the floor, limp as a wilted flower. He was vaguely aware of Cynthia’s skirts shuffling past, her shoes tap-tapping on the ground as she hurried to find Harry.

With considerable rustle and crumpling of her gown, Emma knelt beside her son. Neil blinked up at her, seeing two images of his mother’s concerned face.

“I’m going to die, Mama,” he said, jaw heavy and tongue thick in his mouth.

The face lurched and blurred until he could not read her expression anymore.

“Do not say such words. You must fight, Neil. I cannot bear the thought of losing you. You are everything to me. Pray, have faith and keep strong. Remember that you are the very essence of our family's future. You are not merely an obstacle in Clayton’s pursuit of honour, you have a legacy to carry forth. An heir must rise from you, a son who will carry on what is rightfully yours.”

He squeezed his eyes closed. Even if that did not help the spinning.

“Who’d marry me, then? I can’t blame any woman of the ton for not wanting to marry a madman and become a young widow. Enough talk of my health – and of father’s sickness – has escaped these walls to deter most sensible ladies. And the ones that would not be deterred would doubtless make for a poor Marchioness, don’t you think?”

Emma hesitated a moment, small white teeth latching onto her lower lip. As always, she took a long time to answer, gathering her thoughts and choosing her words with care, like picking fruit from a high tree.

“Then we must lower our gaze,” she said at last. “We have been looking among the highest in the land, which is your birthright. However, it is true that there are flaws to what you can offer, Neil. It is not your fault.”

“I never said it was,” he managed, keeping his eyes shut.

“We shall look in lower-ranked families. Tradespeople, perhaps. Fallen members of the ton l ack sufficient dowry to tempt a decent gentleman otherwise. There are plenty of people in Society with decent breeding and enough money to make a respectable match. Generally, ladies in lower circles would never dream of catching a Marquess, and if the opportunity does come their way…” she trailed off meaningfully, cocking her head to one side. “They will be willing to overlook a few small issues.”

“Like their husband slowly but surely going mad?” he managed, with a harsh laugh. With his head pressed against the floor as it was, he could hear the drumming of approaching footsteps, both Cynthia’s thin-soled slippers and Harry’s heavy boots. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. Of course, there was a great many things between himself and his bed at that moment. Stairs, for one. Getting up from the floor, for another. Both seemed like insurmountable obstacles.

It’s not fair for my mother and sister, living through this horror with me every day, he thought tiredly. How can I condemn a wife to it? What if I go mad and then simply don’t die? What will happen to her then?

And then he conjured up an image of Clayton as a child, his boot hovering above Harry’s still-spinning top, a grin on his face.

Clayton, don’t! It’s the only one I have! Harry bleated, but Clayton only grinned wider and brought down his foot with a crunch.

“I suppose I can’t let Clayton be Marquess,” Neil heard himself say, his voice thick and drowsy in his ears. “It would be an unmitigated disaster. If you can find a woman willing to have me, Mother, I shall marry her.”

Something like relief crossed Emma’s face. She leant down, pressing a kiss to Neil’s temple. Oddly, it seemed to soothe the headache a little.

“That’s my brave boy,” she whispered, much as she had when he was a small child and scraped his knees. “I shall find a suitable companion for you, just you wait.”

Neil let himself drift off into unconsciousness, his last thought bouncing around his head like a spinning top.

I doubt it.