Page 6 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ A gnes!” Amy sped up the stairs the moment her father had left the house. She had expected him to come hound her about the initial meeting with Mr. Holcomb, but he had not.

It gave her an odd sense of relief. If her father had come out rubbing his hands and chuckling in triumph, then Marcus Holcomb would have lied and said their meeting went beautifully and she was already yielding to his charms. If her father had stormed out angrily to berate her for her lack of manners and cooperation, then Mr. Holcomb would have told him how deliberately difficult and unpleasant she’d been.

But he simply left, which must have meant...

Mr. Holcomb played his cards just right. And speaking of cards...

“I’m here, Miss Amy!” Agnes scurried in, her doughy face flushed and her skirts clutched in one hand as she trotted up the stairs to catch her mistress.

“Have you had occasion to speak again with Mr. Holcomb’s coachmen?”

“No, miss, I didn’t—but the gardener was speaking to him while he was out front, trimming the big hedges.”

Amy ran to her desk and grabbed a sheet of her good stationery. “Agnes, I want you to send Brabbage over to Holcomb House.” Brabbage was a rather handsome youth, a man of all work who helped with the heavy work in the kitchen, out in the stable, and helped on the grounds when needed. Agnes had regaled her with tales of Brabbage’s flirting and pouted that he could have any girl in the district—but didn’t seem to want her.

Agnes immediately turned pink. “I’m to give it to him, miss?”

“Yes, with very special instructions. You are to tell him to loiter and drink tea with the kitchen maids or beer with the footmen, I don’t care which—but you are to tell him to report back to me on several matters.”

“Shouldn’t you tell him this, miss?”

“Yes, I suppose I should—if only to spare you further embarrassment, Agnes. You’re as red as a geranium. Now, then,” Amy’s handwriting filled the page with swoops and flourishes as she wrote an invitation for supper tomorrow evening. “Go and fetch him, please, Agnes?”

With a miserable noise, Agnes shuffled rapidly away, and Amy finished her note, realizing with a frown that it had been a year, or perhaps two, since she had chosen to invite guests over. She had been commanded to play hostess by her father and even her brothers (who at least asked rather than ordered) and had long overseen the required returns of hospitality.

Mr. Holcomb might fall under that heading. Her father might get around to demanding she play hostess. But for now...

“I’m choosing to invite them.” A little bit of say-so felt divine.

And she tried not to let the nerves in her stomach spread to the rest of her when she thought of Holcomb’s visit.

For whatever reason—he is serious about marriage.

Terrifying.

And yet... Oddly less frightening than I supposed. Father could insist I marry anyone, and it is clear he’s lost his patience and is ready to do so. Out of the suitors he could hurl at me, Holcomb is at least forthright.

“You sent for me, miss?”

Amy looked up to see Brabbage in the doorway, holding his hat in one hand while Agnes stood behind him, an enraptured moon-eyed expression on her face.

“Yes, thank you, Brabbage. I hear that you are a great one for inspiring others to speak freely.”

“My mum says I have a face people want to talk to.”

“And she’s quite right.” Amy smiled and folded the letter in half, making sure the ink was dry before doing so. “Today, I want you to take this letter to Holcomb House and then get into conversation with someone on the staff. I’m seeking certain information. Am I right in thinking you’d know how to get information without making it look obvious?”

“I think so, miss. I just nod and slip a question in every now and then.”

“I’ve already heard that young Mr. Holcomb, Mr. Horace Holcomb’s nephew, has run up some debts, and his creditors sought out his uncle at his townhouse in Manchester. I want to know how these debts were incurred, if anyone has any idea how much they run to, and if Marcus Holcomb is aware that his uncle knows.”

“It’s news to me, miss, but then, he’s never lived in the district before, only just visited. I suppose the longer he lives in these parts, the more people will get to know.”

“Yes, well, I’d like to know sooner than most. Can you accomplish that, Brabbage?”

“I’ll give it a bl— I’ll give it a very good try, miss.”

“Thank you, Brabbage. Thank you, Agnes. Come, let’s go and torment Cook.” Amy rose with a sigh. “We’re going to need something special for tomorrow evening, I suppose.”

“SIR? MR. GRAY WANTS me to go to the post office and collect the letters and parcels for Mr. Holcomb. Would you like dropping off first? We’ll be turning off before the house, but it’s no trouble to run you there.”

“No, no. It’s a pleasant day. I might stroll through the town for a few minutes while you’re in the post office. Aside from the station, I’ve seen little of this place.”

“It’s getting bigger by the day, sir. My gran doesn’t like it. She remembers when Barrow-on-Wood was a village, and now it’s like a puddle between two big lakes with all the towns being built up.”

“That’s progress for you. Money.” Marcus sat back in his seat. The itch to do something— anything —familiar was suddenly unbearable. This little country town in the midst of giant mills and large factory cities like Manchester, Liverpool, and even Bolton was nothing like London. Common sense warned that his old tricks must die if he were to convince his uncle and any wealthy woman that he was a worthwhile risk.

But surely just a little flutter with the locals wouldn’t hurt?

A lively game of cards or a drink in the company of like-minded men would be preferable pursuits. But you have to have money, fool. You haven’t. Uncle Horace hasn’t seen fit to give you an advance on next year’s stipend—and it would hardly do to bring up that you’ve already blown through this year’s funds and made a dent in the next.

And the locals are the ones you’ve got to watch out for, Marcus. There’s no disappearing here, no sleeping rough at a friend’s flat for a few nights until creditors decide to stop hanging around your door... No, everyone knows Holcomb House.

“What do the locals do to amuse themselves?” Marcus shouted up to the driver, sticking his head out of the enclosed carriage.

“Bowls, sir. The Barrow-on-Wood Bowls Club is quite popular. And then there’s cricket. Some of the young lads play rugby. But you wouldn’t be interested in that, sir.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t think your uncle would approve the heir to the throne, if you’ll pardon me saying so, playing with the farm lads and factory workers. Your set probably ride, hunt, fish, and that sort of thing.”

“Which sounds ghastly,” Marcus mumbled.

“The ladies play bridge and throw balls and things.”

“Ah. And what of Miss Amy Winthrop? What do you know about her?”

“She goes to the mill most days, just like her brothers. An odd one, sir.”

“True. Very odd for a lady.”

“Not to be unkind, sir, but most of the county set don’t seem too keen on her. They like her brothers better. Sharp lads and good company. Good heads for business. Witty, especially the middle one.”

Marcus frowned as the coach made its way into the bustling town at the heart of Barrow-on-Wood. A good head for business? Sharp? Witty? That sounded like Amy Winthrop. Good company might be debatable, but... “What’s wrong with the daughter of the house?”

“Nothing I’d like to say, sir.”

“What’s your name, my fine fellow?”

“Percy, sir. Richard Percy.”

“Very aristocratic for a coachman,” Marcus mumbled, hitching himself further out the window. “I shall be living at Holcomb House for a good while, and I should like to learn all the local knowledge that I can from a reliable source. A rich man is seldom a reliable source, Percy. No one tells him the truth unless it’s one he’d like to hear. Unless my uncle suddenly becomes very generous, I am not a wealthy man—I am wealthy-in-waiting. What you say will go no further, and I have every reason to keep myself in your favor.” Especially once notices from creditors begin to arrive in Uncle Horace’s hands. Surely that day can’t be far away. That’s the downside of people knowing where your fortune lies...

“Well, then... She’s rather long in the tooth. I remember when her mother died—must be ten years now, and she could’ve been married off then. She doesn’t seem to like men, nor want to be married. I had an aunt like that. Said marriage was the ruin of many a happy woman.”

“Nonsense.” Marcus shifted, but this time in discomfort. “Age and not liking the idea of marriage. If I were a woman, I wouldn’t necessarily want to marry some of the men in Uncle Horace’s set. She’s not bad looking.”

“Nice looking, some would say, sir.”

“A rich father-in-law is usually a boon.”

“I wouldn’t pass it up, sir.”

Percy stopped the carriage on a crowded street and swung himself down lightly. “The Plow and Spindle is a good establishment if you’re thirsty , sir. I hope you won’t mind what I’ve said about Miss Winthrop. There’s a lid for every pot, that’s what my mum says.”

Marcus smothered a sigh and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He had always imagined that the “lid” for his pot would be a saucy little deb who giggled and flirted, who loved to dance and drank rather too much, the kind who got up late with him and would be content to spend her time shopping, decorating the house, and playing with any children they might have. The kind who wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t much like a husband, except in one very important way.

Doesn’t that remind you of someone, Marcus?

Father. Kissing the housemaid late at night, pressing her up against the doorway of his study.

Mother. Sleeping upstairs, not knowing her son was sneaking in late and her husband was breaking his vows one floor below.

If he hadn’t died, maybe they would have grown past that. Mother certainly suspected. Father was being more considerate—or just more careful not to let anyone find out...

He was suddenly terribly thirsty. “How much would a pint run a chap?”

“A penny a pint.”

“I think I could stretch to that.” Marcus dug in his pocket.

“Oh, you could have credit, sir, being as you are who you are.”

“Even better.”

“I’LL PUT THE POST IN Uncle Horace’s study, Percy. You tell Mr. Gray that I said it’s all right.” Marcus bundled the post under his arm, ignoring the startled look on Percy’s face. “I’ve got to handle some account matters this afternoon.”

Marcus felt the world was a bit brighter and warmer. A game of dominos (for fun, not profit) and two pints of beer had him feeling the best he had since before his disastrous night at Hazards.

Until he caught sight of the parcels and letters. Oh, the parcels weren’t problematic, but he saw the embossed stationery of Whites and recognized the firm, scratchy handwriting of his tailor.

Marcus swallowed hard and tried not to run to the study. Uncle Horace was out today and would be back tomorrow evening. That left him time to write up the summary of household expenditures his uncle had asked for—and time to remove any worrying evidence of his life in London.

He took the letters from Whites and his tailor and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, swallowing the alarm filling him. How did they send his accounts to his new address so quickly? And they weren’t addressed to him but to Horace Holcomb.

How long has Uncle Horace been receiving notices like these?

“Mr. Marcus?”

Marcus jumped at the dreary, stentorian tone behind him.

“Yes, Mr. Gray?” He turned with his most innocent smile to face the butler.

“This letter was left in your absence. It is from Miss Winthrop. It’s addressed to both you and your uncle, but in his absence, perhaps you should open it.”

“I will, indeed. Thank you, Gray. And perhaps you could tell me... Does my uncle often receive letters or bills in my name?”

Mr. Gray fixed him with blank, hard eyes. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

“No bother at all, Gray, only curious to see if some of my post had already started to make its way over.” Marcus gave an easy laugh. When the butler left, he opened the letter from Whites.

Dear Mr. Holcomb, as a member in good standing, it pains me to inform you that your nephew, Marcus Holcomb, has been banned from our premises until further notice. He may be allowed guest privileges again pending a review by the membership committee and the settlement of the following bill, totalling 121 pounds, three shillings, and sixpence.

One table: 18 pounds

Three bottles of claret: 6 pounds

One chandelier

Marcus hastily put the letter away without reading the rest of the long list. He could only vaguely recollect the evening when he’d been thrown from those hallowed yet entertaining halls. He wasn’t a full member of the club, but as his late father and uncle were, he had (previously) been allowed entry as a guest and on open evenings.

The letter from Miss Winthrop was much more promising—an invitation to supper the following evening.

Her father wants us to wed in six weeks. I want us to wed even sooner. The beginning of June, that’s a nice time for weddings. A thousand pounds, that’s what he promised. I’ll pay off Whites.

He ripped open the letter from his tailor.

And my tailor. And everyone! I can pay them all off before Uncle Horace hears the full extent of my financial troubles.

If I marry the girl quickly enough, that is...

“ROASTED CHICKEN, ARTICHOKES , potatoes, roasted marrows stuffed with chestnuts, and rhubarb and custard for afters. A selection of wine. Brandy and port for afterward.” Amy ticked off each item on the list and perused the dresses in her wardrobe with greater care than usual. “Should I look as though I’m eager for Mr. Holcomb’s attention, Agnes? Would that be cruel and dishonest?”

“Why aren’t you eager for it, Miss Amy? He’s young, handsome, and has a packet of money coming to him,” Agnes took out a dark blue silk and shook it pointedly. “I think I could put a bit of lace around the neck and at the cuffs, and it would look just beautiful. The bustle is a bit flat, but—”

“I don’t want much of a bustle. All right, go, Agnes, ply your needle.”

“Miss Winthrop?” Brabbage was back and standing just outside the door when Agnes opened it.

“You’re not supposed to be up on the second floor unless sent for, John Brabbage!” Agnes hissed.

“I was sent for! Miss Winthrop wants a report, and I’ve got one.”

Amy tossed her list down and shut her wardrobe. “Come in, Brabbage, and tell us all.”

“Right, miss. Mr. Gray isn’t overly impressed with Mr. Holcomb’s nephew—because of his debts and the fact that he’s been absent from the family business even though he’s been done with university for a few years. He’s twenty-three or twenty-four, depending on when his birthday falls.”

“Thank you, Brabbage, that’s an excellent start. So, how were those debts incurred? To whom is money owed? Does anyone know?”

“Speculation among the servants is that Marcus Holcomb’s annuity is spent on wine, women, bad cards, and slow horses.”

“A gambler. Very unfortunate.” Amy winced. She didn’t much care for the idea of gambling—so uncertain and such a waste of money.

“My father always said the same. He said if ever he caught me betting even a penny on a game of cards, he’d give me such a lashing...” Brabbage shook his head and let out a long, low whistle. “The housemaids and porters are at odds on whether or not Mr. Marcus is aware that his uncle knows about his debts—or at least some of them. He’s only just arrived, but before he came, he sent a telegram saying something like he’d given up on his past life and was ready to settle down and find a suitable wife.”

Agnes let out a squeal, then covered her mouth with her hand.

“Thank you, Brabbage, that’s very helpful. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

“Thank you, miss.”

When he’d left, Agnes uncovered her mouth and let out a second squeak of delight. “He wants to marry, Miss Amy! You, I’ll be bound! Oh, my goodness, will I go with you, or shall I stay on here and look after Mr. Philip’s wife, when he has one?”

“Good heavens, Agnes, I don’t know. I imagine you will come with me—wherever I go.” Amy swallowed. She had been to a party at Holcomb House years ago. It was large, far grander than their home. Would Marcus live there? Would he and his wife fill the massive home of the older bachelor with fresh life, with children and noise and laughter?

Like when my mother was alive, and Father used to come home whistling to her arms. He would swing me around before kissing me on the forehead and letting me play in the workroom beside him and the boys.

She blinked, and the happy memory was gone. No future could replace it, especially not one with a young, brash thing like Marcus, only play-acting at reform.

Why do I care what Marcus Holcomb does or where he lives? He wishes to use me for my money. I wish to use him to persuade my father he’s being stubborn and foolish. Mutually beneficial, I say. My information will do him a good turn, his uncle will likely reward him with greater access to the company’s funds, and everything will stay the same as it’s always been.

“I’VE DONE IT, FATHER .”

Amy put down her spoon and looked over at Philip, who was absolutely beaming.

“Hm? Done what?” Mr. Winthrop flipped back and forth between two pages in a cracking leather ledger. “This can’t be right,” he muttered.

“I’ve asked Constance to be my bride.”

“What?” Thomas dropped his spoon into his soup with a clatter.

“You never have! You dark horse!” Steven leapt from his chair to pound Philip on the back.

Amy rose, hands clasped, and she hurried over to Philip, throwing her arms around his neck as he tried to fend off Steven’s loving onslaught. “Oh, lovely! Constance is such a dear, sweet little thing. She’s got the loveliest soprano voice, Philip. When I hear you two blending together during the hymns on Sunday... Ah, it’s as if God was saying you were to be singing together for all eternity.”

“Where in the world did that gentle, romantic poetry come from?” Philip laughed and hugged her with one arm. “Could it be that Marcus Holcomb is not such a poor suitor as you thought, Amy?”

“No, it is because Constance is such a fine girl and will make the dearest ever sister!” Amy kissed her brother’s cheek and helped Steven shove him back into his chair.

“An M.P. for an in-law! Well done, son! Well done! And little Connie, of course, a beauty and an angel of a girl!” Mr. Winthrop smiled, something soft in his look and tone. “Your mother would have loved her, Philip. Well done—and about high time. She said yes, of course?”

“Oh, she did! With alacrity.” Philip wiped his mouth with his linen napkin and then toyed with his soup spoon. “Her father... Her father has some conditions, of course. Naturally. She is his only daughter, and the eldest, and there are many young men in the district who have made their intentions known as far as Constance is concerned.” Philip swallowed, his eyes moving from Amy to his father, then back to the bowl of a pale orange broth.

“What conditions? It’s her family that ought to be offering a settlement, not the other way around, Philip.” Mr. Winthrop’s voice turned cold and firm. “M.P. or no, he’s not getting a pound out of me.”

“Mr. Stanley has recently won the by-election, Father, as you know. There’s talk that he may be given a peerage, even given a position with the Home Secretary. He may have to take a townhouse in London if that’s the case.”

“But it’s not the case now.” Mr. Winthrop closed his ledger, head cocked. “He has those twins—Jeremiah and Ezekial, or whatever their names are. His sons and their wives can manage the house. A wife should move in with her husband’s family; that's the way of it, unless there’s something wrong with the husband’s family.”

Philip’s answer was silence.

“Is there something wrong with our family?” Thomas gasped. “Is it because we’re ‘working class’?” He tossed his napkin to the side of his plate dramatically. “The cheek!”

“I think I’ll go pay Seymour Stanley a visit!” Mr. Winthrop rose, fire in his eyes.

“Father, stop!” Philip entreated, his expression souring. “We can talk of this later. The main thing is that I have his blessing—with a few minor adjustments to be made.”

“What are these minor adjustments? Will he ask you to abandon the mill as well as your house and family?” Amy demanded.

“Of course not! No, it is just that... Constance is younger than me by a few years. She is young and impressionable. Her father... Her father thinks that she should move to a house where she can focus on being a wife and mother. To be a household manager, one who can host parties and balls.”

“But her own mother is alive and well, and she manages things beautifully,” Amy protested. “Here, we don’t have—” Amy stopped and cleared her throat with a bright smile. “We don’t often throw balls and parties, but only because I’m not one for such things. Constance would have her head here!” Amy cried, reaching across the table to give Philip’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Her father fears very much that she won’t run the house, but will be unduly influenced by the current mistress of Littlewood.” Philip gave Amy a long, sober look, releasing her hand. “He’s heard talk from mill workers that you spend time at the mill, that you are even down on the floor with the spinning rings and mules!” Philip glared at her for only a moment. “I think you are brilliant, Amy—but you’re not—you’re not terribly feminine at times. You’ve refused suitor after suitor, and you care little for any of the pursuits open to you as a woman. Painting, music, flower arranging, sewing... You have no reputation for the womanly arts. You are unique, dear sister, and I love you as you are—but Mr. Stanley loves Constance as she is. He fears that if she lives in this house—with you—that she will become corrupted and shun the core of marriage and motherhood. She may even begin agitating for women’s suffrage.”

“What utter nonsense!” Amy felt fire flooding her face and knew she must be bright pink. She couldn’t breathe. Her dress was suddenly stifling her, strangling her. She put a hand to her side and cursed the corset’s boning across her ribs. When she spoke again, her voice was a shallow gasp. “Philip, I would never try to influence Constance! She would be a wonderful wife and mother. I wish her all joy in that!” Tears filled her lower lids, and she dared not blink, or her father would see them splash down on her cheeks.

“Sit down, Amy. Philip, eat your soup before it’s cold, and tell your future father-in-law that you’ll be glad to take up residence at Barrow Hall— if Amy is still living at Littlewood when you and Constance wed. If Amy is wed, she will doubtless be living with her husband’s people, as she ought. Constance can take over running things at Littlewood—and I’m sure Amy will give her every assistance, whether it be here or elsewhere. Holcomb House... Now, that’s a place that must require a fair bit of managing.”

“Father!” Amy could only utter one word, and the rest wouldn’t come.

“Well, Amy, it’s high time you were married, and I’ve found you to be a fine young man! What’s more, I know you wouldn’t stand in the way of your brother’s happiness. You may not care for my wishes, but would you force Philip from his home simply because you insist on fooling about with things that don’t concern you?”

Amy stabbed her spoon down against the soft peach linen of the tablecloth and pushed her chair back from the table with a vicious twist. Soup and water sloshed onto the cloth up and down the table, earning groans and cries of surprise as she fled the dining room.

MARCUS CLOSED HIS BOOK with a snap as thundering hooves tore past the library window.

The book was dull. Holcomb House was dull. The place had been designed to offer every possible sort of room a wealthy family could wish for—parlor, drawing room, study, library, billiard room, ballroom, and an immense dining hall.

The books in the library were all worthwhile “improving” books for the mind. The billiard room had a green baize table, cues, and balls, but no one to play with. The study—Lord, spare him from accounts for an hour or two at least.

“Who in the world is racing about this late at night?” Marcus asked himself, for the servants also seemed to be the dull and retiring sort, all tucked in bed at early hours, only available if he rang for them.

With a puzzled frown, he exited the library through the French doors and saw the horse and rider on their return, wheeling past on the circular loop that was meant for carriages. They would drop their charges at the front door, then follow the path around the stone cherub fountain nestled in its ring of greenery, a fitting facade to the grandeur of Holcomb House.

And the rider... She fit the grandeur as well. She rode fast and fearlessly, a dark cloak flying out behind her, not seeming to care if she broke her neck. Her horse must have been eighteen hands high, and it was snorting as steam rose from his haunches and neck.

“I say! I don’t think we were expecting you!” Marcus called, racing out to catch the mysterious rider.

“No. No one expects me,” a familiar voice said with a wet, miserable laugh, drawing up next to him.

“Miss Winthrop! I... I sent back a reply that we would attend supper tomorrow night! Surely you didn’t need to come riding like Moses out of Egypt with all the armies of Pharaoh behind you,” Marcus gasped.

“I didn’t come to check your reply, Mr. Holcomb. I went for a ride to clear my head and found myself here. I’m heading home now before it gets any later.”

Marcus peered up at her. “You’ve been crying.”

“I have indeed.”

“But not because of me?”

“No, Mr. Holcomb. Not everything is about you,” she said with another mirthless laugh.

“And I’m very glad of it. Please, it’s too dark to ride home alone—and I’m horrid in the saddle. I know I shall have to learn in order to blend in around here, but for now, I shall rouse one of the coachmen, and we’ll escort you home. Your horse can follow along behind.” Marcus held his hand up to her.

“I’m not afraid.”

“I know! You are a fearless horsewoman.” He dropped his voice, “Perhaps you could teach me some time, Miss Winthrop?”

“What? You would let a woman teach you something? Aren’t you afraid that I’ll corrupt you?”

Marcus blinked up at her, shocked at her angry scoffing. “Dear me, no. Between the two of us, in strictest confidence—I would dearly love to be corrupted right now. I don’t suppose you know how to play billiards, Miss Winthrop?”

“I have three brothers. I know how to play every card game known to an Englishman, snooker, billiards, and conkers, as well.”

Marcus forgot his manners, scant as they were. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and tugged, coming forward as she slid from the saddle to catch her against his chest. “I’m bored beyond bearing, Miss Winthrop. Would you leave a fellow creature in such distress?”

“Mr. Holcomb!”

“Call me Marcus, and play one game of billiards with me—just one. I’ll listen to your troubles, too, and then we’ll fetch the coach and take you home.”

“Oh, bother home. I doubt anyone there would miss me.”

Marcus looked at her furious face as it melted into a puddle of dejection. “Whatever happened?” he asked softly.

“My brother is to be married.”

His voice was uncertain. “Congratulations?”

“Indeed, I am so very happy for Philip. But the bride’s father does not want her to move into Littlewood. It’s a suitable place—filled with an unsuitable mistress.” Miss Winthrop’s face twisted with a bitter smile as she pressed a hand to her throat.

“Good heavens, you’ve really put them up in arms around here. Can you keep a secret?”

A hesitant light gleamed in her eye as he led her forward. She kept one hand on the horse’s reins. “What?”

“I caused quite a stir in London, too. I’m not sure anyone would want their innocent young daughter to share my home.”

Miss Winthrop froze by a hitching post and large stone trough. Her horse immediately lowered his head and began to gulp the water down. “I’m not very innocent, I suppose?”

Marcus gave a twirl of his wrist and bowed over her hand, pressing a kiss to the air above it. “You are not like any other woman I have ever encountered.”

“And you are far from the first to say so.”

“Ah—but do the others tell you how much they enjoy it?” Marcus let his voice dip and glide lower, something seductive in his timbre. But for all the fact that he was playing a part, the part of a hungry suitor who must make a match or face protracted ruin, he suddenly realized that he did enjoy Amy’s company.

“No! No. No one has ever said that,” she stumbled over the words and over the first low step leading into Holcomb House, clinging to Marcus’ arm.

It had been too long since he had allowed himself the risky satisfaction of female company. His blood jumped, and he swallowed hard, pressing down all the flirtatious words he’d used on a dozen other women in the past.

“It’s very late. Will I disturb your uncle?” she whispered.

“He’s in Bolton. He will be back tomorrow in time for supper, I believe. It would be just the two of us and one treacherous table.”

“I shouldn’t...”

“ We shouldn’t. If a man and woman are left alone, doubtless they’ll fall headlong into lust and sin, and you will be ruined, and I’ll have to marry you. I’m very much in favor of that.” He smiled.

She groaned.

“One game, and I will have Mr. Gray, the butler, stand beside me at all times, carrying a brass poker. I don’t think he likes me very much, and he would be glad to clout me at the slightest impropriety.”

“My goodness, you do talk.”

“And so do you, but not in the prattling way of many women I’ve encountered. Do continue.”

The woman completely froze, now inside his home. He thought for a second that she was about to slam the door in his face. “You don’t wish me to be quiet?”

“Not at present.”

“You don’t wish me to speak of flowers, fashion, or familial obligations?” One eyebrow arched, and she smirked.

Ooh. Something zapped its way down his spine, and he had to screw his eyes up tightly, then open them just to make sure his bored, lonely brain wasn’t playing tricks on him. “I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

“But I’ve been told that talking of business, economics, and machinery makes me sound mannish.”

“I’ll have you know that I usually spend my leisure time with men, and I enjoy their conversations immensely.” He entered the house and offered her his arm. “Continue, my sweet.”

“Your sweet?”

“My dove? My pearl? Dearheart?”

“Goodness gracious. I suppose you may call me Amy—when we’re alone.”

“As an engaged couple ought.”

“I shall throw a billiard ball at you.”

“Ooh! On the subject of throwing, do tell me about the cricket around here.”