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

The key was to project confidence. That was what Harry had said, and Harry was generally right about these sorts of things.

Neil had kept the curtains of the carriage closed as he made his way to the Marshville home. He realized, a moment or two too late, that approaching in a closed-up carriage would look fairly odd. No doubt the family had been peering at him from the windows.

Too late now, of course.

The carriage rolled to a halt, the door was opened, and Neil was obliged to step out. He found himself looking up at a tall, grand house, with only a little shabbiness around the corners. From the information Harry and Lady Emma had gathered, he knew that the family were rather good at putting on a mask in Society. They could make what little money they had stretch a little further, and mend and make do with the most frugal families.

In Society, appearances were paramount. One could subsist on mere wits and a pittance, provided one possessed the art of management.

Of course, such a lifestyle was not exactly sustainable, as Lord and Lady Marshville and their daughters were doubtless discovering.

A grim-looking footman in much-darned livery met him at the door. Neil fought not to cringe before the man’s contemptuous stare. Once again, the servants in a place like this would be the most loyal core of the family, determined to serve their employers for as long and as well as they could.

Or perhaps they were simply owed too much in back wages to risk leaving. Hard to tell at first glance.

“This way, Lord Morendale,” the footman said shortly, turning on his heel and not looking behind to see if Neil followed.

It was clear that the servants, at least, were not welcoming Neil’s presence.

They probably think I’m mad, too. They’re mostly right, I suppose.

He was led through a wide, high hallway, walls covered with various portraits. It was meant to convey the idea of an ancient and noble family, Neil thought, but anybody who knew the Marshvilles would know that they were rather new, by the ton’s standards. New, and not particularly rich. They were the sort of family that would be warmly accepted in Society, providing they had enough money and half-decent breeding to earn it. However, should that breeding waver or their money fail, they would be cast out at once.

There were ancient, impoverished families in Society that were not shunned, simply because of their name and their long, elegant family history. The Marshvilles would not have that sort of luck and forbearance.

He spotted plenty of signs that the home was not well looked after: dusty corners in hastily swept and mopped floors, brass in need of a good polishing, lopsided pictures, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. In places, there were patches of musty smells, indicating that the house was overdue a good airing. He passed countless closed doors, and would have wagered that inside those doors, the furniture was swathed in dust sheets, the shutters barred, closed and silent. Fewer rooms to maintain meant fewer rooms to heat, clean, and occupy. It was generally for the best.

The hallway weaved under a wide staircase, the banister of the landing hanging overhead. Neil wasn’t sure what made him look up, but look up he did, and was greeted by three faces hanging over the banister, staring down at him.

Neil paused, standing still, head tilted back to look up at them in silence.

These were the Marshville girls, certainly, ranging in age from almost-eighteen to two and twenty, if his sources were correct.

It was clear that they were sisters, all sporting the same golden hair, the same longish faces, the same delicately up-tipped noses and blue eyes.

None of them smiled. They did not dart backwards out of sight, embarrassed at being caught staring. They stared down at him, returning his gaze unblinkingly, faces unreadable. Swallowing hard, Neil gave a nod, intending it for them all. No response was forthcoming, so he tore his eyes away and hurried after the disappearing footman. It was occurring to him now that perhaps the man was actually a butler. It was difficult to tell.

Neil was shown into a small, neatly arranged study. A fire burned heartily in the grate, making the room rather too warm. It felt like overcompensation, as if the owner of the room was making a point, that he could overheat his room and not care about the waste of firewood. Perhaps indicating that, despite the chill hanging over the rest of the house, this room at least could be as warm as its occupants like. Neil wished a window could be opened.

A pair of armchairs were angled towards the fire, and a middle-aged woman sat in one of the armchairs, back turned to the door. There was a large desk taking up most of the space, with a chair before it and a chair behind it. A short, round-faced man occupied the chair behind the desk. He got unsteadily to his feet as Neil entered, smiling nervously. The woman did not stand up.

“Lord Morendale, what a pleasure,” the man stammered, extending a pudgy hand for Neil to shake. “I am Lord Marshville, as I’m sure you’ve surmised. This is my dear wife, Lady Marshville. She insisted on being present. Your… your note implied that this meeting was of great importance, so I thought my dear lady wife ought to be here.” He was babbling, a sure sign of nerves.

Neil inclined his head towards the lady. She was still not looking at him, staring instead into the fire. He shifted from foot to foot, wondering if the woman was going to invite him to sit or not. It was her prerogative, of course, as the lady of the house. She did not seem inclined to speak, or even spare a glance his way. She seemed to be pretending that he did not exist.

The problem of seating was solved by Lord Marshville sitting himself down with a thump, then seeming to recollect his guest in a rush. Reddening, he gestured to the other seat.

“Pray, take a seat. Tea will be coming soon. I thought you might prefer to talk in my study, instead of the parlour, since this is business.”

Neil smiled faintly. He wished, not for the first time, that Harry was here. Harry was better at being charming, at getting people to like him. And if Neil were to have a “turn” – heaven forbid – Harry would know what to do. Harry had a way of helping people relax, to speak freely about it. It was a real talent, and one that Neil did not possess.

Much as he wished he might possess it.

But one couldn’t bring one’s steward on an errand like this. Harry had come with him, for moral support, and was waiting in the carriage.

“It is a matter of business,” Neil managed at last, reviewing the notes he’d written in his head on the way here. “This is a delicate business, but I suppose you would consider it as a proposal of marriage.”

“Marriage?” Lady Marshville spoke up, gaze still fixed on the fire. “You talk about marriage, sir? You’ve never met one of my daughters, not even once.”

He swallowed. She was clearly not pleased he was here. Lord Marshville winced, but did not argue with his wife.

Tread carefully, Neil. Tread carefully.

“It’s true, what I am proposing is not traditional. I understand my mother contacted you about this?”

Lord Marshville shifted. “Yes, but she was rather light on the details. Do I understand that you wish to marry one of my daughters?”

Neil drew in a breath. “Indeed, that is the essence of the matter, Lord Marshville. With her consent, of course, and with yours.”

There was a brief silence.

“My girls have no dowry,” Lord Marshville said carefully.

“Yes, I know. The truth is, I know a little about your affairs, Lord Marshville. I know that you are in straitened circumstances. As you son-in-law, I would be able to not only provide a comfortable life for one of your daughters, but I could also do something about your situation.”

He’d mis-stepped, Neil realized that at once.

Lady Marshville was on her feet in an instant, red-faced and furious.

“Are you implying that we would sell one of our daughters to you? A man said to be mad?”

He recoiled. Lord Marshville held out a placating hand to his wife.

“Mary, dear, I implore you- do cease this at once!”

“No, she is right,” Neil said, recovering. Lady Marshville narrowed her eyes at him.

“Pray tell, Lord Morendale, what is your scheme?" she inquired slowly, with a hint of mistrust in her tone.

He shifted on his seat, clearing his throat.

“Indeed, it is true that there are some unflattering whispers regarding my mental condition. My father passed away under rather distressing circumstances, and… to speak candidly, I have cause for concern regarding my own health. However, I assure you, Lord and Lady Marshville, I am not mad. I do experience episodes, I shall not disguise that, but I am not a threat. I do not harm others, nor have I ever made any intimation to do so.”

“But your father did,” Lady Marshville said, voice quiet. “I heard that he accused all around him of murder. His own murder, no less.”

Neil bit his lower lip until he tasted copper, trying not to remember how his father’s tortured howls had reverberated through the house. He could still hear his mother’s frantic shouts, desperately pleading with the man she loved to come back, come back to her. He could hear Cynthia’s sobs; head hidden beneath a pile of cushions to try and block out the sound.

“That is true, too,” Neil said at last. “My illness seems to be different to my father’s. For now, at least. So far, the condition confines itself to fits, nausea, and dizziness. I am not dangerous, and you can speak to my family and the family physician, Mr. Edmund Blackburn. However, you can understand why I am not looking for a bride in Society, and why I felt the need to come here and be blunt and open with you both about my state of health.”

Lord and Lady Marshville exchanged glances.

“I appreciate your candour,” Lady Marshville said at last, sounding a little mollified. “But I’m sure you can see why I would not want my girls marrying a man with your condition. Why should I feel otherwise?”

“Because,” Neil said, steeling himself to be blunt, “your girls have no prospects.”

Lady Marshville bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

"I must beg your pardon for my candour, but is this not the unvarnished truth? I have no doubt that your daughters are admirable young ladies, yet they do not conform to the prevailing notions of beauty in these times. Your family, while respectable, does not possess the antiquity or influence that might endear you to society. Your financial standing is precarious, and I fear you are encumbered by considerable debt, which places your assets at great risk, rendering any prospect of a suitable dowry quite unlikely. I understand that your eldest daughter has endured several unsuccessful Seasons, and it is my belief that your second daughter has likewise faced similar challenges. I intend no affront nor wish to distress you; I merely seek to convey the truth of the matter. Am I mistaken in any of my assertions? “

Lord and Lady Marshville exchanged glances again. Slowly, slowly, Lady Marshville returned to her seat, dropping down with a ragged sigh.

“No,” she said at last, sounding defeated. “You are not wrong. I love my girls, Lord Morendale, make no mistake. Patrina and Agnes are not thriving in Society, it’s true. We had placed our hopes upon Gillian, and perchance in a year or two, she may secure a match of her own. Yet, I am uncertain we possess the luxury of a year or two to squander.” She paused, casting a scathing glance at Neil. “But our daughters are precious to us, Lord Morendale, more dear than you can fathom. They are exquisite young ladies, possessing admirable qualities, and each one of them is worth ten of any empty Society beauty.”

He bowed his head. “I agree, Lady Marshville, I agree. I don’t mean to insult your girls. In fact, if you are amenable, I want to marry one of them. She would be a Marchioness, with a share of my fortune. She would be a powerful woman, and if I should… if I should die young, as I fear I might, she would be left as a wealthy widow, to run my estates and raise our child. Or children, if we are so blessed.”

There. He’d said it. Everything in his head was said, and Neil let out a small sigh of relief. He sat back in his seat, waiting for Lord and Lady Marshville to make their decision.

The pair glanced at each other; expressions unreadable.

“Which of the girls did you have in mind?” Lord Marshville asked, voice uncertain.

“Well, I am not acquainted with any of them, and I am certain they are all most amiable young ladies.”

“Not Gillian,” Lady Marshville said suddenly, panic in her voice. “Not my baby. She is barely eighteen, and I think…”

“No, not Miss Gillian,” Neil said hastily, colour rushing to his face. “I am seven and twenty, Lady Marshville, and I would like a wife closer to my own age. As I mentioned earlier, I may very well die within the next few years, and I want a grown woman as a Marchioness, not a child.”

Lady Marshville relaxed, just a little. She met her husband’s eye.

“I think I know which of our girls will suit you, then.”

***

There was an uneasy silence in the drawing room.

After Lord Morendale had come through the house, shown straight into Papa’s study as had been agreed, the three sisters had come hesitantly downstairs, craning their necks to peer down the hallway as if expecting something terrible to leap out at them.

Nobody could settle. The grate in the drawing room was empty, despite the chill in the air. Generally, there was a fire in the drawing room and not in Papa’s study, as he preferred to save the firewood and wrap himself up in blankets. Today, though, they had to warm the room for their illustrious guest.

And so, the girls were obliged to freeze.

“Come away from the window, Gilly,” Agnes said, breaking the silence. She was bent over her sewing, working on a complex, beautiful embroidery piece. A vibrantly red rose was taking shape under her needle, far more beautiful than anything Patrina could ever create.

Gillian was curled up on the window seat, a forgotten book hanging from her fingers. Her cheek was pressed against the glass, and she stared blankly out at the garden below.

“Agnes is right,” Patrina said, pacing up and down in front of the empty fireplace. She simply could not seem to settle . “You risk becoming quite unwell by remaining in that position.”

“If I were to become unwell and perish, perhaps I shall be spared the fate of marrying that madman,” Gillian replied with a weary expression.

Patrina stopped pacing. “We won’t let you marry him.”

“What if he chooses me? He doesn’t know any of us. Papa and Mama will likely let him take his pick.”

“They won’t do that,” Agnes responded, biting off a string of thread. “You’re the prettiest of us all, and likely to make a good match of your own accord. If she were to bestow your hand upon him, she would be consigned to the company of us two spinsters for all eternity. I daresay Lord Morendale is indifferent as to which of us he espouses.”

Patrina said nothing. She could still see the man in her mind’s eye, his head tilted to stare up at the three of them.

“He was more handsome than I thought he’d be,” she said slowly, not quite able to believe what she was saying.

Agnes snorted. “You have the strangest taste in men, Pat. He’s too thin, and with that black hair and green eyes, he looks like a witch’s familiar.”

Gillian gave a hoot of laughter.

“You’re both very cruel,” Patrina muttered. “I wasn’t saying that I thought he was handsome.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I don’t know! Only that a man who looks like that, regardless of how mad he might be, should be able to catch himself a decent wife. And he’s rich,” she added, as an afterthought.

Agnes shot Gillian a meaningful glance. “Well, let’s hope that you marry him.”

It was half of a joke, but for some reason, it sent chills down Patrina’s spine.

If he wants to marry me, she thought, swallowing hard, I won’t be able to say no. Not if he could save us all. And if I do say no, then Agnes will be obliged to marry him. And she might say no, too, and that leaves Gillian…

He thoughts trailed off, and Patrina met Agnes’ eye. There was determination in her sister’s face, and she knew then that regardless of what sort of man the Marquess of Morendale might be, however mad or cruel or disinterested, either she or Agnes would marry him to save Gillian. Gillian had to be protected, at all costs.

There was a gentle rap on the door, and all three of the girls flinched. Sitting upright, they all turned towards the door, waiting.

The butler stepped inside, looking more sombre than ever.

“Ladies,” he said, a trifle hesitant, “I am sent to fetch Miss Marshville.”

“Which Miss Marshville?” Agnes demanded, voice a little strained. “We’re all Miss Marshville. ”

The butler drew in a breath. “Miss Patrina Marshville.”

Gillian gave a strained yelp, pressing her hand over her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, Patrina saw Agnes sink in relief, just a little.

“I see,” Patrina said aloud, secretly pleased with how steady her voice was. “I’ll be there directly.

***

Lucy would have much preferred to stay in the house that morning. That strange, mad Marquess was coming to visit, and Miss Patrina had privately confided in her that he wanted to marry one of the girls.

It was a wretched business, in Lucy’s opinion. Oh, to be sure, marrying a Marquess would be a great thing for any of the girls, and if the man was willing to help out with Lord Marshville’s debts, they might well be saved. Lucy was owed close to four months’ back wages, and some of the other servants were owed more. They liked their jobs, and Lady Marshville was a fine mistress, but money was money, and they were all growing more desperate. However, if they left now, there was a fair choice that they would never get their wages at all, so most of them hung on.

The young ladies were obliged to enter into matrimony; such was the crux of the matter. Yet, the gentlemen of Society proved too obtuse to appreciate Patrina’s many admirable qualities. Or Agnes’, for that matter. Lucy bit back a sigh, shaking her head. She couldn’t see a way out of it. No doubt the mad Marquess would choose the youngest of the girls, Gillian, and whisk her away. They’d be saved, likely, but at what cost? Wouldn’t the guilt weigh them all down?

Enough of that, Lucy, she warned herself. You shall fret yourself into a state of disarray with such incessant worrying.

Her errand that morning was to return some assorted fabrics, ribbons, and trimmings to the modiste’s, and get the money back. There wasn’t much they could return, but what could be returned was to be returned. Lucy hated doing returns. It was well known that ladies who gave things back to the shop and requested their money back were miserly . Poor, in other words.

Rich ladies didn’t need to care what sort of money they spent on clothes and trinkets.

Lost in thought, Lucy stepped out of the servant’s side entrance and hurried on towards the front of the house. The Marquess’ carriage was there, a bulky, square thing, blocking out all the light. She considered delivering a swift jab to the fine lacquer as she went by.

And then, as if fate had taken note of her uncharitable thoughts and chosen to teach her a lesson for it, a cobblestone turned under her foot, without warning. Lucy’s ankle twisted to one side, and she lurched forward, off-balance.

She would have gone crashing neatly into a filthy, stinking puddle by the side of the road, were it not for a strong pair of hands grabbing her arms, hauling her upright.

The basket flew out of her grasp, rolling over and turning the ribbons and trinkets out of the basket and onto the road. As soon as she steadied herself, Lucy gave a yelp of dismay and flew down to pick the ribbons up again. The modiste wouldn’t take back mud-soaked items.

She’d almost forgotten about her saviour already, until a male voice spoke somewhere above.

“Let me help you, miss.”

She blinked, squinting up at a man silhouetted against a bright, grey sky.

He knelt gracefully beside her, squatting so as not to put his trouser knees in the dirt, and began to nimbly pick up the spilled goods.

“Thank you,” Lucy said abruptly, a little too late. “For saving me. I’d have gone face-first into that puddle.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad to have saved you the humiliation.”

She inspected him a little closer, now that his attention was fixed downwards on the floor. He was a pale young man, with curling red hair, and the most marvellous greenish-gold eyes she’d ever seen. She estimated that he was around her age, or perhaps a year or two older, and dressed in sombre black. It wasn’t a servant’s clothing, so she found herself struggling to work out who, exactly, he was, and what his role was.

He glanced up at her, and Lucy felt her heart flutter. She cleared her throat, wordlessly holding out the basket. Hands cupped to hold the rescued trinkets, he spilled them into the basket.

“One or two of the ribbons are ruined, I think,” he stated, handing over the soiled items. “I am sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” she managed, smiling faintly. “I am sorry to have seemed ungrateful, by the way. It’s just that these are my mistress’ things.”

He nodded understandingly. “Of course. Who is your mistress? Is it one of the Marshville ladies?”

“Well, I wait on them all, but I consider myself as Miss Patrina Marshville’s maid.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I am Lord Morendale’s steward. My name is Harry Westbrook.”

Lucy flinched at that. “L-Lord Morendale?”

A guarded look came over Harry’s face. Both of them got slowly and carefully to their feet, eyeing each other.

“Yes, the Marquess of Morendale,” he answered hesitantly, as if braced for her to say something terrible. “My cousin, actually. Distantly, but still. He’s a fine man.”

She bit her lip. He continued to regard her with a gaze that was both hopeful and cautious. It dawned upon her that he still anticipated some unkind remark from her.

“I’m sure he is,” she heard herself say. “I cannot claim acquaintance with the gentleman, yet I am certain that he is not deserving of the unfavourable opinions circulating about him. Indeed, gossip is a most absurd pastime.”

Harry gave a relieved smile. “Indeed, you can’t believe anything you hear.”

She cleared her throat, dragging her gaze away from him. “Well, I should get on.”

“Of course, of course.”

She turned and hurried away down the street, only to stop when he called after her.

“Wait! You never told me your name.”

She paused, fighting back a smile.

What’s the harm? I doubt I’ll see him again.

Although if one of the girls marries the Marquess of Morendale…

“Lucy,” she said, over her shoulder. “My name is Lucy Pearson.”