Pain of The Marquess (The Valiant Love Regency Romance #9) (A Historical Romance Book): Valiant Love, #9

By Deborah Wilson

All of London hunts for a treasure and unfortunately, one woman stands in the middle of it all.

Upon her father's death, Lady Irene Hiller inherited more than the duke's wealth.

She inherited his power.

She inherited his corrupt businesses.

And… she inherited more than a few of his enemies.

As her world begins to unravel, there is only one man she'll allow to put it back together.

The man she's always loved.

The Marquess of Fawley.

Clive has never understood Irene's obsession with him.

He's a criminal.

One of the wild Lost Lords.

While many of the women in society admire him for his title as the Marquess of Fawley, Irene who manages to not only see inside his soul, but touch it in the most intimate way.

But … that doesn't mean he has any intention of giving into the woman's wishes for love and happiness.

Guilt grants her his protection, but it will take more to gain his trust.

Not that his trust is worth much.

Can love overcome the secrets Clive hides?

Will the last Lost Lord find love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Wilson
• Release date: Feb 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393215240

Deborah Wilson

As a young girl, Deborah has been an avid fan of Regency authors such as Jane Austen. Deborah has always been in love with the Regency era. Despite the fact that this era is filled with great social, political, and economic upheavals and happenings, yet there is still plenty of room for episodes of romance happenings. In this era, love was pure. In this era, one can still find men and women who would have the courage to express their love while living amongst strict social customs for courtships. In such times, romantic gestures could be small yet they have a beautiful, meaningful impact. It is Deborah’s desire that through her writings, one will find the courage to love, to profess love and to pursue love. And the reason is simple. Everyone deserves to love and be loved. Pure and simple. Deborah is the author of ❦ VALIANT LOVE ❦ series. While the wealthy and titled men and women of the early nineteenth century were known for their extravagance in dress and decor and the rules that governed ‘polite society’, she wanted this series to focus on something different. Honor. What makes a man or woman honorable and where does love fit into all of this? “Let good be thy fortune and honor thy wealth.” Read and find out now for yourself Sign up now to Deborah’s VIP email list. Why? You will never miss a new release. You will be notified by Deborah personally as soon as her next book is out. →⟫⟫ http://eepurl.com/dHxqRD And please don’t forget to connect with Deborah on facebook. She loves hearing from her readers and sharing her thoughts and writing progress. →⟫⟫ https://www.facebook.com/deborahwilsonbooks

Book preview

prologue

*   *   *

October 1821

London, England

Lady Irene Hiller opened her eyes but saw nothing. The darkness seemed endless, making her room feel as though it went on forever. She gripped the sheets, slowed her breathing, and listened.

Footsteps. They were slow but pronounced as someone moved about her room. What was the hour? Perhaps she was wrong to think it night. She’d had her maid close the drapes before she’d gone to bed. She’d wanted the darkness. Since her father’s death two weeks ago, she’d struggled to find sleep any other way.

The house was so large, and she was alone except for the staff she’d kept on. She hadn’t released a single soul from her service, not even her father’s valet or driver. Their faces gave her comfort and made her feel less alone when she strolled through the house.

The footsteps came to a stop, and she heard breathing close to her bed. She thought it too heavy to belong to Abigail, her lady’s maid, who usually brought a lamp to shine a soft glow in order to find her way around Irene’s room.

The fear that had been pounding through her blood clawed its nails into her throat. She sucked in a breath right before a hand landed on her nose and mouth.

She screamed, but the sound was muffled. When she tried to pull in air again, none came. She fought, and her fists landed on the mighty arm suffocating her, but he didn’t release her.

Tears slipped down her heated cheeks as her assailant pressed her farther into the bed.

If you swear not to scream, I will lift my hand.

When she didn’t stop fighting, he shook her, shoved her harder against the mattress, and repeated himself.

Desperation turned her sobs to a whimper. Her lungs burned.

When he released her, and the air came, it was bliss. She gasped, sucked, and dragged in all the air she could find.

Scream and I’ll kill you before anyone can find us.

She closed her mouth and swallowed. The man, and she was certain it was a man, was doing something to disguise his voice, making it harsh and unnaturally deep.

I wonder how many people would miss you if you died, Lady Irene. Not many will miss your father.

She tried to stop the pain that slashed through her chest at the words. She’d been busy trying to come up with a means of escape when he’d said what he had. She’d loved her father. Lord Van Dero had been a man who enjoyed having his way, but never had he lifted a hand to her. His funeral had been well attended. She’d received hundreds of condolences. This man clearly knew nothing about her or her father.

Do you know what sort of man your father was?

Irene said nothing.

I asked you a question, the man from the darkness said.

She swallowed. I have a purse on the vanity. You can have—

Answer my question.

Yes. My f-father was a good man, and he will be g-greatly missed.

He grunted. I figured he’d been good to you. Otherwise, you’d have married the first man not offended by your face.

His comment didn’t hurt. Irene had grown up with her face. She saw it every day. She knew she was no great beauty, no matter what her father had said or how many artists came from the Continent to paint her.

She didn’t look like other women. She never had, and she never would. She accepted that, and if her attacker thought her hideous, there was hope that he didn’t desire to rape her.

Your father was a wicked man, my lady. Did you know that? the shadowed man asked.

What do you want? If he was planning to attack her, she wanted him to do it now.

I want the book.

What book?

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I want the book. Where is it? Is it in this room? She felt his hand brush the sheets, and she jumped toward the other side.

He caught her and spun her around. His breath was terrible as he pinned her.

Please!

Shut your mouth, he hissed. If you wake anyone, I’ll slit your throat. He hadn’t covered his natural voice when he’d said it. She heard an aristocrat note to it. The man was a member of the ton or an upstairs servant, not anyone that she knew though.

Irene tried to slow her breathing so she could concentrate on his words.

"I want the Book of Affairs."

What?

You heard me.

She turned her head and pulled in a breath. I have never heard of such a book.

Your father kept it close, and you were close to your father. You cared for him until the end. He adjusted himself to be on top of her, and Irene had to hold herself back from whimpering.

He caressed her cheek with his hard fingers. Looking at you, one would never guess at the softness you hide underneath all the rigidness. Tell me where the book is, or I’ll turn unfriendly.

I don’t have it! Who wrote it? I will buy it for you. I swear. Just leave. Please. Irene had always prided herself for not giving into hysterics, but she couldn’t control herself now. Tears streamed down her face.

The man rolled off her and stood. Your father has a book, a book he wrote himself. I’ll keep visiting until it is in my possession. For now, you might want to look into the Tillerman factory. She owned the factory and other businesses, thanks to her father.

She heard the crashing of feet as they pounded into the floor. He flung her drapes back and then he was gone.

A maid came in. She held up a lamp, but that didn’t stop Irene from screaming.

Are you all right, my lady? the terrified servant asked.

Irene couldn’t answer. She didn’t know what to do. All she could do was weep.

∫  ∫  ∫

0 1

*   *   *

March 1822

London, England

Stand up.

Irene’s young pupils obeyed in unison. The fifteen-year-old twin girls unfolded themselves from their chairs with an elegance that would make one believe them far more mature than their ages.

They didn’t let their hoop skirts and heavily adorned curls impede their motion.

Irene smiled when she noticed that their chins were lifted just so. She’d taught them that, shown them the way. She’d taught her two birds to fly and today they would enter the world of womanhood. They’d be presented at court, and they’d have the world eating from the palms of their hands within the week.

They’d taken their lessons seriously. She was certain they’d have few troubles. They’d be wed in a few years, and they’d look back on this time and know they had Irene to thank.

But now was the time for their final lesson. As you take your first steps into the London Season, I must make one thing very clear. Never, under any circumstance, settle. Not with husbands. Not with friends or family. Never settle for anything less than respect. Once you allow someone to walk all over you, you become a rug, and rugs are beaten.

They jumped at the last bit. She might have been more emphatic than necessary, but she had to make sure they understood. There is no going back from being a rug; therefore, be sure to always demand what you are owed, and that is the courtesy of any man or woman who wishes to address you.

Rachel, the one on the right, lifted her chin an inch farther.

Irene had to hold back a smile. She looked away and began to pace. Her strides were elegant and profound. To have respect does not mean you will have everyone’s favor. There are those who will be offended that you demand thoughtfulness in their tone and tongue, but never give in. She stopped and met the other girl’s eyes. Winifred was more willing to bend to make peace. With luck, she’d marry someone who adored her. It was truly her only hope. As women, we are given few choices. Many things are asked of us, but never bargain your respect.

Their mother, Lady Cecilia Hiller, stood and clapped. Thank you, Irene. Girls, thank your aunt.

Thank you, Aunt Irene, they said in unison.

Irene was not truly their aunt; it was simply that Irene and Cecilia had been acquainted since the womb. Their mothers had been friends. They’d tried for a baby at the same time. They’d often sat close while with child and claimed Irene and Cecilia had reached out to one another in the womb.

They were friends before their birth, sisters in a way that was more meaningful than blood.

Irene’s nieces broke from their refined postures and rushed to hug her and shower her with their gratitude and excitement.

Irene smiled as they retreated from the room. Their ladies’ maids would make the final finishes to their attire and then everyone would start for the palace. There would be a parade and one ball right after the other. She’d see more people tonight than any other. Naturally, she’d spend most of the evening with Cecilia and the girls. An aunt’s work was never done.

Do you think they’ll marry well? Cecilia asked as she and Irene sat on the ornate couch. Cecilia’s girls looked just like her with vibrant red hair and sunspots that Irene thought irresistible, though all three hated them. They had bright hazel eyes and soft simple features that beckoned people to stare in admiration of their beauty.

They will marry well, Irene said, having no doubt.

Cecilia sighed extravagantly and touched her flushed cheek. Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done these last few years without you. These last few months have been especially wonderful. With Harry on the Continent, I’ve felt terribly alone in our apartments. It was nice that the girls and I had the chance to stay here and spend time with you.

I’ve enjoyed having you here, Irene assured her.

You know I’ve never been good at these things, all the rules and etiquette. If left to me, my darling girls would have fit better in a cage at a menagerie.

Cecilia had one other daughter, Mary. She was ten and visiting her grandmother for the day. Cecilia’s only son was at Eton. He often acted like wild beast, but he was a boy and Society would accept that as an excuse up to a certain point. Thankfully, Harry Jr. was away at school.

Cecilia shook her head. You’re truly the most wonderful person I know.

Irene rolled her eyes dramatically, yet inside, her stomach tumbled with distress. Cecilia, please. We both know you were doing me the favor. Irene’s nightly visitor hadn’t stopped coming.

He’d come once when Cecilia had gone to visit her mother and another time when Cecilia had taken the children to visit their uncle. He never came when someone else was in the house.

She’d posted a footman in her room for the first week while she’d dug into Tillerman’s factory.

On the surface, she’d found nothing that gave her pause about the paint factory, but then she’d noticed that many of the painting jobs were not only carried out by men, but little girls as well. After pulling the girls to a safe place, Irene had asked them if they did anything else but paint at the homes they visited in the city.

Their confessions had almost made her faint. Owning most of the business, Irene had removed Tillerman from his own factory and put another man in charge, one of the few the girls had said they trusted.

She’d been disgusted by what she’d found, but with more digging, she found no evidence that her father had known. None of the money Tillerman had been making off selling the girls’ bodies was on the books.

So, Irene had taken a risk and sent the footman away the next night and the night after that.

Her visitor hadn’t come again until a month later. Again, he’d asked for the book and again, she’d had no clue what he was speaking about. She’d asked her father’s man of business, Mr. Crow, about it, but he was at a loss as well.

The visitor had given her the name of another one of her father’s businesses to look into and naturally, Irene had done just that, only to find more corruption.

Since that second visit, her assailant had come twice more. He remained by the window as they spoke. She offered to let him come to her during the day and she would help him find the book, but he refused. He didn’t wish to share his identity but was glad to see Irene was not like her father.

It was still a matter she disagreed upon. Her father had not been a villain. Most businesses had their faults, Mr. Crow had told her, and with her father being so weak, it had been easy for men like Tillerman to take advantage of him.

Her visitor told her that there were other men who wished to come after her. He was not the only man in London searching for the book, but to this day, he’d been the only one to bother her about it.

But there were times when Irene felt as though someone were watching her. Even in a crowd, she could feel eyes burning her, dark eyes that wished to hurt her.

That is not true. Cecilia took her hand, shaking her from her thoughts. It is you who have done me a service. You’re the most giving person in London. Look what you’ve done for my girls and the girls at the factory and all the while, you’ve been dealing with your own grief. Your brother has been gone for ten months. Your father for eight. You’ve dedicated your whole life to everyone else. Now that the girls are entering the Season, you should do something for yourself.

Helping you pleases me.

You should marry, Cecilia said, as she always did. Then she followed with what usually came next. Harry has returned, just as he promised he would. He’ll be present at court to see the girls bow to the queen. We’ll be leaving you tonight, but I fear leaving you alone. The man who comes through your window might decide to turn violent again since I am not in the room next door. Oh, I wish you’d simply report him.

I can’t, Irene said. He knows so much about my father’s business. He could start gossip. I must clear my father’s name.

Then find that book.

I’ve searched. We’ve both searched. They’d taken the house apart in hopes of finding it, but they’d found nothing. She thought to look at some of her father’s other properties, but the attacker had said there was no need. Her father would have kept the book close.

The Book of Affairs. What was inside? She wondered if it truly existed.

Marry, Irene, Cecilia said. You’re beautiful. Any man worth his salt would have you.

Heat, created from embarrassment and anger, pushed Irene to her feet. I believe I’ve told you that I do not wish to discuss this.

Cecilia tilted her head. Her posture was terrible, but it didn’t matter. She’d married well— twice—and had given both husbands their heir. She was a woman who Society would make few demands on. We’ve seen thirty summers, you and I.

Irene groaned. Are we truly thirty-years-olds? So soon? The effort she put into it was only partly exaggerated. She hated being thirty. Where had the time gone?

She knew where her time had gone. To her father. He’d been ill since before she could remember. She’d tried to hire nurses to see to his care, but none of them had actually cared. Therefore, if she’d wanted her father to live, she’d had to see to it herself.

And he had lived. With Irene as his nurse, he’d lived far longer than the doctors had thought he would. The Duke of Van Dero should have died at sixty, but Irene had seen him through another decade.

Then her brother Gregory had been murdered and their father had lost his will to live when he’d lost his heir. It hadn’t mattered what Irene did after that. He’d wasted away before her eyes. Two months and he’d been gone.

The tragedy of her family’s demise had almost broken her. Cecilia had no clue how much helping Rachel and Winifred prepare for their Season had helped Irene cope with the deaths of her loved ones.

But Cecilia was right about one thing. The girls wouldn’t need her anymore. They each had a chaperone and a mother who could easily introduce them into Society. It meant Irene needed something to do, something to occupy her mind before she went mad.

She’d been thinking about it for weeks. She knew this day was coming.

She also knew it made sense to marry. She was a spinster, but her father had died with more wealth than the Crown and no one but her and his heir to leave it to.

He had left half of it to her, surprisingly.

I’ve thought to get involved in my father’s business dealings, aside from what the assailant offers.

You already did, Cecilia said. This is getting dangerous.

He doesn’t touch me anymore.

Marry, Irene. Let a man help you with the assailant. I fear with every discovery, you are putting yourself in danger.

Though Irene hated when women thought a man the solution to a problem, she admitted that having one in her bed would give her the greatest amount of comfort.

Have that child you’ve always wanted, Cecilia said.

Irene had to fight to keep from touching her belly. It wasn’t too late. She could have a baby of her own. But she sighed. I can’t marry. I won’t settle. She’d just told the girls that very thing. How could she then go and settle for anything else than love? If I did, it would have to be him. The only man she’d ever loved.

Cecilia leaned forward. Irene, perhaps it’s best we look elsewhere. There are other men; men who would marry you the moment you dared to look their way.

Men who are interested in my father’s money, I know.

You can’t know that for certain.

Irene frowned. None of them gave me more than a polite greeting until my brother died.

But surely, you understand why I urge you to look elsewhere. It’s been six years, and he hasn’t asked for your hand. They’d had this discussion before.

But in the past year, he’s approached me. After the customary period for mourning, Irene had returned to Society and the Marquess of Fawley, Clive Dendrick, had been there to offer his condolences. He all but made it his mission to see how she was faring every chance he got.

All you and Lord Clive do is fight.

Irene smiled. They did bicker more than they exchanged pleasantries. He sent me gifts. Many gifts.

Out of guilt, Cecilia said. He stole your hairpin and to make amends, he sent you hairpins.

But not the one he stole. Irene’s lips curled up. He kept my hairpin for himself.

Her friend opened her mouth, but Irene cut her off. Also, he is unwed. Beautiful, wealthy, titled, and yet unwed. What do you think that says? She answered her own question. It means he pines for me. My father hated him. Everyone knew that. Clive almost ruined my reputation.

Cecilia straightened and released a breath. At this point, if you truly believe the Marquess of Fawley is in love with you than I support your heart’s desire. Your father, God rest his soul, is gone. So, we must force the marquess to act on his feelings.

Irene thought about that. She’d thought about it plenty in the past. She’d even mentioned it to her father, but Lord Van Dero had not held Fawley in high esteem.

And now her pater slept with his fathers. Irene had had years to prepare for her father’s death. When it came, there was little surprise.

Was it wrong to go against her father’s wishes? The circumstances surrounding their discord seemed so small now. And for Irene, that had always been the case.

Lord Fawley, or Clive, as Irene called him, had stolen Irene’s hairpin at a party and left her with a longing that never quite went away.

Irene touched her stomach. She wanted a baby of her own. She wanted Clive Dendrick more.

And she would not settle for less.

∫  ∫  ∫

0 2

*   *   *

Do it again, Uncle Clive! George shouted.

Yes, please, Uncle Clive. Miriam always wanted everything George wanted.

Lord Clive Dendrick positioned his hold on his dagger and then flung. It shot through the air and made an audible thud as he cut through the trees, right through the circle George had painted on the bark.

Clive turned just as George approached. The thirteen-year-old came up to Clive’s chest. It surprised Clive every time he noticed it. Miriam was shorter but not by much. She’d turned eleven a few days ago. Between her four uncles and doting father, she’d received more gifts than she’d been able to fit into her room.

Both the children were blond and blue-eyed, though with varying shades and intensities. Miriam’s hair was like wild sunlight. Her eyes shined like stars. George’s hair was cooler, as were his eyes.

Can you teach me how to do that? George asked. His breath was a cloud in the cold air. Both the children were bundled up.

What do you need to know how to throw a dagger for? Clive asked, even though Clive was certain he himself had learned around his age.

Why do you need to know it? The Countess of Ganden, Lucy, came up to them and touched her nephew’s head. No tossing daggers.

But what if a bad man comes after Miriam? the young boy asked.

Miriam moved behind George as though there were an actual villain in the private garden. Had there truly been danger near, Clive was certain she’d still have chosen George as her protector of the three. There was little logic to the way the children loved one another. They weren’t related. They were but friends who’d found each other during the worst and best parts of their lives. Their bond was strong.

Inappropriately so. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind they’d wed, but their parents had asked everyone to be quiet on the subject for now.

If a bad man comes after Miriam, her father will protect her, Lucy said, cupping the boy’s cheek. She enjoyed staking her claim on her nephew with gentle easy touches. George allowed them but only because Lucy touched her husband the same way. Kent, the Earl of Ganden, was a beast of a man. The very fact that he breathed intimidated most of London. Therefore, George reasoned that if his Uncle Kent allowed touches that would make other men look weak, George was strong enough to accept them as well.

But what if Uncle Garrick is not here? George asked her. What if Miriam and I are alone?

Lucy tripped over her words. You’ll never be alone. Never. I mean... it would be improper.

Clive chuckled and then touched George’s shoulder. ‘I’ll teach you to throw a dagger when you’re sixteen."

Huzzah! George turned to Miriam. Let’s go look at Uncle Marley’s nutcrackers.

Miriam walked alongside him without any doubt as to it being her rightful place.

Lucy made a nervous sound and licked her lips. Sometimes, I wonder if I should separate them, have them spend less time together, and force George to spend time with other people.

Clive’s stomach fell at the thought. Why? The boy goes to school. He meets others. He prefers Miriam. He’s a smart boy to stake his claim on that one.

Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. It’s too soon.

He wanted to go to Eton. You and Kent made the trip north and upon reaching your destination, he decided he could not be away from her. Soon or not, it’s done. Clive couldn’t understand her worry. He’d have given anything for a love like that. He’d never seen anything more true or pure in his life. His friends had all wed. They’d found the one person in the world who could mend their souls.

And now, even the children had paired off. Clive was the odd man out. It’s innocent.

For now, Lucy agreed. But shouldn’t they have a chance to meet other people?

Clive scoffed and went for his dagger. When it’s right, it’s right. Don’t muddy the waters.

Lucy followed. But how can you know if something is right until you know what is wrong?

Women and their complicated questions. That makes no sense. He pulled the dagger from the tree, sheathed and pocketed the blade. You’re lucky they know the truth at such an early age. They’ll make less mistakes. Unlike him. George and Miriam had found one another before life, the Ton, and pressures of Society itself could truly pollute the clarity of what made them most happy.

He’d give anything to go back and undo the mistakes he’d made. There will be less heartache and less headache for you.

Lucy’s eyes widened. A blond curl whipped across her face, reminding him of fine lace. She was beautiful. Soft. Kind. Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.

Clive nodded and crossed his arms. Now, I’m sure you didn’t come out here for a lesson in dagger tossing or my opinion on child rearing.

You’re not bad for either. Would you truly teach me how to toss a dagger if I asked? Her eyes glittered with mischief. George’s eyes were quite similar, as was the rest of his coloring. One would never know that Lucy wasn’t his mother, but his aunt, raising the boy in her departed sister’s stead. With all the trouble you men cause, it might be good for me to know a thing or two.

She wasn’t wrong. The men, the five Lost Lords, which included her husband, had caused quite a bit of trouble over the past few years. A few deaths as well, not that any of it was their fault. They were called the Lost Lords because they’d been taken against their will and hidden in a home run by a madman. Those who had arranged their kidnapping were dead, but that didn’t mean the storm was over. For now, all was calm, but Clive could feel something approaching.

Is Kent here? Clive asked.

Lucy sobered. He’s here. He’s with the others. They’re waiting for you, waiting for your report.

Clive smiled. Thank you for giving me a few more minutes to enjoy the day. The air was cold, but the sun was out.

She smiled, apologizing with her gaze. I’m sorry, but you have no idea how stressed Kent is about this. I’ve told him that I don’t care, that he could tell Society before the gossip can get a hold of the story.

But if there is a chance that no one need know the truth, we might fight for it, Clive said. Though he was quite tired of it being his responsibility. He didn’t tell that to Lucy, of course, because though she’d told Kent not to worry about his big secret, she did. She worried about how it would affect her husband if it got out.

He offered his arm. Shall we?

They parted inside. Lucy went to watch the children even though there were governesses for that. Clive went to Marley’s office.

The Duke of Astlen’s home was the largest of the group, and its position in Regent Park afforded the men the privacy they needed. There were no other homes close enough for others to hear through the walls, allowing the men to plot and plan actions that the ton would frown upon.

They were the Lost Lords in more than one way. Their very souls were in question.

Marley Bing’s desk was covered with a paper from every publisher in London. It was a daily routine, to search the papers. There’s nothing here.

Kent Harris, the Earl of Ganden, rested on the couch. His head was back. His eyes were closed. His and Lucy’s year-old-son Alvin rested on his chest. The boy was asleep and looked far less troubled than his father. Almost a year and still nothing. Perhaps, there will never be anything.

They were hunting for a letter that had been written by Kent’s father, which detailed how Kent was not his true son but the child of his wife’s adulterous affair. She’d been pregnant when they’d wed.

It’s best we are prepared for anything and everything, Marley said as he looked through the papers again. He was often like a dog with a bone. He never let