The Blackmailed Bride

Thick lashes framed her dark eyes, which widened as he spoke. She was more beautiful than he’d originally thought. As she stood close to the window, the sun streaming in made her hair seem as though the rich brown was shot through with threads of amber.

He was unaware he was still lightly holding her hand until she hastily withdrew it. The blush on her cheeks deepened, and Marcus’s sister glanced with apparent nervousness at him and then her brother.

“And, Olivia, this is Nick, my old friend and the new Marquess of Huntsford.”

Nick watched as she dropped a flawless curtsy.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you to your meeting, brother.” She briskly turned on her heel and this time made good her escape before her brother could stop her.

Nick was sad to see her go.

He turned back to Marcus, who was looking at the open door with a mix of harried resignation and amusement. Nick was familiar with the look—Marcus often wore it when they were in school together, while reading letters from his sister.

“Your sister is an interesting woman,” Nick commented.

Marcus stared at him for a long moment, then grinned. “Interesting is a good word. If she weren’t my sister I would maybe say troublesome…” Marcus let the sentence trail off.

“Are you implying there’s been more than one suitor found unconscious on your floor?”

His friend shook his head, “No, but I’ve fielded a fair amount of offers for her.”

Nick could understand that. Lady Olivia was a beauty. A beauty who probably had an uncommonly large dowry, and came from an old, highly respected family. Those factors combined would be enough to have every young buck and eligible bachelor knocking on the front door.

“I can’t see how that would be anything but good. Isn’t the point of the Season to marry off all the young, single ladies?” Nick asked.

“If it is the point, someone needs to tell Olivia that. She’s determined to spurn the offer of any man who asks. And I nearly have to twist her arm to get her to attend a ball.”

The lady grew more puzzling with each revelation. Wasn’t it every woman’s ambition to marry? To enjoy a glamorous Season in London, filled with balls, dinner parties and elegant luncheons?

And if those weren’t her aims, why was Marcus insisting on her attendance?

What reason would any sane man have for enduring—even wanting—to experience the fripperies of the Season?

“Don’t tell me you’re here looking for a wife,” Nick said in mock horror.

Marcus shuddered. “Absolutely not. I’ve no interest in marriage. At least not right now. I’d like to see Olivia settled with a suitable gentleman before I turn my own ambitions to the marriage mart.”

If finding a husband for his sister was his friend’s goal, Nick thought Marcus was going to have his hands full. If this trip to London was solely for his sister’s benefit—who showed not even the slightest inkling of interest in marriage—Marcus would likely end up being in London for a long time.

“What about you?” Marcus asked. “What’s made you come to town—to England, for that matter—after all those years on the continent?”

Nick hesitated.

“Other than your father’s death,” Marcus said before Nick could decide exactly what to say. “I heard about that, and I’m sorry.”

Marcus knew the relationship, or lack thereof, between Nick and the deceased marquess. It wasn’t good. Not by any stretch of the imagination. As soon as Nick had reached the age of majority, he’d also reached the conclusion that he could no longer abide living beneath his father’s roof. So he left, with the intention of distancing himself as much as possible from the scandalous reputation his parents had brought to his family name.

“It was time to retire, so to speak,” Nick said. He’d returned because as the only heir to the marquessdom, he had responsibilities that couldn’t be taken care of unless he came home. To England.

“Are you going to miss it?” Marcus asked.

Nick didn’t have to think about his answer at all. “No.” His escape to France had been exactly that, a way to get as far from his father as possible. While he might have enjoyed the work at first, the excitement had waned, giving way to an aching hollowness.

But Marcus didn’t really know what he was asking. He knew Nick’s reasons for leaving, but didn’t know exactly what he would be doing while he was away. The Home Office was strict about who was allowed to know about his activities—the espionage he’d performed in the service of his country.

Which was, essentially, no one.

And since it wasn’t common knowledge what Nick had been doing for the past six years, there’d been some rather colorful tales circulating about his activities. Nick hadn’t been home a week before he’d begun hearing whispers about himself.

Not surprisingly, they weren’t whispers about his valor or cunning. The ton speculated on the number of women he’d seduced between the docks of London to the ballrooms of Paris.

But Nick didn’t want his oldest, and most loyal, friend believing the nonsense.

“I worked for the Home Office,” Nick announced suddenly.

Marcus didn’t give any visible reaction. Nick could have just as easily said he preferred chicken to pheasant.

“I was a spy,” he tried again. Worry settled in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want anything to do with him after this revelation. Nick was as much a God-fearing man as his friend, but that didn’t mean that some of the things he’d had to do for Crown and Country didn’t look suspect. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want that taint anywhere near him or his sister.

“Were you a good one?” Marcus asked finally.

Nick nodded.

Marcus grinned. “I always knew you were a bit crazy,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure this proves it.”

Nick chuckled but still waited for the final either endorsement or condemnation of his chosen occupation. “So…”

Marcus’s expression sobered. “Nick, I don’t care if you were a juggler in Napoleon’s court. I’m just glad you’re back.”

Because of Marcus’s ready acceptance, Nick felt the burden of uncertainty roll away. He’d been more concerned than he cared to admit that Marcus would no longer want to be associated with him.

“If you don’t mind, I need to finish a few papers before we leave. It shouldn’t take long,” Marcus said to Nick.

Nick assured him he was fine to wait.

“Feel free to peruse the library,” Marcus offered. “Although I must warn you to watch out. Olivia might be in there, and there’s no lack of vases in the room.”

The earl smirked as he walked out of the door.

Rather than being cautioned by this warning, Nick felt his pulse speed up…no doubt in response to the possibility of talking further with the lady. And he was surprised to find he’d risk bodily injury for the opportunity.

Olivia strained on tiptoes, struggling to grasp a book located on a too-high shelf. She muttered under her breath and let out an uncharacteristic huff.

“Stupid book,” she grumbled.

Then she thought better about it; the book could hardly be blamed for where it had been placed. So she amended, “Stupid shelf.”

That didn’t seem quite fair, either…