Poppy gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. “That is hor…er, horrendous,” she corrected.
The girls’ former governess, turned sister-in-law, Juliet, after she’d gone and wed their brother, Jonathan, the 5th Earl of Sinclair, had striven to strike the oft-used word horrid from the girls’ vernacular.
Prudence continued to frown. “That is not funny.”
“It really isn’t, Patrina.” Penelope nodded in agreement.
She smiled and remembered the two little hellions so very much like the three girls before her now. Albeit vastly younger versions of the three, but similar nonetheless. “I returned the favor.”
Poppy laughed. “Well done, Patrina. I didn’t believe you knew how to do anything fun anymore.”
She frowned. Whatever did her sister mean by such a statement?
As if following her unspoken thoughts, Poppy said, “Not because of that…him, but because you’ve never been the laughing sort.”
“I am the laughing sort,” she replied instantly. Her sisters exchanged a look, and she shook her head at their silent, blatant disagreement. “I am,” she said and snapped her skirts. “The laughing sort,” she expanded.” She tossed her head and stepped a deliberate path around the troublesome misses. “And I know how to do…fun things,” she muttered to herself as she sailed from the room.
“No, you don’t.” Poppy’s sharp laughter followed her down the corridor.
Patrina’s frown deepened. Not fun, indeed. How very insulting of her sisters to say such a thing. Just because she’d never descended into quite the same level of mischief as the three younger girls didn’t mean she hadn’t been fun or the laughing sort. As she made her way abovestairs, she thought of her exchange in Hyde Park with the Marquess of Beaufort. Somber, scowling, and unsmiling, he’d been.
Is that how her sisters saw her? Is that how the world saw her?
She turned down the corridor that led to her chambers. The steady tick-tock of the longcase clock punctuated her quiet steps. It hadn’t been her fault that when she’d come out, there had been a remarkable dearth of suitors. Hence her pathetic grasping for the pretty compliments Albert Marshville had poured into her ear.
Or so she’d thought.
Patrina stopped in front of her room and pressed the door handle. She slipped inside then kicked the door closed with the sole of her boot. Only now, as she stood and stared at her rather cool, lonely chambers, she confronted the ugly possibility perhaps there was some defect in her character that had deterred suitors. Perhaps they’d seen her as Poppy had claimed—an un-laughing, un-fun sort.
Just as the severe Marquess of Beaufort.
Patrina crossed over to the floor-length window. She tugged back the ivory brocade curtains and peered down into the empty streets below. Snow fell, thick and heavy outside and blanketed the paved roads in a pure, white covering.
As she’d confronted the marquess, she’d done so with no small trace of condescension. How dare he and his unruly children shatter the small time she stole for herself, away from the pitying gazes of her family members? She’d judged him as a cold, unfeeling sort. After Poppy’s recent charge, however, she was forced to wonder about his story, this man who’d spoken so coldly of the loss of his wife. Still, for all his blusteriness, he’d marched back over to inquire after her. He had offered her his assistance when she’d already judged him and found him wanting as a singularly pompous ass.
Patrina let the curtain go and it fluttered back into place. In actuality, mayhap she and the Marquess of Beaufort were more similar than she even cared to admit to herself. Much like Patrina, this man, who’d initially earned her scorn and disdain had a story. Some great pain was surely to blame for the marquess’ seething coldness. And she, who’d not moved outside her own self-misery these past months was suddenly besieged by a desire to know more about the darkly aloof marquess.
Oh, dear.
Chapter 4
Patrina stole down North Old Bond Street, the blessed peace of her own presence her only company. In spite of her sisters’ needling and attempts to wheedle more details about her morning forays into Hyde Park, she had snuck free.
Her expedition to the bustling shops had little to do with a desire for any fripperies for herself, but rather for her sisters. “Don’t know how to do anything fun, do I?” she said softly to herself. Did un-fun sisters sneak off to Bond Street for a special shopping outing? Why, it seemed like just the fun sort of thing a young lady who laughed a lot would enjoy doing.
She paused beside a random shop front and stared into the window of what was a bakeshop. She eyed the confectioneries within. The door opened and set a tiny bell a-jingle. The sweet, syrupy scent of baked treats and mince pies wafted through the crisp air. Her mouth watered. She took a step toward the door when her gaze snagged upon the image of a small girl in the windowpane. Something seemed so very familiar about the slight girl’s furtive movements. Only she didn’t know any—
Patrina’s eyes widened. Mince pies forgotten, she turned to stare curiously out across the street to where the little girl—the same one who’d hurled snowballs at her only yesterday morn—moved with deliberate steps onward to the Bond Street Bazaar. The large one-room establishment that featured numerous shops and vendors within its walls, popular during inclement weather and the colder months. The little girl, Charlotte, entered the bazaar, otherwise known as the Western Exchange.
She glanced around in search of the golden-haired, somber marquess, or even the troublesome little boy. Only, no one followed on the girl’s heels. Not a father. Or brother. Or nursemaid. Patrina had engaged in quite enough mischievous behavior as a young child, and witnessed a fair share of it from her sisters to recognize the makings of trouble.
She cast a longing glance back at the cherry tarts and mince pies. And then set out across the street. Her maid hurried to match the pace. As Patrina crossed the pavement, two passing ladies eyed her a moment. They jerked their attention forward, whispering to one another. Shame burned her skin, but she tilted her chin up a notch and stepped by them, having if not grown immune, at least accustomed to Society’s obvious disdain. She paused outside the doors a moment, and looked about in one last hopeful attempt at locating the marquess.
With a sigh, she entered the bazaar. She searched the crowded room. The chatter of lords and ladies as they moved between the vendors echoed throughout the high-ceiling space. She wandered down, past a row of tables, and ignored the glances tossed in her direction. As she made her way through the hall, the impulsiveness of her actions occurred to her. Surely the little girl knew well where her father or nursemaid was, and Patrina was merely worrying needlessly. She gave her head a rueful shake. She expected she should have learned the perils of impulsiveness from her mistake with Albert Marshville.
Patrina made to turn on her heel and mind her own affairs, when she caught sight of the little girl at the edge of a too-high table. The back of her golden-curls was presented to Patrina, as she seemed to study the miniature theatres on the table in front of her.
Alone. Charlotte studied the miniature theatre alone. Sans father, brother, or nursemaid.
With a beleaguered sigh, Patrina abandoned her attempt at escape and walked over to the child. Charlotte had her palms resting on the edge of the table, and leaned up on tiptoe to better view the replica of the cutout characters in Hamlet, with a vividly painted red curtain framing the proscenium and scenery. Patrina waved off the approaching vendor and placed her hands alongside little Charlotte’s. “Hullo,” she greeted.
The girl shrieked and jumped. She slammed a hand over her heart, in a flourishing manner similar to Patrina’s youngest sister, Poppy. “Goodness. You star—” Her green eyes narrowed. “You,” she groaned.
Patrina smiled. “Me. And where is your father, Charlotte?”
“My father?” The girl scratched her brow.
A wave of mortified heat climbed up Patrina’s neck at her specific inquiry into the marquess’ whereab
outs. “Hm, er, yes, that is, your family,” she amended. She hadn’t given the aloof bounder another thought after their unpleasant exchange in the park. Not a single thought. Outside of her inability to sleep from wondering as to a man who seemed so gentle with his children and so cold with everyone around him. Nay, not everyone, she couldn’t speak to that. Perhaps, it had just been her who’d earned his stern disapproval.
The little girl blinked. “My family?” she blurted.
And it occurred to Patrina in that moment… “You don’t know where they are, do you?” she asked gently.
Green eyes widened like full-moons. Charlotte frantically shook her head, even as she stepped around Patrina, who matched the little girl’s quick movements. “I…I…” Charlotte looked back at the miniature theatres with tear-filled eyes. “I w-wanted to see the toys, but n-nurse s-said no…and…” She made another move to go around, but Patrina settled a hand on a slender shoulder.
“Do not worry,” she said in the tone she’d adopted over the years in addressing heated arguments amongst her three spirited sisters. “We’ll find her.” She glanced over the crowded tables and bit the inside of her lower lip. “Er…did you leave the young woman in here?”
Charlotte shook her head. A golden curl fell over her eyes. She blew at it, but the blonde tress fell immediately back into place. “I was outside and she insisted on looking at a bonnet shop, but I know it was only because there was a man she was making eyes at because she wasn’t paying attention and…” The girl continued rambling, her words running together.
Patrina gave her shoulders a light squeeze. “Whoa,” she urged, feeling the faint tug of a smile at her lips. The girl fell silent. “I’ll help you home,” she assured her.
Charlotte’s eyebrows lowered and leaning away from Patrina, she folded her arms over her chest. “Why would you do that? Are you going to lure me away and cook me and eat me like the witch?”
A burst of startled laughter escaped Patrina. “That is horrid. Whatever are you talking about?”
The little girl tossed her hands in the air. “The witch in Hansel and Gretel. She lures the children away and—”
“I have no intention of luring you away and eating you,” Patrina said with deliberate somberness. She schooled her features into what she hoped was a serious mask.
The girl appeared to be weighing the validity of her assurance.
Goodness, someone really must speak to the marquess about the appropriateness of his children’s reading material. With talks of vile witches and their plans to eat a child, little Charlotte was surely kept awake by night terrors.
At long last, Charlotte nodded. “Very well, then. I give you permission to help me.” She extended a hand and stared pointedly back at her.
Patrina glanced at the tiny fingers encased in white gloves. She swallowed a pain of longing for the life she’d imagined for herself.
“Well, are you going to hold my hand or not,” Charlotte said a touch impatiently.
“I am,” Patrina said and placed her hand inside the girl’s.
Charlotte closed her fingers about Patrina’s, and that blasted lump in her throat threatened to drown her with regret. The girl stole a sideways glance up at her. “Are you all right?”
“Certainly,” Patrina said quickly.
“Because you do not seem all right. You seem all quiet and sad like Papa in his office at night when he thinks I’m abed, but I’m really hiding behind his curtains.”
At the girl’s words, something tugged at Patrina’s heart. She imagined the tall, powerful Marquess of Beaufort with the hard planes of his face set in grief, unguarded and hurting, so vastly different from the commanding lout who’d dared insult her for reprimanding his children.
Charlotte scratched her brow. “In thinking on it, you seemed sad at the park as well. Do you go to the park often, miss?”
“Every day,” Patrina confessed. Not even her sisters and mother knew of her morning jaunts. When the sun was just peeking over the horizon, ushering in the morning, she reveled in the stillness of the park, away from Society’s prying eyes.
“Oh, dear, now you’ve gone all quiet. Just like Papa.” Her little mouth quivered.
“I’m fine,” Patrina hastened to assure her. “I’m merely trying to determine the best manner in which to return you home,” she lied.
“And you do not intend to eat me?”
She shook her head. “I have no intention of eating you.”
The girl nodded, as pleased as if Patrina had offered her the last cherry tart.
Patrina gave the fingers in her hand a gentle squeeze and started toward the exit of the bazaar. They continued in silence until they reached the last table at the front of the building. Charlotte dug her heels in and tugged her hand free. “Look!” she jabbed a finger over toward a table littered with ribbons. “Might I look, my lady? Might I? I imagine Papa will not allow me to look at ribbons for a very long time after this.”
She nodded hesitantly, and watched Charlotte sprint over to the table of ribbons.
“Miss, is everything all right?”
Patrina started at the appearance of her maid, Mary. “Fine,” she said, following Mary’s gaze to little Charlotte lifting and studying each ribbon within her reach.
“You must do me a favor, Mary. She’s become separated from the Marquess of Beaufort. You must make inquiries as to the gentleman’s residence so we might return her to her family.”
Mary gave a brusque nod, and with a determined step, set out to make her discreet inquiries.
Patrina returned her attention to Charlotte, just as the girl held up an emerald green ribbon. “Miss, have you ever seen a more beautiful ribbon?”
She walked over and accepted the small scrap of fabric from the girl, turned it over in her hands. The vibrant green hue put her in mind of the marquess’ striking eyes. She murmured, “It is assuredly the most beautiful ribbon here.”
Charlotte’s smile widened and she nodded in agreement. She made to set it down, and her smile dipped.
“Just a minute,” Patrina said, before she fully realized what she intended. The vendor hurried over.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Just the green ribbon,” she said, and withdrew a coin from her reticule. After all, it was nearly Christmas.
The young man’s eyes went wide at the gleaming sovereign handed over to him. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you,” he repeated.
Patrina returned her attention to Charlotte. “It is yours.”
Instead of girlish excitement or any hint of appreciation, a mistrust far more befitting a girl of more advanced years, returned to her eyes. “Why would you be nice to me? I threw snowballs at you.”
“I threw snowballs back at you,” Patrina felt inclined to remind the girl.
Three lines wrinkled the girl’s brow. “You want me to buy you a ribbon, then?”
Patrina laughed. “No, I do not expect you to buy me a ribbon.” From the end of the room, she detected her maid, Mary weaving in and out of lords and ladies shopping throughout the bazaar. They eyed her with curious annoyance, as she slowed to a halt in front of Patrina.
Mary’s chest heaved up and down from her exertions. “I’ve determined the gentleman’s residence,” she said and then glanced around quickly, as if to ascertain whether her scandalous words had been overheard.
“Come along, then,” Patrina said hurriedly. Not out of any attempt at concealing her efforts. After all, not much further damage could truly be done to her reputation. She held a hand out and Charlotte slipped her fingers back into Patrina’s. On the heel of that, were the stirrings of guilt for the repercussions her actions would surely have for her sisters in future years.
Charlotte tugged at her hand. “Do you intend to tell my papa?”
Patrina tamped down a smile, knowing the prideful little girl would not welcome any amusement on her part. “I do not see how I can keep any of this from your papa,” she said.
Charlott
e worried the flesh of her lower lip. “I suppose that is true,” she muttered. “Perhaps I can say nurse left me to—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No,” Patrina said a touch more firmly. “You should never hold others to blame for your own actions, Charlotte.” The words intended for the girl, as much as they were for Patrina herself.
Charlotte sighed and fell silent.
As they walked out of the bazaar onto the bustling pavement, toward Patrina’s waiting carriage, she reflected on the unspoken resentment she’d carried for her sister-in-law. Poor Juliet, whose only mistake in life was the blood she shared with Albert Marshville, which was certainly no fault of her own. Since Albert’s deception, Juliet had moved around Patrina with silent guilt in her eyes.
The driver scrambled from the top of the box and hurried to open the door. He eyed the child a moment, and then averted his gaze. Patrina murmured her thanks and handed Charlotte inside. She accepted the driver’s hand and allowed him to help her up. She settled onto the bench beside a now quiet Charlotte.
Only now, in speaking to the little girl, did she acknowledge the truth to her own gentle recrimination. Her actions that day, the decision to elope with Albert, no one had forced her into his carriage. No one had demanded she go along with his vile plans.
Mary gave the driver their directions and scrambled inside. The driver closed the door behind them, and a moment later, the carriage rocked forward.
Not even Albert could be wholly to blame. Not when Patrina had known the scandalous nature of her actions and had instead allowed the desperate need for love and affection to fuel her flight to Gretna Green.
Charlotte shifted on the bench, until her red cloak brushed alongside Patrina’s. “You look sad again,” she observed.
That would be because she was more often sad than not. “I’m sorry,” Patrina said, instead.
The girl lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “You needn’t be sorry for feeling sad,” she said with that far too-mature tone Patrina was coming to expect from the small girl. “Is it because those ladies were whispering about you?”
A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 9
