by Cheryl Bolen
“I beg your pardon?”
“For dinner. Lovelace extended the invitation to your Christmas Eve dinner party. Said you were eager to meet your neighbors. Very kind of you to include my daughter and me.”
Anger took hold of his throat and constricted it. George had arranged a dinner party? Of all the meddling, interfering, managing…
He swallowed his bile and took a deep breath. “Please also include Mrs. Strachney, your lady wife.”
Strachney’s gaze dropped in a moment of feigned mourning. “How very good-hearted of you, your grace. I’m afraid Mrs. Strachney has been gone these many years.”
“I am sorry. Well, then, until we meet again.”
He turned his horse and crashed through the brush, but instead of the gallop across the snow-covered country his blood called for, he found himself picking his way over hidden dangers, careful of his mount’s footing. No need to incur a social debt to the nabob for the loan of a mount. When the horses arrived on the morrow, George could damned well ride both of them. He could marry the damned heiress as well.
He fumed his way through fields and small copses, letting the sound of the chaise wheels fade into the soft silence of the winter landscape, counting his blessings that the man hadn’t planned to return to the Castle.
After an hour of meandering, his anger had lifted, and he found himself again admiring—admiring—the country and the view of the castle peeking through trees as he approached. Marlowe truly did have the right of it—it was magnificent, as glorious as it had been the very first time he’d arrived in Kinmarty, a small boy in need of a fortress.
As he came around to the back, he found himself in a thicket of yew and evergreens on a hill a short walk from the stables. A figure moving in the trees brought him to alert.
An animal brayed, and a woman shushed it. Moving closer, he saw a donkey strapped with panniers that were bursting with evergreen boughs.
The woman moved into his field of vision and his heart swelled. What the devil was Marlowe up to now?
Borrowing the donkey had, perhaps, been a mistake. The temperamental creature walked when it was meant to stand, and balked when it should move on. No wonder the innkeeper had been happy to loan the beast at no cost. It had taken all of an hour to coax it to this stand of bushes that Mr. Forbes told her about and find a spot to its liking.
And now the donkey appeared eager to move on, baring its yellow teeth, shaking its long ears, and hee-hawing at her.
“Shush now.” Filomena clutched her shears under her arm and squeezed the freshly cut pine branch in among the others. “Only a few more and we’ll head for the stables and your supper.”
She should have brought Duff and Kyla to help her, as she’d promised the children yesterday, but that would have required returning to the Castle after her visit to the village and…and she needed to be alone. She needed the bracing cold air and some distance from Castle Kinmarty, and most especially some distance from Mr. Andrews.
Her cheeks heated remembering the kiss in the nursery, his lips, surprisingly soft upon hers. And there’d been his hand burning into her waist as he’d guided her down the dark staircase.
The duke’s voice had rumbled through her closed bedchamber door greeting Mr. Andrews. He’d been close enough to observe their goodnights. She prayed he’d not heard mention of that kiss.
That kiss. Once upon a time, she’d been a young girl aflame from a man’s touch. Mr. Andrews stirred those ancient memories, reminding her of her dreams of marriage, of the young man who’d courted her, a young man she’d been prepared to love. What a fool she’d been.
She shook the snow from a promising branch, jumping back as it showered her skirts.
Andrew MacDonal had ruined that. He’d called her a twit, a social-climber. He’d planted doubts. Her suitor had dumped her.
She’d slunk back to Hertfordshire, grieving over lost dreams, regretting her break with Penelope, and dreading her godmother’s coming demise. When a neighbor’s visiting brother offered for her, she’d accepted, never mind that he was three decades older.
With his new parish, Mr. Marlowe had needed a wife to run the vicarage, to organize the ladies’ societies, to tend to the poor, and to see to any other need that might possibly draw him out of his library. He’d been mostly kind and completely uninterested in her person. They’d never shared a bed. He’d never once kissed her.
She pressed a hand to her chest and lifted her chin, gulping in great breaths of cold air. Oh, what she must have missed in the marriage bed. Mr. Andrews had given her a hint of it. His touch had made her withered heart bloom.
And what poetic nonsense that was. She wasn’t a girl anymore.
She knew there was much, much more she’d missed out on. Mr. Marlowe might have been a clergyman, but on the top shelves of his library, she’d found his forbidden books and looked at every last illustration.
She was simply feeling carnal desire. A widow of the haute ton was free to explore what marriage might have denied her. A clergyman’s widow, not so, unless she was willing to risk much.
The donkey hee-hawed at her and sneered. She stuck out her tongue at the beast.
She’d been daring enough to come to Castle Kinmarty and hide her relationship to Penelope. Would striking a romance with Mr. Andrews be too reckless?
It all depended on what happened after Penelope arrived, and she must remember her purpose. She was here for her cousin. Most of all, she was here for Penelope’s children. The more she thought of them, the dearer they seemed.
She glanced at the horizon and the waning light and then assessed the fruits of her labor. This would do for a good start on the Great Hall.
The wind soughed through the trees, rubbing branches together, sending a chill through her scarf.
“Good day again, Mrs. Marlowe.”
She whipped around and her heart rose into her throat. Mr. Andrews sat atop a magnificent black horse, his muscular legs gripping the side of his mount.
Sudden heat flooded her. As if she’d conjured him, he’d appeared.
“Cutting pine boughs, are you? Do we not have a servant for that?”
A servant? Oh, how he addled her wits. She took a few quick breaths, summoning Mrs. Marlowe, the vicar’s demure wife, before speaking.
“In many homes, gathering the Yuletide greenery is a family affair. In any case, I am a servant, Mr. Andrews. And since the innkeeper loaned me this donkey, I thought I might just as well load it up on my way back to the Castle.”
He studied her, making her shiver as if she’d shed all of her clothing right down to her chemise.
Perhaps he’d forgotten that he was a servant also, after a fashion. She lifted her chin and stared back at him, letting her gaze roam over the tight fit of his breeches and tall polished boots.
His lips twitched. “Very well.”
He swung one leg over and dismounted, as graceful as she was awkward. How could she ever imagine he’d have any interest in her?
“You make a very good point. I have fond memories of gathering greenery with my brother at Yuletide.”
Oh, blast it, what had she started with her boldness? She shooed him back. “I’m just finishing. Go on to the castle. You’re not dressed warmly enough.”
“And neither are you.” He trudged through the snow in her direction. “Come, let me help you.” He reached for the shears and her fingers tightened reflexively on the handle.
Heat poured from him as he cupped her hand and peeled back her thumb.
“Even your fingers are frozen, my dear.”
The low rumbled words fogged around her and filled the air with the honeyed scent of Mr. Forbes’s brew. Under his gentle touch, each of her traitorous fingers surrendered, one by one, until he took possession of the shears, sliding his thumb and two fingers into the finger holes.
He smoothed his free hand up her arm, frowning. “We should talk about that kiss, Filomena Marlowe.”
Alarm rose in her. “Did the duke
hear your apology?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Last night. I heard the duke join you outside my door. Did he mention our kiss?”
His lips parted and his eyes widened. “He…he didn’t.”
A tingle went through her. She’d organized more than one parish party for rowdy children, and she knew that look—Mr. Andrews was lying.
Which meant trouble was coming.
Chapter 11
Not only had she kissed Mr. Andrews, she’d given the handsome rascal her Christian name, and that had been within the duke’s hearing. As soon as Andrew MacDonal remembered her from a decade ago, and he would, of that she had no doubt, she’d be dismissed.
Oh, she expected to be dismissed once her cousin arrived and the duke discovered her own deception, but she was counting on the opportunity to make peace with Penelope and plans for the children before being sent packing.
Or…there might be a worse possibility. The scandal sheets had occasionally featured Andrew MacDonal’s affairs of the heart, especially with widows. He might come after her himself.
The mere memory of kissing Mr. Andrews made her heart almost burst, but the duke? The thought of intimacy with him made her skin crawl.
She pulled away and went to untie the donkey. “The kiss last night was pleasant, but it truly was nothing and won’t happen again. I shall tell the duke the same thing if he asks.”
“It was nothing?”
“No. If you please, stow the shears in the pannier. The new footmen can cut more boughs tomorrow.”
“We have new footmen?” He packed the shears away and brushed against her in passing, sparking a new flood of warmth.
“Y-yes. And they come highly recommended by Mr. Forbes.” When she jiggled the donkey’s lead, the creature sneered at her and stiffened.
“Blast you.” Could a beast be this obstinate? “Come along then.”
In a few steps, the lead strained. The animal pulled its lips back with a baleful braying that sounded pained.
“What is wrong? Is a branch poking you?” She moved to the animal’s side and fumbled with the pannier. “Is your load unbalanced?”
Andrews chuckle tickled her ear. “It’s pure stubbornness. A good smack on the—Oof.”
Her feet flew out from under her, and she landed flat on her back in a soft mound of snow with Mr. Andrews atop her.
Her heart all but stopped. His weight…his heat…the scent of his shaving soap…
The snow, her insides, everything began to thaw. She’d vanish into a puddle like the time she’d almost drowned in the burn. They’d not find her body until spring.
He raised up on one elbow and rubbed at his backside. “The bloody beast kicked me.”
“Are you injured?” She struggled, finding no purchase in the soft snow.
“Only my manly pride. It was a glancing blow. He was aiming at you.” The corner of his mouth lifted.
Braced above her, his eyes glazed and he dipped his head closer, close enough to share a breath.
Oh. Oh, she was mad. This was madness.
And she didn’t care. She lifted her head, anyway. His lips were chilled, his nose cold, the snow around them freezing, but everywhere else she was afire, and so was he. She matched him kiss for kiss, tongues twining, hands searching, losing herself in the heat and the need, in his hands moving over her breasts. Desire flamed even through the layers of clothing. She wanted more, she wanted everything, and—
Bracing cold touched the bare skin of her leg above her garter. Gasping, she came to her senses and called out his name.
His head came up. He looked around, blinking away his bedazzlement, hastily pulling her skirts down, and helping her to her feet.
“That was…that was…Are you well, Mrs. Marlowe?” He brushed snow from her back. “Oh, my dear. Let me put you up on my mount.”
The donkey hee-hawed.
“I should apologize. Not about that kiss.” He took in a sharp breath. “That kiss.” His eyes held a look of wonderment. “I mean I shouldn’t have tumbled you into the snow.”
Heart pounding, she grasped at the donkey’s lead. If it weren’t for the snow, if it had been a fine day…
She found a breath and shook her head. They couldn’t continue down that amorous path. “It was a mistake.”
“This was our second, er, encounter, and it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt damned good.”
“Language, sir. You know there must not be a third. I have my reputation to look after and so do you. You must go on ahead to the Castle. Don’t wait for me. Now, come along, donkey.” She tugged.
Hands on his hips, Andrews studied the beast then inched behind it. “Pull…now.” He tapped the broad rump, dodging the sharp kick that followed.
His boyish grin made her cheeks flame again, and she stepped out coaxing the animal. The donkey took a few plodding steps and then a few more. She slackened the lead and rubbed the dark shock of hair between the huge ears, laughing. That clump of hair reminded her ever so much of Mr. Andrews’ unkempt locks.
“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder. “And you,” she muttered to the donkey, “you need to move faster.” The heavy steps, the snorts, the rattling of the panniers all hid the movements of the man behind her, but she could feel his persistent presence.
He was a danger to a woman like her, as handsome as any of the knights who might once have defended Kinmarty. He could never be her knight, though, and she must remember that.
Moments later she reached the drive and the castle came into view. Pausing, she pressed a hand to her chest. The late afternoon gloaming shrouded the old stonework in mystery.
He stepped up next to her, leading his horse.
“You’re right, Mrs. Marlowe. Castle Kinmarty is magnificent. I am lucky to…to live here.” His hand settled on her back. “Let me put you up on my mount and I’ll lead both my horse and Lucius here.”
“Lucius?”
“Lucius of The Golden Ass. A Roman story of a man changed into a donkey. Do you know it? This is a male donkey, you know, and Lucius is as good a name as any for the creature.”
“You studied Latin.”
“Yes, of course. And Greek.”
Of course, because he was gentry, just like herself. But unlike her, he had a family, a brother he’d said. And someone had taught him kindness as well. He’d been genial with Kyla and Duff, and he’d found a way into the Cook’s heart.
“Yet you’ve taken this position. You were not from a family of wealth?”
He stopped and turned his full gaze on her. “How very astute of you. I was not. But for the charity of others, I would not have read the story of Lucius.”
“Were you at school with the duke then? Is that how you made his acquaintance?”
“About that…” He lifted his hat and plopped it back down again. “About that, Mrs. Marlowe—”
“What, ho!”
Good God. It was the second time that day he’d been hailed thusly.
He turned to see a pony cart coming up the drive.
He’d been so absorbed in the woman beside him and the confession he needed to make, and that kiss… That kiss that had been such a mauling his privy counsellor was still all aflame—well, he hadn’t heard the creak of the wheels.
Forbes sat in the cart’s box, pulling his pony up.
Andrew’s stomach roiled. He’d waited too long to tell Marlowe the truth.
Forbes lifted an eyebrow.
Oh, devil take it. Marlowe had just been about to pry into his past, anyway. Best get it done with. Forbes would reveal his guilt and he must just stiffen his backside and take the thrashing he deserved. Sooner or later, Marlowe had to learn that he was a fraud.
“Forbes.” Andrew grinned, relieved the old man would do the difficult task of unmasking him, and relieved he would be nearby should the lady decide to wallop him—or worse, try to leave Kinmarty. “I didn’t expect to see you until the morrow.”
“The whisky delivery co
uld have waited,” Marlowe said. “It will be full dark soon. I’d not have you picking your way all alone down this lane.”
“Well, then, ye’ve no need to worry. I’ll be staying the night at Castle Kinmarty.”
“Staying the night?” The smile that bloomed on Marlowe’s face made him glance at the old man. Forbes beamed back at the both of them.
He was flaunting Marlowe’s admiration, but at least he hadn’t hurled a your-grace. Forbes hadn’t given him away, not yet, anyway.
“Coming to work, I am.” Forbes nodded at Andrew.
Andrew roused himself from the complicated swirl of emotions. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you, Mrs. Marlowe. While you were busy hiring footmen, I hired a butler.”
“And uncovered the Kinmarty plate, which I’ve brought along in the cart, seeing as how ye’ll be hosting a grand dinner tomorrow night.”
She blinked. “The plate. You had the plate, Mr. Forbes?”
“It’s a bit of a tale,” he said. “I’ll let the, er, factor do the telling.”
He let out a long breath. Forbes would spare him her fury until later. But he mustn’t wait too much later. He must talk to her that very night.
Mrs. Marlowe gasped. Loudly. “A grand dinner?”
She’d just absorbed that bit of news.
“Tomorrow night? How many guests? How many courses?” She tightened her grip on Lucius’ lead, evoking an equine snort. “No one has told me of this.”
“I just learned of it myself. I believe it’s only a neighbor, Mr. Strachney, and his daughter coming. I encountered them on the road. The invitation had been extended today while we were absent.”
“I hope the duke isn’t given to such slapdash, spur of the moment…” She bit her lip.
If she were the Duchess of Kinmarty herself and the King had been spotted in the village about to pop by, she couldn’t have looked more alarmed.
“Oh, aye,” Forbes chuckled. “The new duke will be full of surprises.”
She gathered her skirts. “He’ll want a good table for his first dinner party. And the house not yet decorated for Christmas. I’ll be up half the night. Do you know these guests, Mr. Forbes?”
