Never Dance with a Marquess (The Never Series Book 2)

by Maggi Andersen

  As she stepped onto the gravel, Nicholas came around a turn in the road, leading a big chestnut by the reins. He wore his riding clothes well and walked with an athlete’s grace.

  “Taking the air, Carrie?” he called as he approached.

  “Yes, it’s such a lovely day. I am on my way to see the lime walk I spied from a window. Was your ride agreeable?”

  He stroked the horse’s powerful neck while being nuzzled. “Until Whiskey here picked up a stone. When your brother arrives, I’ll take you, Bella, and Jeremy riding.”

  “I would love to see more of the estate, thank you.”

  “Then you shall. Care to walk to the stables with me?”

  She fell into step with him. “Bella thinks Jeremy will be in seventh heaven when he sees your stable of thoroughbreds.”

  “And what about you? Do you enjoy riding?”

  “Yes, although my enthusiasm is not quite equal to Jeremy’s.”

  Nicholas laughed. “I was as keen as mustard as a boy.”

  Carrie liked his deep laugh. It made him seem more approachable. As they entered the stable yard where his groom waited, she peeked at his profile, his straight nose, well-shaped mouth, and strong chin. Was he hard-hearted? He’d have to be to dismiss his housekeeper without a reference. And yet, while he discussed the condition of his horse with his head groom, she found it hard to believe such a thing about him.

  He returned to her after several minutes. “Shall I show you the lime walk you saw from your window?”

  “Yes, please.” She took his proffered arm and walked with him over the cobbles. “Tell me, when did you first meet my father?”

  “His carriage was in a ditch when I happened by. I took him to the wheelwright in the next town. Imagine our surprise when we discovered he was to be my history professor at Oxford. Your father was a generous fellow, Carrie. And a good listener. He became a staunch friend to me when I desperately needed one. And as time passed, we discovered we had much in common.”

  “What did you have in common?” She wanted to know what had made him need her father’s advice so desperately, but it would have been rude to ask about it.

  “Oh, many things, but ancient history most particularly.”

  “You read my father’s books?”

  “I did. Every one. Those on Plato and the Ancient Greeks were remarkable.”

  “He and Mama went to Greece for their honeymoon.”

  “He told me about that.”

  “Did he tell you how my mother hated the heat and the food and became sick on the boat?” She grinned. “He was intent on viewing Parnassus, the home of the gods, and the Oracle of Delphi. Mama complained he preferred the ruins to her.”

  He chuckled. “Not the best choice for a honeymoon, perhaps.”

  “Oh no! Mama enjoyed almost all of it. Riding on a donkey, eating grapes and olives. She insisted her honeymoon was perfect because she was with the man she loved.”

  Nicholas’s smiling gray eyes met hers. “A delightful story, thank you for sharing it.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Papa has many books on Athens and the Greeks in his library. That awakened Jeremy’s interest in archeology.”

  He turned to gaze at her. “But it failed to capture your interest?”

  “The way Papa spoke of Greece made it sound fascinating.”

  Nicholas plucked a leaf from Carrie’s hair. “You should wear your hat. You don’t wish to spoil so perfect a complexion.”

  Foolishly pleased by his compliment, although so casually delivered, she settled her bonnet back on her head. At least he didn’t laugh at her dreams of traveling to exotic climes.

  Her arm in his, he drew her along a path leading into the trees. How tall he was; she had to adjust to his long stride. Being so close made her slightly breathless. “Here we are. The lime walk.”

  Bordered by flowering hedges, a stone path led through two rows of beautifully shaped lime trees. At their feet, a mat of white flowers spilled over the ground, filling the air with a sweet scent.

  “Oh. How perfect it is.” She forgot her uneasiness and turned to smile at him, then blushed when she found him watching her.

  She swallowed, and her heart raced. “The gardens are wonderful.”

  “I am fortunate to have an excellent team of gardeners. Shall we go on?” He took her arm, and they continued toward the house.

  At Leeming, the gardeners were always about and greeted her when she came across them. “I haven’t seen one of your gardeners during our walk.”

  “They are discreet.”

  “A pity,” she said before she could stop herself.

  He stopped to look at her. “Is it? Why?”

  “I should like to compliment them.”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He led her off the path, and they crossed the lawns. The thump of a spade in the earth reached her as they rounded a hedge.

  A man bent over his spade as he turned the earth in a flower bed. He straightened hurriedly and whipped off his hat. “Milord?”

  “Good day, Jenkins. Miss Leeming wishes to compliment you and the undergardener on the beauty of the spring gardens.”

  Carrie beamed at him. “They are magnificent, Mr. Jenkins. Your color selection is perfectly delightful.”

  Jenkins flushed and bent over in a rusty bow. “Thank yea, milady.”

  They walked on.

  “Jenkins appears contented in his work,” Carrie said as they neared the house.

  “And so he is,” Nicholas said. “He has a good life here, as do all my staff.”

  She thought of his housekeeper, cast out into the cold. “But is that enough?” she entreated.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “What more should I do? Grab a spade and assist him?”

  She looked skeptical and removed her hand from his arm. “To have his work appreciated, of course, and not have to hide behind hedges.”

  “Was he hiding?”

  She frowned at him.

  Nicholas’s eyes twinkled. “I see I have been remiss. Thank you for calling it to mind.”

  Carrie playfully narrowed her eyes at him. “You did not seem entirely sure of his name. And I see no need for levity.”

  Stepping up onto the porch, he sighed and took hold of her elbow to lead her into the house. “Oh, but there is, Carrie, life calls for it. Otherwise, we sink into gloom.”

  She had nothing to say to that. They crossed the hall, their footsteps echoing on the marble flooring. After he parted from her, Carrie climbed the stairs, recalling how his laugh spread a ray of small lines from the corners of his eyes outward, which made him so very attractive.

  Had she been so engulfed in sadness and weighed down by responsibility, she’d forgotten how to laugh? She would hate him to find her dull. What happened to the adventurous girl she had been, who believed passionately in life and romance? She suddenly wanted to laugh with him and see approval of her reflected in his eyes.

  Chapter Six

  The following morning, Gwen preparing to leave, stood with Nicholas and the girls on the driveway. She kissed Nicholas. “Carrie will be well received in London. I am hopeful of getting vouchers for Almacks after her presentation in June.”

  “How wonderful!” Carrie smiled. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Gwen. I am so looking forward to joining you in London.”

  “I did very little, my dear. And London, well, I will enjoy every minute! As we’ve discussed, you must add to your wardrobe. I shall send your measurements and details to my dressmaker. I have explicit trust in her taste and judgment.” She kissed them both. “Goodbye, my dears.”

  She turned to him. “Farewell Nicholas. Winston will appreciate the Cognac.”

  “Given with my hearty best wishes,” Nicholas said, “for your husband is a sterling fellow.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I am very grateful to you both, Gwen.”

  As the coach trundled away, he tried not to feel discouraged; he really had little reason to be. Bella returned to the school
room for a French lesson without complaint, while Carrie mentioned a visit to the music room to play the piano. “I shall see you both at dinner,” he said and returned to his library.

  His secretary awaited him with a pile of correspondence. Nicholas was soon engrossed in business matters. Once the letters were ready for the post, he dismissed Williams and settled down to write a chapter about the Battle of Ligny. Two hours later, he’d written a brief paragraph and changed several sentences. Unsettled, he acknowledged he wasn’t in the mood to write, rose from his chair, content to leave it. He admitted how unlike him that was as he left the library.

  Strains of the lovely Moonlight Sonata wafted down the corridors from the music room. Nicholas was drawn to it, for it was played with so much tender emotion. Carrie. He opened the door. She paused, her hands over the keys.

  He stepped into the room. “Please don’t stop. I was enjoying it. You play the sonata beautifully.”

  “Thank you.” Carrie wrapped a lock of her hair through her fingers. Nicholas watched in fascination as the curl settled back against her cheek. He recognized this as a sign she was nervous. She placed her fingers on the keys and began again but had somehow lost the magic. Nicholas regretted interrupting her. He folded his arms and leaned against the back of the sofa until the last note. What thoughts produced that depth of emotion he’d heard in her playing before he entered? Was his presence like a dash of cold water?

  Disliking the thought, he sat on the sofa. “Come and sit with me. We’ve had little time to talk.”

  She seated herself on the sofa at a demure distance from him.

  “You appeared lost in the music,” he ventured. “You must be a devotee of Beethoven.”

  “I am.”

  “Does the piece make you think of something in the past, or someone, perhaps?”

  She flushed. “Yes.”

  “Some…person left behind in Yorkshire that you miss?”

  “A few friends and the staff at Leeming.”

  A surge of relief flooded through him, which he knew to be entirely selfish. He didn’t want to have to deal with Carrie’s unfulfilled love for some unsuitable fellow. If Max had approved of him, he would have mentioned it in his last letter. Carrie had no opportunity to meet anyone while in mourning.

  “It is a piece I loved to play at Leeming for Papa,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Of course.” What a thick-headed fool he was. He wanted to put his arm around her but feared it might be misconstrued. “You are eager to go to London?”

  “Oh yes.” She smiled, but her response lacked enthusiasm. “I’ve never visited the metropolis.”

  That wasn’t what he meant, but he let it be. “You enjoy poetry, Bella tells me. Byron is a favorite?”

  Her bosom rose with a sigh. “Yes, his poetry and passion for life.”

  “A life well-lived,” Nicholas murmured, tensing his jaw. Byron’s life was a little too well lived, in his opinion. A man should take care of his estate rather than kicking up his heels abroad and causing scandals wherever he went.

  “Do you have a favorite poet?” Carrie asked.

  Her question required a response, and he knew his answer would be a disappointment. “I am not a great devotee of poetry.”

  “My father wasn’t fond of what he called the new crop of Romantic poets,” she said. “He preferred Pope and Andrew Marvell.”

  “Fine poets,” Nicholas agreed. He thought of Marvell’s poem To His Coy Mistress, a saucy poem enticing his mistress to bed. “Donne, too.”

  “I dislike Donne, he is sometimes quite…bawdy.” Her serious gaze sought his as if in defiance. “I prefer Keats.”

  “I enjoy Donne’s wit. Melancholy fellow, Keats.”

  “But he writes so splendidly of love, beauty, and nature. Surely you must agree.”

  “I agree with your father. The Romantics are too self-centered. I can’t say I’m in favor of their work.”

  She looked at him aghast. “Indeed, you are wrong. Keats writes of removal of self.”

  “Does he? I haven’t seen it.”

  “You must read more of his poems…you are missing a great deal.”

  Nicholas smiled. “Then I invite you to educate me and change my mind.”

  She nodded, a gleam in her eyes. “I shall try.”

  While he doubted any discussion would alter his opinion, for he admired those employed in useful industry and poetry which reflected it, rather than these pasty-faced scribes. But he liked to see her eager and fired up with purpose, and he didn’t wish to put a dampener on that. “You might find some music to play for us this evening.”

  “I shall be pleased to.”

  Nicholas rose and made his way to the door. “Your brother arrives tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait to see him.” Her brow lifted. “He has worried me this past year.”

  Nicholas returned to stand before her. “What concerns you? Perhaps I can help?”

  “Thank you, but it’s just that he has taken Papa’s death badly. It has unsettled him.”

  “That is understandable. But grief eases with time.”

  “Does it?”

  She sounded doubtful, and he wasn’t sure he believed it either. He hated to see her so troubled. It was true the loss of loved ones never left one completely. The empty chairs at the table at Christmas and family celebrations. Never being able to look upon them and talk about simple, everyday matters. His family had grown so small. He hadn’t been aware of how much that bothered him. “We always miss those we care deeply about, but it becomes easier to bear. Jeremy will soon enjoy life again.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

  He turned back to the door. “Give some thought to the Keats’s poem. I look forward to our discussion.”

  “Oh yes. So do I. His poetry is most stirring.”

  Nicholas left the room. He felt a twinge of envy that this poet’s words could produce such devotion. As he made his way downstairs, he paused on a step at the word ‘stirring.’ At twenty, Carrie was on the brink of discovering life and love. He envied the delightful task that would befall her husband to stir such adoration. If she were his, he would not win her heart by spouting poetry like some gabster. Alarmed at the direction his thoughts took, he continued down the stairs. His sister would nod wisely if she knew. He couldn’t abide Gwen when she was smug. The one time she’d beaten him at chess, she never let him forget it.

  He approved of Wordsworth’s Lucy poems about a girl’s death but had no wish to take them apart to discuss them.

  “No motion has she now, no force…” he quoted as he crossed the hall.

  “Were you speaking to me, milord?” his butler asked.

  “No, just quoting a few lines of poetry, Abercrombie.”

  “Milord?”

  “No need to concern yourself, old fellow.” Nicholas patted his shoulder as he passed. “I haven’t lost my mind.”

  And he must be on guard that he didn’t.

  ***

  After dinner, Carrie searched for a book of Keats’s poetry in the library. She lay in bed flicking through it while considering where to begin. What poem might capture his interest? Although Nicholas didn’t appear to enjoy poetry, he was scholarly. Unlike any of the gentlemen she’d met at assemblies. But occasionally, she caught a twinkle in his eyes, which made her suspect she amused him. Did he think her young? She hated the idea and wondered how she might change his opinion. Keats’s newly published work Endymion might be a good poem to begin with. A thing of beauty is a joy forever clearly stated Keats’s intention and underlined her point.

  She closed the compendium and blew out her candle, then lay back on the pillows. When Bella told her earlier how happy she was to live here, it warmed Carrie’s heart. Tomorrow, they would count the hours until Jeremy arrived. Would he be content to spend the school holidays here? It would make her debut in Society so much easier if she did not have to worry about them both. She would be free to choose the right man for them al
l. Growing sleepy, she dwelt on what a husband might be like. Honorable and thoughtful, gentle and true. She envisioned him here, lying beside her. When Nicholas’s face appeared in her mind with that charming quirk of his lips, it roused her with a jolt.

  She knew a thing or two about the act. What husbands and wives did together to make babies. Thanks to her married friend, Mary Woolridge. Mary had explained it all in lurid detail until Carrie begged her to stop.

  She closed her eyes, but an image remained: Nicholas, the easy, confident way he walked, how his gray eyes drifted over her face as if she pleased him.

  But how bleak he looked sometimes. Naturally, he mourned the loss of his father and brother but was there was something more. When his eyes took on that haunted look, she wanted to hug him. Her father had referred to a tragedy in Nicholas’s past without giving her any details. Papa would never betray a confidence. She’d been curious, but now she wanted to know. Who would tell her? Not Nicholas, but perhaps Gwen might when she got to know her better.

  In London, she would meet many gentlemen as cultivated as Nicholas, she supposed. She frowned. But would any be as attractive? Would their eyes brim with warmth the way Nicholas’s did? She frowned again. Nicholas found her attractive and was drawn to her, but what of that? It seemed clear he didn’t intend to marry, and she must look to her future.

  Perhaps tomorrow, he would do or say something else she disapproved of. It was a sure way of keeping him at a distance, where he must remain in her thoughts. It was a satisfactory plan. She yawned and sleepily pulled the covers over her shoulders, closing her eyes.

  Carrie awoke to birds singing outside the window. Bright daylight sneaked through a gap in the curtains. A knock on the door brought Anna with her chocolate. Carrie stretched and yawned. It was Sunday. They would go to church, and this afternoon, Jeremy would be here.