The Disdainful Marquis Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  The Disdainful Marquis

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  The Disdainful Marquis

  By Edith Layton

  Copyright 2015 by Estate of Edith Felber

  Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1983.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Edith Layton and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The Duke’s Wager

  www.untreedreads.com

  The Disdainful Marquis

  Edith Layton

  For three particular graces:

  Dottie, Gillian, and Renée

  Chapter I

  The pavements were gray, the houses were gray, the very air was gray with cold October fog. Although it was a damp mizzly dank day in London, the fog did have its capricious moments. Here and there it lifted its skirts, or blew in little skirlish puffs to create small pockets of translucence so that anyone who had to be abroad on such a wretched afternoon had at least some small chance of finding their direction. But they had to be quick about it and gain their bearings to head in the right direction before the fickle mists encompassed them completely again. It was altogether a dreadful day for a stranger to be traversing the city, with the fog being so coy and whimsical.

  The inhabitants of the city were used to the weather’s vagaries, in much the same way that they might be used to an eccentric aunt’s changes of mood. Those who had to be up and about traveled the streets with an air of grim tolerance, and they called comments to each other about how she was a right terror again today. But those who could afford to, avoided the outdoors entirely. And so the fog, most democratically covering the city’s length from its most palatial houses to its most wretched stews, ironically only served to point out the undemocratic distribution of wealth and class. The poor groped about the town because they had to, the rich stayed snug at home because they chose to, and the only other travelers were the adventurers.

  The occupants of the hired coach that picked its way through the mist-shrouded streets did not feel like adventurers. The rotund gentleman who kept tapping his neat little well-shod foot against the floorboards and consulting his gold watch and emitting periodic stifled sighs felt put upon, and his every ill-concealed gesture of impatience showed it. He was cold; the damp had crept through the floorboards and the ill-fitting windows of the coach into his very bones. He was bored, traveling through the gray city with nothing but gray vapor showing outside the windows. And he was hungry; his watch clearly showed teatime, just as his stomach had been telling him for the last hour. Yet every time his companion glanced at him, he tucked the watch back into his pocket, put on a brave smile of sweet forbearance, and pretended to gaze out the milky windows with active interest.

  “Poor Arthur,” his companion thought guiltily as she watched him once again check his timepiece and heard another little muffled sigh. She smiled brightly at him and wished again that she felt half so bright as she pretended. In truth, if he felt cold and weary and his every motion showed that he thought himself on a fool’s errand, then she felt colder and wearier because the whole day had been a crashing disappointment. Added to that, she knew she was the fool who had sent him on the errand. But he only suffered boredom and hunger. She was enduring the pangs of crushing defeat.

  It had seemed so reasonable, Catherine remembered, when she had been back at home, carefully penning all the letters to the London employment bureaus, stating her qualifications and expectations of a position. It had seemed so correct a course to take, seeking some kind of genteel position in Britain’s greatest city, so as not to be any further burden upon Arthur or her stepsister now that they were expecting an addition to their family. For despite all their protests to the contrary, she knew that it was not right that they should support not only a new marriage and the coming of a new baby, but also an unwed stepsister as well. And a stepsister who, she felt, could well be able to support herself if only she were not a resident of a little country town. But London! She had been sure she would be able to find a place for herself there. But she hadn’t. And now the coach was taking her to her last interview, her last chance to find a post. For she knew Arthur would never again take her to the City, and never allow her to go by herself. It was propriety and duty that had forced him to come so far with her; if she failed, he would be careful not to say “I told you so” more than a dozen times to her, for he was basically a kind man, but he would never be persuaded to leave Kendal on such a mission again.

  She glanced down again at the small pasteboard card she held tightly in her little gray glove. “Introducing Miss Catherine Robins,” it stated in flourishing script, “to see Her Grace the Duchess of Crewe in reference to a position on Her Grace’s staff.” It was signed, with another discrete flourish, “The Misses Parkinson, Employment Counselors.” It was the last card she had. The other six lay, crumpled and used, deep in her reticule, mute testimony to her failures in the past two days.

  Yesterday, on Catherine’s very first call, Mrs. Oliphant had taken her card, taken one look at her, and screeched, “Oh no, my dear, you’ll never do. Really, you won’t do at all. Why, just take a look at Mum, just have a look. Why, I can’t even lift her when she’s a mind to be propped up for tea in bed. How can a slip of a lass like you do it?”

  And, in truth, Mrs. Oliphant’s mama had just lain there deep in her bed like a beached whale and grinned up in concurrence with her daughter. “Aye,” she had puffed, “my arm’s just the size of your waist, luv,” and she had wheezed with laughter at the look on Catherine’s face when she lifted said member and waved it about.

  “But,” Catherine had gone on gamely, “the agency said you required a lady’s companion, not a nurse.”

  “Nurse!” Mrs. Oliphant replied, affronted. “Mum don’t need a nurse. She’s sharp as a tack just as she always was, but a lady’s companion don’t just sip tea and tattle. No, we need someone to shift her, now and again. Get her up out of bed when the weather suits. Dress her and lead her about now that she’s not too sure on her feet. No, my dear, you’ll never do.”

  “You don’t weigh up, lass,” the older woman had cackled, from her bed. “That’s all. You’ll do when you gain a few stone.
”

  Catherine hadn’t “done” for Miss Coleman either. That aged spinster had given Catherine a few sharp looks and then had said in her crackling voice, “Not suitable. Sorry, Miss Robins, but you’re too young to have one thing in common with me, and I do like to while away the evenings in friendly chatter.”

  She had been “too young” for Mrs. Webster’s great-aunt, and “too inexperienced” for Sir Stephen’s mother-in-law. “Not what we’re looking for,” Mrs. Bartlett had said succinctly, and Lady Brewer hadn’t even given a reason—she had just sighed and said in her fadeaway voice, “Oh, not at all suitable.” And Mrs. White had just given her one gimlet-eyed look and snapped, “Not in this house, my girl. Not with three young sons on the premises. We want an older female to companion my aunt.”

  Catherine sat erect and listened to the horses’ muffled tread. This call was her last, she had left it for last because she had felt that a duchess would be far harder to suit than any mere Mrs. Whites or Mrs. Oliphants. In fact, she had thought not to dare try for the position of a duchess’s companion. But now she had to—it was her last chance. If she failed at that, it would be back to Kendal, back to Jane and Arthur’s little house, there to wait for their children to arrive, to be a dependent till she dwindled to nothing more than a dependent devoted auntie. For she had no finances and no parents, and her birth placed her too high for Kendal’s sheep farmers to aspire to, and her dowry too low for anyone higher. Most of Arthur’s merchant friends were married and even the vicar had a large and hopeful family. No, the duchess was her last chance, she thought, as she sat up straighter and thought frantically of how she could present herself so that she could at last “suit,” and wondered why she had so far failed so ignobly.

  The coachman could have told her. But she was a lady, so he didn’t dare be so cheeky. But when she had loomed up out of the fog to step into his coach, he had, for one moment waxed poetical and thought that in her muted cherry pelisse she had looked like a little robin redbreast come to cheer up London on a dark winter’s day. In that moment’s lapse of fog, her wellspaced sapphire eyes had twinkled up at him, and he had drunk in her fresh white complexion and noted, with approval, one saucy nose, two delightfully red lips, and a cluster of ebony curls beneath her gray bonnet. He had warmed for one moment, just looking at her.

  Her brother-in-law could have told her. All the fellows he knew had tweaked him, from the moment he had married Jane, about the two dashing-looking females he now housed. Jane was well-enough-looking, they had teased, but to have another smashing-looking female under his wing as well was the outside of enough. He had laughed with them, for they meant no harm, but it did give a fellow a sense of well-being to come home to two delightful young women, to be stared at when he promenaded with them, one on either arm, to be waited on after dinner by two attentive and lovely young women. Not that he thought of his sister-in-law in that way, no, that would be most improper. But it was rather a treat to have her around. He would be glad when this job-hunting nonsense was over and she came back to Kendal with him and they could go on just as before, the three of them. As for ever telling Catherine that she was a stunner, that was a thing that just wasn’t done. While Jane might tell him that Catherine took no account of her looks at all, that was too much to ask a fellow to believe.

  But of all the reasons for her failure in obtaining a position that Catherine tortured herself with, her looks were not brought into account at all. She thought raven tresses were commonplace, and bright blue eyes unexceptional, and her complexion ordinary, and her overall appearance unfortunate. She conceded she was not ill favored, but that was all. For Mama had been a pale and stately blonde, and her half-sister, Jane, had also the fair hair and light hazel eyes that were Catherine’s only standard of true feminine beauty. Papa, she remembered from far back in the dim recesses of memory of childhood, had been dark haired and blue eyed. That was well enough for a male, but it was Mama who had been beautiful and feminine and sought after. And Jane, who seemed from her five years’ seniority over Catherine to be the most beautiful of females. Catherine thought of many reasons for her failure as the coach proceeded through the streets of London, things that ranged from wearing the wrong sort of gloves to not speaking clearly or standing straight enough, but never once did the thought of simply being too young and too alarmingly lovely enter her mind. No one, after all, had told her so. Except for Mama and Jane, and they were just being kind. And a few scalawags in the streets over the years, and they were just being rowdy.

  “This is the last call,” Catherine said to Arthur, as she saw him lift the watch out of his pocket again.

  “We’ll finish up early then,” he said, “and go back to the hotel for some tea. Then we’ll leave straight away in the morning, and it won’t be long before we’re all snug at home again.”

  Catherine winced.

  “There is the possibility that this time I might succeed, Arthur.” Only a hint of reproachfulness was in her voice, and Arthur missed it altogether.

  “Oh, aye. Of course there’s that possibility, but it is unlikely. As I said before, some young gently born females have to go out and toil for their livelihoods, and some do get positions. But only after much privation. And then that is only when they are willing to sacrifice some of their, ah, expectations. They get harder, my dear, and they get more worldly-wise. It’s just as well that you discovered this for yourself. Now I think it wasn’t such a bad idea, this trip. Once you’re done with all that air-dreaming, you’ll be happier. As you should be, with a devoted sister, and myself of course, to look after you. You will understand how fortunate you really are, and be content to settle down with us.”

  “I know I am fortunate in you and Jane,” Catherine said as she had said so many times before, “and you do know how grateful I am, but Arthur, can’t you see, I just wanted to do something for myself and not be only a burden?”

  “Burden? Nonsense,” Arthur said, warming to his favorite theme and crossing his hands around his stomach, which Catherine knew was calling for sustenance. She had noticed that Arthur, plump to begin with, was adding to his substance at a pace to almost equal that of Jane, who expected their baby in the spring.

  “As if family could ever be a burden. When I met your sister, I knew of your closeness and never did I expect anything other than your coming to live with us when we wed. I made that clear to Jane at the outset. I have often wished for a large family—it was one of the sorrows of my life that I was an only child. Family is the backbone of the nation.”

  Arthur went on, as he had done so often in the past on the virtues of family, while Catherine looked out the window again, seeing the city slowly pass by, trying to make out the shadowy figures that flitted by on the pavements, and hoping that some wildly wonderful thing would come to pass. Perhaps she might turn out to be the image of dowager duchess’s long-lost sister, or perhaps the dowager had a little dog who would rush to her and the dowager would cry, “If FiFi likes you, the matter is settled. You must come to work at once.” Or perhaps the dowager would be a sweet little old woman who would offer her tea and say, “I know just how difficult this must be for you. I have been looking for some pleasant young woman to keep me company,” or then again she might say…

  “We’re here, miss,” the coachman called.

  Catherine felt her hands turn to ice. And her heart began a faster beat.

  “Arthur. I won’t be long. But if I’m delayed, there’s no need for you to sit here freezing in the coach. Why don’t you go back to the hotel, and I’ll take another hackney back and meet you when I’m done.”

  “Nonsense,” Arthur said staunchly, with an air of seeing things through, as she knew he would. “I’ll wait right here. Can’t have a young female on the loose alone in London. I’ll wait right here. After all, it’s your last call.”

  Catherine shivered at his words and stepped out to the pavement and stared at the imposing entrance of the house before her. The fog had lifted for a moment, ma
king the entrance of gleaming white steps dramatically clear. Catherine swallowed, only to find she had nothing to swallow, and began to walk toward the steps with much the same gait of someone preparing to mount a gallows. Her gaze was so fixed on the door above the street level, the door with the beautiful fanlight glasswork, the door that might either open onto a new future for her, or onto the end to her hopes of independence, that she almost collided with a pair of gentlemen who emerged suddenly from out of a bank of fog.

  “My pardons, miss,” said the closer of the two gentlemen, and after a look at her face, he went on more fulsomely, “a hundred pardons. It’s this confounded fog. One moment the way is clear, the next I’ve almost run you down. Are you all right?”

  As he had not even brushed against her, Catherine could only reply distractedly, “Why yes, quite all right.”

  But the gentleman, dressed, Catherine noted absently, in the first stare of fashion, only stood and gazed at her, bemused.

  A deeper voice intruded.

  “Cyril, the lady is fine. I suggest we move on so that she can reach her destination.”

  Catherine peered up to the speaker, who was so very tall that the fog, in a show of frivolity, shrouded his face as it might a mountain peak. He was dressed in unobtrusive grays that further blended with the day.

  “But, Sinjun,” the other gentleman protested, “I might have done her an injury. Or frightened her, looming up like that, out of the fog. Are you sure you’re unharmed, miss?”

  “Quite sure,” Catherine answered, suspicious of the gentleman’s inclinations to linger, and wondering if Arthur was watching this incident through the coach window. He might get it into his head that she was being molested and spring from the coach and make a scene, and if the duchess heard the altercation, her interview would be over before it began.

  Seeking to end the conversation promptly, and yet not be rude, for these gentlemen might be friends of the duchess, Catherine asked the taller of the two, whom she could not see so well, rather than the shorter, who was staring at her in the most improper fashion, “Is this the Duchess of Crewe’s address? In the fog,” she temporized, “I cannot be sure.”