“Well, then,” Lord Calperton said, and he was red in the face, clearly feeling shy. “I suppose…” he glanced down the stream to where Penitence stood—she was twenty paces away, watching the flowing water, and didn’t seem in the least as if she was listening. “I wonder if it would be possible to, well…express my interest in another young lady?”
He was looking at her, his eyes holding her own. Martha went red. Surely he didn’t mean…but it was obvious in his gaze that she was precisely who he did mean.
She felt her cheeks glowing. “Well…I suppose a certain lady would not take offense, if she were to find herself receiving your attention.”
She was red from blushing, she was sure, her cheeks flaming. What would such boldness make him think?
She risked a glance upwards. Lord Calperton was looking at her, and his gaze was so gentle that she felt her heart melt. She grinned up at him hesitantly. He smiled back, tender and lovely.
“Well,” he said gently. “I think that now we are in agreement.”
Martha held his gaze. His eyes were deep, dark pools and she felt as if she was drowning in them.
“I think that may be so,” she said softly.
He looked at her and, gently, he took her hand in his. It was an innocent touch, but with his eyes on hers it held a world of meaning. Her tummy tingled and her skin shivered with heat.
She didn’t say anything, but they seemed to have exchanged a great deal of information in one gaze. She felt as if her soul was soaring.
“I should return home,” Lord Calperton said softly, letting go of her hand. She could still feel the touch of his fingers on her own.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I also. I think we will see each other soon.”
“Yes,” he agreed. She wondered, as he walked back to where he’d left his horse, looking hesitatingly over his shoulder at her, as that felt more like a promise than a conjecture.
Chapter 12
Nicholas rode down to Headly Hall, his mind occupied with the conversation of the last hour. His mind went over it again and again.
She is as interested in me as I am in her.
He felt his heart glow, a warm sweetness flowing through his veins. He couldn’t stop smiling. He would never have even imagined it.
He felt his enthusiasm chill as he rode down the path towards his current home. His father was going to be a major obstacle in his path. Now that he and Lady Martha had spoken, could they not find a way through this predicament? He shuddered.
Father has his mind set on this betrothal to Amelia.
He had no idea why, but if he knew his father at all—and he felt he knew him rather well—he had some stake in this.
Nicholas rode up the path to the house, the wind cold on his brow. He swung down out of the saddle and headed briskly up the steps.
“Good afternoon, My Lord,” Radford greeted him in the hallway.
“Good afternoon, Radford. Is my father in?” He asked, passing the man his hat and coat. Radford nodded.
“Yes, My lord. He’s upstairs in his study. I believe he is not to be disturbed.”
Nicholas stifled his impatient rebuttal. His father had no right to keep him waiting, whatever he might do with other visitors! He climbed up the steps, trying to think.
Father is a difficult sort.
Any direct opposition would only make the fellow more stubborn—Nicholas knew this from long experience. He grimaced in annoyance as he reached the top of the steps. He needed a strategy.
As he was walking silently along the corridor, lost in thought, he neared the short staircase that led up to his father’s office. The house was Restoration in style, with little turrets and crenellations, and his father’s office was, predictably, in the turret.
I am sure he imagines himself some Medieval king.
His father’s grasping nature led him to always take the best of everything, but furtively—as if it would be denied him if he asked.
Nicholas was musing on this, when he heard a voice coming from the office. He tensed.
Had not his father redirected all his guests? How could there be someone else in there?
“Yes, yes.” His father said firmly. “I know. But I will make good on it in good time. Give me time. Soon, I’ll have no worries for money on my hands. Give me another week.”
Nicholas stared. Who was asking his father for money? And—even more intriguingly—why was his father so sure of coming into more money?
“Yes, Maxwell, I know. But we need that money next week,” a new voice argued. Nicholas tensed. Maxwell was his father’s name, but nobody called him anything besides “Your Grace, Duke of Dellminster.”
“You’ll get it, Lucas. Don’t press.”
The voices calmed and Nicholas tensed as he heard feet on the floor. He was standing in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. If someone came out, they’d see him listening and he’d definitely need to account for himself.
He hurried away, as he heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Why am I so scared?” he asked himself as he locked the door of his bedroom.
This was his father. Surely he didn’t think his own father would do him a damage if he had overhead some underhanded deals?
Nicholas sighed. He hadn’t realized that he was afraid of his father.
What is he up to?
He shut his eyes, sitting on the edge of his bed, lost in thought. His father was clearly expecting some money from somewhere, and the only place he would be getting it—besides betting—was if he was extorting it.
He let out a sigh. His father was certainly a bit of a shadowy figure—he was involved with some clubs in London where excessive gambling took place, and Nicholas wasn’t sure if he didn’t occasionally extort money from people by darker means. He tended to pretend ignorance and let his father do as he saw right—after all, he was his father, and he couldn’t very well give him lessons. It was still hard to believe that he was capable of anything truly wrong, though.
Maybe I am just being fanciful, but I can’t help it. I don’t like the sound of this.
Something didn’t feel right. His father was secretive, but this seemed more secretive than usual. And that sense of threat he’d felt, that was different.
What could he do about it?
The realization that his father was conducting something underhand made it at once easier and harder to go against his wishes. Easier, because he could safely ignore the idea that his father had his best wishes in the forefront of his mind. Harder, because he wasn’t sure, now, what he was up against.
He decided to go and walk in the garden. He needed to clear his head and think about this rationally.
“My Lord?” one of the gardeners greeted him standoffishly.
“Oh!” Nicholas jumped, realizing that he was pacing. He turned to look at the gardener. “What is it?”
“My Lord…the hedge. The horse ate it.”
Nicholas stared. The fellow was looking quite afraid, his posture stooped, his eyes big. But he didn’t look in the least bit crazy, though his tale sounded very odd.
“Which hedge?” Nicholas asked, trying to soothe the man’s evident fear. “Show me. I am sure that, whatever the damage, we can explain it to the owner.”
The man’s face brightened. Nicholas reminded himself to mention the damage to the owners of Headly Hall when they came back from their travels, whatever it was.
“Here, sir…just here by the kitchens.”
Nicholas stared. On the side of the landholding, not too far from the kitchens, a large hedge was planted to screen the kitchen garden from the view of people in the flower garden.
The hedge had definitely been eaten, large pieces torn off it by the mouth of a hungry animal. He could see scuffed marks on the lawn, too, and guessed they were horse hoofprints.
“I’ll notify the owners at once,” he promised. “But I assure you, that nobody will dismiss you from service.”
The man almost dropped over with relief. He b
eamed at Nicholas. “Thank you, My Lord,” he said. “I don’t see how a horse got here. I didn’t see it, My Lord…I swear I didn’t.”
“No,” Nicholas agreed, frowning darkly. “I don’t know how a horse came out this far from the stables.”
The stables—such as they were, this being a small house—were at the front near the drive. That meant the horse would have had to wander around down the garden paths, across the lawn and past the front of the house, without pausing to crop the grass or being spotted by a maid or gardener.
Nicholas paused. “Thank you, for showing me,” he said to the gardener. “Now, if you see anything untoward in the garden again, like a horse—promise to come and tell me?”
“Yes, of course,” the gardener said quickly. “Of course I will.”
Nicholas stared at the path, trying to make sense of what had happened. When nothing came to mind, he walked away.
As he walked back to the house, it became obvious. His father had said nobody was to visit, and so the man he’d met with must have sneaked in around the rear side of the house, through the small gate that led out to the woodlands. That meant he’d had to tether his horse somewhere in the garden, and the best spot would have been the hedge.
“But why?”
He shook his head. One thing he knew for certain—his father was no angel.
He only wished he knew what he was up to, and how he could make his father free him from being any part in his dark plans.
Chapter 13
Martha walked out of the house into the garden. It was morning, and she had just broken her fast—she could still taste the crumbly pastries and marmalade on her lips. She felt confused, though, and she wanted the time to organize her thoughts.
I still can’t stop thinking of what happened yesterday.
It all seemed almost surreal—the note, the meeting, and the information they had exchanged. Even though, in some ways, she supposed it had been obvious, she couldn’t quite believe the things that he’d said to her.
Lord Calperton felt the same for her as she did for him.
It was a fact, but it seemed too big to accustom herself to. It almost didn’t seem possible, but he really had an interest in her, and he had said so.
She opened her eyes, looking out over the garden. Green lawns bathed in filtered sunshine, the sky overcast and rainy. The rose garden stretched out around her, and she leaned back on the wall, letting herself feel calmer.
She was thinking about the meeting again, dreamily, when she heard footsteps and saw someone coming down the garden path, dressed in pale blue, with pale hair.
“Amelia,” she greeted her, standing up to make room for her sister on the bench. “I’m glad to see you out here.”
“Martha,” her sister replied. “Thank you for making room.”
She seemed tense somehow, or distracted. Martha wondered why, and waited as Amelia sat down beside her, tucking her muslin skirts closer to her. Blue muslin contrasted with a cream one with little sprigs in brown.
Martha sensed her sister wanted to say something, but she didn’t want to pry, and so she said nothing. After a long moment, Amelia turned to face her.
“Martha…Lord Alton is visiting.”
Martha stared. “Lord Alton? Here?”
“Yes,” Amelia said, whispering urgently. “He’s coming after luncheon. He asked me to meet him in the gardens behind the house. I want to see him so badly!” She looked at Martha with round eyes. “But, Mama…”
“I will take care of Mama,” she said at once.
“Martha!” Amelia beamed, and kissed her spontaneously; a sisterly kiss. “You are so kind! I can’t thank you enough. We shan’t be long—just a few minutes in the arbor. I just need to speak with him for a few minutes alone. Mama never lets me see him nowadays.” She frowned, her lovely face downcast.
“I know,” Martha nodded. Her heart was rejoicing as she spoke. How wonderful was it, that she and Amelia were both meeting in secret? They could help each other. “I am sure there could be a good reason for her to be distracted at the front of the house for a good while.”
“Martha! What would I do without you?” Amelia asked.
Martha grinned. “I think the same of you,” she said.
Martha leaned back, trying to think of a plan. Amelia was looking at the rose garden, her beautiful face relaxed. Martha was sure she was thinking of Alton.
“We should go in,” Amelia said dreamily. “I think it will rain.”
Martha looked up as a big raindrop fell, wetting her cheek. She laughed.
“You’re right! Let’s go.”
“Oh! My hair will be ruined!” Amelia shouted, but she was giggling as they ran in, dodging the raindrops. They crossed the threshold together, both damp, rainwater soaking their hair.
“My Lady! Look at you!” Mrs. Huntley said as she stared at them both. They were standing in puddles of water, both giggling heartily.
“It’s raining outside,” Amelia said redundantly, which made them both burst into renewed giggles.
Mrs. Huntley looked at them in surprise. “Best if you get upstairs, before the Countess sees you.”
Amelia and Martha looked at each other. They nodded and walked up the stairs quietly, though the odd squelch from their soaking shoes made them both giggle.
Upstairs, they went to Martha’s bedroom. The fire was burning in the grate, which was welcoming. Martha pulled the bell for Penitence and reached for a towel to dry her soaking hair. Amelia was sitting on the hearthrug, trying to get warm.
“Do you need to get dressed?” Martha asked, feeling her own gown—the skirt was soaked below the knee and she’d have to change, at least until it dried off somewhat.
“I should,” Amelia said, and ran a hand through her ringlets, which were soaking. “I need to dry my hair and redo it before midday, too.”
“Yes,” Martha nodded. She and her sister each had their own maid—Amelia’s maid, Rochelle, was French and particularly good at doing hair.
They dried off and Amelia went to her bedroom to get ready.
Martha sat on her bed, her book open in one hand, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She was thinking about how she could keep their mother occupied at the front of the house. An idea came to her.
“Martha?” a voice called. Martha opened the door for her sister. She was still dressed in pale blue, but her hair was in elaborate ringlets and she was wearing a crystal necklace. She looked radiant. “Martha…could you help me with the shawl? I don’t know what to wear with this gown.”
Martha nodded. Her sister had a selection of shawls to keep her warm—the rain had abated, fortunately, which meant they could still easily meet—and Martha considered which best matched the pale blue.
“The one with the little stitches?” she asked.
“The cream one?” Amelia frowned. “Yes. I think so. The blue one is wrong.”
“You look wonderful,” Martha assured her. With the cream shawl around her shoulders, draped elegantly, she looked quite lovely.
Amelia went pink. She might be beautiful, but she was incredibly shy. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“Now, go on with you,” Martha said, feeling protective. “You spend as long as you wish down there. I’ll keep Mama busy.”
Amelia beamed at her. “Thank you, Martha. Oh, thank you!”
Martha took her hand and they exchanged a co-conspiratorial smile.
Lunchtime was brief—Martha spent most of it looking at her plate and listening to their mother’s one-sided conversation about Lady Huddersford redecorating the drawing room.
“…and she has those Oriental silk papers on the walls. I do think it’s too ostentatious, don’t you? In a drawing room! It’s not Brighton Pavilion!” She sounded scandalized.
“Yes, Mama,” Martha said dutifully. Her mother shot her a look, and Martha looked hurriedly down at her plate, hoping that it wasn’t too apparent that she hadn’t heard anything.
“Amelia!” their moth
er said, as Amelia pushed back her chair hurriedly. “Are you going already? You’ve barely eaten a thing. You’re going to fade away.”
“I’m not hungry. I feel a little unwell,” Amelia murmured. Martha thought she was acting well, though her eyes were fortunately downcast on her plate, so that one might notice less that they were shining.
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 10
