THE BEST MARQUESS: Wickedly Wed #2 Read online

  THE BEST MARQUESS

  Wickedly Wed #2

  Nicola Davidson

  Contents

  About

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  About the Author

  THE BEST MARQUESS is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  * * *

  THE BEST MARQUESS © Nicola Davidson

  First Edition: June 2021

  ISBN: 9780473573751

  Cover: Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs

  Edited by: Lopt and Cropt Editing Services

  About

  A proud spectacle-wearing bluestocking, Lady Pippa Nash is quite content to remain a spinster. No ton suitor measures up to the swoonworthy heroes in the romance novels she reads, so why bother marrying? But when her scheming grandmother arranges an unwanted betrothal, there’s only one person who can help thwart the plot—her oldest and dearest friend, Lord Finlay Knighton.

  * * *

  Son and heir of a cruel marquess, Finn’s rebellions are his secret pleasure toy business…and his steadfast yet unrequited love for Pippa. However, when his father unexpectedly cuts off his allowance, Finn reluctantly agrees to a plan as wild as any romance novel: to save his business, he’ll pretend to be her fiancé for the Season.

  * * *

  Yet their mutually beneficial bargain goes awry when they are forced to wed and Finn inherits the marquessate. While marriage brings sizzling passion and tender intimacy to their friendship; overwhelming duty, vicious gossips, bitter foes, and family secrets threaten to destroy it at every turn. Can two romance readers find their real life happily ever after, or will society tear them apart forever?

  * * *

  Please note this book contains explicit language and frequent sexual content.

  * * *

  CW: death of toxic parent, brief violence.

  Chapter 1

  Kingsford House, London, late January 1816

  * * *

  “So. In conclusion, we have a most urgent and exceedingly grave Pippa Problem.”

  Lady Pippa Nash grimaced at her grandmother’s icy words and slouched down further in her chair. This was probably how it felt to appear before a magistrate, except it was the Nash family sitting in judgement: alongside the dowager Lady Kingsford was her father the Earl of Kingsford, her twin brother Xavier, Viscount Northam, and younger sister Lady Georgiana. And rather than the docks, they were in her father’s library; a gloomy space dominated by dusty shelves of unread books, dark wood paneling, and a carved oak desk covered in documents, old newspapers, and broken quills.

  A curious onlooker might think she’d done something truly dreadful; perhaps burgled the other houses in Hanover Square or sauntered naked through a performance of Bach at the Concert Rooms. But no. The Pippa Problem resulting in these lamentable theatrics was her failure last year to leg-shackle a husband. Naturally, the only acceptable remedy was to take part in a second Season. Her response that they had rocks in their heads and could all go bathe in the Thames had gone down as well as congealed sauce.

  Ugh. To think she’d been forced to leave her current novel—a scandalously explicit French romance smuggled into the house in a hat box—behind in her bedchamber to hear this unabashed nonsense. In truth, she considered her nimble escape from the marital clutches of several boorish, turnip-brained ton bachelors as a great victory rather than a humiliating defeat. Unfortunately, only her oldest and dearest friend, Lord Finlay Knighton, applauded such antics and encouraged her to wait for just the right man.

  One person cared about her happiness, at least.

  Sighing, Pippa removed the spectacles she’d worn since childhood and cleaned them with a linen handkerchief. A necessary task, for the lenses attracted dust like honey attracted ants, but with the added bonus of blurring her surroundings. Rather useful when she needed to ignore a glare or her uninspiring reflection in a looking glass. Finn often played the jester and said she was beautiful, but if he truly thought nondescript height, blond hair, blue eyes, and lackluster curves equaled beauty, he needed spectacles as well. “The fact that I have little desire to wed is neither urgent nor grave, Grandmother. A second Season is entirely unnecessary.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You’ll be twenty-one in May; practically on the shelf. Only the worst of daughters shame their family by refusing to marry. It is your duty. Lilian did, you must also.”

  Pippa put her spectacles back on. Her older sister Lilian had been excused from this charade as she was due to give birth any day now and preferred to stay with her husband Gabriel, Duke of Exton. Apart from Finn; and Xavier, who was occasionally tolerable; her brother-in-law remained the only decent man in the ton. A real-life romantic hero: dashing and steadfast, lusty and faithful. The marriage might have started as one of convenience, but together Gabriel and Lilian had found true love. She was a rarity among society wives: happily and wickedly wed, content in the bedchamber as well as out.

  Was it so wrong to want the same? To crave someone who shared news and random facts over breakfast, cuddled with books and blanket on a chaise, and ruthlessly pleasured in bed? No lofty title or fine address could ever make up for a lack of that.

  Indeed, she would have a romance novel husband, or none at all.

  “I’m well aware of my upcoming birthday,” said Pippa archly. “Mainly because Xavier and I will finally achieve financial and legal independence. Isn’t it interesting though, that twenty-one sees me as dried up and my twin as freshly bloomed?”

  An awkward silence fell, rather common after she spoke plainly. Then her stout, ruddy-cheeked father cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. “My dear, a husband wouldn’t be so very bad—”

  “Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” snapped Grandmother as she smoothed her immaculate silver hair and lilac gown. While half-mourning for a spouse usually lasted six months, she’d worn it for over thirty years. “But I won’t allow your second daughter to sabotage a second Season.”

  “Come now, sabotage is a strong word, Mother.”

  “But an accurate one,” said Pippa cheerfully. “I discovered what the suitor hated most, then mutated into that variant of moth. Fortunately, I kept a list to help me remember which moth I was to which man.”

  “Ingenious, when you think about it,” drawled the lovable yet exasperating Xavier, saluting her with his brandy glass from where he lay half-sprawled on an embroidered chaise. He was the anti-Brummell, rejecting understated clothing to instead embrace ornate design, vibrant colors, old-fashioned knee breeches, and plenty of lace. Even more rebellious, he shunned shorter, military-style hair and kept his golden locks curling around the top of his cravat.

  Grandmother glared at him. “No one will ever accuse you of think
ing, Northam. I’m sure we all agree that Pippa must stop this silliness, especially when her bookish tendencies grow worse. She refuses to dance. She doesn’t like flowers.”

  “I dance with Finn,” said Pippa. “And I like flowers. Just alive in a garden where they belong, not murdered in a bouquet.”

  “Arghhh,” growled Georgiana, at nineteen years old the spoilt, headstrong, and uncommonly beautiful youngest Nash, from where she sat perched on Father’s desk. “Why do you have to be so odd? And selfish? Papa won’t let me marry until you do, and I’ve found my gentleman.”

  Pippa raised a brow at her father, who had the grace to wince. The Pippa must marry first declaration was nothing more than a delaying tactic; the act of a man who didn’t want to farewell his favorite. Such a lack of gumption driving a wedge between sisters was another layer of the nonsense pile. Make that the nonsense mountain.

  Irritated beyond all, she folded her arms. “I believe—”

  “What you believe is irrelevant,” said Grandmother. “The truth is, you are selfish and stubborn and Lilian was far too lenient a chaperone. But now she is indisposed, I have taken the matter firmly in hand.”

  Oh God.

  “How?” she croaked.

  Lady Kingsford smiled coolly. “I’m glad you asked. There are eight eligible dukes in the realm, including four royals. With my assistance, you’ll soon be a duchess like your sister.”

  “I don’t want to be a duchess.”

  “Yes, you do. Every woman does.”

  Xavier snorted. “Well, a high percentage at least. But I must point out that St. Albans is an infant, so not exactly eligible.”

  “Very well. Seven. And your tone is unbecoming,” said Grandmother frigidly. She loathed being corrected.

  “Not as unbecoming as leg-shackling Pip to a man over twice our age. All those princes are, and Norfolk and Dorset to boot.”

  Pippa beamed at her twin. Indeed, occasionally tolerable. “Quite right.”

  Grandmother’s smile turned distinctly sharklike. “Which is why, at age twenty-five, Devonshire is perfect. The dear duke confided to me that he has no desire to be stalked like a stag at a hunt for years on end, but instead wishes to wed a sensible young lady who won’t disgrace him or herself with missish vapors, public scenes, or sinful indiscretions. He believes that woman to be you, Pippa, and his sisters agree. To celebrate, I’ll host a soiree next week, where you and Devonshire shall officially begin courting. What a triumph it will be!”

  “No,” said Pippa. “Not unless the Romans retake England, swine sail over St. Paul’s, and Xavier becomes a monk. That is when I’ll wed a man I barely know and do not love.”

  Lord Kingsford mopped his brow. “Perhaps, Mother, we don’t have to announce anything just yet?”

  The dowager turned her chilly displeasure upon him. “How did I birth such an ungrateful son? I moved in and corrected your wife’s peasant mothering skills after she died. Last year I arranged a splendid match for Lilian. And now you throw such sacrifices back in my face? For shame, Kingsford. For shame.”

  “I’ll consent,” he mumbled, crumbling as he always did. “Unless a better offer comes in, of course.”

  “Then it’s settled!” said Georgiana as she clapped her hands, her perfect golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. “When His Grace proposes, no need for a long betrothal either, Pippa. You could be a spring bride. Go on a honeymoon trip to Paris now that hell-spawned Napoleon—”

  “Language,” snapped Lady Kingsford.

  “Now that moldering French turd—”

  “Please, Gigi sweetheart,” said Lord Kingsford.

  Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Now the disgraced emperor is safely locked away on Saint Helena. It would be lovely.”

  Pippa scowled at her family, while silently plotting vengeance. Under no circumstances would she be marrying Devonshire, no matter what schemes they hatched or honeymoons they planned. The duke was happiest outdoors. And good friends with Prinny, which quite prevented his ascendance to romantic hero. She wanted no part of the false, spiteful world at the top of the tree; bad enough she must attend balls, let alone endure the horror of hosting them.

  This madness had to be halted, and as always, the first step was discussing the matter with Finn. Somewhere between his spontaneous creativity and her stoic practicality lay the perfect plan. Even better, she didn’t have to dash across the square to the townhouse he unwillingly shared with his parents the Marquess and Marchioness of Pinehurst, for they would be seeing each other later at a musicale.

  Together they could resolve this.

  Surely.

  A thousand times, he’d ordered himself to fall out of love with Lady Pippa Nash.

  A thousand times, he’d failed.

  Defeated for the thousand-and-first time, Lord Finlay Knighton shoved aside the piles of invitations stacked on his mahogany bedchamber desk and instead opened his design sketchbook. But even this taunted him. Every page, he started drawing possibilities for Bliss, his secret pleasure toy business run from an unassuming townhouse a mile away in Golden Square. And every page included a tiny portrait of Pippa reading or laughing or poking her tongue out as she peered at him over the rims of her spectacles.

  Christ, he adored those spectacles. She wore them with pride; fiercely rejecting anyone who lamented how they looked or pitied her poor eyesight. Her damned grandmother hated the spectacles, deeming them evidence of Nash imperfection. That Pippa ignored such horseshit was testament to her strength of character, for the dowager Lady Kingsford would make a dragon whimper. Indeed, Pippa was a goddess, and anyone who thought otherwise was a complete fool.

  Well, a goddess apart from one tiny yet soul-destroying detail: she saw him only as her best friend. The man she would share her thoughts and dreams and last caramel with, but not her love. Not her future. Not her bed.

  He tapped his quill on the desk and glanced over at the ornate clock resting above the fireplace. Still far too much time to mope before the musicale. Pippa didn’t know of his business; not because of what he sold—as an avid reader of explicit romance novels she was extraordinarily broad-minded—but because he wanted it to be profitable before revealing all. Facts and figures impressed Pippa, not hopes and dreams.

  A sharp knock sounded, and he barely shoved his sketchbook into the desk drawer before his mother, Evangeline Knighton, Marchioness of Pinehurst burst into the room in a whirl of hunter-green skirts. An annoyingly constant occurrence when you were an only child living with your parents, even at age twenty-four.

  “Darling!” she said breathlessly, tucking a stray lock of silver-touched brown hair behind her ear. “There you are. Your father wishes to see you before the musicale.”

  “He’s not going?” Finn replied, surprised.

  Her lips pursed. “Pinehurst is feeling poorly after getting caught in that rainstorm last week. I had a mustard chest poultice delivered from the apothecary, but he said true Englishmen required no such witchcraft, and to remove myself from his presence. So, I’m going to the theater with a friend.”

  Finn merely nodded. It was a daily event; his father being a cold and pompous arse, and his mother lying about her whereabouts so she could meet her lover. Theirs was a typical ton marriage; apparently to keep England strong, just one society love match was legally permitted each year. The rest swayed between cool civility and outright loathing.

  He and Pippa had discussed the matter at length and fervently agreed they would wed only for love. She didn’t know his ideal match was her.

  “Finlay! Yoo-hoo!”

  He blinked. “Yes?”

  “You were gazing across Hanover Square,” his mother replied, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you still hold a candle for that girl. How many years is it now? Ten?”

  “Sixteen, this summer,” Finn said with great dignity. “And rain, hail, or shine, we continue our year-round patronage of Gunter’s. Eating ices is how we met, after all.”

  Indeed, he would ne
ver forget that day. As a reward for mastering sums, his tutor had taken him to the busy tea shop in Berkeley Square. He’d been so excited when the waiter brought a glass dish heaped with lemon ice over to where they waited with the horses, that he’d promptly dropped it. Mortified at his clumsiness and the waste of a delicious ice, he’d been on the verge of tears. Then a hand tugged his, and he’d looked down to see a small blond moppet with overlarge spectacles perched on her nose and a gap-toothed grin, holding up a nearly-full dish. “Don’t fret, master sir lord grace,” she’d said. “I am Lady Pippa Nash and you may share mine.”

  Faster than the time it took to bow and introduce himself as the Viscount Knighton, he’d fallen in love. And in sixteen years that love had only grown stronger and more hopeless.

  “Such tender sensibilities fall on barren ground with that bluestocking,” warned Evangeline. “Save yourself a broken heart and befriend Prinny, Devonshire, and the Carlton House set instead.”

  He suppressed a wince. “The duke is amiable enough, but I cannot stand the others.”

  “Quite beside the point. They are the men who rule society, who hold true power. You must strive to become part of the inner circle, not remain on the outside with all those ladies you dally with. Pinehurst is forever hearing complaints that you corrupted a wife or sister. It is quite beneath a Knighton.”

  Quite beneath a Knighton.

  Finn had heard those infuriating words so often they should be the family crest. But he knew all about the complaints; his father had lectured him over each and every one.