Miss Featherton's Christmas Prince

Book 8: Marriage Game

by Ella Quinn

Genres: Historical Fiction; Holiday books; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Ella Quinn’s wealthy, titled bachelors think they're immune to romantic notions. Yet no matter how they try to evade it, love somehow finds a way... In the two seasons since her triumphant debut, Meg Featherton's heart has been tested to its limits. Her first suitor: a criminal. The second, a cad. For her third act, Meg vows to leave love completely out of the marriage equation. She has set her sights on a newly made viscount whom she could take or leave. However, now she must avoid his handsome, roguish, irresistible best friend like the plague. It’s no easy feat, as they are all attending the same house party… Damon, Marquis of Hawksworth, cannot imagine why Miss Featherton seems so damn disinterested—or why he cares so terribly much. Certainly Meg is a fine wifely prospect for a man in his position, but more than that, he finds he longs for her as he has never done for another woman. She may be determined to protect her heart, but Damon is equally set on winning her over, one delicious kiss at a time...

Release date: November 10, 2015

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 280

Sample

Featherton House, London, Late Autumn 1817

Miss Margaret Elizabeth Lucinda Featherton, second daughter of Viscount Featherton, glanced down at the missive in her lap. The letters were rounded, much like a child’s would be, but the spelling and grammar were correct.

The first time she had received such a letter, the warning had concerned her last suitor, the Earl of Swindon. She shuddered at how close she had come to marrying such a monstrous man. A heaviness lodged in her chest, making it hard to breathe. What would she discover about Tarlington?

The following morning at half past six, Meg and her maid, Hendricks, sallied forth as if taking their usual early stroll in Hyde Park. However, instead of walking down Charles Street toward the Park they headed in the opposite direction to Hay Hill, then on to Bond Street and hailed a hackney.

The day was cool but sunny. A clean, crisp scent, which reminded her of newly-harvested apples, unusual for London, filled the air. Trees were showing off their brilliant autumn colors. It was altogether too pretty a day for their mission. Meg was tempted to go back and hide in her chamber as if she had never received the missive. Yet if she did, she could end up wed to a man as bad as or worse than Swindon.

Twenty minutes later, she and her maid were situated two houses down from Twenty-Three Basil Street. The town house consisted of three stories and a cellar area. Flowers in pots stood on either side of the well-maintained front door. The brass knocker gleamed as if polished regularly.

Hendricks drew back the leather shade in the hackney, keeping watch on the house as Meg pressed back against the thin, poorly cushioned squabs. She resisted the urge to pleat her skirts, which would surely draw a rebuke from her maid, and waited.

Wondering if, yet again, she had fallen in love with a fiend.

After several minutes, she shifted on the hard bench. Two women carrying baskets hurried past the coach, staring at the vehicle as they went. If Meg and Hendricks remained here much longer, they would begin attracting attention.

Frustrated with waiting, Meg blew out a puff of air. “Do you see anything yet?”

“No.” Her maid started to shake her head, then stopped. “Oh, wait. The door is opening.”

Finally. She slid to the other side of the hackney and glanced out the window. A handsome gentleman with curling dark blond hair stepped out of the town house holding an infant. Lord Tarlington smiled down at the woman standing next to him, who clutched the hand of a small child still in skirts. For a moment the smile appeared to be the same as the ones he had given Meg on numerous occasions. Then his smile deepened and his face lit with love as he embraced the woman before kissing her and handing her the baby. As the woman’s hand rose, a glint of gold on the third finger of her left hand appeared.

Married! The cur was already wed!

Fury swept through her. The pain in her breast deepened as her heart broke into sharp shards. How could she have been so gullible to fall in love with a man who so obviously did not return her affections and was not even free to give them?

Unable to watch any longer, she slid back to the other side of the coach. Lord Tarlington might not be the ogre Swindon was, but he had lied to her and had deceived her, and, worst of all, he had pretended to love her. For that she would never forgive him.

“That snake!” Hendricks’s outraged gasp broke the silence. “And he just spoke to your father yesterday.”

“It would appear”—Meg’s throat closed painfully, but she refused to give in to the tears threatening to fall—“that he has a previous commitment. One he has kept well hidden.” Reaching up, she knocked on the roof of the carriage. “Take us to Gunter’s.”

The famous ice cream shop was located at the other end of Berkeley Square from her house. They would leave the hackney there, thus disguising the direction they’d come from anyone at her house.

A deep line formed between her maid’s brows. “What will you do now, miss?”

Take the only action she could under the circumstances. “I shall write to him, refusing his offer, and instruct Benson that I am not at home to his lordship.”

“Mark my words, miss. He’ll try to see you.”

“I do not think he will.” Despite the fact that unmarried ladies were not supposed to be aware of secret wives, or lovers, she had every intention of telling him she knew of his.

Then again, she had been receiving quite an education. Her “friend” seemed to be extraordinarily conversant with Meg’s suitors. It was as if she had a real guardian angel.

Last Season, she had discovered Lord Swindon had whipped his mistress almost to death. She could never even have imagined such a thing was possible. Then her friend had written with an offer for Meg to meet the woman, Rose. She had turned out to be younger than Meg, with red hair and green eyes. Rose had dropped her robe. Scars covered her back and buttocks. If Meg had not seen the damage done to the young woman, she most likely would not have believed it. Her stomach twisted into a knot as she thought of the hell her life would have been if she had wed Swindon.

She applied herself to her current dilemma. The hard part would be explaining to her parents why she was turning down yet another offer. One she had initially received with enthusiasm. As when she had visited the courtesan, Meg would never be able to disclose her trip to the Basil Street house. Even her fairly liberal parents would certainly not approve of her conduct.

A half hour later, she and Hendricks completed a brisk stroll around the square before arriving home. As Meg and her maid made their way up the front steps, the door opened, and her father’s butler bowed. “A good walk, miss?”

“Very good indeed, Benson.” She removed her bonnet. “If Lord Tarlington calls, I am not at home.”

Meg was quite sure that the entire household down to the newest tweenie knew of the proposal, but Benson did not reveal his surprise by even a twitch of his eyelashes. “Very well, miss.”

Upon entering her chamber, she handed Hendricks her gloves and bonnet, then went straight to her desk, pulling out a piece of pressed paper before sitting to write her letter to his lordship.

Meg held her hand steady, being careful not to leave smudges or any other indication of her distress.

She sanded the letter, reading it over again before applying her seal. It was better that she had used the term lover rather than wife. She did not want to leave him room to argue. That ought to do it. “Hendricks, please arrange to have this delivered to Lord Tarlington.”

“Yes, miss. I’ll ring for tea.”

Tea, the answer to all ills. “Thank you.”

The door clicked shut, and Meg clutched her handkerchief, waiting for the tears she had been keeping at bay to come, but after one lone drop rolled down her cheek, her eyes dried. Perhaps she had become used to betrayal. She supposed she should be grateful that her guardian angel was watching over her. For some reason she seemed to attract the wrong type of gentleman. If only she did not wish to marry. The problem was that being a spinster held no lure for her. Yet, perhaps it was time to give up on love in a marriage. She could search for an amiable, undemanding gentleman to wed, have her children, and live a comfortable, if unexciting, life.

The tears finally came, streaming down her face in a torrent as her heart crumbled into dust.

The following morning, Lucinda, Dowager Viscountess Featherton, sat in her favorite chair directly in front of the fireplace in the Featherton House breakfast room. “Did you tell Meg she could not accept Tarlington?”

Her son David, the current Viscount Featherton, glanced up from his newspaper. “It wasn’t necessary. She sent a note to me first thing this morning, informing me that she had decided that she and Tarlington wouldn’t suit.”

Lucinda raised her brows so that she would appear surprised, and in an innocent voice said, “How fortuitous. No doubt she felt something was wrong.”

“I would take her home,” her daughter-in-law Helena said, “but if she leaves on the heels of Tarlington departing Town, it is bound to appear odd.”

Lucinda carefully spread apricot marmalade on her toast so that it completely covered the small piece of bread she held. “Indeed it would. You are correct. It is much better for her to remain in Town for another week or so.” That would also give the match she wished for Meg time to bloom. “Poor girl. Perhaps next Season she will finally meet the gentleman for her.”

Last spring, at the prompting of her good friend Constance, Dowager Duchess of Bridgewater, Lucinda had hired a Bow Street runner. Constance’s nephew had made a cryptic remark about the Earl of Swindon, which caused her suspicions to rise. What they discovered prompted them to warn her granddaughter. Then this autumn, when Meg appeared to be forming an attachment to Tarlington, Lucinda had hired the same runner, simply to ensure that there was nothing wrong with the man. Unfortunately, it appeared he had either contracted a marriage with an ineligible woman, or allowed his mistress to pretend to be his wife. In either case, he clearly would not do for Meg. Lucinda sighed. She wished she could have simply told Meg, but what young lady in love would listen? And her daughter-in-law would not have appreciated that Meg knew of such depravities.

“Without your assistance.” Helena’s tone was dry and a bit hard.

“Oh yes. I have learned my lesson,” Lucinda lied.

Last spring she, Constance, and their dear friend Almeria Bellamny, had arranged a match between Lucinda’s grandson Kit and Constance’s granddaughter Lady Mary.

Although successful in the end, there had been problems, and Helena had not been best pleased with Lucinda or her friends. That was just before Constance had told them about Lord Swindon. Thankfully, no one had traced the notes Lucinda had sent to her son or granddaughter back to her. Not that she had written the letters herself.

After the Swindon debacle, Lucinda, Constance, and Almeria made a list of eligible gentlemen, and had found the very man to win Meg’s heart: Damon, Marquis of Hawksworth, heir to the Duke of Somerset. He was handsome, honorable, had a good fortune of his own, and in need of a wife. All Lucinda and her friends had to do was throw them together for a long enough period of time and the two young people would realize they were made for each other. The only problem was that Meg had fallen in love with Tarlington before Hawksworth had had time to fix his attentions with her. It was not until later that Lucinda had discovered Meg had met Tarlington during a visit to her maternal grandmother in Bath. Lucinda hoped that Hawksworth would now have his chance to win her heart.

Later that day, she waited in her carriage while one of her footmen knocked on the door of Bridgewater House. Within a few short minutes, Lucinda was bowed into a warm parlor and was pleased to find Almeria, Lady Bellamny, already present. “Well, the deed is done.”

“Excellent.” Almeria’s remaining chin juggled as she nodded. She had been on a reducing diet, and it appeared to be working. “I sent the invitation to Hawksworth before I came here.”

“How did Meg take the news?” Constance asked.

“Badly.” The sobbing Lucinda had heard coming from her granddaughter’s chamber had broken her heart.

When she and her friends had hatched this plan, she had not realized Meg would be dealing with double betrayals, nor how hard she would take this latest matter. Lucinda was very much afraid that her granddaughter would be much more difficult to coax into marriage than Hawksworth. Nevertheless, both of them needed to be settled before his father decided to take the matter of Hawksworth’s marriage in hand, and so they would be.

Damon Hawksworth lounged against a convenient pillar in Lady Cowper’s crowded ballroom. A glass of wine dangled from his fingers. Directly across from him, another brittle smile appeared on Miss Margaret Featherton’s normally happy countenance. Her latest suitor, the Earl of Tarlington, was nowhere to be seen and had not been for the past two days or so. Rumor had it that he had gone to the Continent. The only question Damon had was whether she had given the man his congé or if it had been the other way around. He rather thought something had occurred to cause her to break it off with Tarlington. His godmother would know. If anyone knew the inner workings of the ton, it was Almeria Bellamny.

Ever since Rupert, Earl of Stanstead’s wedding, when she had introduced him to Miss Featherton, he had developed a fascination for the lady. Her intelligence was sharp, and several times he had seen her hold back a witty retort. Her beauty was not at all in the usual mode. Her mouth was too wide for the current fashion, yet it complemented her high cheekbones and finely arched black brows. Her thick, dark chestnut hair almost begged him to run his fingers through her tresses as they tumbled down. Yet for some reason, the feature he was most fond of was her completely straight nose with a rounded tip. More importantly, she was poised beyond her years. He doubted she had ever been a missish young lady. Even when they had argued over an interpretation of poetry, she had always appeared in complete control and secure in her knowledge.

Now, her polite smile belied the look of despair in her blue eyes. It was as if she was slightly adrift and was only going through the motions until she could retire to the country. Well, with Tarlington gone, Damon wasn’t fool enough to wait until some other gentleman snatched her up. He would gladly rescue her and help her on the path he wished for them. Dancing was a start. She would have held the best sets for Tarlington, and now they would be Damon’s.

Pushing himself off the pillar, he handed his glass to a passing footman and crossed the room.

“Miss Featherton?” He bowed. “Would you by chance have a free dance?”

Her beautiful eyes, the color of a mountain lake, were shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept much recently. “You may have the supper dance, my lord.”

“I am honored.” He bowed again before taking his leave.

This was worse than he’d thought. Whatever had happened between Tarlington and Miss Featherton, she was not unaffected, and that was an unwanted dilemma. Damon would have to see how the set went before he formulated his strategy for winning her. Glancing around, he saw an old school friend. “Throughgood, I thought you were still touring Europe.”

“Just got back.” He held out his hand. “You heard about my uncle and cousin?”

“I did, and I’m sorry for your loss.” The deaths had raised his father to the Earl of Grantville, and Throughgood to the courtesy title of viscount.

“Good men, both of them. What the devil made them decide to get in one of those blasted hot air balloons together, I’ll never know. In any event, m’father decided I needed to come home and learn estate management. Makes my head ache, so I bolted to Town for a week or so before the Season ends.”

Although Damon had studied estate management with his father’s steward, he had never been given the opportunity to put any of his ideas into practice. His father had made it very clear he did not want him meddling, and had in fact made Damon’s oldest half-brother, Frank, factor. The old man had probably hoped that Damon would never return from the war. Then his brother would be the heir.

At this rate, he would inherit the dukedom and have no idea what to do. He could well imagine how Throughgood, having been raised all over the world, felt. But he was lucky to have such a farsighted father. “You’ll soon get the knack of it.”

“I suppose it can’t be harder than Russian.” Chuffy’s tone was doleful, then he brightened. “By the way, I wanted to tell you that I got to Greece and gave the letter of introduction you gave to me to your cousin—capital fellow, by the way. Why is it you never tell anyone you’re a prince?”

Because his father always said an heir to an English dukedom was more important than a foreign prince, and he had only just discovered it a year or so ago. His mother used to call him her little prince, but it had never entered his mind it was more than an endearment. “There are far fewer British dukes than there are Greek princes. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to anyone.”

Throughgood tapped his nose. “My lips are sealed.” He took out his quizzing glass and focused on the jewel-embedded heels of Damon’s dress shoes. “That is an interesting conceit. Are they real or paste?”

He glanced down. “Paste.”

“I have a bit of trouble thinking of you as a Dandy.”

“Apparently I cannot fool my oldest friends. Nick Beresford said the same thing. To be honest, I am bored to death. So I decided to see how much havoc I could cause among the Dandy set. I am pleased to say I have become a leader.”

Throughgood rolled his eyes, then suddenly glanced around. “Speaking of sets, what set is this?”

“I don’t know.” Damn, how did he forget to keep count? “There is a young lady glaring in this direction.”

“Oh, that’s m’sister. It must be the supper dance. Mother won’t allow her to waltz with anyone but family yet. In exchange, she promised to have me introduced to Miss Hiller. Friend of a friend or some such thing.”

“Miss Hiller?” Damon was fairly sure he had been made known to all the single ladies, but did not remember the name.

“She is the blond lady in the pink gown.”

Damon followed the direction his friend indicated to a plump young lady. “I do not believe I know her.”

“No?” Throughgood grinned again. “I shall count myself fortunate. You’re a much more dashing fellow than I.”

“She squints.”

“Probably needs eyeglasses.” His brows drew together, meeting in the middle. “No reason to hold it against her. My eldest sister used to go around without them, and she squinted. Besides”—he glanced her way again—“I like a lady in eyeglasses.”

“In that case, I wish you luck.” As his friend sauntered off, Damon strode to Miss Featherton. She, however, was so distracted she appeared not to notice he was late. “Miss Featherton.”

She gave him a polite smile that did not meet her eyes. “My lord.”

He wanted to hold her, and kiss her, and tell her he could take away her pain. Instead he led her to where the other couples were taking their places, placed his hand on her waist, and stopped.

This would never do. They would be struggling for conversation, and she clearly did not care if she danced or not. “Why do we not take the air instead?”

This time her smile was warmer. “Thank you.”

Damon sent a footman for her shawl, and they strolled to the French windows. A few moments later, he draped the fine blend of wool and silk over her shoulders, once again wishing he could hold her in his arms. “You look as if you have a bit of a headache.”

“I do, a little.”

Placing her fingers on his arm, he opened the window. The air was brisk, but not uncomfortable, as they stepped out and ambled along the narrow terrace. “How much longer will you remain in Town?”

“This is our last week. All the major entertainments are already over, and there is no reason to stay any longer.”

“Do you have plans for Christmas?” If only he could get Miss Featherton to tell him everything that was bothering her, he would know how to approach his courtship.

She glanced up at him, but it was too dark to read her look. “I have not yet decided. I have been invited to a house party.”

Damon wondered if he had the resources to discover to whose estate she had been invited, then procure an invitation for himself. “I’ve been told that I am a good listener. If there is anything that is bothering you, I would be happy to assist.”

Unsurprisingly, she shook her head. “I am merely ready for the Season to be over.”

Well, what had he expected? That she would throw herself into his arms and tell him all her problems? Not Miss Featherton. He kept up a steady stream of inane conversation so that she would not have to exert herself. There must be some way to win her hand and her heart. Damon was sure of only one thing: He would not stop trying until he did both. He could be a patient man. If the siege of Badajoz hadn’t cracked his reserve, neither would Miss Featherton.

Meg listened to Lord Hawksworth’s conversation, nodding or giving the expected answer when she was called to do so. He was a prominent member of the Dandy set, which did not recommend him to her. She found them much more interested in their fashions, valets, and tailors than anything else. She remembered the argument they had had over one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, at a wedding they had attended not long ago. He had a keen mind, yet it appeared he rarely exercised it, except when it came to his clothing.

Still, aside from that, there was something about the man that was off. As if he was pretending to be something he was not. That alone caused her to keep even more distance between them. She would like to think that kindness had made him ask if she simply wished to talk, except he appeared to be holding the conversation without much help from her. She stifled a sigh; men always wanted to talk about themselves, and he was no different. She would be glad when the evening ended, and she could retreat to her room.

The following day was her mother’s at home. Normally Meg enjoyed being able to visit without going from house to house. To-day, however, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions regarding Lord Tarlington and her, and she couldn’t wait until it was over. What made all this worse was that she could not even tell her closest friend, Miss Amanda Hiller, the reason she had refused his lordship. An unmarried lady’s ears were not to be sullied with words such as secret wife, mistress, or, heaven forfend, sadist. If Meg said anything, her friend was sure to tell Mrs. Hiller, and she would never allow Amanda to speak with Meg again. Worse, the woman would tell Mama, then Meg would have to explain how she knew about those things. Still, she wished she could confide in someone.

It was pure luck that Amanda had never cared for Lord Swindon and had been relieved when Meg broke the connection. However, Tarlington seemed to embody Amanda’s ideal of the perfect gentleman, and she would want to know how Meg could have rejected him. She would have to think of something close to the truth yet vague enough not to invite any questions.

After being announced, Mrs. Hiller entered the drawing room followed by Amanda, who immediately came over to Meg and sat on the window seat next to her. “Would your mother mind if we went for our walk now? Mama wants to take me to the modiste.”

Meg glanced around. The only guests in the room were close friends of her mother’s. “I think it will be all right.” She caught Mama’s eye, and her mother nodded. Meg tugged the bell-pull and asked to have her spencer and bonnet sent down. A few minutes later, their arms linked, she and Amanda descended the steps to the pavement, then continued on to the square across the street.

Amanda glanced around, lost.

“You should really wear your spectacles.”

“You know I cannot. Gentlemen do not like them. Meg”—Amanda squeezed Meg’s arm—“you must tell me what happened with Lord Tarlington. I was sure he was about to offer for you.”

For a moment, Meg’s mind went completely blank. She’d had no time to come up with a suitable story. A version of the actual truth might be the best plan. “I did as well, but it appeared that his heart was already engaged.”

Amanda’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Is she anyone we know? Why was he so particular in his attentions to you?”

“I don’t know who she is or why he paid so much attention to me.” Which was completely true. She had not wanted to know. The betrayal was bad enough.

“I am so sorry.” Amanda’s voice quivered, and for a moment Meg thought her friend would begin to weep. “It is taking more time than you would like, but you will find true love. I know you will.”

This next part would be the hardest for Amanda to accept. Years ago, after they had found and read one of Meg’s eldest sister’s novels, they had sworn a pact to marry only for love. “I have decided I do not wish to have a love match after all. The heartbreak is simply too painful to endure again.”

Amanda’s face fell. “But we have always sworn we would never wed without love.”

“I know.” It had not occurred to Meg that Amanda would think she shou. . .