Lord Margrave's Secret Desire (Gentlemen of Intrigue Book 4) Read online

  Lord Margrave’s Secret Desire

  Gentlemen of Intrigue #4

  Samantha Grace

  Samantha Grace Publishing

  Contents

  Foreword

  From the diary of Isabelle Darlington

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Received in London 2 July

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Epilogue

  Books by Samantha Grace

  Free Read

  About the Author

  Lord Margrave’s Secret Desire

  Copyright © 2018 by Samantha Grace

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Samantha Grace Publishing

  Email: [email protected]

  For my dear friends Heather and Lori. I’m lucky to have such wonderfully supportive women cheering me on from both sides of the globe.

  Foreword

  Dear reader,

  The following romantic adventure is a blending of history and an author’s active imagination. Aside from the main characters, the Regent’s Consul and the Black Death mentioned in the book are complete fabrications. If you start researching either group or try to unearth a connection between them and the real historical figures mentioned in the story, I’m afraid you will come up empty-handed. I hope you enjoy this fictional world I’ve created. I welcome you with open arms.

  Samantha

  From the diary of Isabelle Darlington

  April 1800

  My dearest Matthew and I have been blessed with a third daughter on what could otherwise be a dreary month in England. I feared my loving husband would be disappointed when his dreams of fathering a son did not come to fruition yet again, but my worries were unwarranted. Matthew was charmed the moment he beheld his youngest daughter.

  Our little darling had the most serious expression when she regarded her Papa for the first time. Matthew marveled over the wise look in her eyes. He said it was as if she had lived a thousand lifetimes before blessing our family with her presence.

  As with our other daughters, he has deferred to my wishes to name her after my angels, as he refers to them. My beloved pretends my study of angelology holds no interest for him, but I could tell he was eager to learn our daughter’s name. We shall call her Sophia in honor of the archangel of love. Matthew declares it a most fitting moniker, and I could not agree more. Sophia embodies my heart residing outside of my body.

  Christmas, 1819

  Sophia Darlington studied her two older sisters’ glum faces across the festive drawing room. With Uncle Charles away on one of his expeditions, the holiday season did not feel the same, but Sophia was determined to bring a little cheer to Hartland Manor on what should be the happiest day of the year.

  She rose from her chair and clapped her hands. “Your attention, please, ladies and…” When her gaze landed on Crispin Locke, Viscount Margrave, he winked. Her heart fluttered and an uncontrollable smile spread across her face. “Ladies and gentleman.”

  Her uncle’s godson inclined his head. The sunlight pouring through the window at his back illuminated his golden blond locks; he returned her smile. An Adonis in Uncle Charles’s favorite chair.

  Sophia suppressed a dreamy sigh and continued with her address. “Uncle Charles could not join us for Christmas this year, but he will always be with us in spirit. I have little doubt he would tell us to stop moping and start celebrating.”

  “Hear, hear!” Aunt Beatrice nodded with approval while scratching behind her spoiled black poodle’s ears. “As usual, Sophia speaks with the wisdom of one thrice her age.”

  Sophia’s heart swelled with affection for her darling great-aunt. She suspected even if she suggested they storm the London Tower, Aunt Beatrice would declare it a marvelous idea simply because it was Sophia’s. “Thank you, Auntie. We cannot forget to toast to Papa and Mama either.”

  Her sisters perked up at the mention of their late parents.

  “Sophia is right,” Regina said. “We mustn’t allow Uncle Charles’s absence to distract us from observing tradition. He would be disappointed if we did.”

  “Shall I ring for the good crystal?” Without waiting for a reply, Evangeline tossed one of Uncle Charles’s old travel journals on the plush settee cushion beside her and hopped up to yank the bellpull.

  The Christmas following the loss of Sophia’s parents, Uncle Charles had instigated the ritual of toasting Mama and Papa to honor the memory of his little sister and her annoyingly perfect husband. Uncle Charles had ruffled Sophia’s hair when he spoke of his brother-in-law, proving he held no true feelings of ill will toward his sister’s husband.

  Even though Sophia, Regina, and Evangeline had been mere girls, their great-aunt had retrieved the family crystal, filled the goblets with punch, and entrusted them not to break the valuable heirlooms. Sophia did not remember much about the day, but she recalled every toast since.

  “Lord Margrave,” Aunt Beatrice said, “my nephew keeps a bottle of claret in his study. Would you kindly retrieve it?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Crispin rose from the leather wingback chair and sketched a bow. “If you will excuse me a moment, ladies.”

  Sophia tried not to stare as he exited the drawing room, but he moved with a majestic bearing that mesmerized her. His handsome face and striking figure had been dominating her imagination these past few months as she prepared for her upcoming London debut. She often daydreamed of strolling through Hyde Park on his arm, dancing together beneath the glittering chandeliers at Lady Eldridge’s annual ball, and allowing him to steal a kiss in Uncle Charles’s drawing room.

  The fantasy had become her favorite escape from the dreary weather plaguing the English countryside this time of year. Nothing more than an entertainment since Crispin never noticed her—until today. Much to her delight, he seemed incapable of tearing his gaze away from her.

  Of course, she had changed a lot since he last saw her two years ago. She supposed he might simply be shocked by her transformation. No longer was she the scrawny girl who hung on his every word or laughed too heartily at his tales. She was a woman of nineteen. Some gentlemen even found her fetching. At the country assemblies this autumn, she rarely had been without a dance partner.

  When he disappeared from sight, she released her breath—unaware she had been holding it. The twinkle in Aunt Beatrice’s eyes and slight upturning of her lips suggested she had caught Sophia ogling. A rush of heat singed Sophia’s cheeks, and she turned toward the fireplace to hide her blush.

  A footman entered the room, and Aunt Bea
trice asked the servant to bring the heirloom claret glasses.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It is time for kisses from Cupid,” Sophia announced with exaggerated gaiety and plucked a stem of mistletoe from the garland draped across the hand-carved mantle.

  Upon hearing his name, the dog scrambled from Aunt Beatrice’s lap and came to jump up on Sophia’s skirts. She bent to scoop him in her arms and held the stem overhead.

  “Merry Christmas, mon amour.” She affected a rather poor French accent—which coincidentally was a perfect imitation of the one she’d heard from the modiste commissioned to sew gowns for her coming out—and placed a noisy smooch on Cupid’s curly head.

  Regina and Evangeline laughed, rewarding Sophia’s efforts toward chasing away their blues. Encouraged, she marched to the fainting couch where her oldest sister was sitting.

  “Look what I found,” Sophia sang out and wagged the piece of mistletoe over Regina’s head.

  “Kisses from Cupid? My favorite.” Regina reached for their beloved pet and held him at arm’s length in front of her. Cupid pawed the air in his eagerness to lick her face. She attempted to affect a stern expression, but her mouth twitched as she fought back a smile. “No slobbering this year. Do you hear me, little rogue?”

  “The pooch only gives sloppy kisses.” Crispin’s voice rang out, startling Sophia. “I question his status as a rogue.”

  He continued to the sideboard with a slight smirk

  “Come now, Margrave.” Evangeline joined him at the sideboard. “I am sure you have licked a face or two in your day.”

  Sophia laughed at the ludicrous image her sister’s words invoked, earning a playful glower from Crispin. The servant returned with a tray of heirloom glasses.

  Evangeline grabbed an empty claret glass, flashed an innocent smile at Crispin, and held it out to him. “Please, may I have some?”

  “Since you asked nicely...” He tweaked her sister’s cheek, eliciting a pang of envy in Sophia, even though the exchange was innocent.

  She retrieved the poodle from her eldest sister and approached the sideboard. “Kisses from Cupid. Who is next?”

  “I respectfully decline,” Crispin said. “I have a rule against kissing anything with more hair on its face than me.” The full force of his smile landed on Sophia and stole her breath.

  Evangeline set down her glass and held out her arms. “I never refuse a kiss from my favorite pup, not that Cupid usually gives me a choice.” Hugging the dog to her chest, she placed a quick peck on his head while he thrashed in her arms, attempting to lick her face.

  Crispin snatched the mistletoe from Sophia’s fingers and lifted it above her head. “I believe it is your turn for kisses.”

  Her heart lodged in her throat a brief moment until she realized he was referring to kissing the dog.

  “I had my turn while you were digging around in Uncle Charles’s study.” She grabbed for the mistletoe, but he held it out of reach just like he had done when she was a girl. She was too old to play such games. The reminder he likely still thought of her as a child stung.“Keep it. I do not want it anyway.” She tried to appear nonchalant, but her words sounded strained.

  Evangeline carried Cupid back to their aunt and sat beside Regina on the fainting couch.

  “I will keep it”—Crispin tucked the mistletoe into his waistcoat pocket—“if only to help you avoid falling into mischief.”

  Sophia’s hands landed on her hips. “And who will help you?”

  “There is no help for me, darling.”

  Tingles swept through her at the term of endearment, and she couldn’t stop herself from beaming.

  “Very well,” she said. “You may forego the Christmas kiss, but you must participate in the annual game of hide-and-seek.”

  His eyes sparkled with good humor. “And if I resist, how do you propose to compel me?”

  Rarely did she command his full attention; she likened it to being bathed in sunbeams. She was warm all over and feeling slightly reckless. “Some men find my charm irresistible.”

  “Yes,” he murmured where only she could hear, “I can see how resisting you might be a challenge.”

  She flushed with pleasure.

  “Margrave will join us.” Regina left the fainting couch to collect glasses of wine for herself and Aunt Beatrice. “How could he say no? It is tradition.”

  “You know how Sophia loves observing traditions,” Evangeline piped up. “You do not wish to disappoint her, do you, Margrave?”

  “Of course not. I cannot abide disappointing a lady.” Crispin offered Sophia his arm. “Shall we join your sisters and aunt?”

  Aunt Beatrice led the toast to their parents while everyone raised their glasses. “To Mama and Papa,” Sophia intoned and took a sip of wine.

  “I am unconvinced any of you should be out in the cold,” Aunt Beatrice said, “but if you insist on following tradition, you must don your pelisses and mittens.”

  Crispin gently nudged Sophia toward the door. “I promise to chase the ladies back inside before too long, madam.”

  He stayed to chat with Aunt Beatrice while Sophia and her sisters hurried to retrieve their warm outerwear. She lingered in the corridor outside her sisters’ bedchambers, but when they took longer than usual to gather their belongings, she wandered downstairs to wait in the entrance hall.

  Crispin’s voice carried from the drawing room. “It seems early to be thinking about marriage, is it not? Regina and Evangeline have not made matches yet.”

  “Sophia begged for a Season last year, but my nephew and I thought it best to postpone her debut for that reason. With her twentieth birthday approaching, I have decided it is unfair to ask her to wait when her sisters show little interest in finding husbands, and I am certain Charlie would agree. Perhaps you might recommend a young man.”

  Much to Sophia’s disappointment, his response was drowned out by her sisters’ laughter at the head of the staircase. She hoped he had recommended himself.

  “You are too slow, Margrave,” Evangeline called as she descended the last few stairs. “That means you are the seeker.”

  “You have until I reach fifty.” In a booming voice, he began counting. “One, two, three...”

  “Ludwig!” Regina grabbed Sophia’s arm and dragged her toward the front door. Evangeline scrambled after them. The footman opened the front door, and they dashed outside into the cold, laughing.

  Regina released her. “We should split apart.”

  “Agreed,” Sophia said. “I will hide close to the stables.”

  “Very good, and I will go this way.” Regina darted toward the back of the house while Evangeline contemplated her direction a moment before heading toward the fields. The soft ground grabbed at Sophia’s boots as she rushed for the stables. The pungent scent of hay and horses greeted her as she neared the building and stayed with her as she rounded it en route to the old travel coach. It would make a perfect hiding spot while providing shelter from the cold.

  The carriage, which had lost a wheel and listed to one side, was hidden beneath weathered sailcloth. It had been out of commission for as long as Sophia had been alive. She didn’t know why Uncle Charles hadn’t disposed of it. She kicked aside a couple of rocks used to weigh down the sailcloth, slipped beneath the cover, and climbed inside the carriage, taking care not to latch the door.

  It wasn’t long before heavier footsteps approached the carriage. It had to be Crispin. She covered her mouth, certain he could hear the churning of her breath. The sailcloth rustled as he circled the carriage. When he began to whistle a tune and walk away, she smothered a chuckle. He had been so close and hadn’t found her. She was feeling rather clever.

  The carriage door jerked open. “Aha!”

  She screamed and rammed back against the carriage wall before bursting into laughter. “You startled me.”

  Crispin ducked his head inside.

  “Did I?” A wide smile eased across his face. He climbed into the carriage
, slid onto the bench beside her, and closed the door.

  “No!” Sophia dove across the carriage, landing halfway on his lap. She sighed and sat up. “The latch is broken.”

  Crispin pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Now what are we going to do?” She flopped back against the bench. “Didn’t you notice the door was open?”

  “I did, but how was I to guess the latch was broken?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Surely you saw the missing wheel.”

  “Again, there is no connection between the wheel and latch. It is good you are not responsible for carriage maintenance.”

  She playfully wrinkled her nose. “Regina and Evangeline will come looking for us eventually. I suppose I can tolerate your companionship until they find us.”

  Crispin sank against the seatback, smiling and appearing untroubled by their circumstances. “Your aunt said you are entering the marriage mart next Season.”

  “I am.” She folded her hands in her lap, curious to see where the conversation might lead. “This may be our last Christmas together. Next year you will regret not accepting your kisses. I doubt Regina or Evangeline will continue the tradition.”

  All traces of playfulness vanished from his demeanor, and his strong brow furrowed. “It is hard to imagine a Christmas without you.”