The Marquess and Miss Davies

By Amy Lake

Miss Carys Davies is in search of the 'sober and serious' gentleman; she finds the Marquess of Clare instead, asleep on her front lawn after a long night and much brandy. Can the marquess possibly be the man for her? Her twin sister Isolde thinks so, but scandal--from an unexpected quarter--may threaten Carys's chances for a happy marriage. Regency Romance by Amy Lake: Volume 1 of The Davies Twins; originally published by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Jan 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781610847636

Book preview

Davies

Amy Lake

Chapter 1: A Stranger on the Grass

It is difficult to explain why Lord Anthony Leighton, the Marquess of Clare, was asleep in front of Cardingham House as the sun rose that morning, lying at an awkward angle in the wet grass. He had been drinking, of course, but Lord Leighton had no reputation of doing so to excess, and he was in all cases generally well able to hold his liquor.

Cardingham House was a townhome in the style typical for a London residence of the first class, brick faced with stucco, with finely-proportioned sash windows and an imposing double door. A row of box, carefully trimmed to a few feet in height, surrounded the front garden. The marquess had somehow managed to topple over this hedge onto the lawn, and one arm was caught beneath his back, with his head resting in the crook of the other.

He shifted in his sleep, restlessly. A lock of hair fell across his lordship’s eyes, making him appear nearly boyish. Certainly handsomely so, as any number of the ton’s young women would happily declare.

Perhaps the marquess’s present circumstances could be attributed to his sister Josephine’s marriage to the Earl of Chalcroft on the day before. Not only the many bottles of champagne downed in celebration of the event, but the intense relief that Lord Leighton felt to have Jo finally settled on a man who deserved her. The young lady possessed beauty and a dowry of the first rank, but these were mixed with an extraordinary degree of stubbornness. She had been pursued by every bounder in town, and had shown a preference for making what Lord Leighton felt were questionable choices. The marquess had nearly despaired of the matter, convinced that she would insist on marrying someone who would take her money and break her heart. But Chalcroft was a fine gentleman, as sober and careful in his dealings as the most anxious brother could wish.

I will cherish your sister, the earl had told him, and Anthony had the restraint not to utter the first words that came to his mind, to whit, please, be patient with her.

Do not give up at the first sign of trouble.

Or perhaps it had been the unwelcome news—repeated to him by every close friend and member of the family, all evening long, as if he could never have thought of it himself—that the marquess was now the only one of his siblings to remain unmarried. Three sisters and a younger brother, Harry. All gone now from the huge, rambling townhome on Sovereign Street, just north of Hyde Park, which had been empty enough with only Josephine and the marquess in residence.

Well, in truth—Josephine, the marquess, and their mother. Dear heavens, Lord Leighton would not hear the end of the matter from the dowager marchioness, who was well-known to be pressuring her son to marry sooner rather than later.

A grandson, my dear, he could hear her say, dreaming of the day to come. ‘Tis past time.

It began to drizzle. The marquess was snoring softly; now he shifted again, apparently in some discomfort. The London spring had been particularly wet that year, and his lordship’s jacket was likely already damp, through and through.

* * * *

Sometime later a shadow fell across the sun, and Lord Leighton half-woke in the sudden chill.

Good morning, he heard, a soft female voice.

‘Twas a warm sound, and comforting somehow.

Mmm, said Lord Leighton.

My dear man! came the voice again, curiously insistent.

The marquess’s eyes opened to the confusing sight of a pair of fine kid boots a few feet from his face. The boots were topped by a good six inches of finely embroidered muslin, but further than that, at the moment, he could not see.

I’m terribly sorry, continued the voice, but you cannot remain here. Our cook will give you some breakfast, if you wish. You may go ‘round to the back—

What was the woman talking about? Breakfast? Anthony closed his eyes again, wishing that he could simply lie in the grass and listen. ‘Twas a musical voice, lovely beyond measure.

—and I’m sure we can provide you with a new over-coat of some kind.

This got Lord Leighton’s attention. What was wrong with his coat? he thought irritably. His eyes opened once more as he attempted to prop himself up on his elbows.

My dear girl, I’ll have you know—

Who on earth was talking? The voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar.

Then Lord Leighton remembered. He had come across a beggar on Haymarket Street the previous night, at some ungodly hour, and—well, they had exchanged coats, hadn’t they? His best Weston, made particularly for Josephine’s wedding, now gone for an item that, as he was just realizing, smelled none too good.

It had seemed the thing to do at the time.

Anthony managed to push himself up until he was sitting. The box hedge provided little support, but there seemed to be some kind of statuary behind him, enough to support him as he—

Oh!

A splash of cold water informed the marquess that he had nearly overturned a bird’s bath. He was deposited once again on his backside in the wet grass, and his trousers, which had been at least the same ones he had put on the evening before, were now soaked. But the water had cleared his mind, and as he brushed the errant strand of hair from in front of his eyes he looked up to see—

An elegantly dressed young woman with a trim figure and deep blue eyes. The eyes were quizzical, the mouth slightly open in surprise. The woman’s hair was mostly hidden under a bonnet, but a few curls escaped at the sides of her face, curls of a deep and glossy chestnut. Her features were finely drawn and everything from her clothing to her stance told him that this was no serving maid, but a well-borne daughter of the house behind them.

She had not laughed at his encounter with the bird’s bath, nor tut-tutted in condescension, as he would have expected from most ladies of the ton. Her look revealed merely concern, and a hint of curiosity. The marquess smiled, and an exquisite blush washed over her cheekbones.

I would count myself lucky if I could but press my lips to your fair hand.

The words came to the tip of his tongue before he recalled his present less-than-lordly situation. We’ve not been properly introduced! he thought to himself, and he grinned, nearly laughing out loud.

Good sir, you really must bestir yourself. ‘Tis nearly eight of the clock.

Bestir himself! Anthony was rather charmed by the old-fashioned phrase. Eight, you say? he said, and bit back a small groan. His head, he was only now realizing, hurt abominably.

Indeed. Now, good day to you, sir.

She was leaving. Leaving. What could he do to stop her?

You are quite beautiful, my lady, said Lord Leighton.

She paused in mid-step and her eyes widened, but not—he saw—in any pleasure. The Marquess of Clare was accustomed to having the young women of the haut ton hang breathlessly on his every word, and to count themselves over the moon at the simplest of compliments, but this girl, with the deep blue eyes, seemed unimpressed. Perhaps his words were less effective from being issued by a gentleman in a filthy coat and sodden trousers, sitting on the grass.

She tilted her head to one side.

And you, sir, are quite drunk.

She turned on her heels and walked away.

‘Twas lowering, indeed.

Chapter 2: The Misses Davies

Miss Carys Davies, sister of the Viscount of Cardingham and currently residing at Cardingham House on St James Street, continued on to Green Park, walking at her habitual quick pace.

What an odd fellow. Not that she was entirely unprepared to see a man sleeping in public—this was London, after all, eventually one saw almost anything—but in their own front garden! And he had not seemed a beggar, somehow, although his coat was torn and patched past any description, not to mention the smell.

There was intelligence in the man’s eyes. She had seen it. And they were lovely eyes, warm and brown, and he had spoken in a voice that would not be out of place in the finest ballrooms of the ton. As if he were accustomed to being heard.

You are quite beautiful, my lady.

‘Twas not the first time those words had been addressed to her—they were nearly a commonplace from the young bucks of London society—but ‘twas the first time they had seemed sincere.

And then Carys stopped herself. Don’t be a ninny. Think how Isa will laugh when she discovers you’ve been mooning over a drunk in the streets.

Isa—Miss Isolde Davies—was Carys’s twin sister. Both young women had turned eighteen years of age some months ago, but had only made their come-out during the past season, having spent the previous two years at Pencarrow, the family estate in Cornwall, together with their mother and older brother Talfryn.

Ah, Cornwall, thought Carys. Would that I were back.

She thought of the weather as it would probably be now, in early spring, cool and fresh with wildflowers covering the hills in a blaze of pinks and yellows and red. She imagined herself riding Leopold up Kilmar Tor, with a fog obscuring her path until she had nearly reached the top, and then she would be alone, looking at the world as it stretched out below her, forever.

Not like London. Where one could not see anything beyond the next street.

‘Twas not that they had been unsuccessful in town. Both girls were pretty enough, well-dressed and able to execute the steps of a country dance, and the only daughters of a wealthy family. There was also a certain curiosity in London society regarding twins—which were a rarity—and twins with a good dowry did not lack for interested gentlemen.

Although the questions tried one’s patience.

Why don’t you dress alike?

Why don’t you wear your hair alike?

Do you ever attempt to fool others?

Gods, Isolde would say. "The ton is annoying beyond belief." She was less temperate in her answers than Carys.

Their older brother, the present Viscount of Cardingham, was Lord Talfryn Davies. He had married Lady Regina Knowles within that past year and was now—happy man—with his wife at Pencarrow, awaiting the birth of their first child. Carys and Isolde adored Lady Reggie and rejoiced for their brother, although they missed him deeply. His counsel was invaluable, especially on those occasions when Isa took it into her head to do something rather rash.

Carys would need to be the sensible one, she supposed, as long as Tal was gone.

The twins shared a similar height, which was average, and a slim build, with deep blue eyes and hair of glossy chestnut. Their family and good friends could tell them apart with little difficulty, although mere acquaintances were occasionally baffled.

You are quite beautiful, my lady.

Carys’s thoughts wandered back to the man sleeping on the grass. She wondered if he had found the backstairs at Cardingham House, and gotten a bit of breakfast. And had anyone thought to give him a coat?—perhaps one of her late father’s old ones, there must be a dozen hanging in some old wardrobe. She doubted that Cook would have let him in the kitchen with the one he was wearing. Cook had advanced ideas about cleanliness and food.

If the man was in difficulty, it suddenly seemed wrong to have abandoned him. And where had he come from? Where was he going? Carys glanced back without thinking, but ‘twas pointless, as she had already turned the corner from St James Street onto Cleveland Row.

She told herself that he had appeared quite healthy—albeit dirty—and in his right mind, and it couldn’t be helped, she could hardly return now. As it was, she was lucky that Thaxton had not caught her. The viscount’s butler was a man possessed of more dignity than any three dukes, and if he had seen Carys speaking to a strange and badly dressed man out-of-doors he would have been outraged. And then complain to her mother, who would remonstrate with Carys, after which Isolde would step in to defend her twin, and there would be no end to the row. She might as well continue on to the park, for a long walk along the Constitution Hill—which was actually flat, one admitted—and away from the din and dirt of the city streets.

A cart passed by, rather close, heading in the direction of Covent Gardens, as Miss Davies supposed. She caught a whiff of the vegetables it contained, both pungent and earthy.

I don’t belong here.

The thought had been intruding more often, of late. She didn’t belong in London, with its evenings that went on until morning, where one was expected to sleep past the noon hour, and was suspect if one did not, where the food and drink was a surfeit, and the dances were a surfeit, and everything—

Everything was too much. Carys woke early at Pencarrow and no-one minded if she went out alone, no-one minded if she spent her day sketching wildflowers or helping to press lavender in the still room.

She had reached the borders of Green Park, and tried to turn her mind in a happier direction. ‘Twould be a shame to waste the fine morning in rumination over what could not be helped. At least her mother agreed that she might attend another lecture at the Royal Society. And Mr Torvald had mentioned that he would be one of the speakers at the very next meeting.

* * * *

Miss Isolde Davies woke that morning and immediately looked around for her sister. The twins shared a bedroom, which was entirely by choice, since Cardingham House was large enough to accommodate any number of family, sons, daughters or third cousins.

There had simply never seemed any point to separating the two of them.

Carys’s bed was empty, the blankets and counterpane pulled into some order, and the pillows thrown atop. Gone again, thought Isa, with a small sigh. Another walk in Green Park. Of course. Along the entire length of Constitution Hill, probably, and even into the palace gardens. Carys’s walks had been getting longer by the week, to the point that she was often gone an hour and two at a time. If their mother knew, there would be no end to the fuss.

Isolde sat in bed for a few minutes, staying warm beneath the blankets and wondering how likely Lady Davies was to ever wake early enough to discover that one of her daughters was missing. The probability was low, she decided, but there was always Thaxton; the butler never slept as far as Isa could tell. When they were children, the three of them—Isolde, Carys, and Talfryn—occasionally hid in odd spots around the house, just to see if he really could appear from nowhere.

She heard a soft scratching at the door.

I’m awake, called Isolde.

Chocolate, miss? asked Janie, the twins’ maid, holding a salver with a tall chocolate pot and its matching cup.

Yes, thank you.

I’ll send the boy.

Janie left and Isa hopped out of bed, her feet sinking into the thick carpet. She sat in the front window seat and cradled the cup with both hands, grateful for its warmth. ‘Twas a chilly day for spring, and neither she nor her sister was willing to ask one of the scullery maids to set a fire at some miserable hour of the morning. But Gillie—’the boy’—would be up soon.

I wish Talfryn was here, thought Isolde, who was never quite at ease while Carys was gone. She was worried about her twin, worried about these early morning expeditions. About what they meant.

I’ll be fine, Carys had said, when Isa protested that London was not Cornwall, hoping to dissuade her by this small practicality. Who is going to accost me between here and Green Park? Lord Marbrey?

You know what Tal would say.

That’s why I have never asked him.

Our mother—

Our mother does not wake before ten. Besides, I could always tell her I have an assignation with some gentleman, and she would be happy enough.

Which was probably true. Lady Davies had been pressuring Carys—ever since they had returned to town from Cornwall—to show more interest in the gentlemen of the ton. Any gentleman, it sometimes seemed, as long as he was presentable and reasonably rich. She had made it clear, on depressingly regular occasions, that marriage should be the focus of a daughter’s existence, leaving the vivacious Isolde to her own resources, but despairing of Carys, who was ever the subject of admonition and advice.

My dear, you must go to the Terrences’ ball.

Lady Braebere is having a musicale tonight, which I’m sure will be delightful. You must go, my dear.

Dearest, why did you turn down Lord Cartwell for the waltz?

In the beginning, when they had just returned to Cardingham House and everything was new and still exciting, her twin had acceded to these requests, but Carys was now saying ‘no’ with frequency, the effect of which was to make their mother ask doubly often.

Isolde knew that Carys was restless, tired to death of ton society, and liable to do something unpredictable. She wished that her sister liked London as much as she did—Isa found it wonderful—but she did not, and there was an end to it.

Perhaps Tal and Lady Reggie would like a visitor, once the baby was born. Carys could take care of the child—

But Isa did not believe that the role of spinster aunt would suit her sister either. There was a passionate nature underneath that calm demeanor.

And when it found its outlet—watch out.

Chapter 3: Responsibilities and a Query

Lord Leighton returned to his own home by a roundabout way that morning, avoiding the busier streets where he might be recognized. Once fully awake and on his feet, he realized that his appearance was, if not scandalous, at least remarkable, in the

Reviews for The Marquess and Miss Davies

[Miriah28 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

No storyline. Boring. Mind numbing.

[wierd2beme · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very well written, clever dialog.

[WiseScribere · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I thought the book had real potential, but the execution of it was underwhelming. The huge conflict just fizzled out. The sister’s marital problems were a sideshow that should have been either left out or explored more, and the baby’s progress was laughable. Within a few weeks of birth the baby is playing peek-a-boo, teething and saying one-syllable words.....