The Forbidden Marquess: A Historical Regency Romance

Prologue

"Y our Grace, No ! " Lady Estella Linton reached up, using all her strength to push the Duke of Mallton away. At this close vicinity, she could smell the expensive cologne he wore – it was strong and spicy. She could see the threads of his silk cravat. Despite his fine clothes and handsome face, he was somehow … bothersome. His mouth was wet, on hers, pressing and insistent. She hastily wrenched her lips aside.

Estella … He looked at her with mild reproach, his breath catching in his throat, and he seemed intense. His hand reached for her chin.

No! She pushed him away, again.

But …

"No!"

The duke moved away from her, but his hands stayed where they were, clenching her shoulders. He looked into her eyes with genuine puzzlement on his face. We are engaged to be married, Estella and we are meant for each other, so why shouldn’t we …?

Estella glared at him. Of all the things she did not want to do, marrying the duke was top of her list, yet, he insisted on it, as did her family. He was the perfect match for her, or so everybody believed.

Yes, I know we shall be married, that is as may be, she said tightly. But that doesn’t mean I should let you kiss me, yet.

Is that so, Estella? he asked. Soon you will be tied to me, and obligated …

Estella stared at him in open amazement. Sir, she said slowly, I think there is a great deal you do not know about getting married. I do not think kissing should feel like an obligation. Shakespeare never said Juliet felt obliged to kiss her Romeo!

He looked genuinely confused. Estella …

She closed her eyes, fighting for patience. Please? I really need time …

The duke turned and walked away. Women. You are the most contrary things in the world, was the last thing Estella heard. She let out a long, shuddering sigh. I do not think I can do this. Of all the things she disliked about the duke, his slowness to see her point was one of the main points. She did not want to marry him. If she was forced to, she would, but not a moment sooner. She was profoundly frustrated – it seemed impossible for him to understand her reluctance, and he did not take anything she said seriously.

I hate this, but I have to do it, Estella sighed and pursed her full, dark lips. She knew her duty to her family being the practical and level-headed, eldest daughter of the Duke of Andover.

The man is a boorish, leering oaf. Estella sighed and ran a slim hand through her long, brown hair and wished, not for the first time, that she was someone else, maybe a simple country lass, free to wed whom she chose. Her large, wide-lidded eyes, reflected in the window-pane, shot her a wry glance. You would not really want to be a country lass, the lifestyle would not suit you. Estella smiled. She appreciated the privilege into which she had been born, and enjoyed the finery and parties, as well as the beauty of the family’s estates. Sometimes, however, she wished that it had not come at the cost of her heart.

She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the man of her dreams – he would be tall and handsome, aloof, but not cold, possessive, but not jealous, cool but not cruel. Estella, you are foolish. Just be pleased if he is not a drunken boor with ill manners. In today’s society, that would be a miracle enough. Whomever she would like to marry, she had no idea; just not the Duke of Mallton – please, not him.

Not if she could help it.

Shaking her head, she smoothed down her dress and headed to the parlour to talk to her sister, Claudia. At least she would understand.

Discussion over Coffee

T his damned weather is foul enough, today, is it not? Ethan Calhoun, the Marquess of Aston, brushed his hand through his black hair and swept out the raindrops. They clung to the strands, leaving them lustrous and slicked back with the rain that had soaked his hair and plastered his shirt to his wide, well-muscled shoulders.

Quite, his friend, Mark Frenshaw, replied. He looked up over his spectacles with a frown. Unseasonable, eh?

Depends what you mean by ‘seasonable’, Frenshaw?

Frenshaw sighed. Yes, I suppose you are right. I trust you to argue semantics, while we are sitting here, wet to the bone. He pulled a sour face at the marquess.

"Oh, come on! It is not that bad."

Frenshaw said nothing, and after a moment, the marquess frowned with a thought. Frenshaw … could you repeat what you just said?

I said, trust you to argue semantics when we are sitting here wet to the …

No, not that, the marquess interrupted hastily. What you said before.

What did I say before?

Ethan closed his eyes in a momentary impatience. You said something about a robbery.

Oh, yes, that. Frenshaw looked remarkably cheerful for a man discussing criminal activity, but, then, Ethan reflected, that was Frenshaw’s job. He was the son of the marquess’s tutor, and he worked as one of the Bow Street Runners. Highway robbery got him chatting in the same manner as fine waistcoats or hats did other people.

So? Ethan asked, taking a sip of his coffee. What about this robbery?

Well! Frenshaw leaned in, looking around. His face changed from sleepily-contented to sharp and alert. You know – I am beginning to suspect a rum cove.

Plain English, please?

Frenshaw chuckled. Forgive me, I forget. We have to learn the cant of the street – that is to say, how the fellows on the street talk. A rum cove, to translate, is a corrupt fellow.

Oh? Ethan reached for the last of his pastry. He had joined his friend for coffee and a bite to eat, but he had not really planned on getting embroiled in Frenshaw’s most recent investigation. All the same, he had to admit he was intrigued.

Well, Frenshaw began as he looked around again. I do not want to speak too loudly about this, for fear someone overhears and, well, takes word to the ears whereof we speak, but…

Whisper then, Frenshaw.

Frenshaw nodded briskly. I will whisper. I was investigating a band of highway robbers near Bentham Woods. They are known for stopping the mail coach and the public stage, as well as robberies on private individuals traversing the road past Wolverhampton …

Ethan ground his jaw, trying not to show his mounting restlessness.

You ever were impatient, Aston … ever impatient. Well, then. The point is the cove in charge.

Please continue?

Well, I think that these robbers are being allowed to continue in their business. How else have they got so bold? It is not like the woods do not have constables and woodsmen, hunt-masters and riders passing through, but no-one sees where these fellows hide out or keep their stash. No-one. He stabbed the table with a knot-jointed finger for emphasis.

Well, the marquess frowned, staring into his coffee-grounds, maybe they are just a dangerous band, maybe people have found them, and been repulsed … or shot.

Well! Frenshaw laughed. It is a fine theory, Aston, but it won’t hold water. No, no shots have been fired, and yes, it has been investigated, just as you suggested, but every time we think we are close, these blighters melt away somewhere.

Possibly they are just good at hiding, the marquess said fairly.

What I think, is that someone powerful is on their side. Someone is taking a slice of their pickings and is supporting them in turn. How else have they evaded capture?

It sounded a bit radical, the marquess reflected thoughtfully. How could something so convoluted be correct? The simplest explanations, he found, were usually the right ones. The simplest explanation, in this case, was just that the robbers were too smart to get caught.

Frenshaw?

Yes?

Don’t you think you are perhaps a bit, well … overly suspicious?

No, Frenshaw said flatly. "No, I don’t. I have not spent a month on this to choose to tell myself fanciful stories. No, I think I am right."

Ethan sighed as he knew that tone of voice. He knew it very well, as it happened. He and Frenshaw had grown up together. Frenshaw had been educated with him. Had it not been for differences in their status, Frenshaw would have been like a brother to him, he’d raced with him, read with him, and Frenshaw had almost saved his life, once, when Ethan’s horse had bolted. Not that Frenshaw was riding at the time, that is. Frenshaw had not taken riding lessons, sword-fighting lessons, or shooting – those were the premise of nobles. It had always chafed a little on the marquess that his friend, for want of a coat of arms in his family’s history, was excluded from the sports he, himself, found so diverting. All the same, there was no resentment between him and Frenshaw. They were best friends.

Now, Ethan said, turning to Frenshaw, if this band of thieves has some sort of … of patron then, well … who is it?

I cannot tell you that, he looked around worriedly. Not here … not now.

Very well. Just keep yourself safe, I do not want you getting killed for some valiant exposure of corruption. Not today. However much he might sometimes lose patience with him, Ethan knew how dangerous Frenshaw’s job was, and he worried about him.

Well, I will do my best, Aston, I promise.

Do that.

They sat quietly for a while. The sounds of the coffee house around them had died down a little – where before there had been raucous talk and laughter, there were only the murmurs of three fellows playing cards in the corner and two ladies talking. In the near silence, the marquess put his cup down and pulled a sour face. It was not just the residual bitterness of the roasted beans, or the grounds that floated at the bottom of the cup, that bothered him, it was his future prospects. If Father mentions marriage to me one more time, I will leave the country. He chuckled. That was a bit melodramatic, he knew, but it was, more or less, how he felt – he was sick of being trotted past eligible ladies as if he was a horse at Ascot.

What? Frenshaw asked, hearing Ethan chuckle.

Nothing, just thinking about … well … my own miseries, I suppose I’d say.

Miseries? Frenshaw drained his coffee and pulled a face. "Dash it all … that tastes horrid. Speaking of misery … yuck."

Ethan could not help laughing. Well, Aston? He asked a moment later. What say you? This misery you were speaking of? What of it?

Ethan shook his head. Well, you know, it is Father and his … well … his insistence on certain requirements. You know how I feel.

Frenshaw nodded while Ethan appreciated that he did not have to be any more explicit than that, Mark knew and understood well enough how Ethan felt about his marriage prospects. Any plans?

The marquess chuckled but said nothing while he looked for the proprietor so they could settle their account.

"Come, Aston, it is not that bad."

That is what you think, my friend. It is not you that must do it.

No, Frenshaw agreed. If my father were to try and interfere in my future, I’d be more likely to be getting a horse, right now, than a wife.

The marquess stared at him and then burst out laughing. A horse! Why?

Well, Frenshaw ran a hand across his face wearily. The thing is, my father wanted me to go into the cavalry, not the Runners. He said it is more, well … more gentlemanly. You know how he is.

So he wants to get you a horse?

That is right, my prospects of marriage are being ceded to my prospects of learning to ride.

Well, if you have to invest in one option, the marquess began, then …

Then I am the poor sod whose father insists on investing in the horse, Frenshaw finished.

They both looked at each other, and then they burst out laughing.

Oh, Frenshaw, Ethan sighed as they both calmed down. I am lucky you are my friend.

"You are lucky I am not your father, or you’d be the one getting the horse."

They both chuckled. The conversation died down the moment a lady and her chaperone arrived, the scent of lavender following them in as they took a seat at the window. The marquess found himself watching the lady absent-mindedly. He thought he might have met her somewhere before – one of the long list of ladies to whom his father had introduced him. Maybe Lady Priscilla? Or was it Lady Bernadette? He reached for the name. As he did, someone interrupted his thoughts.

Aston?

The marquess turned, hearing a voice he half-recognised. Someone tapped his arm.

Who …? Ethan began, turning quickly. He stared at the speaker in utter astonishment. "Benji? It is you? Good grief."

The young man who’d tapped him smiled. You’d think a new hair-cut would not render me so unrecognisable. Yes, it is me. Hello, Aston, good to see you.

Benjie! The marquess surprised himself by being really pleased. He stood and shook the younger man’s hand vigorously. How are you? Are you in town long?

Benjamin Slate smiled, a soft smile on his handsome face. Came up for the season. You know … family obligations, all that. You too?

The marquess pulled a face and Slate laughed.

Well! That seems to be your word on the subject, eh?

Mm. The marquess frowned. Will you join us, Benjie?

No, I’d better not. Father will expect me to be home soon. We are all going out later on … which reminds me, he began.

Yes?

Well, are you coming to Almack’s later?

Almack’s? Not that I know of, Ethan said. There was only a handful of ways to get an invitation to an event at Almack’s Assembly Rooms – one had to know one of the lady patronesses, of whom there were not many. Clearly Slate’s family knew someone. His father likely did too, but had not leveraged an invitation for him, not to this event.

Well, I am sure I could talk to Lady Everett? If you would like to join us?

Well, that depends, the marquess said slowly.

On what?

On whether or not I shall be the only poor fellow standing about.

Slate laughed. You won’t be standing about, Aston. Your problem is more likely to be hiding away from all the ladies trying to persuade you to dance. No, you needn’t worry.

The marquess groaned. Benjie, somehow that doesn’t make me feel any more like attending, but yes, for your company, I’d very much like to be there.

Slate looked pleased. Well, then, I will see what I can do and if I manage to get you in, I will send a card.

You know where I am staying, the marquess nodded.

Aston House?

Indeed.

Ethan’s father had a vast, old-fashioned townhouse in Kensington. He was staying there alone this time – none of the rest of the family had come up for this particular season.

Well, then, Slate nodded. I hope you will be there.

Me too, I suppose.

They both laughed. Slate consulted his watch, and then raised a brow slowly.

Dash it, Aston, I must go, see you soon.

I hope so, the marquess said.

Never doubt it.

When Slate had gone, Ethan sat back with a sigh and Frenshaw frowned at him.

Sorry, Frenshaw, Ethan said. I just … I am not at all sure I want to attend anything this evening … but I have to.

Frenshaw nodded. I understand. Well, I should head back to work. Good to have sat awhile here.

It was, Ethan agreed, smiling. Good luck, Frenshaw.

Frenshaw smiled back. Thanks, Aston. Well. Let me know how the ball at Almack’s goes.

If they let me in.

Your problem will be trying to get out, Aston – not getting in.

The marquess sighed. Possibly. Goodbye, Frenshaw.

Cheer up, do. You never know – you might meet your lady tonight.

Ethan rolled his eyes. I doubt it, Frenshaw, I doubt it.

Even so.

The marquess stayed where he was for a while after Frenshaw had left. He closed his eyes wearily. He had met so many eligible ladies, but none of them had really connected with him in any way. Most were pretty, accomplished and well-mannered, but, they had all seemed a little bland and uninteresting, nevertheless. Oh, come, Ethan!