Mark of The Marquess (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book) Read online

  mark of the marquess

  THE

  VALIANT LOVE

  REGENCY ROMANCE

  a historical romance book

  deborah wilson

  Copyright and About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Wilson

  All Rights reserved.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright and About the Author

  Join Deborah's Reader Club

  Mark of the Marquess

  BOOK LIST ORDER

  mark of the marquess

  0 1

  January 1819

  Manchester, England

  He’d told himself not to read it.

  Though James Hayden IV, the Marquess of Denhallow, had committed many sins and broken nearly every rule that existed in the construct of Society, there were still a few lines he’d never before crossed.

  And one of those lines was opening mail that belonged to another.

  Yet the letter had sat there, in the pile of discarded notes, and he knew Lady Macy would never read it.

  She’d told him so the first time a letter from her great-niece had arrived… and every time since then. She enjoyed going on and one about the girl.

  “Kim writes to me every month and not once in the last four years has she strayed from doing so… never mind that I’ve not replied to any since the first two… much less read them.” Lady Macy had been sitting in her drawing room when she’d said it. Her footman had just delivered the missive from Miss Kimberley Clemens and Lady Macy had placed it on a silver tray—one she’d indicated would be tossed out with anything else she didn’t care to read.

  James had sat back in a chair opposite the woman and crossed his arms. “Why don’t you read them?” he’d finally asked her less than an hour ago.

  Lady Macy was a thin woman whose furs and jewels seemed to weigh a great deal more than she did. She wore her gray hair piled high upon her head, wrapped in pearls and diamonds no matter the day or the occasion.

  She was one of the wealthiest women in the town they resided, and as such, felt it her Christian duty to call upon the ill.

  Lady Macy began visiting James a year ago and had been the first person since he’d been injured who’d managed to look him in the eyes as he spoke. Upon first being introduced, Lady Macy hadn’t been able to hide her reaction at the sight of James, yet her gaze had never skirted from his disfigurement.

  Two years ago, a madman had taken a knife to James’ face and carved him up as though he were nothing more than a holiday pheasant. A doctor, who’d once had ambitions of being a tailor, had worked tirelessly to repair James’ face, yet while the alignment of his cheeks and mouth had returned very close to their natural position, the blade had left ugly marks, engraving James permanently across both cheeks, one gash starting from the center of his forehead and winding down his nose, around his mouth, and to his chin.

  Whenever James looked into the mirror, he felt like a walking puzzle. The pieces matched, yet you would always be able to notice that they had once been separate.

  Lady Macy, in an act of charity, had begun a friendship with James, who’d decided he’d never leave his home again.

  Then, somehow, the older woman had convinced James to come to her. There’d been something about a pain in her hip, though when he’d arrived, he’d seen no sign of her impairment. She’d stood twice and crossed the room to ring for a servant. Both times, James had offered to do it for her, yet both times, she’d done it herself without a wince.

  And then he’d come again and again until…

  She was a friend.

  Somehow, they’d become close—or as close as James would allow anyone these days.

  He’d had very few female friends before the incident that left him too ugly for Society, mainly because he’d been a shameless flirt. Women had served one purpose in his life. They were for sport, whether that be bedding or watching their reaction to his odiously sexual remarks.

  A few ladies of the court had seen through his act. Lady Valiant, the Duchess of Cartelle, had declared him a friend years ago, and therefore, had been indifferent to his vile comments.

  Now he had Lady Macy.

  And as James stared at the letter on his desk, he was hesitant to betray her.

  This letter had been for Lady Macy, not him.

  Yet… he was lonely.

  So, when Lady Macy had turned to call a footman, James had taken the letter and slipped it into his pocket. It had burned hot while he’d rode through the winter frost, over a steep hill, and through a white clearing, at speeds as though the devil were at his heels.

  Once he’d entered Nixgrove Manor, the place his family had called home for over a hundred years, he’d gone to his office and sat. Taking the letter from his pocket, he’d placed it on his desk and stared at it harder and longer than he’d ever gazed at any of the great art pieces that hung on the manor walls.

  His heart raced. The letter was so innocent within itself, yet for a man who’d been starving for attention for two years, the missive might as well have been a nude woman holding a bushel of grapes by the vine over his mouth.

  Yes. It was that tempting.

  He lifted the note and touched it to his nose.

  It smelled of peppermint.

  Like Lady Macy.

  He frowned and put it down, not because the scent was unpleasant, but because it furthered his guilt.

  Lady Macy had rolled her eyes when he’d asked her why she didn’t read the letters. “Kim doesn’t actually care to write to me. Her mother, my niece, forces her to.” She’d leaned forward and locked her gray eyes with his own. Those eyes had often reminded him of the gems around her throat. Strong. Unyielding. “You see, four years ago, I paid for Kim’s schooling and now her mother sees it only fair that Kim should write to me.” Lady Macy had frowned. “As though I am in need of letters that were forced upon me. No, thank you. I have more pressing society obligation than those from a strikingly beautiful young girl of twenty and five who’d likely rather be doing something else with her time.”

  It had bothered James just how much he needed the letters. Any letter. Aside from his visits from Lady Macy— and from his man of business, Mr. Jacobson— he had no one.

  Mainly because he’d pushed all his former friends away.

  Last year, Lady Valiant had written
to him. She’d invited him to join her family at her brother, the Duke of Ayer’s castle for Twelfth Night. Her other brother, Lord Lore, who was one of James’ best mates, had done the same.

  They’d invited him this year as well.

  He’d rejected the invitation, not even bothering to give them a response.

  Lore had come once, but it had been right after the incident. James had been in so much pain he’d been a bull and had driven his friend from the house.

  Now, all he had was Lady Macy.

  And the letter.

  The envelope was addressed to Lady Macy in a hand that seemed to hold a delicate flourish.

  It wasn’t right that Lady Macy didn’t even bother to read her great-niece’s missives and hadn’t in years.

  Lady Macy had said Miss Kim was twenty-five. To most, that was by no means young.

  Was she married? The lady had not said. She rarely spoke of Kim, or Kimberley, as he knew her true name to be, unless it was to comment about the arrival of another letter.

  While James held no hope that the letter would transform his life in any meaningful way, he did believe it should be read.

  What if the woman had worked very hard on it?

  It didn’t seem right that one should put effort into something that went unappreciated.

  And here James was.

  Alone.

  Desperate for anything to awaken him from the perpetual dreariness that had become his days as an outcast.

  Most of the ton had always thought James socially unacceptable.

  Why change that now?

  Plucking the seal of the letter, he opened it.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 2

  Part twelve on my dissertation on why life would be better as an animal.

  I present to you, the bee…

  James found that the oddest way to begin a letter.

  And, he admitted, he was not very inclined to learn about bees. Perhaps, Lady Macy had been in her right mind to cease reading her niece’s missives.

  But James had already broken the seal. He had to go on.

  1.They make honey. Who doesn’t like honey?

  2.They can fly.

  3.One just so happened to sting Lord Louvell at the picnic last year and though the event took place so long ago, it is still a memory I treasure to this day.

  James arched a brow, intrigued at how quickly this letter had turned. It was clear Miss Kim didn’t like this Lord Louvell. James had never heard of him.

  It’s a shame bees die in winter. Otherwise, I’d surround the house with them in the hopes that Lord Louvell would stay away. Charles believes I should be kinder, since Lord Louvell is our nearest and wealthiest neighbor.

  But truly, I don’t know what my brother could be going on about. I am very kind to Lord Louvell.

  I smile when I do not wish to.

  I ask after his day.

  I pretend not to notice the drool that appears at the corners of his lips while he gazes down my dress.

  To be any kinder, I’d have to sit on the man’s lap, which I’m sure he’d no doubt enjoy.

  James threw his head back and laughed.

  And he learned a second thing about Kim. It was clear she knew her great-aunt did not read these letters.

  Instead of a missive, it was almost like reading a page from the woman’s private journal.

  He should stop. Truly, he should.

  But she’d mailed it. Surely, she’d have known the possibility that someone would read it.

  Or perhaps, I should be truly shameless and strip nude before him.

  That would teach my family!

  Mama, of course, would faint. Charles would lock me in my room with nothing more than bread and water for the rest of my life. I’d be alone except for my million thoughts, paper, and ink and without friends or entertainment to fill my time. I’d be forced to write to you.

  And I’m sure neither of us wishes that.

  So, for both our sakes, I will refrain…

  James continued to laugh as he turned the page over.

  Mama wishes me to make note that Charles is finally making some money off that investment in the canal you suggested four months ago. Oh, but wait. That suggestion didn’t come from you at all, did it?

  It was mine.

  Oh, well. It’ll be our secret.

  Or rather, my secret.

  Much like the entirety of this letter.

  If only she knew.

  “Now, it is our secret,” James whispered to the room.

  Now that Charles is on his way to becoming quite wealthy and is making plans to be a dandy, I asked him if I could buy a muff this winter. I haven’t had one since I was a very young girl. I was not at all surprised when he recommended that I wed and ask my husband for such finery.

  Ha!

  James imagined his little writer’s fingers getting cold, without protection against the December winds, and didn’t enjoy the thought.

  Mama said I may get a muff next winter… if I am not married by the end of the Season. As usual, Mama complains that I’ve wasted the education you’ve paid for by not having presented myself to the queen and officially made my bow as soon as I was out of the schoolroom, but Papa was ill… and who could think about the steps to a dance in London while their father lay dying in Leeds?

  Leeds was not far from Manchester, just east and slightly north.

  James’ father had died when he was young. And still, James had spent most of his time away from home. There had been Eton and then Oxford after that. But he still had a few fond memories of the man who’d given him his name and title.

  I am not looking forward to going to London. The city has never had any appeal to me. Do you suppose you could write my mother and ask that I visit you instead?

  I’ll wait for your response. I’m sure it’ll come on the wings of pigs.

  With not even an ounce of sincerity,

  Miss Kimberley Clemens

  James put the letter down on the table and then tapped his fingers beside it.

  “No,” he whispered to himself when the thought to write back rose from somewhere deep inside his chest.

  Kimberley Clemens clearly thought no one would never read the letter. She likely knew her aunt tossed them into the fire without a passing thought.

  It’s not your place.

  Gentlemen were not to write women, especially ones they didn’t know.

  Kimberly had sent the letter to her great-aunt.

  Not him.

  Yet she’d made a request for funds for a muff.

  He should tell Lady Macy to send the money.

  But then… he’d have to tell Lady Macy that he’d not only stolen the letter but had taken great pleasure in reading it.

  He could send the money anonymously.

  But what if she didn’t accept the money?

  It would be indecent to do so.

  But if he sent a muff… anonymously.

  That’s what he would do.

  But then again… Why be anonymous when he could be someone else?

  He could write her and hope—pray—she wrote him back.

  He’d accept a simple thank you for the muff.

  Anything really.

  But even if she didn’t write, at least he would be doing something. It would be a break from the nothingness that had become his way of life.

  He pulled out a paper and began to write.

  Dear Miss Kimberley Clemens

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 3

  Miss Kimberley Clemens pressed her hands underneath the folds of her arms as her friend and sister-in-law Lady Sarah climbed onto the sled behind her. After treading through the snow and carrying a metal and wooden sled up a great rise for the last hour, the women were finally ready.

  Down below, the white field faded into to a frozen lake, that when really cold and with great speed, would carry the sled for yards across the frozen water, allowing the women to glide and laugh as the frosty wind wrapped arou
nd their faces.

  They’d waited all month for the lake to be solid enough to hold them and had inspected the hill during the fall for any holes that would ruin their descent, just as they’d done every year since they were ten.

  During the summer, many came to picnic on the hill, as it had a great view of the city of Leeds. Yet come fall, everyone knew.

  The hill belonged to Kimberley Clemens and Sarah Scott—now Clemens.

  Kim always felt a little nervous whenever she was at the top of the hill. Once the sled started, it could not be stopped. Her brother Charles had taught them how to be careful, but when he’d become what he called ‘too old for childish games,’ he’d left the hill to the women.

  Sarah wrapped her arms around Kim’s waist. The addition of Sarah’s body gave Kim the warmth she needed to uncover her hands.

  As had been her way since the winter Charles took his last trip down the hill, Sarah asked, “When will be we be too old for this childish game?” She enjoyed teasing her husband even when he was not about.

  And, as usual, Kim grabbed the edges of the sled, leaned forward, and whispered, “Never.”

  The slight bend in her body gave them all the push they needed.

  The sled rocked forward and then Kim’s stomach dropped. Her mouth opened, and she screamed as the women went coasting down the hill.

  Sarah’s arms tightened around her as her own voice rose over the whistling of the chilling wind.

  It went on for what seemed like forever.

  Then they were on the lake, and the screams turned to laughs as Kim bent left and the sled began to spiral.

  It was the most exhilarating fun she had all year. Nothing beat the freedom of falling and spinning.

  Kim closed her eyes and soaked in the motion. For long moments, she stopped existing as she was and became something more.

  When the sled began to slow—which always saddened her—Kim stretched her hands to the sky.

  The thinness of her gloves allowed the bitter cold to touch her flesh, but she didn’t care.

  Just one more minute.