His Last Lover by Mary Blayney

Author:Mary Blayney
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: historical romance, regency romance, happy ending, love story, sweet romance, romance, happily ever after romance, family relationships

Two hours later she sat in the chaise with Mr. Marfield, her belongings tied to the back and her future before her.

“You understand, Madame, that Viscount Crandall must interview you?”

“Oh, yes.” Marguerite lied. She had never heard of a Viscount Crandall, though she had a dreadful feeling she had seen him before. If her employment was uncertain then why had they brought her trunk along?

Why had she not listened more attentively when neighbors had come to call on the vicar’s wife? She loved a friendly gossip, but here it had little meaning since all the names were unknown to her. Now she did know a name and had no one to ask.

She had tried talking with Mary about Braemoor as she packed and changed into her most serviceable black gown. After her things had been taken downstairs she insisted on repairing the tear in the hem of Mary’s dress.

Mary stood admirably still for the brief time it took. Even with those extra few minutes, all that Mary could tell her was that since his illness everyone knew the marquis for a madman, kept in a straitjacket under lock and key exactly as the King had been. That sounded more like the forbidden novels Mary read than the truth.

At the last, Mary gave her a fierce hug and begged that she be allowed to come visit soon. Marguerite promised to invite her, aware that once her mother understood Marguerite’s change in station, their acquaintance would end.

She glanced at Mr. Marfield. “Viscount Crandall is related to the marquis?”

“Yes, ma’am, the viscount is his son and heir. He is handling the business of the estate while the marquis recovers from an illness.” Mr. Marfield blushed and asked. “I beg your pardon. Would you prefer to be called madame?”

“Ma’am is quite acceptable. I live in England, as I have since childhood. And while I will never be English I like to think that I have learned to blend in.”

Marfield spared her a quick look, and then turned his full attention back to the horses.

“What is it?” With a huff of annoyance, Marguerite turned fully towards him. “You do not think I blend in? Why? You must tell me. I have been here more than fifteen years. How can I still appear French?”

A commotion in the road spared Mr. Marfield the pain of answering. Two conveyances vied for the right of way and the sound of the quarrelsome voices distracted both of them.

“The greengrocer from the village.” Mr. Marfield said. “And I suspect the other is yet another group of people come to see the result of the fire.”

He hesitated only a moment and apparently decided not to become involved in a discussion that showed signs of turning violent. With a flick of the reins, he turned onto a track located conveniently to their left. Though not well maintained, it was well used. The chaise moved as quickly as the rutted road would allow.

“If you do not mind, Madame Voisson, I should like to introduce you to my wife.

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