Disrespectfully Yours My Marquess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Read online

  Disrespectfully Yours, My Marquess

  A Historical Regency Romance Novel

  Hanna Hamilton

  Contents

  A Thank You Gift

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  The Risky Wager of a Masked Lady

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Also by Hanna Hamilton

  About the Author

  A Thank You Gift

  Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.

  As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called A True Lady. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.

  Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.

  Hanna Hamilton

  About the Book

  There’s a thin line between love and hate and they set it on fire…

  Lady Morgan Atwater and Lord Brandon Henderson hate each other with a passion.

  Forced into a truce upon the announcement of their siblings’ betrothal to each other, Morgan makes it her life’s mission to avoid Brandon at all costs.

  Heir to the Marquess of Cranston, Brandon enjoys nothing more than to ruffle the feathers of the explosive Lady Morgan. His feelings shift when a suitor appears, eager to do one thing: win Morgan’s heart.

  After a riding accident that nearly claims Morgan’s life, and his mother’s suspicious case of food poisoning, Brandon vows to bring the culprit to justice. A document hidden in his father’s drawers might be a clue: these are no mere accidents and a set of foreign diamonds seem to be the cause.

  Chapter 1

  Storming to her cousin’s side, Lady Morgan Atwater seized Isabel by her arm and physically hauled her from the group of young socialites with whom she had been politely conversing. Morgan’s mind clouded with fury, whirling with the murderous thoughts she wished to put into physical form, so she barely heard Isabel’s protests.

  “Morgan, stop, what are you doing?”

  Ignoring her, Morgan continued toward the ballroom doors, her firm grip on Isabel’s arm not slackening a whit. That was until Isabel, taller and stouter than the more diminutive Morgan, brought her up short by hauling back on her arm. “Stop, I say.”

  Morgan glared at her cousin, her fury heating her cheeks into a blush she knew was visible to anyone who might glance at her. “We are leaving, Isabel.”

  Isabel frowned, as a full scale scowl was not in her normally cheerful and happy demeanor, and Morgan could not remember the last time she saw her cousin angry. Annoyed, perhaps. Never angry. Still, Isabel appeared annoyed now, for her fair brows had lowered slightly and her perpetual smile looked disjointed.

  “The party is far from over, Morgan,” Isabel replied, gesturing, her smile improving slightly. “To leave now would be the very height of rudeness. What is the matter, anyway?”

  Now realizing she had made a complete spectacle of herself, and heads turned in her direction, Morgan felt her cheeks flush hotter. Tapping her foot on the polished tiles helped alleviate some of her pent-up fury, and she crossed her arms, but anyone with half an eye for body language knew she barely contained her rage.

  “Lord Brandon,” Morgan gritted in reply.

  Comprehension flooded Isabel’s porcelain cheeks, and her smile widened, not with mockery but with the true love and understanding that only a best friend could have. “Morgan.” Isabel discreetly reached out and squeezed Morgan’s wrist. “You must not let him bait you. Is this not what he wants by making his outrageous remarks? To have you lose control, make a scene, storm away from this wonderful ball?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Morgan nodded. “Of course, you are right. But, Isabel, he makes me so—angry. See? I almost cursed, I am that furious.”

  “Dare I ask what he said?”

  Morgan viciously chewed the inside of her cheek, and knew it would leave a festering sore for days, yet she could not seem to stop. “He called me—a frog.”

  Isabel blinked. “A frog?”

  Morgan’s foot tapped harder. “Yes. He said the way I danced reminded him of a frog on a hot rock.”

  “Oh, dear.” Isabel giggled, then halted the sound with her fingers over her lips. “Morgan, dear, do not listen to him. You dance more gracefully than anyone I know. Ignore him. You know he is trying to get a rise from you.”

  “Well, it is working, is it not?”

  “Come on.” Isabel led her back into the middle of the ballroom among the circulating cream of England’s aristocracy, the music, the footmen offering wine on silver trays. “To leave without saying goodbye to our hosts is not just rude, we do not need to leave anyway. Lord Brandon is down there with his friends, well away from us. Uncle and Lord Cranston have an announcement to make and we certainly cannot miss that.”

  Following Isabel back to the young lords and ladies Morgan had just dragged her from, Morgan feigned a smile. “I apologize for my behavior. I simply got very angry.”

  “Brandon again?’

  This question came from Lord James, a young man both Morgan and Isabel had known since they were children. Catching the twinkle in his blue eyes and his lack of mockery, Morgan at last laughed at her own predicament. “Yes, James, Brandon again.”

  “I do not understand why you dislike him so,” James’s sister, Lady Stephanie, said with a breathy giggle. “He is so handsome.”

  Morgan watched Brandon from across the room as he stood amidst his cronies, a glass of red wine in his hand, his even white teeth flashing under the candles as he laughed. Forcing herself to admit he was, indeed, one of the best-looking men she had ever seen, she let her eyes roam over him. His broad shoulders seemed to hold more muscle than a young bull, and his angular features under that wealth of jet black hair could have been chiseled from a god. Even as she stared at him, his green eyes met hers, and he toasted her silently with his glass. Turning quickly away, she replied, “Well, a pity his personality does not match his pleasant looks. Even the devil might be as handsome.”

  “Bravo,” James exclaimed, laughing. “That is what I always thought.”

  Lady Stephanie pouted. “He is very well connected, Morgan,” she said. “It has been rumored his father plans to leave him the diamond business.”

  “He is the second son of Lord Cranston,” Morgan reminded her. “His brother will inherit the wealth and title of Marquess of Cranston.”

  “But, Morgan,” Lady Stephanie went on, her eyes round. “Diamonds. With those, he may be richer than King Midas.”

  James eyed his sister with disillusion. “Younger sons do not inherit businesses like that, Steph. Lord Cranst
on will leave the diamond importing to Lord Brandon’s brother Luke, Viscount of Addstone along with everything else.”

  “That is not what I heard,” Lady Stephanie retorted with heat.

  Morgan exchanged an amused glance with Isabel, who naturally laughed. “Who knows what might happen?” Isabel said, her tone light, breezy. “The Marquess can do as he wishes. It is his business, after all.”

  Catching the eye of a footman, Morgan took a glass of wine from his tray, and sipped it, gazing around at the huge ball Lord Cranston had put on in his baronial manor house. Her father, the Duke of Hartington, stood with the Marquess of Cranston, his good friend, and a few other peers of the realm, talking seriously of politics, no doubt.

  Her mother, Selina, the Duchess of Hartington, stood with a few wives whose husbands spoke politics together. Morgan wanted to roll her eyes at the seriousness of the discussions in those particular circles, then she caught sight of her sister, Roslyn.

  Roslyn stood alone against the far wall behind a small group of gossiping matrons, her round face unhappy. Older than Morgan by only a year, she had not inherited the family good looks. Her plain face accompanied by mouse-colored hair that defied any attempt to coil it into an attractive coiffure, and her tiny blue eyes flittered here and there, never still. Their mother, the Duchess, who was famous for her attractiveness, had passed her looks to her younger daughter, bypassing her elder.

  Morgan, too sensible for vanity, knew she outstripped her sister by a wide margin when it came to beauty. Prospective suitors, female friends, even that despicable Lord Brandon, all reminded her of how her red-gold locks, wide hazel eyes, dainty features, and cupid’s bow mouth all came from her famous mother while Roslyn had received nothing.

  Her heart wrenching for her sister, Morgan excused herself from the group of young aristocrats, and dodged the milling people who had come from all over England, Wales, and even a few from Scotland, to attend this ball. Roslyn saw her approaching, and tried to smile, brushing her hands self-consciously down her skirts, a pale pink color that did nothing for her complexion.

  “Morgan,” Roslyn said, “for a moment I thought you were leaving.”

  “I was.” Standing beside her sister, Morgan gazed out over the throng and sipped her wine. “Brandon worked his way under my skin again.”

  “Oh, no.” Roslyn laughed, and when she did, her face became beautiful.

  Trouble is, Roslyn does not laugh nearly enough.

  “You have not learned to get along with him yet?’ Roslyn asked, her smile nearly lighting the entire room.

  “How can I?” Morgan complained. “He is always making these rude, nasty little comments that make me want to wring his—there, I almost cursed.”

  “Might I offer some advice?”

  Morgan eyed her askance. “Of course.”

  “Do not let him see you get angry.” Roslyn gazed down the grand room and its mix of milling guests, toward Lord Brandon, still laughing with his cronies. “Pretend he does not exist. Ignore him. If he makes a rude comment, lift your chin, smile, and speak with someone else. That behavior will get to him as nothing else could.”

  Morgan gaped. “Why did I not think of that?”

  “Maybe because you are too busy being angry.”

  “No doubt.”

  As it was impolite to point, Roslyn unobtrusively jerked her chin toward a pair of men not far away, deeply engrossed in conversation. “Now those are true gentlemen both, and have the kindly dispositions to match.”

  Following her gaze, Morgan discovered her sister had indicated Lord Addstone, the eldest son and heir of the Marquess of Cranston. With him was Alexander Wallace, the Earl of Broville. “Yes,” Morgan agreed, admiring the two men from across the room. “They are a pair of fine looking fellows.”

  Lord Addstone shared the dark hair, chiseled features, and green eyes of his brother Brandon. Yet, while Brandon was as beautiful as a Greek god, Luke’s looks were harder, as though he had sprung from rock, not flesh. The Earl of Broville, on the other hand, was tall, elegant, and slender with skin as pale as a woman’s, high cheekbones, and a winning smile.

  His pale gold eyes, that almost matched his dark blond hair, caught hers from across the room, and he lifted his wineglass in a toast with a sincerity that Brandon certainly lacked. Lord Addstone followed his eyes, then grinned, and offered Morgan a bow.

  “If only I were as pretty as you.” Roslyn sighed.

  “Stop that,” Morgan told her, her tone sharp. “Looks are not everything, as you very well know.”

  “That may be true,” Roslyn replied. “Or it is supposed to be true, anyhow. But these days, looks are everything.”

  “Why do you say that?” Morgan demanded. “You are the eldest daughter of a powerful Duke. You can have any husband in the realm.”

  Roslyn smiled sadly. “But a husband who will love me? I think not.”

  “Good looks do not ensure a loving husband, as you very well know,” Morgan gritted her teeth. “Look at Lady Sweetwater. As beautiful a woman as you can ever envy. And she married that—here I go nearly cursing again, that man who regularly beats her. Now she goes about like an old hag who cannot lift her face in public.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Roslyn admitted. “Would it not be wonderful to marry men who love us?”

  Morgan sipped her wine, trying to stifle her anger. “Of course, that would be excellent. But ladies like you and I are as pawns in the great game of chess. We are forced to marry whomever our Papa deems best suited for himself.”

  “Morgan!” Roslyn stared, shocked. “You take that back. Father is not like that.”

  Swallowing her anger with her wine, Morgan lifted her chin, and refused. “I will apologize for shocking you, but not for my words. You know it is true, even as we know Father does love us. He will marry us to suit his political and financial needs, you mark my words. Father will do what is best for the family, not you or I.”

  Chapter 2

  Lord Brandon watched with suppressed laughter as Lady Morgan sipped her wine beside her plain-faced sister, Lady Roslyn, and pretended he did not exist. She always reminded him of a cat. Moving with a feline grace that fascinated him, he never failed to picture her tail lashing when he succeeded in antagonizing her.

  “Are you ever going to grow up, Brandon?” asked his close friend, Lord Jasper Kavanaugh.

  Brandon eyed him with a sidelong glance. “Is there any reason I should?”

  His sally was met with laughter from the five of them, all his friends from childhood and then school. Of them all, only Brett, Jasper’s younger brother, and Brandon were yet to be married. His best friend, Murphy McTavish, had married only a few months before, while the fifth of their crowd, Lewis Peachtree, was expecting his second child.

  “Growing up does have its advantages,” Brett commented. “Maybe you should ask His Grace for Lady Morgan’s hand.”

  Brandon’s smile faded. “Marry that viper?” he demanded. “I shall remain unattached, thank you.”

  “She does have some very nice attributes, Brandon,” Murphy added. “I think you would make a very nice couple.”

  “Only a fool would think that,” Brandon retorted. “I can see us now—married and a house full of thorns and prickles that tear my flesh at every turn.”

  Lewis shrugged. “Someone else will snatch her up, then. I happen to like her. With anyone except you, she’s kind, polite, gracious, and every bit a lady.”

  “And His Grace has no sons,” Brett continued with a grin. “She grows more attractive every day.”

  “Then you propose to her, Brett,” Brandon replied dryly. “You are a second son, as she is the second born in her house. Your bloodline is suitable.”

  “Do not think I will not,” Brett said, his eyes on the distant Lady Morgan. “I will have a decent income once Father sets me up in the family business.”

  “It is Lady Roslyn’s husband who will end up owning everything she inherits of the unentailed Hartin
gton properties and wealth,” Jasper said. “Lady Morgan will have an inheritance, I am certain, but nothing that comes close to that.”

  Brett pursed his lips in a small moue of disgust. “I am not certain wealth and properties would be enough to marry that one.”

  “Lady Roslyn is one of the kindest, gentlest of souls,” Brandon snapped, furious with his friend. “A true lady if ever there was one. Are you so narrow-minded that all you can see is her lack of beauty?”