Page 20 of A Marriage for the Marquess

That evening, acrossHyde Park in Belgravia, Ewan sat alone at the head of the long dining table, the silverware gleaning in the soft candlelight. The room was silent save for the quiet rustling of papers as he reviewed the estate accounts, something that would never happen at his parent’s home. Everything seemed to be in order, a small comfort in the absence of his father’s guiding hand.

Duncan entered the room, his steps measured and sure. “Dinner is served,” he announced, laying out the dishes with an efficiency born of years of service.

Ewan nodded, his appetite minimal. “Thank you, Duncan. How was the market today?” he asked, more for something to say than genuine interest.

Duncan began to pour the wine, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, the usual hustle and bustle. But I did chance upon Mary Murthy, the Fairmont’s housekeeper. She was quite the chatterbox about the comings and goings at their townhouse.”

Ewan’s hand stilled, the crystal glass catching the light as he set it down a bit too sharply. “And what of Miss Hayward?” he inquired, trying to keep his tone casual.

“Seems she’s had quite the parade of suitors since the gala. Mr. Hargrove and Viscount Mandeville have been particularly persistent,” Duncan relayed, oblivious to the tightening of Ewan’s jaw.

A swell of irritation touched with jealousy, flooded his senses. “Is that so?” he said, his voice colder than he intended.

Duncan met his gaze, unflinching. “Aye, it is. And what of it? If you’ve a mind to court the lass, sitting here brooding won’t do you any good. For weeks, you’ve made social calls and returned fretting.”

Ewan’s eyes narrowed, the truth in Duncan’s words stinging. “And what would you have me do, Duncan? Declare my intentions in the middle of the market?”

Duncan chuckled, the sound rich and knowing. “No, but perhaps a call wouldn’t go amiss. Or, at the very least, a letter. The lady won’t wait forever, and nor will her suitors. It doesn’t appear that you or the lady have found anyone in which you’re interested. I wonder why that is? If the lass chooses and marries one of those gentlemen, it would serve you right.”

Ewan pushed his plate away, his appetite now entirely gone. “You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.” He stood, pacing to the window, the night sky a vast expanse of possibilities. Duncan’s words echoed in his mind, a call to action he couldn’t ignore.

“What’s not simple? You’ve been moping about like a lost pup. The few, and I mean very few, times you’ve encountered her, you barely say a word. If you fancy her, do something about it.” Duncan’s tone took on a serious tone.

His shoulders sagged, the full impact of his fears overwhelming him. “It’s not just that. I’ve gone over that scene in Paris hundreds of times. I was well planted in front of the duke. If I hadn’t moved to help the duchess, the bullet would have struck me.” He turned to Duncan. “The shooting felt wrong, the bullet was meant for me. How can you put her in jeopardy?”

Duncan’s expression softened, realizing the depth of Ewan’s turmoil. “Ah, so that’s it. You’re letting the ghosts of Paris haunt you now, those ghosts, as well as the shades of this criminal order. Remember what the shooter shouted that night? ‘For the Duke!’ They were targeting Duke Berry, not you.”

“I remember what he said, but I looked into the eyes of that assassin. They were not the eyes of a zealot fighting for a cause.” Maybe Duncan was correct. Was he seeing ghosts where there were none?

“Thetonknows you feel strongly for Lady Hayward. To protect her, you need to be with her, not apart. You’re stronger than you think. Pushing Juliet away won’t protect her or you. As for the Order, we’ll face them as we have faced other assignments, head-on.”

“And if my father’s accident was indeed planned. How can I bring her into all this?”

“You’d rather leave the lass on her own, without any protection?”

Ewan stared out into the night, Duncan’s words sinking in. He had been running from his fears, letting them control him. Maybe it was time to stop running.

“Have the carriage ready in the afternoon,” Ewan said as he returned to his seat. He lifted his glass of wine, his decision settling over him like a cloak. “I’ll call at Fairmont Abbey tomorrow.”

Duncan nodded a look of approval in his eyes. “Very good. It’s high time you played your hand.” Duncan paused, his expression serious. “I haven’t wanted to press you, but remember, the weeks are dwindling. Your birthday—and the deadline—is two weeks from today.”

The glass paused in mid-air, a symbol of the moment’s gravity. Ewan’s course of action was clear, even as the significance of Duncan’s reminder settled upon him. “I am well aware,” he said, his voice steady. “I cannot get her out of my mind. Tomorrow, I shall visit Juliet. It’s time I spoke with Baron Fairmont and asked for her hand.” He glanced at his close friend. “I haven’t come to this conclusion lightly.”

Duncan regarded him. “It’s a bold move. Are you certain this is the course you wish to take?”

Ewan set the glass down, the clink of crystal against wood punctuating his decision. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. Juliet is… she’s unlike any other, Duncan. Her grace under pressure, her strength—she’s the partner I desire.”

Duncan nodded. “I understand. I’ll make sure everything is in order for your call. And Ewan,” he added, “I believe the Baron and his wife will see the honor in your intentions.”

After Duncan departed, Ewan remained at the table, sipping his wine, his thoughts as turbulent as the North Sea storm. The prospect of seeing Juliet again sent a thrill through him, along with a healthy dose of concern. After barely speaking to herthese weeks, would she decline his offer? Setting that fear aside, he was determined he would not lose her.

Chapter Twelve

April 18, 1820

The afternoon sunlightstreamed through the curtains into the Fairmont drawing room, where Juliet sat in a soft blue muslin dress, her hair neatly coiffed into a chignon. The room was fragrant with the scent of fresh-cut flowers, vibrant gifts from Mr. Hargrove and Viscount Mandeville, who were once again expected for tea.

The clock chimed the hour, echoing through the house with a resonance that normally would have set Juliet’s heart to fluttering in anticipation. Yet today, the sound that signaled suitors would soon arrive felt more like a tolling bell, a reminder of the duty that awaited her. Other gentlemen had shown interest, yet none seemed inclined to step forward with the urgency her situation demanded. All except Mr. Hargrove and Viscount Mandeville. They alone had been persistent in their attentions, their visits becoming as regular as the clock’s chimes, each visit echoing the pressing need for Juliet to secure her family’s future. She sat, poised and elegant, but her mind wandered, lost in the memory of a moonlit terrace.

---