Page 9 of The Marquess’s Forbidden Bride

‘What excites you about life is somewhat different from what I imagine most ladies prize. I’d call you, not “odd”, but “exceptional”. A painter with plants. I should be very interested to see some of your work.’

For a moment she was speechless, trying to decide if he truly did value her passion, or was only being kind.

As if perceiving her thoughts, he said, ‘I admire—and envy—someone who knows exactly what she wants. Someone so completely comfortable with who she is. Yes, I would love to have you show me your gardens.’

He gave her a smile—not brilliant, bone-meltingly attractive, but something more intimate and confiding. She couldn’t seem to look away, feeling an almost tangible connection hum between them. The bond was underlaid with sensuality—but also something more, something deeper. As if he saw to her deepest soul. And approved of her.

‘He’s moving away, so I think you are safe for now,’ Marsden said, breaking the strangely intense spell. ‘As long as I keep my attentions focused only on the maidens you suggest, I won’t need you to protect me from marriage-minded females. Not possessing important relations or great wealth, I’m not that attractive a candidate.’

‘Don’t deceive yourself!’ she warned. ‘You are a war hero who will inherit a comfortable estate. Which is more than enough for you to be considered a desirable parti by a number of ladies—especially as you are so very handsome.’

‘You think me handsome?’ he asked, giving her a wide-eyed, innocent look.

‘Wretch,’ she said, chuckling. ‘You know very well you are. Now, take me in to dance before I turn you over to Sarah for introductions.’

Later that evening, Emma lingered at the side of the ballroom, chatting, while keeping an eye on Marsden. Hoping he would soon invite her for the promised second dance, she was delighted when, catching her gaze across the ballroom, he nodded and began making his way toward her.

‘I say, is that…yes, I believe it is. Marsden!’ Viscount St Maxwell, the gentleman standing beside her, exclaimed to her last dance partner, Lord Thurton.

‘I wonder what he’s doing in London,’ Thurton said. ‘I thought he was still with the army.’

‘I believe the last of the dragoons have returned from France by now,’ St Maxwell said.

‘Still wearing regimentals, I see. But with the war over, he’ll have to find something else to occupy him,’ Thurton said.

‘Perhaps he’ll set out on a quest to find his “missing” family,’ St Maxwell said, his tone sarcastic. ‘Only imagine who he might turn up!’

‘Thieves or indigent farmhands probably,’ the other replied.

‘What else for the “Bastard of Billingford”?’ St Maxwell added in an undertone, making Thurton titter.

Though uttered softly, the comment was loud enough to reach her ears—as had been intended, to disparage a potential rival for a wealthy maiden’s dowry?

If so, her response wasn’t what the viscount had expected. Incensed on Marden’s behalf, she turned to fix St Maxwell with an icy stare. ‘Hardly appropriate language for a ballroom, sir.’

‘B-begging your pardon, Miss Wellingford,’ the gentleman stuttered.

‘I think you should,’ she snapped, and turned her back on him…to find Lieutenant Marsden halted before her.

He must have overheard the ugly remark, but his pleasant smile didn’t falter. ‘Thurton, St Maxwell. A long time since Oxford, but I see you haven’t changed. Though our company tonight is much more charming than in those long-ago days at Magdalen,’ he added, bowing to the ladies in the group. ‘Miss Wellingford, the next dance is ours, I believe.’

Still fuming, Emma let him lead her away. ‘What dreadful men! Were you truly at Oxford with them?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Scanning his face, that still wore a mask of smiling civility, she said, ‘Didn’t it…bother you? Their scornful remarks?’

Expression still impassive, he shrugged. ‘I learned long ago that if I react, it only makes it worse. Most of my fellow students, both at Eton, where the story of my questionable lineage first came out, and later at Oxford, didn’t give a fig that I didn’t know who my real parents were as long as I was personable, a star batter on the cricket field and had a family who supported me. But there were always a few who thought themselves too high in the instep to associate with someone who could be the offspring of anyone. They sometimes amused themselves speculating on what my father might have been. An itinerant tinker. A night soil man. A grave robber. The town drunk.’

‘I wonder you didn’t use that cricket bat to bash in a head or two.’

‘Oh, no, I’d join them at the game. Suggest he was probably a lost Romany or a North African corsair. I have the colouring for it, after all.’

She laughed. ‘Indeed you do, being a model of blond-haired, blue-eyed perfection. Did that shut them up?’

‘The ones clever enough, as you just were, to comprehend the inference. Many were not. But I survived. School can be a cruel institution. Which was one thing I appreciated about the army. Heirs to property and title being too valuable to endanger, most of the officer corps were the nobility’s younger sons or the offspring of businessmen and craftsmen. Comrades valued you for your bravery, competence and fighting skill, not for who your family was or where you came from.’

‘Like your friends Fenniston and Thornthwaite.’