Their father had always been even-handed, Martha thought. At least, he was absent as often for Amelia’s parties as Martha’s, and saw them both as little as each other. He seemed endlessly preoccupied with life at Court and his duties as a peer of the realm.
Martha sometimes wondered if he didn’t prefer to stay away.
She had accepted the way things were. She’d taken her mother’s opinions as truth, and had pinned to herself the label “plain” and “colorless”. She had almost been contented that way.
Discovering, through Lord Calperton’s eyes, that she was beautiful felt a little bit like her fingers had been snow-numb for years, and now the blood was starting to flow. It was painful to get the feeling back, deeply, indescribably painful.
I don’t want to hate Mama.
Yet, what course was open to her? What could she believe, but that her mother had been deliberately convincing her she was ugly, when even she must be able to see the truth?
But why?
None of it made any sense. She could see why their mother belittled Amelia—it kept her close and obedient. If Amelia knew she was incredibly talented and capable, she might not bow so instantly to their mother’s wishes. As it was, she was too scared to do anything else.
But why me?
Their mother very rarely talked to her, except to reprimand her for some bad behavior. She seemed too disinterested to bother to control her, so why would she put such effort into harming her?
Was it to keep her beneath anyone’s notice? But why would she do that?
Martha decided to think no more about it for a few days. It was all too confusing, and she would only sicken herself trying to make sense of it. She shifted in her seat, reaching to put away the paper before her.
She still had her quill and as she set aside the paper, she reached for the spare sheet. It was of poorer quality, and she kept it to practice her letters on, when her handwriting became cramped or untidy. It was empty at the moment, though, and she found herself drawing something.
It was her face.
She stared at the image. She had always been rather good at drawing—their governess had always said that, while Amelia could draw flowers like no one else, Martha had a talent for making likenesses.
Usually, though, in the past, she’d exaggerated her own features, made her nose small, her chin hard, her eyes lost in the midst of her face. Now, the likeness looked like her reflection in the mirror on the dressing table—soft-faced, playful, and pretty.
“Martha Gray…you have been thinking too hard,” she told herself grimly. She reached for sand and dried the ink, blowing it off with a firm breath.
I should throw that away.
She moved to crumple it, but something stayed her hand. She let it lie.
Then, taking a deep breath, she went downstairs. It was her turn to take stock in the kitchen, and she was not planning to disappoint anyone by neglecting her one duty that week.
Chapter 19
Nicholas looked up from the letter that he held between his palms. It was an invitation to the ball at Weston Manor. He wondered who had written it—if it was Martha’s hand, she had worked hard on it. The flowing, floral script did not resemble the neat, if cramped, hand she usually wrote in.
He put the paper aside.
“My Lord?” the butler said as he came in through the door. “If you please, tea is set in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Radford,” he said lightly.
The man lingered in the doorway, and Nicholas knew he was waiting for him to go to tea. Clearly, his father was waiting for him.
Nicholas stayed where he was, feeling annoyed. He knew all too well that his father saw him as somebody simply to order about. He was not simply going to do what the Duke was expecting.
He recalled the dinner the other night and how offhand—if not actually rude—his father had been. He treated the whole world like servants—except Lady Weston. There was some oddness between them, and he didn’t like it.
He looked up to see the butler was still watching him.
“What is it, Radford?” he asked, looking up from the letter in his hand. He’d read it a dozen times already.
“Nothing, My Lord.”
Nicholas leaned back in the seat as the butler left. He felt as if he had won a tiny victory simply by choosing to stay here an extra few minutes.
When it was five past ten, he stood and went downstairs. He found his father in the drawing room.
“Good morning, Father,” he greeted.
“It might be,” his father said gruffly. “Some of us don’t have time to sit about.”
Nicholas bit back a smile. He hadn’t told his father to sit around in the drawing room waiting for him—it would have been quite easy for him to drink his tea and leave. And yet his father insisted on waiting, then saw his simple delay of five minutes as Nicholas controlling him? It made no sense.
And he knows he’d look ridiculous if he accused me of being late. Late for what?
He enjoyed his father’s discomfort for a moment, then went to the table where the tea set was laid out. He took one of the thin china cups and poured himself some tea.
“I think I might ride out into the forest today,” Nicholas said.
“As you like,” his father grunted. He took a sandwich and went to sit down by the table.
“It’s a good day for a ride. I thought I’d visit the Gracefields, maybe. We might as well make an effort to make friends in these parts. Should we not?”
This time, his father looked more interested. “Yes, yes. And you’re going to Weston Manor?” he asked. He looked piercingly at him.
Why is he so interested?
His father usually couldn’t care less what he did during his day. As a child, he’d been playing with gunpowder before his father had actually shown any acknowledgement that he existed. And then it had simply been to reprimand him.
Nicholas put his head on one side in a studied air of consideration. “I was invited there, yes,” he said.
His father didn’t look surprised, and Nicholas felt annoyed. What was he doing, reading his letters? He felt a chill down his spine.
“Well, you have to go, eh?” his father grinned. “Can’t make a lady wait. And a fine piece she is, too eh? What’s wrong with you that you avoid some dalliance?”
Nicholas stood up. He had meant to stay calm, to not let his father annoy him. All the same, actually facing the man in all his corruption was another thing entirely. He felt his skin crawl.
“I am two-and-twenty years old, Father,” he said tightly. “I think I have the right to decide if I attend a ball or not. And Lady Amelia is not a ‘piece’. She is a human being. So is Lady Martha, and so am I.”
His father looked at him as if he’d slapped him. He looked surprised, of all things. It seemed as if the sentience of anyone—himself, the ladies—anybody besides the Duke of Dellminster, in fact, was news to him.
After a long moment, he spoke. “You’re wrong, son. Nobody matters. Not you, not I, not some lace-clad lady. Nothing matters. Only power matters, and you should do whatever you can—anything you can—to get it.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “So, what does that make me, then? A master, or a slave?”
The Duke said nothing, but Nicholas could see the surprise on his face. His father didn’t answer, but he turned away.
“I’ll go riding, then,” Nicholas said, striding to the door. “I’ll probably have lunch at the inn. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He was just leaving when his father called out behind him. “You’ll learn one day to do as you’re told.”
Nicholas tensed, but said nothing. Quietly, he walked up the stairs and pulled on his riding boots. Then he went down to the stables.
He was riding up the hill, his mind lost in the ride, his breath heaving, branches slapping at his face, when he started to calm down.
“The nerve,” he whispered to himself. “The bloody nerve.”
He h
eard how his horse was panting and he leaned back, allowing the horse to slow to a walk. He was sweating, and he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t remember when he had been so angry.
Suddenly, it was all so clear to him. He could see how, his whole life, he had been dancing to his father’s tune: doing as he was told, trying to avoid the man’s anger and placate his rages. And, at the same time—just as his father had waited in the drawing room until Nicholas came down—it was hard to see who was really empowered.
Like two convicted men in leg-shackles, the chain he’s placed around my leg binds him as well.
Nicholas shook his head. The realization was powerful, and he knew now, absolutely, that he had to do something. He had to break his father’s hold on him once and for all, or risk being tied in to his father’s corrupted world. Tied in a life he didn’t want to live, held away from all he wished to have.
And this was his chance to do it.
He allowed himself to imagine what would happen if he walked away from his father’s demands and lived a life entirely of his choosing. Oddly, though it was such a vast blank canvas, he knew exactly how he would paint it. His life would very much include Lady Martha, and if his father disinherited him, it bothered him not at all.
It would be better to ask Uncle for help and live modestly and free, then in a mansion full of shackles.
He felt his lips lift in a smile. Uncle Phil was his dearest friend. His mother’s brother, he was the one person in his life he really trusted. And it was a cheerful coincidence that he lived not far away. If his father truly meant to revenge himself, he had someone to support him.
Nicholas made a decision. He needed to talk with Lady Martha and Lady Amelia. All three of them deserved liberty from their scheming parents. They could use this ball as a chance to free themselves, but they had to all be expecting it, or they would all be hurt.
He stopped his horse on the hill, looking out over the valley. The mist still drifted over the trees, but it felt to Nicholas as though he could see everything so clearly for the first time. He grinned to himself. He was sure it was because of the love that he felt for Lady Martha.
Love has a funny way of washing things clear.
He felt the rain start and he turned his horse back down towards the town. He would keep to his original plan and have lunch at the inn—a bit of rain was not going to make him go back to the house and his father’s company.
Tomorrow he would discuss plans with Lady Martha.
Chapter 20
Martha tiptoed through the garden towards the side gate. It was mad, she knew, to try and sneak out unchaperoned—but she had to do it, since Penitence was away for the day. She couldn’t ask any of the other maids to accompany her, because they didn’t know the secret. And Amelia was visiting friends.
I have to see him.
She reached the side-gate, having gone the back way around the garden in order to get there without being seen from the house. All the same, as she slipped through into the forest, she felt a tingle down her spine. If someone was looking out through the window and happened to see her, she’d be in unimaginable hot water.
I think no one saw me.
She stayed where she was, hiding by the gate, and let out a slow, steady breath. She heard birds in the trees, and somewhere on the road, a horse whickered. Nobody was walking past the gate, and nobody had sent out an alarm from the house, so for all intents and purpose, she seemed safe where she was.
It was a quiet morning—Mother was busy with the cook discussing the monthly spending, Amelia was out, and Penitence had the day off. It had been easy to request a few hours for a long walk, and Martha saw no reason why anyone would get suspicious, even if she were missing for a bit longer than expected.
Feeling somewhat safer, she headed into the trees.
It was a warm morning, and she wiped her forehead, feeling a light perspiration. She had a long way to walk, if she wanted to reach the stream by the right hour of the morning. She looked around and taking a deep breath, walked purposefully up the hill.
After an hour of walking, she reached the stream. She felt her heart start to thud in her chest. It was different entirely, actually being here, compared to planning to sneak out to meet someone.
“Good day?” she called. Her voice was tight and she made a small cough in the back of her throat to clear it. She heard no answer and her heart thudded faster.
As she was looking around, wondering if he was actually here, she heard a horse in the forest. She took a step forward, and felt a shiver go up her spine. What if it wasn’t him? What if it was some brigand? The woods were not safe, and she was entirely alone…
“Lady Martha?” a voice said softly. The sound of it ran down her spine like warm oil, rich and lovely. She looked up into his eyes.
“Lord Calperton! You’re here. Shall we talk?” she said this last shyly. She was standing in front of him, looking up into his eyes. He was looking down at her with such a tenderness and care that she felt her heart flip over. She felt as if she could not look away.
He was looking into her eyes, and they stood there, quite still, a small smile on his lips as they both looked at each other. They both seemed so shy.
“Yes,” he said softly. “We should speak of what we can do.”
Martha felt a blush creep across her skin softly. It was clear that they both meant what they should do to solve their predicament; but that meant that he wanted to make plans that allowed them to court each other.
“Yes,” she said, but her voice was so quiet.
They looked at each other again, and she could see he was smiling, though his lips were set in a thin line.
“My Lady, it is time to be open with everyone. It’s not fair.”
Martha nodded. She agreed with every word, but at the same time she was also feeling afraid. How could she dare to tell her mother about this?
“It’s right, I agree…but I can’t…I wouldn’t dare because she would be angry with all of us. You, me, and my sister.”
Lord Calperton’s reaction surprised her. Rather than agree or disagree, he smiled, a smile so gentle it melted her heart a little.
“Lady Martha, you have such a good heart. I am amazed. You will refuse to do this, not out of fear, but because of your need to protect those you care about. Your sister, and…” he trailed off, clearly surprised at being included in that number of those she cared about.
“I cannot expose anyone else to harm,” she said softly.
She was surprised when he cleared his throat loudly. “My Lady…you also believe there is harm associated with this?”
Martha frowned. She hadn’t stopped to consider why she was so frightened—all she knew was that, somehow, for some reason, her mother set disproportionate store by this contract. She felt that, were she and Amelia to confront her and demand that she alter it, she would refuse to do so, and strongly.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. She felt as if there was something dark behind this arrangement between her mother and his family, as if there would be some danger associated with breaking it.
“I fear my father in this,” he admitted. Martha raised her brow.
“You think he…” she trailed off, not knowing what to say. She was frightened of the Duke.
“I can’t say what I think, since I don’t know. Only he was so…difficult,” he said.
“You mean, at dinner?” Martha asked. It was her one experience of the Duke and she found it hard to forget. He had made a terrifying impression.
Lord Calperton nodded slowly. “Yes. I had no idea what was happening there. It was all so…cryptic.”
Martha felt her shoulders loosen. “Yes,” she agreed. “I thought so, too.”
She was pleased that he had been baffled.
She recalled her mother’s comments again and again. She had spoken of betting and playing, and those were things her mother never discussed. She didn’t have any idea what she meant.
“I don’t know,” Lord Calpert
on said. “I just feel as if there is something depending on this…some arrangement between our families, that we know nothing about.”
“I wish Father were here,” Martha said.
“I know,” Lord Calperton said slowly. He was looking down towards the road, and Martha thought she had never seen someone so handsome before.
Martha wondered about the situation she found herself in. There was one obvious solution—if they all came out together, if she and Amelia and Lord Calperton all declared their intent at once, nobody could be…
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 15
