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    Marry Me, Millie
    Marry Me, Millie
    Marry Me, Millie
    Ebook291 pages4 hours

    Marry Me, Millie

    By Jo Ann Ferguson

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    About this ebook

    "This traditional Regency plays on the reader's emotions from the beginning . . . "--Romantic Times magazine

    Millicent Dunsworthy has done her duty by seeing that her two nieces have made good matches. She does not expect to make one of her own, though, until a very determined Alexander, Lord Marlesquin comes back into her life.

    Even though Lord Marlesquin recently inherited his title, he still prefers being called "Quinn." Not because he is accustomed to the nickname, but because he cannot forget how Millicent once whispered that name as he held her in his arms. He had to let her go fifteen years ago, but now she is back in town and more desirable than ever.

    Both Millicent and Quinn know the love they share has not diminished, but the secret that drove them apart remains unresolved. Yet, Quinn knows he cannot let her leave him again. But how can he say, "Marry me, Millie," when divulging his secret is sure to break her heart?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBelleBooks
    Release dateMar 30, 2011
    ISBN9781610260237
    Marry Me, Millie
    Author

    Jo Ann Ferguson

    Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.

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      Book preview

      Marry Me, Millie - Jo Ann Ferguson

      Other ImaJinn Titles by Jo Ann Ferguson

      (Regency Romance)

      My Lord Viking

      Gentleman’s Master

      Marry Me, Millie

      Under Her Spell

      Writing as J. A Ferguson

      Call Back Yesterday

      Dreamsinger

      Dreamshaper

      DreamMaster

      Dream Traveler

      Luck of the Irish

      Daughter of the Fox

      Timeless Shadows

      The Wrong Christmas Carol

      Sworn Upon Fire

      Writing as Jocelyn Kelley

      (Regency Romance)

      Sea Wraith

      Marry Me, Millie

      by

      Jo Ann Ferguson

      ImaJinn Books

      Copyright

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

      ImaJinn Books

      PO BOX 300921

      Memphis, TN 38130

      Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-023-7

      Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-30-1

      ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

      Copyright © 2004 by Jo Ann Ferguson

      Printed and bound in the United States of America.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

      ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

      We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

      ImaJinnBooks.com

      BelleBooks.com

      BellBridgeBooks.com

      *10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

      Cover design: Deborah Smith

      Interior design: Hank Smith

      Couple (manipulated) © Auremar | Dreamstime.com

      Clothing (manipulated) © razzdazzstock | Dreamstime.com

      Background (manipulated) © Miramisska | Dreamstime.com

      :Emmm:01:

      Dedication

      For Jeanine Spikes

      A good friend who dreams big

      and has the talent to achieve it all

      Prologue

      THE EARLY DARKNESS almost hid the simple church just off the green in the English village. But everyone passing through the village could see—if just in memory—the carving of a group of saints. The winter winds had torn away last year’s rose blossoms, leaving the barely green vines that crawled across the effigies. Now, with spring, new sprigs of grass stretched up but had not yet hidden the words that had been there for almost a thousand years:

      Once, twice, thrice

      Be it by heaven or by the devil’s own device

      What joy or grief for one shall be worthy

      Shall come the same for each Dunsworthy

      One

      ARE YOU LEAVING us, Quinn?

      Lord Marlesquin had long ago taught the ton to address him as Quinn. It had begun when he was known as Sir Alexander Quinley before his uncle died, leaving him the family’s title. He had hated the name he shared with his late father almost as much as he had despised his father himself, but he had become accustomed to being called Quinn by his friends. He knew keeping the name made no sense, save that he still heard her whispering it in his dreams. He had learned after all these years not to let her name form in his mind.

      Quinn paused in the doorway of the elegant house. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the unwanted thoughts about the past. He usually enjoyed his visits to Lady Parbridge’s house, but he appreciated the idea of returning to his own home on Grosvenor Square, especially when he was taking his leave of a gathering as boring as the one tonight. Ennui must be the reason for his frivolous musings about that long-ago courtship that had ended too soon.

      He would not mention his boredom to his hostess, a buxom redhead whose late husband had been a rakehell marquess. Now Lady Parbridge was looking for someone to take his place. Not someone just in her bed, for that spot was already filled by her many lovers, but a husband who would pay for her extravagant entertaining. Someone who would not ask too many questions and would retire early so she might be entertained by her court of assistants. Those young flatterers had vied for her attentions and gifts even before Lord Parbridge had been buried.

      Bowing over her hand, Quinn smiled. I am afraid I have to be up at an unreasonable hour on the morrow.

      Oh, you spend too much time on matters you should leave to your estate manager.

      I suspect he would make a jumble of the matters I must deal with tomorrow. He saw the curiosity in her eyes that were outlined with kohl, but he had no intention of satisfying it. If he spoke of the topic he would be discussing with one of the Regent’s ministers, the details would be spread throughout the Polite World within hours. How kind of you to bid me a good evening. I have kept you too long from your other guests.

      He looked past her. As he had expected, a young swain was waiting for her just out of earshot. He knew the dandy, who had excellent taste and empty pockets. Such a young man would see pleasuring the lady in her bed an extra benefit in his task to spend as much of her late husband’s estate as possible.

      He can wait, she said without looking over her shoulder at her young paramour who had shadowed her all evening. Quinn, I need to speak with you of a . . . of a personal matter.

      Yes? He knew she had no interest in him as a potential husband because he would not be willing to step aside and let her run his home into bankruptcy. Nor did she consider him a candidate for a spot in her bed since he had turned her offer down twice. He had no interest in such a one-sided relationship, even though he recognized the benefits to himself. His own bed had been empty for too long.

      But there was only one woman he wanted to have in it, and she had broken his heart so thoroughly that he was foolish to think of her still.

      Quinn, Lady Parbridge said, drawing his attention back to her, I wanted you to be the first to know that I shall announce my betrothal next week.

      Congratulations, my dear.

      Do you mean that? She gave him an unsteady smile.

      He was startled. Why would she question his felicitations? They had known each other for many years, so she should have expected him to be happy that she finally had coerced a willing victim into the parson’s mousetrap.

      Quinn kissed her cheek, smiling when she gave the laugh she always did when she accused his mustache of tickling her. Most sincerely. Your late husband would not have expected you to remain a widow the rest of your life. He cared too much for you to wish such a fate on you.

      Do you think so?

      I know that is so, just as do you. He kept his expression from revealing his thoughts. His hostess had reasons to remarry, just has his mother had not to. His mother had made a career out of being a widow, so she could rule her only child-and the extended family-as its dowager. He knew it was unlikely that his father had requested she never remarry. His father had not cared for anyone but himself.

      Thank you, Quinn. She pressed her cheek to his again before turning to go back to her young admirer who regarded her as if he were a lowly petitioner and she a goddess.

      Only when the door closed and Quinn walked out into the mist that had swallowed the other side of the square did he realize he had not asked whom she planned to marry. He would learn soon enough. Such matters did not stay quiet long among the ton, and Lady Parbridge would make certain everyone knew straightaway.

      Odd that she would seek me out to tell me about the betrothal now, he said to himself as he walked to his open carriage that was waiting by the walkway.

      She was offering you a final opportunity, my lord, the footman murmured as he came to stand by the front of the carriage.

      What did you say, Jefferson?

      The footman smiled with the informality that Quinn allowed his servants. I said that she was offering you a final opportunity to ask her to marry you, my lord.

      I hope you are wrong.

      The fog is thickening, but it is still possible to see the front step.

      Quinn looked back. The mist was swirling like the contents of a pot stirred by a fingertip, but the lights by the door help it back enough to let anyone in the doorway be visible.

      I could see her well in the lanterns on either side of the door, said Jefferson, and she was holding her breath in anticipation of your reaction to her announcement.

      He climbed into the box and drew out his pipe from beneath his coat. Taking the flame that Jefferson lit from the streetlamp, he puffed several times before he said, She smiled when I congratulated her.

      A pitiful smile.

      All I noticed was the smile.

      The footman opened his mouth to say more, then seemed to think better of it. He climbed up to sit beside Quinn in the box.

      Quinn steered his carriage toward Grosvenor Square. He liked Town at this hour. The streets were empty of the heavy press of traffic that slowed most journeys. Gone, too, were the peddlers and carts that further jammed the thoroughfares. Lights shone from only a few windows, and they drove past houses where the sounds of merriment signaled another gathering of the Polite World. They played, oblivious to anyone who thought of matters beyond calls and soirées.

      With a sigh, he took a deeper puff on his pipe. He wished he could stop thinking about his appointment the next morning. He had not expected to be called to Whitehall so soon, and he needed to find a way to cushion his report about the unease among erstwhile workers in the factories to the north.

      Jefferson began to prattle gossip he had heard from others in the stable. Quinn did not halt him nor did he listen. Instead he focused on the report he knew would cause an uproar when he presented it in the morning. No one wanted to hear that the rising prices of bread and the increasing unemployment were threatening to bring on riots that would match those of the Luddites four years ago.

      The spring had been unseasonably cool and rainy, making the sowing of crops late. If the summer did not prove more favorably disposed to farmers, the harvest would be late. Very late, and those who already could not afford to feed themselves and their children would starve. People would do anything to protect their families, including the risk of hanging if caught rioting. They had nothing to lose.

      He knew that the report would be met with comments of doomsayer and pessimistic. He hoped they were right, but in the wake of the war, industrial production was down and too many hands had been idled.

      Turning the carriage into Grosvenor Square, he saw through the tentacles of the mist that a few houses had windows lit. Their residents must still be out basking in the glow of bright candles and lamps at some gathering.

      Suddenly, someone jumped out of the darkness in front of the carriage. Beside him, Jefferson yelled a curse. Quinn repeated the same words in his mind as he fought to rein in the horses. The carriage stopped a few feet from the shadowed person. Before Quinn could demand why anyone would be so cabbage-headed as to run directly into the path of a carriage, the form rushed toward him. Even in the congealing fog, the streetlamps provided enough light for him to see the woman was dressed in a style that suggested she was not unfamiliar with a decent life, even though she was approaching him alone at such a late hour.

      Please, she called. I beg you to help me. Slender, pale fingers clutched the dash only inches from his leg. She gasped, Oh, no! It cannot be. Disbelief heightened her voice. Quinn? Is that you?

      Millie? Millicent Dunsworthy? Quinn stared at the face turned up to him. Was it possible? He wanted to deny what he was seeing, but he could not. Once, he had spent hours staring into those soft blue eyes. Gold hair, like sunshine spun into silk, was stripped of its color by the moonlight. From her expression, he knew there was no time to ask what she meant by It cannot be. Later, he promised himself. Now, he was shocked that she would call him Quinn. When he had seen her less than a year ago for a brief, unsatisfying conversation that was better suited to strangers, she had addressed him by his title.

      What are you doing out alone at this hour? he asked, trying to push thoughts of that uncomfortable encounter from his mind. He needed to think about tonight. What sort of emergency had sent her racing toward him? Where are your companions?

      I need your help! Please.

      Quinn jumped down from the carriage, tossing the reins to his footman. Behind him, Jefferson was uncharacteristically silent. Obviously, the footman had been as shocked as Quinn to see someone rushing toward them, calling for help. Jefferson might not recognize the name Quinn had gasped, because he had not been a part of Quinn’s household on the day when Millie . . . No, he needed to think of her as Millicent now, just as if they had never been more than friends. Jefferson had been hired after Millicent left Town without responding to his proposal. In the years since, she had never contacted him to explain why she had not given him an answer. He had not guessed that her love could become hate so swiftly. He understood the obligations she had taken on, but she still could have had the decency to let him know that she did not want to marry him.

      And he had never explained to her why he had not followed after her, demanding an answer. The truth that was even more heinous than his cowardice at not confronting her and discovering why she had never answered him. He could not explain that now either because the truth still must remain unspoken.

      Putting his hands on her trembling shoulders, Quinn had to resist drawing her into arms that had ached for her night after night since she had left. Even so, time had dimmed the memory of how wondrously soft and yet strong she was.

      Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or will you help? she asked.

      Help? Who? How?

      My friend Elizabeth Wallace. She— She shivered so hard he feared she would tear herself apart.

      Come into my house, and tell me what is happening.

      No, we must—

      We might as well discuss this inside in the light. He felt only a pinch of guilt at the half-truth. He yearned to have her move into the circle of light by the door where his butler, Lane, stood, looking at them with a puzzled expression.

      Quinn needed to see her face. Even though he had seen her briefly the previous fall, he wanted to have a chance to look at her. Really look at her. Last time they had spoken so briefly, but neither of them had looked the other in the eye. She must have been aware, as he had been, of others waiting to see how two people who had professed love to each other, then gone on their separate paths, would act. Tonight the only witnesses would be his servants, and, despite Jefferson’s gossip in the carriage, they knew to keep their mouths shut about his business.

      He drew her up onto the walkway and toward the ring of light. She shrugged off his hand, startling him. The motion almost knocked her from her feet, and she stumbled closer to the door.

      The butler choked, Lord Marlesquin, look!

      Quinn did. His eyes widened as he saw the crimson splattered on Millicent’s gown. By Jove, is that blood?

      She gingerly lifted one side of her gown. Staring at it, she opened her mouth. No sound emerged from it. When she swayed, he leaped forward. He caught her as she collapsed.

      From the doorway, Lane asked, Has she been hurt? He hesitated, then whispered, Do you know how?

      Not by my hand, I assure you, he answered grimly.

      My lord, I never meant to suggest—

      I know you did not. I don’t know how she was hurt, but I intend to find out. He adjusted her in his arms, savoring for a guilty moment the warmth and sweetness of her, and saw her face in the light. Such a delicate beauty, but he knew the fragility was an illusion—a part of the enigma that was Millicent Dunsworthy.

      As if she had heard him speak her name aloud, her eyes opened. Quinn?

      He wanted to have sympathy for her, but could not when others might be in danger. What has happened to you?

      Put me down.

      Are you sure you can stand?

      Of course, I can.

      Are you hurt?

      I am fine.

      He wanted to say she was right. In his arms, she was truly fine. He set her on her feet before he did something stupid like saying that aloud, but kept one hand on her elbow. Take care. You just swooned.

      I did not. Dunsworthy women do not . . . She glanced away from him and at the men staring at her. Good! There are enough of you. As she strode toward the corner, she paused and looked over her shoulder. Aren’t you coming?

      Where? Quinn asked as he ran to catch up with her.

      This way! She pointed in the direction of Hyde Park. Hurry! She was unconscious when I left.

      He did not ask her to explain. Hearing footfalls behind him, he knew his footman and butler were following them. Neither of them would be willing to wait for his return, because their curiosity would be unbearable.

      He saw her wobble. When he put his arm around her waist to keep her on her feet, she glanced at him and quickly away. Was she trying to keep him from seeing her reaction to his touch, or was she only thinking of the woman who needed their help? He needed to keep focused, too.

      Hyde Park’s expanse of lawn and the Serpentine, which glittered in the moonlight, were lost to the fog. Everything was in shadow, lighter shadows marking where streetlamps were lit, and deeper shadows gathered around the trees edging the walkways.

      Where? Quinn whispered, not sure who might be concealed by the fog.

      Straight ahead, she answered as softly before stepping onto the grass.

      He halted her when he saw something lying in the grass. Bringing her with him, he went closer. His servants inched along behind him, glancing around to make sure no one leaped from the fog to ambush them.

      It was not something in the grass, Quinn realized, but someone. He bent to seek a pulse in the man’s neck, but knew it was useless. No one could be so battered and remain alive. He found nothing.

      Saints above, preserve us! gasped Lane as the butler scuttled back several steps. Shall I send for the watch?

      Not yet. He glanced in both directions, not able to see much in the thickening fog. Even the lamps by the street looked dim.

      Where is the other one? Millicent added.

      Another? His stomach twisted with disgust. Not Miss Wallace?

      No, there were two men here.

      A duel?

      She shook her head, wincing. For a moment, he feared she would crumple again, but was not surprised when she straightened her shoulders. He had learned long ago that Millicent Dunsworthy was no delicate blossom, wilting at the first sign of trouble. It was nothing so civilized. Now where is . . . ? She rushed toward the thicker shadows beneath a tree. This way!

      He ran to where Millicent was dropping to her knees. The curse he had not spoken aloud in the carriage burst from his lips when he saw the unconscious woman. He did not pause to apologize to Millicent for his bear-garden language. Such words, at an appropriate time, had never distressed her. If she had become more thin-skinned since their last conversation in London, there was nothing he could do to retract his words.

      Jefferson, go to the closest watch box and alert the night-watchman there. Barkus may be the closest.

      Right away, my lord. He vanished

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