The Notorious Marriage Read online

  The most scandalous marriage in London…

  If Kit and Eleanor’s elopement wasn’t enough to fire a frenzy of gossip, it was then heard that Eleanor’s new husband had disappeared only a day after their hasty wedding! Five long months later, Lord Mostyn returned. Though not at liberty to explain his departure, he was still determined to win back the affection of his fuming bride. Would he succeed? Perhaps if he continued the marriage exactly where it began—in the bedroom…

  “Was there anything else, my lord?”

  “Just one more thing,” Kit murmured. His gaze drifted from her face, which was becoming pinker under his prolonged scrutiny, down her slender figure and back again. His eyes lingered, disturbingly, on her mouth. Eleanor stiffened.

  “I wished to disabuse you of any notion you might have of a marriage of convenience,” Kit said slowly. “All this talk of you going your way and I going mine might lead you to imagine…erroneously…that ours would be a marriage in name only.”

  The Notorious Marriage

  Harlequin Historical

  Praise for Nicola Cornick’s latest books

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  —Romantic Times

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  “…a suspenseful yet tenderhearted tale of love…”

  —Romantic Times

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  THE NOTORIOUS MARRIAGE

  Nicola Cornick

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  NICOLA CORNICK

  The Virtuous Cyprian #566

  Lady Polly #574

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  The Notorious Marriage #659

  For my grandmother, who introduced me

  to historical romances all those years ago.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  December 1813

  When Kit Mostyn stepped through the doors of Almacks Assembly Rooms that night, it was difficult to tell who was the more surprised, the chaperones of the hopeful débutantes assembled there, or Kit himself. Certainly Almacks was not a place where Kit normally sought entertainment, and this evening he had struggled rather incredulously with the compulsion that drove him there. It, or rather she, had so strong a hold on him that he could not resist, and being a man who chose not to struggle against fate, he resolved to meet his with a certain equanimity.

  He saw her as soon as he entered the room. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, daughter of the late Viscount Trevithick and younger sister to the current Earl. She was dancing with an elderly roué, Lord Kemble, if Kit did not miss his guess, and just the sight of the two of them together made his temper soar dangerously. As he sought to keep a grip on it he was forced to acknowledge that it mattered little who was partnering Eleanor—the fact that it was someone other than himself was all that counted.

  Slender, sweet and impossibly innocent, Eleanor Trevithick was the most demure of débutantes, yet there had been something between them from the beginning, a startling attraction that both she and Kit recognised—and knew they had to ignore. It had caught Kit by surprise, and although they had never spoken of it, he instinctively knew that the strength of the attraction both frightened and fascinated Eleanor. As for himself, he had cynically dismissed his feelings at first—a man of his age and considerable experience with the opposite sex was hardly likely to fall in love with an innocent in her first Season. The feelings she stirred in him could be no more than desire—admittedly strong, undeniably surprising, but no doubt of short duration.

  He had been wrong. Kit had wanted Eleanor Trevithick for the whole of the past year, ever since they had shared an illicit dance at her eighteenth birthday ball, and his desire showed no sign of waning. Indeed the reverse was true. He was very close to admitting now that he loved her, but he did not wish to be that honest with himself at the moment. It would only undermine him still further. One could not always have what one wanted, and he could not have Eleanor.

  Kit, whose title and position would have made him a more than acceptable suitor for any number of young ladies, was the one man whose addresses could never be welcomed by Eleanor’s family. There was a feud between the Trevithick and Mostyn families that went back hundreds of years, and the Dowager Viscountess, Eleanor’s mother, would cut him dead whenever she saw him. The fact that his cousin Beth was currently engaged in a dispute with the current Earl of Trevithick over the ownership of part of his estate only made matters worse. Kit had had no intention of being drawn any further into the Mostyn and Trevithick feud. Nor was he hanging out for a wife anyway. At the moment he had other responsibilities.

  Even so…

  He approached Eleanor as soon as he was able, cutting out the young Viscount who had thought this set of country dances belonged to him. Kit knew that all eyes were upon them, knew that Lady Trevithick was swelling like a turkey-cock in a temper and that her rout chair looked set fair to break under the weight. He ignored her, ignored the speculative looks of the other chaperones and the envious, spiteful glances of some of the débutantes, and smiled down into Eleanor’s eyes.

  ‘Miss Trevithick…It is a great pleasure to see you tonight.’

  Eleanor met his gaze listlessly for a brief second. She did not smile. There was none of her usual vivacity in those dark Trevithick eyes. She avoided his gaze, looking over his shoulder to where her mother and Lord Kemble sat huddled at the side of the floor.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Kit frowned slightly. It was not that he expected her to show her partiality for him, for Eleanor was far too well-bred to make a display of her feelings in public. He was perceptive enough, however, to see that there was something wrong—something dreadfully wrong. Eleanor’s face was pale and pinched, all light quenched. She steadfastly refused to look at him.

  Kit tightened his grip on her hands. ‘Eleanor…’ he said urgently.

  She looked up. For a fleeting second, Kit saw all the misery and hopeless longing reflected in her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. Then her lashes came down, veiling her expression.

  ‘I believe you must wish me happy, my lord,’ she said, softly but clearly. ‘I am betrothed to Lord Kemble.’

  ‘No!’ The word was out of his mouth before Kit could help himself. His grip tightened murderously on her hands. He saw her wince, and had to force himself to let her go. ‘No,’ he said again, very politely. ‘That cannot be so.’

  ‘I assure you that it is.’ Eleanor’s dark lashes flickered again. ‘The notice will be in the Morning Post tomorrow. It is all arranged.’

  ‘It cannot be.’

  For a moment her eyes searched his face and this time there was entreaty there. ‘Why not? It is not as though you can offer me an alternative, my lord!’

  They had been speaking i
n edged whispers until that point, but now Eleanor’s voice rose as though she could not control her anguish. She bit her lip, a wave of colour coming into her pale face then receding to leave her even paler.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, regaining a faltering control. ‘I should not have said that.’

  Kit’s heart turned over. He could see the hopelessness beneath her fragile dignity and it touched him deeply. He felt a rush of protective desire, stronger than anything he had ever experienced before.

  ‘If I could help you—’

  ‘Eleanor!’ Lord Kemble’s unctuous voice cut across his words. ‘I believe that this next is my waltz.’

  He bowed to Kit, his hooded gaze watchful. ‘Your servant, Mostyn. Ain’t you going to congratulate me? This little honey-pot is all mine!’

  Kit’s own bow was so slight as to be barely there. ‘I pray that you will not take your good fortune for granted, Kemble. Miss Trevithick…’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘I must bid you good night.’

  He watched as Kemble took Eleanor away. The man oozed a self-satisfied lasciviousness that was deeply offensive. The thought of Eleanor’s slight figure crushed beneath him, subject to his lusts, was almost too much for Kit to stand. He wanted to call the man out and put a bullet through him. In fact he was not sure if he would bother with the formality of calling him out, just shoot him where he stood. Or he could take Kemble’s neck-cloth and use it to strangle him…

  He saw Eleanor smile stiffly at her betrothed as Kemble took her in his arms for the waltz. Kit turned away and threaded his way to the door, trying to keep his expression impassive as he passed through the knots of chattering débutantes. The cold night air helped to clear his anger a little. He had to think, had to decide what to do. If only it were not so damnably complicated…By the time he had reached the house in Upper Grosvenor Street his anger had once again been subdued to cool reason but he was no clearer on his course of action. All he knew was that Eleanor Trevithick was his and as such could never be permitted to marry Lord Kemble.

  It was later—much later—when the butler came to him to tell him that there was a young lady on the doorstep who was begging to speak with him. By that time Kit had consumed half a bottle of brandy and he simply laughed.

  ‘I don’t think that would be a particularly good idea, would it, Carrick?’ He murmured. ‘In the first instance I am three parts cut and in the second, young ladies…’ he stressed the words ‘…are presumably tucked up in bed…alone…at this time of night, not walking the streets of London!’

  Carrick, who was enough of a butler of the world to know that this was true, nevertheless stood his ground.

  ‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but this is very definitely a lady. A young lady, my lord, and in considerable distress…’

  Kit sighed with irritation. His first thought—that Eleanor Trevithick had come to seek him out—had been quickly dismissed as wishful thinking. Eleanor was so very proper, so entirely well brought up, that she never put a foot wrong. Certainly she would not even think of entering a gentleman’s house alone, especially not in the middle of the night. Respectable young ladies simply did not behave in such a way.

  Therefore it must be another sort of lady. An enterprising Cyprian, perhaps, or even a débutante with fewer scruples than Eleanor, intent on catching him. Kit had learned to be cynical. Several young ladies had twisted their ankles outside the house in Upper Grosvenor Street in the last week or two. He had even found a girl in the drawing-room one evening and she had sworn that she had simply mistaken the house for that of a friend. When Kit’s housekeeper had ushered her off the premises she had been distinctly annoyed.

  Kit’s gaze swept around the firelit study, taking in the tumbled pile of papers on the desk, the empty bottle of brandy and the glass of the same amber liquid that stood by his armchair. To entertain a lady here would be the greatest folly. Besides, he had other preoccupations that night, plans that needed serious consideration. Plans that had suffered because of his preoccupation with Eleanor. He shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry, Carrick, but you must turn this so-called young lady away. I am certain that it can only be a trap and I am scarce going to walk straight into it…’

  The words had barely left his lips when he heard the sound of running feet on the hall tiles and the scandalised voice of one of the footmen:

  ‘Pardon, madam, but you cannot go in there…’

  Both Kit and the butler swung round towards the doorway.

  ‘Kit!’

  Kit smothered a curse. He turned to the butler. ‘Very well, Carrick, you may leave us.’

  Carrick inclined his head. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said expressionlessly. He went out and closed the door, softly but firmly, behind him.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t be here!’ Eleanor said defiantly, immediately the door had closed and they were alone. She was wearing a black velvet cloak over the same dress of pale white gold she had worn earlier in the evening. It was the demure, expensive raiment of the débutante. Her dark brown eyes, huge in her elfin face, were fixed on him. Her hair had come out of it’s chignon and rich, chestnut brown curls tumbled about her shoulders, spilling over the cloak and down her back. She looked delectable—and terrified. Kit saw her lock her fingers together tightly to still their trembling. He deliberately looked away from her.

  ‘You are correct. You should not be here. It is madness.’ Kit spoke curtly to mask a variety of emotions. He came towards her, keeping his hands very firmly in his pockets. ‘Miss Trevithick, I suggest that for the sake of your reputation you should turn around and go directly home—’

  Eleanor shook her head.

  ‘Kit, I cannot! You must help me! I cannot bear to be married off to Kemble! That disgusting old man—why, he speaks of nothing but his horses and his gaming, and wheezes and snores his way through every play and concert we have ever attended! And then he paws at me in the most revolting manner imaginable!’

  Kit took a deep breath, maintaining a scrupulous distance away from her. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, temptation personified. His mind was telling him to show her the door and his body was telling him to take her in his arms.

  ‘The correct thing to do in this situation is to apply to your brother,’ he heard himself say sternly. ‘He is the head of the family and could easily prevent such a match…’

  ‘You know that Marcus is away in Devon, and Justin too!’ Kit saw tears squeeze from the corner of Eleanor’s eyes and she rubbed them impatiently away with her fingers. ‘Mama means to marry me off before they return—she is hot for the match! And I have no one to apply to for help! Please, Kit—’ she broke off. ‘I thought when we spoke earlier that you might save me…’ Her gaze touched his face and moved away at what it saw there. ‘Perhaps I was wrong…’

  ‘You were.’ Again, Kit ruthlessly repressed the urge to take her in his arms. He took a sharp turn away from her and moved over to the fireplace, leaning against the marble chimney-breast. ‘Your mama cannot force the match, Eleanor, and certainly not before Trevithick returns—’

  ‘Kemble has a special licence!’ Eleanor burst out. ‘Oh Kit…’ she spread her hands in a pleading gesture and Kit felt himself flinch inside ‘…you do not understand! I was so sure that you would help me…’

  Kit took a deep breath. Every instinct that he possessed was urging him to crush her to him, promise her that he would look after her, swear that all would be well. Yet in the morning she might well regret the whole escapade. In the cold light of day she might realise that she had ruined herself—and the only way to save her from that was to make her turn round now and go home, before anyone was the wiser. Besides, even had there not been such a violent feud between their families, Kit knew he was in no position to marry. He had other commitments, matters that might take him away at any moment. He was not free…

  ‘There is no need for such drama,’ Kit said, powerless to prevent the harsh tone of his voice, cursing himself that he could not help her. ‘In the morning e
verything will seem better and you will realise that the situation is far from desperate…’

  He saw Eleanor’s chin come up as she heard the repudiation in his words. She squared her shoulders. Her dark eyes flashed.

  ‘Very well, Lord Mostyn. I see that I misunderstood you! I will leave now! There is no need to say any more!’

  Oddly, Kit found that her pride angered him, got under his defences. He had been able to guard himself against her distress—only just, but he had managed it by telling himself that he simply had to withstand her for her good as well as his own. He would have to deal with his own feelings of helplessness and self-disgust—he did not intend to explain to Eleanor. In the cool light of day he might think of a solution, find a way to help her. But now her danger was intense and she did not even appear to understand that…

  She was drawing on her cloak, preparing to leave and looking at him with a mixture of desperation and contempt in her eyes that provoked him beyond reason.

  ‘I thought you a gentleman,’ she said, softly but with biting sarcasm, ‘but it seems I was mistaken…’

  Kit tried to clamp down on his frustration. ‘It is precisely because I am a gentleman that I am concerned for your reputation, Eleanor—’

  She made a little noise indicative of her disgust. Kit straightened up and came across to her. He told himself that it would do no harm to make her think about what she was doing, frighten her a little so that she would never do it again. The thought of Eleanor throwing herself on someone else’s mercy in this trusting and foolish fashion made his anger burn almost out of control.

  She was looking down her nose at him as though she expected him to hold the door open for her, as though he were some kind of damned butler. Instead, Kit leant one hand against the door panels and leaned over her. Now there was a flash of puzzlement in her eyes, puzzlement mixed with something more potent. Her lashes flickered down, veiling her expression.