A Marquess for Marigold: The Blooming Brides Book 2

by St. Clair, Ellie

  He shooed Clover off his lap, and the dog did not look particularly pleased with the treatment.

  “I’m so sorry,” Marigold said, scooping him up in her arms. “He must have jumped on you while you were sleeping. I had thought he was with me, but then I looked up and he was completely gone. It’s as though he is drawn to you.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  “I believe dogs sense when someone has an affinity for them.”

  “Well, your dog is wrong, then, for I do not. Not anymore, that is.”

  Marigold was silent, for it seemed like everything she could say to him about his past — and, potentially, his future — was wrong, and she had no desire to cause greater animosity to arise once more.

  “Would you like to walk down to the ocean?” she asked, and he looked at her as though she had asked him to throw himself into the water.

  “Just a walk,” she said simply, and for a moment, she thought he was going to say no, but finally he slowly rose from the chair and began to follow her, Clover yapping excitedly at his heels.

  They said nothing until they reached the point where the land met the water, and Marigold stepped onto the damp sand where it had been packed down by waves.

  “The tide is receding,” she said, “so you do not need to worry about your boots becoming wet.”

  “That is the least of my worries,” he said, and Marigold looked out into the teeming water, its restless movement reminding her of him.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” she asked, glancing over toward him, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes squinted nearly shut as he stared out at the water with her.

  “It never changes, yet it never stays the same,” she remarked. “It’s full of life, and yet is life itself. The way it moves, so unpredictably, so strong, so powerful on a windy day like today. And then at other times, when the wind is calm, it just sits there, peacefully, almost inviting you to jump in and join it.”

  With the salt spray on her face and the sun beaming down on her, Marigold was thankful for this moment, in which she could appreciate what God had lain down in front of her. She had been jesting about entering the water, but there were times, like today, she longed to jump in and have a swim as though she were a child once more.

  She looked over at Lord Dorchester now, finding that he was staring at her with a strange look on his face, and she became slightly embarrassed by her words.

  “I am being fanciful,” she said. “For that, I apologize.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” he said, breaking their gaze and looking around his feet. Finding a stick, he picked it up and threw it into the water.

  “Get it, Clover!”

  “I’m not sure—”

  But Clover certainly was. He leaped between them, rushing out into the waves and swimming excitedly toward the stick, which he captured and returned to Lord Dorchester, who leaned down and patted him on the head. “Good boy!”

  “I didn’t know he could swim!” Marigold exclaimed, and Lord Dorchester shrugged.

  “Most dogs can. They just don’t know it until they try.”

  He threw the stick again and again, Clover unrelenting in the chase until he finally lay down on the beach, exhausted.

  “Had enough, boy?” Lord Dorchester asked and then straightened, surprise registering on his face when he saw Marigold, as though he had forgotten she was even present.

  “That’s probably enough for today,” he said, though to what exactly he was referring, Marigold wasn’t entirely certain.

  She simply nodded and followed him back up the beach to where his chair sat, right where the sand met the grass that would lead them back up to the inn. A pained chirp and movement at her feet brought her to a sudden halt, and she bent down to see what was below.

  A bird sat within the long grass, feebly attempting to hop with its wing askew, and Marigold’s heart nearly broke at how upset it looked.

  “Oh, come here, little thing,” she said, scooping it up into her hands as she looked it over. Something had happened to its wing, and the bird was no longer able to fly — which would lead to sure death in due time, she knew.

  “What are you holding?” Lord Dorchester’s voice cut through her assessment, and Marigold looked up, having forgotten for a moment that she was not alone.

  “A bird — it’s injured,” she said softly, and he stepped closer toward her to see just what she was looking at.

  “You’re holding it,” he said, his words a statement instead of a question, and she nodded.

  “I’m going to take it home, see what I can do to help it get well again.”

  “How do you suppose you are going to help a bird?” he asked, and she smiled now as she looked over at him.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. You sound as skeptical as my father. I know it seems silly. You think that I should just let this bird go and allow nature to take over, but I cannot simply leave the bird here to die. That would feel far too cruel. I’ll see if I can fix his wing and then I’ll release him.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “Then I will probably keep him — or her.”

  “Keep the bird?” he asked, incredulously. “How would you suppose to do that?”

  “I’ll build something for him — I’m just going to call him a ‘him’ for now — in my room. I’ll feed him, and clean up after him. It will not be difficult.”

  Lord Dorchester just raised his eyebrows. “I have the feeling this is not the first such animal you have taken in.”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it is not,” she said, chuckling a little sheepishly. “But I cannot seem to help myself. Anyway, good day, Lord Dorchester. If you do require anything for your pain — and before you can protest, I can see you scratching your face and grimacing — then please let me know. I am not a healer, but I may have some potions or plant oils that could help you.”

  She smiled, turned, and then continued back to the house, hoping Lord Dorchester would take her up on her offer. For she couldn’t bear to see a creature in pain — even if that creature was a surly, proud nobleman.

  8

  Jacob didn’t know what to make of Marigold Tavners. Never before had he seen a woman care so tenderly for an injured bird, nor could he understand how a woman could be so gentle and mild mannered, yet in the same token, so stubbornly determined. Somehow, despite his best intentions, she had managed to convince him to attend a street festival, eat roasted almonds, stand in the ocean spray, and hold her damn dog.

  Well, he supposed the dog was not entirely of her doing, but somehow the little thing seemed an extension of her.

  What truly bothered him, more than he wanted to admit, was the fact that he was beginning to feel… stirrings. When he watched her with her eyes closed and her face turned up to the ocean spray, when she was holding that tiny bird so tenderly within her hands, he was overcome by how moved he was just watching her. Which was ridiculous. Why should she matter at all to him?

  He couldn’t, however, seem to prevent himself from being aware of her presence, wherever they were. He had taken to eating in the boarders’ dining room, as he then didn’t have to worry about visitors to his room — he could leave when he chose. And Westwood wasn’t a bad sort. He talked too much, but then, at times that could be a good thing. It prevented Jacob from having to say anything as he could let the man go on rambling as he ate his dinner.

  The Tavners sisters always served them, and the moment Marigold stepped into the room, it was as if the hairs on Jacob’s arms were standing on end from her proximity. The night following their beach excursion, he had wanted to ask her how the bird was doing, but that would be ridiculous. It shouldn’t matter to him what happened to the bird. It was a bird, for goodness sake.

  But whenever Marigold saw him, she would wear that small smile, though it was the same one he knew she gave anyone she came across. Which was how it should be.

  A few nights later, the sisters seemed quite flustered as they served the me
al, which they did quickly, as though they were excited for whatever was to follow.

  “Is something happening?” Westwood asked, apparently also sensing that something was amiss.

  “Our sister is home!” Iris, the middle one, exclaimed. “She married a short time ago and promised to stop in on their way to their country home. We are quite excited to see her, as you can understand.”

  “Of course,” Westwood said, beaming at the girl, an expression she returned. “That must be lovely for you. I do hope you have a nice visit.”

  “We will, thank you, my lord,” she said with a brief curtsy as she then hurried through the swinging doors back to the kitchen, leaving the two gentlemen alone.

  “This visiting sister would be the one married to a duke,” Westwood said.

  “Interesting, the thought of a duke marrying the daughter of an innkeeper.”

  “She must be something else.”

  Jacob had a hard time understanding how anyone — anyone in search of a wife, that was — could overlook Marigold for another.

  The thought had jumped into his head and momentarily stunned him. When had he become so appreciative of the woman? It was somewhat disconcerting.

  As though she could hear his thoughts, Marigold appeared in the doorway again as she refilled their drinks. At first, Jacob held out his glass for more wine, but then thought better of it — he had been drinking far too much since he had arrived, and he would probably be better off to leave it alone.

  She nodded as though she approved, which somewhat irked him — what did it matter what she thought of his drinking habits? The thought nearly made him ask for more — nearly.

  Finished, they rose from the table and headed into the sitting room. Before taking a seat, Jacob decided he would head to his bedchamber, but then the connecting door opened, and he was surprised to see Elias Tavners, owner of the inn, along with another man he did not recognize.

  “Gentlemen,” Tavners greeted them, holding up his drink in welcome. “This isn’t normally done, but seeing as you’re all soldiers and gentlemen, I thought perhaps we could have a drink together. This is my son-in-law — husband of my eldest, Daisy — the Duke of Greenwich.”

  They both greeted him, though the additional company only strengthened Jacob’s resolve to want to leave. In the end, however, his curiosity got the better of him. Who was this man and how had he left the inn with a wife?

  Jacob also wondered as to why they had joined them, but if he had to guess, it was likely due to the fact that Tavners probably had very little in common with his son-in-law.

  “The women are all fussing over dinner, and we decided to get away from it all,” Tavners said with a bit of a self-conscious chuckle, clearly very aware that he was the only untitled man amongst the four of them. “Now, who would like to share war stories? It’s been so long since I’ve been in the trenches myself that I do enjoy some reminiscing.”

  And reminiscing he did. Tavners told more than a story or two about his days fighting the French over twenty years prior. Jacob would have preferred to say nothing, himself. He wasn’t, as Tavners seemed to be, a man who thrived on battle. He had only joined as a way to survive — or to allow death to take him, as the case may be. He had left it up to fate, and fate, as fickle as it was, had allowed him to live.

  “And you, Dorchester?” Tavners addressed him. “Any war stories that stick in your mind? I am assuming you have no wish to share the one that got you that face, as well as a stay here with us.”

  Jacob fixed his stare on the man, who clearly lacked social graces. He ignored the comment, well used to attention on his face.

  “I do not believe that war is something to be celebrated,” he said without any emotion. “I was fortunate to receive a high position as an officer within the army, simply because I am, in fact, a marquess. That rank afforded me much power, but also much responsibility. Some of it I was prepared for; some of it I was not. But I learned fast, for I had no other choice.”

  “How many did you take down?” Tavners asked.

  “I do not know. I had no wish to kill if it could be avoided.”

  “Is that not what war is meant for?” Tavners asked, seemingly confused, and Jacob shook his head.

  “War is a power struggle,” he said, his mind leaving this sitting room and already going back across the sea to the battlefields. “It is a struggle on the highest scale, of course, between two opposing foes or powers. But then there are the smaller battles, the ones fought hand-to-hand. Those are difficult to watch, for these people are giving up everything for their country and their leaders. I question whether those very leaders would ever be on the ground giving their lives in return.”

  The room went silent after his speech, which he supposed could be called an outburst or a rant, he wasn’t entirely sure. He hadn’t meant to say it. But all this talk of war had caused him to go back and think on his memories, those that he couldn’t shake.

  He looked around now and when he saw the three men staring at him, his cheeks became awfully warm. “But I do recall this one time when we ambushed an entire quadrant of Napoleon’s men…” he began, and this story seemed to be much more appealing to his audience. It was half-truth, half-exaggeration, but it had captured their full attention, as was his intent.

  A bell chimed in the distance after a while, and Tavners nearly jumped from his chair.

  “That would be dinnertime for us, lads,” he said. “Hopefully it will be as good as what you were served — it should be, now that Daisy is home!” he said with a chuckle, causing Jacob some consternation. Why would Daisy’s meal be any better than her sisters’? “If you wait around until after dinner, perhaps we can start up a game of cards — have your coins ready!”

  With that, he walked out the door, but the Duke stopped for a moment before following. He looked slightly uncomfortable as his gaze stopped on first Jacob and then Westwood.

  “If Tavners attempts to gamble with you, probably best to decline,” he said with a bit of a wave of one hand. “I shouldn’t say anything, but the man likes to play games of chance and, well… the family doesn’t need him to do so anymore, if you understand my meaning.”

  Well, that would explain the lack of servants and the somewhat dingy — though clean — interior of the inn.

  “Very well, Greenwich,” Jacob said. “We shall restrain ourselves.”

  “Thank you,” he said with obvious relief. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  “Goodnight.”

  * * *

  Marigold could not describe just how wonderful it was to have Daisy home with them once more.

  “Oh, Daisy, how I missed you!” she said as she sat next to her at dinner that evening. “It was so strange, to have you somewhere else.”

  “I completely understand,” Daisy said, turning to Marigold and squeezing her hand. “It took me a great deal of time to become used to sleeping in the same room with someone who was not you!”

  “I can imagine!” Marigold exclaimed, before grinning mischievously. “Though I do not suppose it was much of a hardship.”

  Daisy’s cheeks turned bright crimson and she quickly took a bite of her roll before shaking her head. Marigold laughed at her sister’s discomfort.

  Once she had swallowed her food, Daisy looked around the table at her family. “So, tell me of the new boarders,” she said, and Marigold said nothing, allowing Iris to do the talking. Iris told Daisy and her husband that one of the boarders — Lord Dorchester — did nothing but grunt, and while she supposed that could somewhat be the truth, Marigold also didn’t think it was entirely fair to say such a thing, for her sisters had no idea what the man had been through.

  Not that she knew much of it herself, only that he had lost his wife, which had clearly left him in great distress, so much so that he could barely speak of her, nor her dogs. It was likely what had driven him to war as well, Marigold mused, only coming to attention when she felt Daisy’s hand on her arm.

  “Is everything
all right?”

  “Oh, of course,” Marigold assured her. “Though I would like to speak to you later on if we can? Alone?”

  “Very well,” Daisy said with a nod, but just then Clover burst into the dining room — a room where he was not supposed to be — and Daisy and Nathaniel, her husband, were immediately enthralled by the little puppy. In fact, it wasn’t long before Daisy had him up on her lap.

  “Of course you would find a dog to take in, Marigold,” she said with a laugh, and Marigold shrugged.

  “He actually found me.”

  “Speaking of,” her father cut in from across the table, “have you found a home for him, Marigold? I do not think he can stay here indefinitely.”

  “Oh, Father!” Marigold exclaimed. “Let us not talk of it now. Why, he is just settling in here, I would hate to think of him having to leave—”

  “This was temporary, Marigold,” her father reminded her, and Daisy gave her a little squeeze of support on her arm as Nathaniel read the situation and began to talk to her father of something else, causing Marigold to feel extreme gratefulness to her sister for marrying a man who could so distract their father.

  “Later,” Daisy whispered, and Marigold nodded, despite the lump that had arisen in her throat.

  9

  After dinner, Daisy was true to her word, and the two of them, along with Clover, were soon sitting in the grass with the sea in the distance, its lapping waves their background noise. Marigold told Daisy all that had occurred with both Lord Dorchester and the dog as well. Daisy was silent as she listened to all Marigold had to say, for which she was grateful. Her sister always knew what to do, and would provide wise counsel to her.

  “Why do you feel so compelled to save this man who has no wish to be helped?” Daisy finally asked. “If he wants to be alone and to wallow in self-pity, then so be it.”

  “I cannot believe anyone truly wants that,” Marigold said, turning to her sister with wide eyes. “He just isn’t aware of how much better it can be.”