When the Marquess Falls

Dedication

In loving memory of my parents

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Excerpt from An Affair with a Notorious Heiress

Chapter 1

A Letter from the Editor

About the Author

Also by Lorraine Heath

Copyright

About the Publisher

Author’s Note

My Dear Readers,

If you’ve read The Viscount and the Vixen, then you know how this story ends. As I was writing that book, however, I found myself wanting to share the Marquess of Marsden’s story with more than the snippets that appeared whenever he reminisced about his Linnie. I wanted to bring you the story of a love that was truly undying. Fortunately, my wonderful editor and Avon Books were willing to let me write a very different type of romance.

If you haven’t read The Viscount and the Vixen, then I invite you on a journey toward a very special happily ever after.

In either case, I hope you’ll enjoy reading this unusual love story.

Wishing you waltzes in the moonlight,

Lorraine

Prologue

Havisham Hall, Devonshire

Early Fall 1834

George William St. John, sixth Marquess of Marsden, ran so hard and so fast that he thought his heart might burst through his chest. In his dozen years upon this earth, he’d never hated anyone as much as he despised all the people who were talking, laughing, and carrying on as though nothing were amiss. Decked out in mourning black, reminding him of scrawny crows, they were all supposed to be as sad as he was, sad that his father was dead. Certainly they’d been solemn at the church and during the funeral procession, and the ladies were consoling his mother. But the gents were drinking his father’s spirits and having a jolly good time.

It wasn’t to be tolerated. As he was now the marquess, he should make them stop. But his mother had told him that he had to be polite—even to his blasted cousin Robbie who had reminded him that he was next in line should George up and die. He had no plans to do any such thing, especially in the arms of a tavern wench as his father had.

No one was supposed to know that tidbit of information, not even him, but he’d overheard the servants gleefully whispering about it. He didn’t like them either. All he wanted was to be alone. He slammed against the oak tree and let flow the tears that had been building ever since his mother informed him that his father was dead. They were accompanied by huge, gulping sobs that shook his shoulders and thin frame. He hated them, too. At the moment he hated everything, decided he always would.

Gathering himself together, he swiped away the embarrassing dampness from his cheeks, inhaled a deep breath, and looked up at the sky. Or wanted to. The view of it was obstructed by the abundance of leaves, the bit of white muslin draped over a branch, and a pair of swaying legs. It was a stupid girl.

Hello, she called down.

I wasn’t crying, he blurted out, detesting that his voice sounded froggy and hoarse.

I know. Why don’t you come up?

His mother forbade him to climb trees, forbade him to do a lot of things. I can’t.

Are you afraid? Don’t be scared. You’ll like it up here.

It was embarrassing to have a girl think him cowardly. He was the heir. He grimaced. Not anymore. Now he was the marquess. He should be able to do what he wanted. So up he climbed.

As he neared the branch upon which she was sitting, she scooted over to make room for him.

I’m sorry about your father, she said, once he was settled. He wasn’t surprised she knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was.

Who are you?

Linnie, the baker’s daughter.

From the village. He’d passed through it on occasion, but he’d never been inside any of the shops. His mother liked only London shops. His father, on the other hand, was apparently fonder of the village offerings, not that he’d ever taken George with him.

I’m eight years old, she continued on as though her age were important, and I’m never going to marry.

How do you know?

Because I don’t want to. Taking a deep breath, she looked away from him. It’ll be dark soon. I love the night.

He decided she probably loved everything, but then her father wasn’t dead.

You’re so lucky to live here, she said. It’s so pretty and your home is monstrously large. I like looking at it.

His mother didn’t fancy it, but then she didn’t fancy a lot of things. He didn’t think she’d even fancied her husband.

Do you want to talk about him? she asked.

Who?

Your father.

He shook his head.

She wrapped her hand around his. It’s all right then. We’ll just sit here and be quiet.

And so they did. While the shadows began to lengthen and creep over the land, while the sun slowly slid beyond the horizon, while the breeze blew and grew cooler.

I have to go, she finally said as twilight hovered, and he wished she hadn’t broken the spell that had helped him to forget his anger, and his sadness, and his worry.

Go on. She nudged his arm. Climb down.

Down. He hadn’t considered how he’d get out of the tree when he’d hauled up it, and peering down from his perch now, he realized how very far he’d climbed. The earth, the safety of firm ground, was miles and miles away. I can’t. His voice was an embarrassing squeak.

All right then, I’ll go first.

She scrambled lithely over his lap as though she feared nothing at all. When she reached the trunk, she stretched out her leg and balanced one foot on a lower branch before meeting his gaze, reaching out and squeezing his hand in reassurance. Keep your eyes on me. I won’t let you fall.

It was stupid, but he believed her, believed she had the power to guide him down. So he followed, slowly, tentatively, inch by terrifying inch, looking down into her blue eyes while she gazed up into his of green—until his feet landed on the earth.

I’ll see you around! she cried, and off she went, darting toward the road that led to the nearby village.

With a measure of wonderment, he watched her go. He might be only twelve, but within the past hour, he’d fallen in love and he knew without question that one day he would marry her.

Chapter 1

Devonshire

1847

I despise it when our mothers get conspiratorial, the Duke of Ashebury lamented, lounging in a chair at a corner table in the Fox and Hare. Who hosts a ball in the country on Christmas Eve? I’ve a good mind not to attend.

They’d leave off if we were married, but we’re not.

State the obvious, why don’t you, Greyling? the Marquess of Marsden asked, although his focus was not entirely on the conversation. Rather he was watching the barmaid with the braid of blond hair circling her head, and the efficient way she swayed her slender hips to avoid wandering hands. He was having a difficult time tamping down his frustration and anger that anyone at all would dare touch her.

Tupped her yet? the Earl of Greyling asked, garnering a heated scowl from Marsden.

We are friends, nothing more.

That doesn’t mean you can’t tup her. She works in a tavern. And from a certain angle, she’s rather fetching. Maybe I’ll have a go at her.

The fury that shot through him had him clenching his jaw until his words could merely slither out. Only if you wish to lose your teeth.

You can’t imagine she’s a virgin.

He not only imagined it, he was rather certain of it. Linnie, the baker’s daughter, was not without morals.

Carrying four tankards, two in each hand, she wended her way between the tables, laughing as she went as though she was having a jolly good time. If she had a free hand, she’d no doubt be swatting at the gents who were bold enough to swipe at her backside as she passed. He was of a mind to break a few fingers, a few noses, a few jaws. Fiercely independent, she wouldn’t care for the direction of his thoughts. Still he felt an overwhelming need to protect her.