My American Marquess

  My American Marquess

  A "Tales From Seldon Park" Novel

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  For S.N.C.

  Prologue

  Early January 1821

  Montclef Estate

  Oxfordshire

  Groaning, Daniel rolled over onto his side as a thin, gray shaft of pale winter sunlight hit his face. "Go. Away," he grumbled at whoever had the audacity to rouse him at this unholy hour. If the cur persisted much longer, he would not live past sun up given Daniel's present mood.

  "No."

  Damn it all anyway! Daniel didn't even need to open his eyes to know the person inflicting this inhumane torture upon his person was none other than his sister, Pearl. Until this moment, she had been his beloved sister. Now? He was no longer so certain.

  "Go. Away." He didn't feel like restating the obvious, but his sister gave him no other bloody choice.

  "Get up, Daniel. It is already well into the afternoon and nearing supper." Her flat, rounded vowels that marked her American birth grated on his already frayed nerves. It never usually bothered him that she spoke with an American accent overlaying a slight English one, while he did not. Today? It did. Greatly.

  "It is still early yet." Unlike his sister's speech, Daniel's voice was lighter and far more melodious to his own ears. Then again, he shared the same accent as the rest of his fellow Englishmen. Maybe he was simply more accustomed to it, even though he had essentially grown up in America. Perhaps Pearl could learn to speak differently. Or perhaps she could simply allow him to go back to sleep in peace and quiet.

  Or not.

  "It is half four," Pearl snapped, clearly frustrated with him and not seeming to care that her accent was grating upon his already frayed nerves. "Now get your bloody arse out of bed before I drag you out by your toes. Or perhaps by your favorite part of your anatomy. Given what I have endured so far today, consider yourself lucky if I do not flay you alive, you damnable, bloody fool! I might yet, given that the day is not over." There had been times in recent months that Daniel forgot how his sister could swear like the worst navy man he had ever encountered. That she was falling back into old habits was not a good sign.

  Her poor speech was also yet another reason that her departure for Mrs. Witherson's School for Proper Young Society Ladies in the small hamlet of Lower Puddington, near Bath, could not come soon enough. Pearl and her new best friend, Lady Miri Bexley, would be attending together, thankfully. Daniel was counting on Lady Miri to keep an eye on Pearl and make certain his sister did her best to adapt to her new home. He was not too proud to admit that while his sister was cultured, educated and refined by American standards, she would be judged far more harshly here in England.

  Here, she would be viewed as a hoyden. Or worse.

  But that battle was for another day. Today, he had to deal with simply getting up from his bed. If he could even manage the task at all. He feared that might be rather difficult given the way the room was still spinning slightly. Then again, it was not spinning nearly as fast as it had been last evening. That had to be a positive in his favor.

  Opening one eye, Daniel saw Pearl, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him from her position beside the window with its half-opened curtains. She looked furious and ready to unleash her tongue upon him again. Best to end that sort of language now he supposed, before the nosy harpy currently in residence at Montclef caught wind of exactly what words Pearl had added to her rather extensive vocabulary over the years. That would only lead to more trouble. And more trouble led Daniel to do things he knew that he should not.

  "Language, my darling sister. Language. We are no longer in Cairo. Or Cuzco. Or even Marrakech, for that matter." Daniel was doing his best to start a new chapter in his life. Pearl needed to do the same.

  With a grunt, she reached over and flung the curtains wide open, eliciting another groan of pure agony from her brother. "Do you think I do not know that, Danny? We are also no longer in Baltimore or India," she practically snarled. If he did not know any better, he would have sworn that her eyes were full of hurt, as well. Must be a trick of the light. "If my behavior must change, dear brother, then so must yours. Especially now that Grandmother has all but risen from the ranks of the presumed dead just in time for Twelfth Night in order to make our lives even more hellish than they already are. And has decided to take up residence with us for the remainder of the holiday season."

  That statement caught Daniel's attention, even in his less than alert state. His sister had a valid point. If their grandmother wasn't to know about Pearl's language, then she also did not need to know about his own predilections either. "Does she know...about this?" He made a vaguely waving gesture at the bed.

  With a sigh, Pearl shook her head as she tied back one of the curtains. "No. Well, she does," his sister amended, "but not the true reason you have stayed abed most of the day. I told her it was likely bad prawns or perhaps spoiled kippers, as we had both yesterday. I also lied and said that my maid was ill as well. Grandmother said she thought both foods smelled bad when they were served yesterday, and agreed that must be the reason. She also chastised me for not keeping a proper hand on the household, allowing the servants to purchase spoiled food, and insisted that a true English lady would never have allowed this. Truthfully, I think she simply enjoyed screeching at me. She seems to enjoy being angry." Pearl cleared her throat. "But we cannot have bad prawns every night, Daniel." She sighed and sank down onto the bed next to him, her eyes filled with worry. "After Cairo, you swore to me this would stop."

  "And it will," Daniel promised her, trying his best not to cast up his accounts on the counterpane. Or Pearl. "This was an accident. A slip-up." He rolled over onto his back, not in the least concerned that he was stark naked beneath the sheets. This was only his sister after all. She had seen him naked on numerous occasions, no matter how improper that might be. Then again, when one was casting up his accounts all over the dining room rug when there were no servants about, allowances had to be made. "After all, Grandmother Weston's appearance on the first of the new year was something of a shock, you must admit. I can hardly be faulted for needing to fortify my strength."

  "Very well," Pearl grudgingly agreed, though she didn't appear happy about the matter. "It was a shock, at that. Especially when we and all the rest of Society thought her long dead." She made a small noise in the back of her throat. "I suppose you can be forgiven for the slip. But it cannot happen again. You know that." Then she smiled sadly and tucked a strand of her raven black hair behind her ear. "There is too much at risk. Especially now that Grandmother has swept into our lives. She could destroy me if she chose with the church registry containing my birth records gone in the fire. She hinted as much over sherry last evening. Please, Daniel. For me? Behave?"

  In the dim light of the room, he noted that Pearl's normally flawless olive complexion looked sickly pale, and he could see worry lines beginning to develop at the corners of her eyes. There was also an air of weariness about her, one spoke of more than just helping him right the disaster that was the marquisate for much of the past year. His beloved Pearl was beginning to look old. Even during their worst days back in Cairo, his sister had not looked this ill or worn out. This would not do. It would not do at all.

  He had put her through so much in the last year, especially forcing her to prete
nd to be the sort of woman she was not. Just as he had pretended to be some sort of perfect gentleman, almost too good to be real and certainly not the sort of man who drank himself half-blind when his grandmother seemingly rose from the dead. Pearl, at the very least, deserved better from him. And he would be better. Tomorrow.

  Reaching out, Daniel clasped Pearl's hand in his as tightly as he could. Which was not as tight as he would have liked, but then, he still felt as if he might cast up his accounts again, just as he had several times throughout the night. "I promise, Pearl," he rasped, his voice not really sounding like his at all, come to think of it. "No more of this. I told you when we left Baltimore that we were in this together. And we will be. I won't fail you."

  For a long moment, she looked as if she might question the validity of his promise, and Daniel really couldn't blame her. He had broken his word to her in the past more times than he could count. More times than he wished to remember. Then, finally, she nodded slowly though it seemed to take her a great effort. "I believe you, Daniel." Her voice was thick and husky as well. "I believe you."

  Then she leaned down and hugged him even though he knew he must smell like he was dead and buried. Then again, that was Pearl. She only ever saw the good in him, no matter what he did. Or how awful he smelled. "I love you, Danny," she whispered. "Don't ever forget that. No matter what. I will be here for you always."

  "I love you, too, Pea." The words were thick in his throat as he burned with a hint of shame. He did not deserve such devotion, especially not from a sister he had failed time after time. "I love you, too."

  Then and there, as the dark January afternoon pushed on into the deepening twilight of evening, Daniel vowed silently that he would be the man his sister believed him to be. Even if it killed him.

  Chapter One

  March 1821

  London

  He didn't want to be having this conversation in the middle of Lord Hallstone's magnificent and lush conservatory. Then again, as the Marquess of Lansdale, Lord Daniel Weston didn't think he needed to be having this conversation at all. And yet, his grandmother, Lady Wilhelmina Weston, the Dowager Marchioness of Lansdale, had decided that she needed to speak her mind on certain delicate topics. Now. In the middle of their host's most prized tropical plants. Even he, the heathen American-raised gentleman that he was, knew better.

  God save him from his family. He had been better off when he assumed they were all deceased.

  "Grandmother, can we not let the matter rest for this evening?" Daniel squeezed his eyes shut and wished he had a drink. However, he didn't, so he would have to face down this dragon without his favorite liquid courage. "I am searching for a bride as you have requested, even though I do not think I need one as of yet. The marquisate is only now solvent once more. I should think you would want me to wait before I select a bride who will likely only drain the coffers with her extravagances."

  The older woman snorted, and with that simple gesture, Daniel could well understand why it was rumored that she was the only person either Lady Cowper or Lady Jersey feared - or at the very least avoided whenever possible. Lady Wilhelmina Weston was a dragon beyond compare. He would not be surprised if even the devil himself cowered before her.

  "A well-bred and proper young lady will come into the marriage with an ample dowry and will spend only what she is allowed by her husband. Not a cent more! She will also be an excellent money manager, making certain there is a surplus in the household so that she might afford a frippery or two as she likes." The dowager sniffed again indignantly and Daniel wanted to groan. Another lecture about the "old days" was in the offing. He just knew it. "At least that was how things were done in my day, boy. As they should be done again! None of this 'the lady may do as she pleases' nonsense! Never! All properly raised women such as myself knew our places and we knew them well! Women did as they were told, kept quiet, knew their place, and did their duty to king and country without a word of protest!"

  Somehow, Daniel doubted that anyone had ever told his grandmother what her place was or should be. He also doubted she had ever been silent on a matter in her entire life. Rather, it was likely that she informed others of her wishes and simply expected everyone else to go along with her plans. Just as she was doing now and had done from the moment she had turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep of Montclef, his country seat, on a particularly frigid January morning.

  And knocked both his life and Society as a whole on their collective ear.

  Daniel really had thought this wretched woman was dead. Everyone said she was, including his father's former solicitor when the man had journeyed to Baltimore to inform Daniel that his father had finally passed away and that Daniel was now the new marquess. When Daniel and his sister Pearl had arrived in England, everyone had offered the siblings their condolences on the passing of both their father and their grandmother. Well, everyone assumed the cranky old bat was dead, anyway. After all, she had gone trotting off to Italy and hadn't been seen or heard from in nearly six years. Not even her own solicitor could find her to inform her that she had been more than comfortably set up with her own home and income by her son in his will.

  Even the Bow Street Runners that Daniel had hired to try to track her down had assumed the old woman had passed away while on the Continent. After all, there was proof of her passing. Of a sort, anyway. There was a gravestone bearing her name in a small cemetery outside the Italian city of Monza. After that, Jacob Beeston, the co-called "Barrister to the Peerage" had been instructed to have Wilhelmina Weston declared dead. After all, if she was resting in peace in Italy, Daniel wasn't about to dig up her body and have her returned to England.

  So imagine his surprise when she had knocked on his door at Montclef that fateful morning and barged into his home as if she owned it, accompanied by the coldest, most frigid wind he had ever felt in his life.

  At the time, Daniel had no idea how much of a portent that blastedly cold air had truly been.

  She had also never explained about the grave marker. And he had asked her about it - repeatedly.

  "Yes, well, that is not the case now, Grandmother. We are living in a more modern age." Daniel was doing his best to assuage this woman, but he was tired of having this same argument over and over again. "The young ladies of today are a touch more independent. As am I. Even the gentlemen I have come to know here do not believe in such foolery. Such nonsense certainly did not stand in Baltimore. Whether you like it or not, I was raised in America and I cannot and will not chain a young lady to my side if she does not wish to be there. I had told you before that I will only wed a lady who desires to be wedded to me. If she cannot stand to even look at me, I refuse to take her as my wife, no matter how proper her manners or how blue her blood."

  This was another point of contention between them and likely always would be. Despite how much Lady Lansdale wished circumstances had been otherwise, Daniel had been born in England but raised mostly in America. Baltimore, Maryland, to be precise. Which, in the dowager's mind, was little better than the wilds of Africa or worse, the far southern tip of South America, which might as well have been the last circle of Hell for the way she carried on about the matter. His grandmother would have even preferred to see him raised in India rather than America. For India, at least, had some English civility, or so she claimed, and she lamented her predicament of his birth least once a day. If not more.

  She also lamented the fact that she had not had a hand in raising Daniel to be the sort of man she desired - meaning one she could order about as she liked. At three and thirty, he was well beyond the age when he might be bent to her will, which annoyed her greatly. Daniel was also a man of independent wealth and could walk away from the marquisate if he so chose. She knew that too. However she also knew that Daniel was bound to his roots, at least to some degree. He was the latest in a long line of Weston men to assume the Lansdale title and he had been raised - albeit in a heathen land - to respect and value his ancestry and the marquisate. Even if his f
ather - God rest his soul as Grandmother proclaimed each time she spoke of him - had not been the one to teach him thus.

  However much the old woman wished it, she could not change the facts - not any of them. That also included the fact that her son George - Daniel's father - had been a brute of a man who beat his wife even when she was carrying his second child, a child that just might possibly have been his spare heir.

  In fact, George Weston had beaten his wife so badly that final night that she had run away to America rather than risk her life and that of her unborn child - a daughter she eventually named Pearl. That was the sole reason why the dragon standing before him and her now-late son had never had a voice in raising Daniel. And thank God for that, in his opinion.

  Everything Daniel knew and believed, including what his responsibilities to the marquisate were, had largely come from his mother, a woman that Wilhelmina Weston despised right down to her very soul. A woman that Wilhelmina had never deemed quite good enough for her precious son and certainly not good enough to be the mother of the next Lansdale heir. All of which rankled the old crone far more than just about anything else ever would.

  Daniel's mother, Althea, the former Lady Lansdale, had run away from her husband when she was pregnant with her second child, taking Daniel with her when she fled across the Atlantic to settle in the relative safety Baltimore, Maryland. The resulting scandal had rocked all of London and even now, Daniel was surprised that his father had not disowned the lot of them and simply found a new bride to provide him with an heir. However, given his father's monstrous reputation by the time Lady Lansdale had fled England, not to mention English succession laws, it was little wonder the man could not find another woman to make his wife and beget another heir.