“I beg to differ with you. As for me not knowing the difference between one woman and another-” his brows rose-“I am an authority on the subject.”
“Kindly don’t remind me,” she said, half pettishly, half teasing because he was lying beside her in all his godlike splendor with his lazy, sardonic smile directed at her. “I would much prefer you were a virgin.”
He laughed. “Surely, you jest. You like to play-admit it.”
“Perhaps…just a little.”
“More than a little.” He grinned. “I have had to utilize all my-if I do say so myself-considerable resources to keep you happy.”
“And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
He smiled. “The feeling’s mutual, believe me. In fact, I’m feeling all warm and cozy when I’m usually looking for the nearest exit. It must be a sign. So what do you say?” He’d spent his life taking risks. “Come darling, Fortune sides with him who dares. And what do you have to lose? Life with your aunt?”
She sat up as though if she were upright, she would be more rational. “You wish me to elope with you on a dare?”
“You were cautious once-and lost,” he gently noted. “Think of that.”
She had been; he was right. And the years since then had offered her little. “So I should throw caution to the winds?” she whispered.
He smiled. “The scandal sheets would be pleased if you did.”
“Because I have brought the infamous Ormond to heel?”
He grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better. We will save the editions for our grandchildren to see.”
“Grandchildren?”
“Believe me, I’m as surprised as you. I’ve never wanted children; I’ve been scrupulously cautious as you know. And suddenly the notion of your children-our children-” he smiled-“pleases me. Say yes and I will see that we are married.”
“Just like that?”
“Say, yes.”
“I don’t know-”
Reaching up, he stopped her protest with a finger to her mouth. “Yes-say it.”
She saw something in his eyes that she’d never seen even with John whose memory she’d cherished for so long. It was a wild and heady consciousness that life was for living and Ormond was offering himself to her in all his prodigal beauty and entanglements.
If she but had the nerve.
“You are rash,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“And headstrong.”
He nodded.
“Bold and audacious, too,” she murmured, uncertainty in her voice and eyes.
“But I will make you happy.” He was not a man who harbored doubts. “Now, say it,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms so his scent filled her nostrils, so his breathtaking beauty overwhelmed her-so she could no longer pretend she didn’t want what he wanted.
“Yes.”
It was the smallest, most trifling of sounds, but he heard it with the clarity of thunderous artillery. “Don’t move,” he muttered, quickly kissing her before leaping out of bed and bellowing for his valet.
They were married in the drawing room three hours later, the bride attired in a sumptuous gown of gold-embroidered lace, the groom point-de-vice in somber black. The minister had been dragooned from the king’s own household, the witnesses Ormond’s servants, the special license signed by the bishop of London.
It was a quiet affair, but joyous in every respect for the bride and groom knew better than most that happiness was exceedingly rare in the world.
They were grateful beyond measure.
The scandal sheets were even more grateful.
Every detail of Ormond’s life was hashed and rehashed in the following fortnight, while his new bride was portrayed as a sorceress of mesmerizing charms to have bewitched the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom.
Not that the Viscount or Viscountess Ormond paid any mind to the tittle and tattle that passed for amusement in the ton.
They were at the viscount’s country house, busy making babies.
MISCHIEF AND THE MARQUESS by Sylvia Day
To Kate Duffy, who saw that I was lost
and showed me the way.
Thank you, Kate.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my critique partner, Annette McCleave (www.AnnetteMcCleave.com), for her help, and to my friend Renee Luke for the much appreciated support.
Chapter One
Northamptonshire, 1817
For most men, spinsters were a breed of female to be avoided at all costs, and under any other circumstances the Marquess of Fontaine would be in hearty agreement with that sentiment. But not in this circumstance. And not in regard to this particular spinster.
“The years have been kind to her,” the Dowager Lady Fontaine said, peering out the window beside him. “She is more beautiful than before, despite all that she has suffered.”
“It pleases me to hear that,” he murmured, his gaze locked on the willowy figure strolling through his rear garden.
He wished he could see her face, but it was shielded from the sun by a wide brim hat and the distance from the second floor window to where she stood made the cataloging of finer details impossible. Lady Sophie Milton-Riley had been barely a woman the last time they met, soft and sweet with a penchant for mischief that had once goaded him to say, “Why can you never be serious?” To which she had replied, “Why can you never relax?”
She seemed too serious now. She once traversed rooms with an elegant glide that forced him to stare and covet, but her present stride appeared to be confident, sure, and firmly grounded.
“How long will they be visiting?” he asked.
“Presently, a fortnight. But this is the first occasion Lady Sophie has ventured away from home since the scandal. I cannot be certain they will stay the duration.”
Sophie had come with her grandmother, who was in collusion with his mother in this poorly veiled matchmaking scheme. The two women had been the best of friends for as long as he could remember. He was certain that in their minds the joining of their progeny in marriage was absolute perfection. Once, he had thought so, too. Back when he was a young lad hopelessly infatuated with the vivacious Sophie. Her feelings for him had been nowhere near as amorous, however, and when she had come of age, it was Lord Langley who had won her favor and her promise to wed.
“If you had not been so rude as to avoid their arrival,” his mother said with undisguised chastisement, “you might have made her feel more welcome.”
“You told me of their arrival only moments before the fact. It would have been far more appalling for me to greet them when I was mud-stained.”
His mother could say nothing to that without admitting more than she wished to. The truth was, she had feared his refusal and so had hidden her actions. He understood why she had resorted to subterfuge, but the precaution was unnecessary. Sophie was welcome here. He held no ill will toward her and wished her nothing but happiness.
The marquess turned away from the velvet-framed window. “My presence is required in London, so I will be departing tomorrow.”
“You will not.”
He arched a brow. His blond hair was a maternal trait, as were his blue eyes. His mother’s angelic features were hardly touched by time and she remained a lauded beauty, the liberal strands of gray in her tresses adding maturity to her youthful appearance. Today she had dressed in soft pink, and she looked not much older than his score and ten years.
“Why must you be so difficult?” she lamented, shaking her head.
“You had a spouse and two sons. How can you not understand the duress placed upon a male alone in the company of three females?”