How to Marry a Marquess (Wedded by Scandal 3)

Mischief danced in her eyes, and somehow, he knew no matter what time he came in, she’d be up, waiting or sleeping in the center of his bed.

Her eyes widened in apparent guile. “I love you, Papa.”

He smiled. Never could he have imagined the intensity of emotion he had for his daughter. He scooped her into his arms and strolled past his disgruntled valet from his room and down the hallway leading to the stairs. Richard held her securely as they descended. “I love you, too, but you’ll still be in bed.”

She giggled and pressed her nose into his neck. Richard rarely left her for long bouts of time, having even taken her with him to London instead of leaving her in the country with governesses. But tonight, his presence was needed at Lady Beaufort’s ball. The first such invitation he was accepting this season.

It was time he seriously considered taking a wife. His Emily needed a mother. After two years of trying to fulfill all her wants, he had concluded he was not providing for all her needs. The wistful way she stared at the ladies when he took her to Hyde Park or the botanical gardens was informative and heartrending. Whatever his daughter lacked, it was his duty and pleasure to provide it, despite his serious reservations about marrying any woman. His reputation and the world he moved within would hardly inspire a lady to want an alliance with him, even if he was the heir to a dukedom. The idea of marriage also left him cold and uninspired.

Tonight, he would try dancing with a few ladies to see who desired his attention despite his notorious reputation. Though, the most appealing aspect of

tonight was that he was certain to see her—Evie.

Richard held himself at a distance because of how popular and admired she had become in society. In a perverse quirk of fate, the darker and more dangerous his reputation got, the more Evie’s presence at balls and drawing rooms was sought after. She was a diamond of the ton, and it offended their sensibilities whenever he socialized with her. He’d seen enough of the scandal sheets, where cartoon caricatures were drawn of him as a scarred beast absconding and ravishing their fair beauty. But once several weeks passed without him seeing her, an irresistible pull would draw him to her, causing him to watch her from a distance, or endure some society event, just so he could see her and perhaps pass some trivial pleasantries with her.

At times, the weakness was abhorrent to him, at others, he simply accepted Evie would always own a piece of his heart, and she would always be his friend. It was a pity he could not take her to be his wife. The irony was that he cared for her too much to embroil her in the scandalously dangerous life he led, especially when her position in society was so important to her. Most in the ton hated his presence and the ideals he advocated. Ever since the world learned of his daughter, doors that had once been open to him had closed with alarming speed. He had been blackballed from clubs, pushed out from investments, and had been given the cut direct many times because he dared to love his daughter.

“Jack,” Emily called out, stirring in Richard’s arms. The small boy strolling down the hallway faltered and turned. He smiled in genuine delight, a reaction only Emily seemed to provoke. Jack had been there the night Richard found her, a fierce protective force of all the beaten and starved children, though Jack was only eight at the time, and he himself bruised and bloodied.

She wriggled, and Richard lowered her. After bestowing a careless wave in his direction, she dashed toward Jack, clasped his hand, and resumed walking. Richard watched until they entered the smaller and more intimate parlor. Voices spilled toward him as the other children rambunctiously greeted their arrival. No doubt they would partake in their nightly reading, and then play whist or chess.

With a smile, he swiveled and slowed his steps as a familiar veiled lady came into view, his butler preceding her.

“My lord, you have a visitor,” Mr. Powell murmured.

Why would his sister visit him at this hour? “I’ll take it from here.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

In silence, he escorted his sister, Phoebe, to the library. As he closed the door, she threw up her veil, her soft brown eyes glowing their happiness to see him. His sister was slightly above average height and slender, with a fair complexion, dark ringleted hair, classic features, and a stubborn mouth that was now curved in the sweetest smile. “It’s been a while, brother.”

“Did you come alone?”

She sobered at his abrupt tone. “I promise you I was careful. I did everything you taught me to check if I am being followed.”

His sister was a few months shy of eighteen, and he hated the risks she took when she slid away to visit him. “I’ve missed you, poppet. Your last visit was three months ago.”

“I’ve missed you dreadfully, too.” There was the slightest hesitation before she lifted her chin. “It’s Father. He is ill, and he won’t send for you,” she blurted.

Richard’s heart iced over. “That does not explain your presence, Phoebe.”

Frustration flashed in her eyes. “You know Father is stubborn. Please, won’t you make amends?”

“You know why we are estranged.”

She blushed. “Yes, everyone knows. But if you would take the first step—”

He smiled grimly. “The night I found Emily, I appeared on Father’s doorstep with blood pouring from my face, my half-starved and beaten daughter and her friends with me. He was furious and worried about our reputations instead of their lives. Even if such an atrocity could be overlooked, he knew my daughter, his granddaughter had been placed in a baby farm to suffer. He saw her as nothing but an unpleasantness that must be buried. Tell me, sister, why should I give a damn if he is now feeling poorly?”

When he’d refused to abandon his daughter and the five children found with her, his father had cut off his allowance and severed their connection. But what Richard had found unforgivable was that his father had known of her fate. His father was a powerful and influential man in society. A duke. He could have found another home for Emily, ensured that she had been taken care of as was her due. That night, as he walked away from his father’s command to return her to an orphanage, he’d felt the strings of his former life snapping and reforming into something harder, more filled with purpose.

“I’m so sorry,” Phoebe said hoarsely. “I…I never realized Father had been so harsh.”

“It’s fine. When he is dead, the solicitors will know where to find me.”

Her eyes widened in horror at his callousness. Suppressing his sigh, he strolled over to her and cupped her cheeks. “You must return home before your disappearance is noted.”

“I hate this,” she cried fiercely. “I hate that we do not see each other. I hate that when we see you at balls, I have to pretend you are unknown to me. Mother and Father act as if you were never born, and Mother has even said she wished it was you and not Francis…” Phoebe closed her eyes, unable to continue. “I want us to be a family again,” she whispered, her voice shaking with the force of her emotions. “You are my brother, and I miss you dreadfully.”