The Notorious Marquis of Wickerley Read online

  Pulling on her nightgown, she sat down by the fire and warmed her feet. She couldn't imagine a future in this place, yet she was to live here for the rest of her days, tending to the family she was supposed to have with the marquis—a family that would be injured if he came to her now.

  She tried to listen to any movement in the manor, but every sound was superseded by the incessant howl of the wind. There was nothing else for her to do but to wait. She had nothing to read and no embroidery to attend to. Worrying thoughts of her father and Mrs. Rawley also crept into her mind. She'd received no news of London or on how the country was reacting to the death of the king. She didn't even know if the marquis received any news. Perhaps news didn't travel to such isolated and far-flung places.

  At least the parson had seemed nice. She'd had no chance to more than introduce herself, but he seemed like a nice, young man. Her faith would not be neglected in this awful place.

  Feeling the whole situation weighing on her, she gave into the bone tiredness that crept into her body. Sleep would be most welcome and she crawled under the blankets, which smelled much fresher than they had the previous night.

  There was no adjoining door and she hadn't heard the sound of another person down the hall or in neighboring rooms since she'd retreated to her room, hence she guessed that the marquis’ private quarters were not in the immediate vicinity.

  A sinking feeling accompanied her closing eyes. This joining with her betrothed had been much worse than she had expected. The manor was isolated beyond what she'd through possible, in a completely unhospitable environment, and she was joined with a man who barely spoke to her, if he had any interest in her at all. Affection was clearly beyond hope, and she couldn't imagine it growing between them as Mrs. Rawley constantly predicted. This was awful, beyond her worst suspicions, but it was done now and couldn't be undone.

  And it would be made much worse if he inflicted her with the disease God had set to punish him with. She would beseech him to see reason if he came, but she grew too tired to listen for his approach. Her eyes grew heavy and troubled sleep claimed her. Luckily, she remained undisturbed the whole night.

  Chapter 5:

  * * *

  It must have been over one hundred steps to get down the cliffs to a pebble beach where a small boat lay on its side. It had a large hole in the hull, which was probably the reason it had been abandoned down here. The steel gray water sang over the pebbles as it reached up, foaming before retreating again.

  Gathering her breath, Cecily stood looking out to sea, which stretch endlessly in front of her. She'd found the set of stairs walking along the edge of the cliffs and decided to explore where it went. For the first time since she'd arrived, there was weak sunshine, which had calmed the wind slightly. The sun wasn't strong enough to clear the bitter cold, but this interlude of relatively fine weather gave her a chance to leave the manor.

  The marquis had not come to her room on her wedding night or the nights after. In fact, she'd barely seen him. Mostly he ate elsewhere, leaving her to dine alone in the great hall. She didn't mind as she was uncomfortable in his company, and she got to sit closer to the fire with his absence.

  But the isolation in the house was getting to her. Jenkins, although always cordial, was not one for chatting and cook kept to her domain in the kitchen. There was rarely anyone else around. The maid came but rarely and was too busy to spend time talking.

  Cecily had rearranged the parlor to suit her, but she had no visitors to receive. The marquis apparently didn't conduct cordial relationships with any neighbors, not that there seemed anyone near. No one had come with congratulations on their marriage. Perhaps no one knew as none of the attendees here left the estate as far as she knew. Over the last week, she had learned very little about the marquis, or what was happening in England, which seemed to be ripping itself apart.

  Walking along the beach, the round and smooth pebbles crunched under her feet. The beach was small, just an alcove nestled in the stony cliffs. Yet someone had built this staircase down here and she couldn't really discern a purpose, because it only led down here—of use to no one.

  Staying for a little while, she decided to make her way up again, to continue her walk along the cliffs. Who knew when they would have a reasonably nice day again?

  The strays of her dress pulled tight at the top of the stairs as she puffed heavily from the exertion. Up here the grass was green, interspersed with bright purple of heather and small yellow-flowered shrubs. Little else seemed to grow along the edge of the coast. Once she'd regained her breath, she continued walking toward the lighthouse in the distance, glad to finally take some exercise. If the bad weather returned, she would be shut away in the manor again.

  A black figure approached from ahead and she hesitated for a moment, suddenly concerned about meeting another person, which was ridiculous as she crossed the path of thousands of people every day while walking the streets of London. Now, meeting one person seemed unnatural, and this change had been instilled in her in just a week.

  As the man approached, she saw it was the parson and relaxed, relieved it wasn't her husband. Perhaps she should be ashamed feeling that way, but she did nonetheless. He smiled broadly, waving before they were at speaking distance. His wheat blond hair was ruffled slightly and his cheeks bright with fresh air and exercise.

  "Good afternoon, Lady Wickerley," he said, and Cecily's smile faltered at the reference.

  "I'm not used to the title yet. It still feels strange being referred to as anything other than Miss Alderman, which I have been known by all my life."

  "That is understandable, particularly as this all seemed to have come about so suddenly."

  "It wasn't sudden. Were you unaware of the betrothal?"

  "I have to admit I was. The marquis has not brought me into his confidence in the time I've been here."

  Cecily frowned, but supposed the marquis brought few people into his confidence—perhaps no one. Although what did she know? "I am sorry to hear that. How long have you been… ?"

  "The parson here? Only six months. Shall we walk for a moment?"

  Cecily nodded, happy to have someone to converse with, and this young parson seemed equally happy to engage in a bit of conversation.

  "It is a desolate and hard set community. The people do not readily accept outcomers, but they are slowly coming around."

  "I am sorry to hear that the marquis has not been supportive in your settlement here." Perhaps she was overstepping her bounds by criticizing her husband, but he was being remiss if he ignored his duties to the church. She didn't know if he attended service at all. "But I will be there on Sunday to hear your sermon."

  "That is most kind, Lady Wickerley."

  They walked back toward the manor at a leisurely pace. Perhaps she'd found a friend in the reverend, she wondered. He seemed an equitable and friendly young man. Obviously from a good family.

  "Has there been any news of London?" she asked. "I hear very little and have had no correspondence."

  "Parliament are meeting soon, as I understand it. There is still a great deal of unhappiness. Anyone opposing the king's death are still excluded from parliament sessions by force. Even the church doesn't know what to do, but I suppose we must carry on, provide a beacon in these dark times."

  His obvious concern was not encouraging. Even the church was uncertain of the future. The tension that had held firm in her gut since the king's trial was still there, refusing to relent.

  Looking out to sea, she sought something else to turn her mind to, but nothing soothed her. The country was a wreck, as was this marriage to a man she never saw, much less liked.

  "We will persevere," the parson said. He had introduced himself briefly as Reverend Hapstill just prior to the sparse wedding ceremony. "But there are troubling times ahead, particularly in this region, which is more heavily Catholic than most."

  "Are most still Catholic here?"

  "The gentry are, including your husband’s family
, which will draw the attention of Parliament when they seek to contend with opposition to their rule."

  Cecily faltered. She had married a Catholic? How had this never been made clear to her? But they married in Reverend Hapstill's church, a Protestant church. How could that be? Was the marquis a religious man, who took his service by a priest somewhere? But then wouldn't they have been married by a priest or was it forbidden as she was not Catholic? Judging by his past behavior, she couldn't judge him a righteous and devout man.

  "I assure you, I am not," she said, smiling tightly. What more surprises were in store for her, she wondered.

  He smiled tightly. "To speak plainly, Lady Wickerley, I do not care how one hears the Lord's word as long as one does, but I wonder if Parliament will be so forgiving in the future."

  Saying goodbye to the parson, she returned to the house, walking around to the side door, but her husband appeared in her path, standing as if waiting for her.

  "It is not appropriate that you establish an acquaintance with Reverend Hapstill," he said, his voice gruff. Stubble graced his chin and his hair was unkempt, giving him a harder appearance. His eyes were bright but cold and she wondered if he'd been drinking.

  "He is the parson. I must have an acquaintance with him. I must practice my faith." That was a bit of a stretch, because they hadn't been talking of faith, but still, her husband's demand was unreasonable.

  "Then you will do so in the confines of Sunday service, not walking around the moors with an unmarried man." He turned to leave.

  Anger flared through her. This conversation today was the only one she'd had in a week and this man, her supposed husband, was telling her she couldn't have what little interaction was available to her—just declared his orders and expected her to serve. That was the expectation, but she could not bear them.

  "Then who am I supposed to talk to? If there was someone else, I would be happy to make their acquaintance, but if you expect me to sit in this house and never speak to anyone, I will go mad." Her displeasure came out in a great rush. It was actually a week's worth of resentment that had finally found a voice.

  The marquis stopped and turned. "I don't care who you speak to, but you won't be consorting with unmarried men."

  "Consorting? What is it you are accusing me of? Consorting with the parson? An amicable discussion with a member of the community hardly constitutes consorting."

  "Don't argue with me, girl," he roared, loud enough to startle her. Plus the fact that he was utterly unreasonable. Perhaps he was mad. The pox had probably driven him mad. He strode away in harsh, angry strides.

  Cecily closed her eyes and exhaled through clenched teeth. Her situation was actually worse than she'd thought. Now she was not allowed to speak to the only person around here that seemed friendly and reasonable. He couldn't expect her to live like this, but as he said, he didn't care—cared more for propriety than her wellbeing, which was rich coming from a man who was notorious for engaging in all manner of inappropriate behavior. And likely some form of insanity lingered in his mind. Could things be worse?

  When taking to her parlor upstairs, she undid the heavy jacket the maid had found for her and paced around the room. This was unbearable. This marriage was untenable, but she had no options. She was his to do with as he wished. He could beat her into submission and that was within his right. Challenging him was not permitted or acceptable. His express forbidding made it so she couldn't speak to the parson again. Whatever regard she had for the marquis, which wasn't much to begin with, plummeted even further.

  Chapter 6:

  * * *

  Symon sat in his chair in the carriage house, pouring yet another glass of the Scottish whiskey. He'd retreated here more than he liked to admit. These long winter days, there wasn't much else to do. The earth was at rest. Precious little else was. The news from London wasn't good. No one could agree on what they should do now. The Scots had proclaimed Charles' son the King of Great Britain, but would only allow him back if he accepted Presbyterianism as the prevailing religion for this land. Fucking Scots, using this to press an advantage.

  In a way, he didn't care. He'd been exiled to this place and the world had fallen apart. It was almost as if his presence had held the precarious thing together and in his absence the world faltered. It was nice to think, if it wasn't for the fact that he'd done little productive in his life. Now Alderman's offspring was taking refuge with him. This wasn't a marriage. In essence, he'd purchased a broodmare, who had been delivered before she was due.

  He hated every part of this. He hated her. And she immediately sought out the first available man to flirt with, showing no propriety to the vows she'd taken. It was the one thing he'd learnt at court: women could not be trusted. They would stab him in the back with a smile on their face if it suited their purpose. Anyone who really knew women, knew just how mercenary they could be, far from the guileless, innocent creatures they play themselves as.

  The coals in the grate were dying and the cold was creeping in. Frost refused to give its claim on the land today. The carriage house smelled of whale oil and tallow.

  For his own comfort, he should return to the house, but he didn't want to. The weather was harsh and cold, making for a long journey back to the house. Driven from his bed, he'd sought a way out of the house that morning, like every morning before. She'd taken the house and he fled under the intrusion. It wasn't right. She had no right to commandeer the house.

  Stretching his legs, he stood, feeling the dampness of the place having seeped into his clothes. Enough of this. He was taking his manor back and she could flee. That was the just way of things.

  Faint light shone through the lower level windows as he braced himself against the bitter wind walking across the frozen yard. Nothing was heard other than the wind and the intermittent rapping of something as the wind toyed with it. Scogg followed, his tail tucked between his legs and his eyes watering beneath his shaggy fur. He was grown now, but Symon had found the tiny puppy shivering and starving. Naturally he was going to leave it, but then wondered if it would be a mercy to kill the miserable thing. Mercy wasn't normally his natural inclination, but it would be the responsible thing to do. When he picked it up to wring the little things neck, it kept licking him. He couldn't do it, in the end, and the damned thing had followed him ever since.

  The girl sat by the fire, her arms wrapped around her. She'd done nothing that day, ensconced in her position as mistress of the manor, yet to learn that it was an unenviable position. The candles she'd been given when she’d arrived were the last in the house and they had precious little money for any more. Prices for everything was rising to the point where even he, a marquis and land owner, couldn't afford them. And here she sat, expecting to be served, and apparently entertained.

  Jenkins walked into the hall. "My lord, are you of mind for anything?"

  "Bring me another bottle." Jenkins knew exactly what he was referring to.

  "As you wish," the man said and retreated.

  Symon could feel her eyes on his back as he moved to the fire. Darkness had grown and the fire was the only light in the hall, and the silence pressed. The awkwardness only grew and he thought back on how he used to charm any woman in the room right out of her clothes, but he had neither the inclination nor patience to now. It used to be the game, see how fast and how many they could top. The virtuous ones were the most exciting, but their virtues eventually fleeted like water through sand, their protests false, falling for pretty words and pointless gifts.

  Still neither of them spoke, but he felt her presence like the cold, bony scratchings of a ghoul at his back.

  "I understand we are having fowl for supper," she said.

  Rolling his eyes, he stared into the fire, refusing to acknowledge the inane banter, and the silence continued until Jenkins returned with his bottle of whiskey. He took the bottle and pulled the cork, the glorious liquid shone in the light of the fire, like liquefied amber.

  "We must speak of what ha
ppened yesterday," she said, her tone more somber than a minute ago.

  "There is nothing to speak of."

  "I cannot sit in this house and speak to no one. That is unacceptable."

  "I'm afraid that is a consequence of the bargain you made." In case she hadn't understood that already, he would have to reinforce the message.

  "I am not a prisoner here. And for the record, it was not a bargain I made. By all accounts a careless one."

  "You're titled. Careless would not be the words most people use. And right off the starting line, you complain."

  "I complain about the fact that you forbid me from speaking to the only person near here who had the inclination to converse—a man of God, no less. If there is anyone without guilt, surely it is the parson." No men are without guilt, he wanted to tell her. Either she was deluded or she was twisting things to get her way. Her uncommon directness was grating, no doubt a consequence of her poor birth and rearing. Few women would dare challenge their husbands so directly, particularly someone who was virtually a stranger.

  "While you are in this house, you will behave decorously, without tainting my name. That includes flirting with unmarried men. Don't think married men would be exempted. Until such time as you bear an heir, you will behave impeccably."

  "Impeccably, by refusing to speak to anyone. Are you some form of ogre? Is your opinion of me so low I cannot be trusted to speak to another human being?"

  "Yes," he said honestly.

  "I understand you have led a life completely devoid of propriety, Marquis Wickerley, but I have not. And let's make this clear: I care nothing for your title. I would happily forgo it if I had a choice. I behave decorously because I don't want to engage in lurid activity. You are, after all, a shining example of what happens with lax standards, are you not?"