“May I call on your family in a day or two?” Mrs. Birtwistle asked, still smiling.
“Yes, please do, Mrs. Birtwistle, we shall look forward to it.”
With that, Marina turned to walk the last mile or so home, grateful for the solitude to mull her thoughts.
It had been so long since she had taken a walk of any kind that she realized with a real sense of wonder that while they had been practically living in Papa’s library for nearly the last month, spring had arrived.
It was that magical time of year, when the air could still hold a heavy chill, yet the light was stronger, and hints of green were beginning to show up on shrubs and tree branches.
Despite her mortifying experience at church, her heart was strangely lighter at just the idea of spring. It brought a warm feeling of renewal and hope. She walked on, enjoying the exercise and taking notice of even the smallest sign of new growth and life in the countryside.
It occurred to her that much more had changed than just the season.
Papa’s horrible accident had plunged her into the deepest despair, and then when he regained consciousness, she was launched into soaring gratitude. Because of this experience, a new and different perspective of her life had emerged.
Pausing, she knelt to examine a clump of wild lavender on the bank of the lane. Flower spikes were already growing out of the grayish green stems, and would no doubt bloom in a week or so.
Before Papa’s accident, she had often wondered why the path her parents—indeed, everyone she ever knew—expected her to take did not satisfy her.
She had put down her restlessness to a character flaw she needed to correct, wayward emotions she needed to control.
Now, she saw things differently. The precious gift of life could be snatched in an instant. On those nights she had sat next to her very ill papa, she sometimes wondered if she had been the one lying at the brink of death, would she have been happy with the life she had led?
The answer had come swiftly and clearly: No, she unequivocally would not. For most of her nearly twenty years, she had settled for a predictable, conventional life.
Lord Cortland’s word came to mind instantly—Miss Buckleigh, I believe you are far from unconventional, if that reassures you any.
Well, that was no longer who she wanted to be! Leave it to other girls to be grateful for the likes of conventional Henry Willingham or George Halbury. Leave it to other girls to be flattered by the duplicitous Mr. Sefton.
No longer did she want to marry someone just because it was expected, or because her parents approved, or even because he was handsome.
She wanted something more.
She may have been infatuated with Sefton—she could easily admit this now. However, the feeling had begun to fade quickly, even before she learned of his shabby treatment of Eugenia Brandon.
It no longer satisfied to dream stet of clandestine waltzes in starlight. She wanted more. And when Cortland had looked so deeply into her eyes and kissed her, she had felt more. So much more.
She wanted a different kind of life. She wanted to be truly in love and share her life with someone who did not see her as merely pretty, or suitable, or the means to a large dowry.
She wanted someone who saw her as she really was, someone like—Lord Cortland.
Lord Cortland!
Stopping cold, she clamped a hand over her mouth as if she had said the startling words aloud.
She tried to thrust the shocking thought away. Lord Cortland was the last man she should consider! But in this new spirit of being honest with herself, she took a tentative look at this soul-shaking thought.
From the first moment she met him, when she had called him an ill-mannered lout, she had been aware of a vibrant feeling of anticipation and excitement whenever he was near.
He had stood back, watching them all so aloofly, yet he had been the one to step forward without hesitation when Papa had been so badly hurt. He had held her securely in his strong arms, and given her courage when she thought the worst had happened.
Lord Cortland had never flattered her, or pretended to be something he was not.
Her hand moved to her heart, which now beat as if she had been running.
The truth of it was so clear, so obvious, that she did not even question it.
She loved Fitzhugh Hawksmoor, Marquis of Cortland.
The fierce joy of knowing filled her heart. When she was with him, she never felt the need to check her words or curb her actions. When she was with him, she was her true self.
Cortland was someone who so obviously lived, truly lived, without settling or compromising or apologizing. More than anything, she wanted that for herself.
The aching pain of realization swiftly followed this wondrous thought.
Men like the Marquis of Cortland did not marry young ladies like Marina Buckleigh of Parsley Hay.
“Miss Buckleigh.”
With a start and a gasp, she turned around to see Sefton riding up the lane on a chestnut horse. His beaver top hat and nutmeg-colored coat highlighted his beautiful aquamarine eyes.
But this time, his classically handsome features left her unmoved.
“Mr. Sefton.” She could think of nothing more polite to say to him.
Gracefully, he dismounted and approached her swiftly, taking her hand before she could snatch it back.
“I cannot express how I have longed to see you.”
With her thoughts and emotions still reeling from realizing that she loved Cortland, she hardly knew how to respond. The only thing she wanted was for him to take himself off and leave her with her thoughts.
“As you can imagine, we have been busy at Buck Hill of late.” She didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from her tone.
However, he seemed undaunted and continued to look deeply into her eyes with an expression she could only describe as yearning.
“Of course.” He finally released her hand. “I do hope your butler has informed you of my visits. Although, while your good father was so ill, I never expected to be admitted—I just wished you to know of my regard, my very deep regard, for you.”
Tilting her head to the side, she considered him for a moment. He really was rather impressive. His ability to feign sincerity had her almost believing this show. It was easy to see how he’d been able to dupe Miss Brandon.
“Thank you, Mr. Sefton. I must return home. Good day.”
Surprise replaced his earnest expression, but apparently, he did not intend to give up so easily.
“I understand. Please allow me to escort you. I have been most gratified to hear from Lady Darley that Lord Buckleigh improves daily.”
“Yes, he does, thank you. It is not necessary to see me home, sir.”
Ignoring her cold tone, he began walking beside her, holding his horse’s reins.
It reminded her of when Lord Cortland had walked beside her before their kiss. Strange how the company of one man could be so deeply exciting, and welcome, while the mere presence of another man could be nearly repulsive.
They walked in silence for several minutes and she sensed him working himself up to speak. She wondered how he had developed such a colossal nerve.
“Miss Buckleigh,” he said, his voice hesitant. “Your sudden coldness toward me is inexplicable. Please tell me how I have offended you and how I may make amends. You must realize that in the brief time I have known you, your good opinion has become the most important thing in the world to me.”
Clasping her fingers together in front of her, Marina took a couple of slow deep breaths. Miss Brandon’s tear-wracked, doubled-over figure came to her thoughts and her anger simmered.
“Mr. Sefton, may I ask you a question?”
“Anything, Miss Buckleigh. Always.”
She looked over at him, wanting to see his expression. “When did Miss Brandon’s opinion of you cease to matter?”
The ardent expression left his face, replaced by blank surprise. “I . . . I am not quite sure what you mean.”
<
br /> “I’m certain that you do.” She was quite proud of the cool, nearly indifferent tone in her voice.
Those beautiful eyes searched her face. “Miss Buckleigh, please speak plainly. If you have heard some kind of scurrilous gossip about Miss Brandon and me, I assure you, I have only been polite—”
“Oh? It was only politeness when you planned to take her from Ridgeton Abbey and elope to Gretna Green?” She had stopped walking and now stared up at him with narrowed eyes and clenched fists.
A hint of panic and calculation entered his gaze. “It is not true, Miss Buckleigh. I do not know what means Lord Cortland has used to turn you against me, but I assure you, I—”
“Lord Cortland?” she cut in. “How dare you! Miss Brandon herself poured out her heart to me. She believed you loved her and you betrayed her cruelly. Once you learned Lord Cortland had discovered your plan to elope, you turned to me. Did you really think I would be so gullible?”
His jaw worked convulsively for a moment before he gathered himself enough to speak in measured tones. “I appeal to your sense of fairness and ask that you consider that there are two sides to every story.”
Tilting her head to the side, she considered his words. “That is true. But I do not care what your side is.”
“That is unfair! You must allow me to explain. You must know what I feel for you, Miss Buckleigh. Anything, anything that occurred before I met you could not possibly matter to us.”
She gazed upon his perfectly handsome face and again marveled that it no longer had the power to make her heart flutter. For once, Deirdre had been right; if he hadn’t been blessed with that attractive cleft in his chin, he’d be much too pretty.
“Enough, Mr. Sefton. Do not importune me any longer.”
Turning, she set off down the lane again, fiercely glad that she had expressed her true thoughts and feelings.
A hand on her upper arm spun her around and jerked her to a halt.
“I insist that you allow me to explain. I never cared for her. If you will just listen to me, I know we could be happy.”
Speechless with rage, Marina stared down at his hand gripping her left arm. Never in her life had she been handled in such a violent manner. Never would she have imagined that a man, calling himself a gentleman, could behave in such a despicable way.
“Let go of me at once.”
“Not until you see reason. I have seen in your eyes what you feel for me. I will not let you deny it.” His tone held a fierceness that conveyed his increasing desperation, and his grip tightened on her arm. “If your father had not fallen from that damn horse, we’d be married by now.”
“And your financial troubles would be over,” she snapped sarcastically. “Let go of me now.”
She saw the warmth had left his eyes, replaced by a cold anger that might have frightened her if her own rage hadn’t risen up to blot out every other emotion.
“Let go,” she repeated softly.
“Admit it, you care for me. If Eugenia hadn’t told you a pack of lies, you’d be mine.”
“You flatter yourself, sir.” Unthinking, she drew her arm back and swung her clenched fist as hard as she could.
He staggered back, and she didn’t know which of them was more surprised. His hat flew off and a hand flew up to cover his left eye. “Why you—”
Before he could complete the epithet, she stepped forward and shoved his chest with both hands. He landed on his backside with a satisfying thud and if she hadn’t been trembling with anger, she would have laughed at his slack-jawed expression.
“If you come near me again, I shall scream. We are close enough to Buck Hill for someone to hear me.”
With a swirl of her skirts and a last contempt-filled look, she turned toward home.
Struggling to rise, he went to retrieve his horse. “Miss Buckleigh,” he called, “you have insulted my integrity in a way no gentleman could appreciate, but I forgive you because you do not know the whole story.”
Glancing at him over her shoulder, she marveled at his quick recovery and quicker retreat into denials and feigned innocence. “Good-bye, Mr. Sefton, there is no point for us to ever speak again.”
“You are wrong, Miss Buckleigh. Because of those moments on the terrace, when you were in my arms, I cannot give up.”
“Good lord,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at his overly dramatic delivery. She walked swiftly, but another quick glance back showed her that he had mounted his horse and was now riding off toward Ridgeton Abbey.
Still feeling stunned by what had just transpired, she looked down at the back of her right hand, aware that her knuckles throbbed.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Cortland sat at the desk in the well-appointed sitting room connected to his bedchamber. After sanding another page, he put down his quill and leaned back in the chair. Despite his well-known reputation for being a pleasure-loving rake, he was quite used to working as hard as he played, and the relaxed atmosphere of Ridgeton Abbey was beginning to wear thin.
He was growing more restless by the hour it seemed, but there was nothing else for it. Due to exceedingly unexpected circumstances, he had to stay until matters were resolved—and resolved to his satisfaction.
In the meantime, he must continue to correspond with his secretary and steward, to ensure his estate and other holdings were as well looked after as if he were there himself. It was a tedious job, dealing with the continual influx of letters. Needs must be addressed, he thought with a philosophical shrug.
At least it prevented him from running to Buck Hill twice a day like a besotted puppy. He smiled a little at the description he’d just assigned himself. Inactivity and patience were not his strong suit. He’d never had cause to experience either in large doses and it put him in a foul mood. Rising, he paced the length of the room.
There had been some positive news. It was a very good sign that Dr. Gray was no longer staying at Buck Hill. That simple fact, more than the sketchy and unreliable reports from neighbors, told him how improved Lord Buckleigh must be.
He paused at the window, recalling the moment he and Marina were in her garden when Deirdre found them and shared the miraculous news that the Baron had regained consciousness. He hadn’t been at all surprised that Marina had fainted from the shock of the news, for when he had first come upon her, her pallor had been pronounced.
Even tear-filled eyes and a pallid complexion could not take anything away from her regal beauty.
She was so much more than a beautiful face and bewitching figure. He’d known it, sensed it, from the first time they spoke after seeing her waltzing amongst the white roses and starlight with Sefton. And every moment after that confirmed her unique character—elegant and proper, outspoken and passionate by turns. And he never knew which captivating facet she would show.
Effortlessly, she had captured his attention and kept it. He had watched, with reluctant yet growing admiration, the way she gracefully, fiercely defended her friend Mrs. Birtwistle, prompting him to behave with a gallantry he’d never suspected he was capable of when he asked the widow to dance.
He’d watched with growing fascination and desire the way she’d met his teasing with a sharp wit of her own. He’d stood by while she’d handled her pack of swains with aplomb and good humor.
She was utterly original.
But what had sealed it for him was the way she had cried in his arms when she thought hope of her father’s recovery was lost. Poised and dignified, Marina Buckleigh had let him hold her while she cried her heart out with complete, unself-conscious trust.
Marina knew how to love.
His thoughts turned, as they often did, to their kiss and the feel of her long curvaceous body melding to his. Good lord, she knew how to love, but had no idea how much passion she possessed. He turned away from the window and stalked the room again.
He didn’t like the feeling of being in limbo.
Even more, he disliked being unsure of his footing. It was a new e
xperience and he didn’t like it. And he knew that the more her father improved, and her life regained a sense of normalcy, the more she would remember how angry she was with him over the business with Sefton.
And now there was this exceedingly odd report about Willingham and Halbury fighting over her. He clenched and unclenched his fists. It had been a good deal too long since he’d been in the ring with Gentleman Jackson in London, and he was desirous of a good rumble, and one importunate whelp would do as well as another.
But until a number of circumstances beyond his control, worked themselves out—mainly, the Buckleighs accepting callers again—he’d have to continue to be patient, as much as it chafed.
A firm rap at the door drew his attention. “Come in.”
Pen, looking uncharacteristically grim, entered. “I say, Cort, if you’re not too busy, hoping to have a word.”
“Of course. What has you looking so blue-deviled?”
In accord, they moved to the two large brown leather chairs in front of the fireplace.
Once seated, Pen gave him a glum look. “Not sure how one goes about these things. I mean, everyone eventually does, obviously, but nevertheless, it’s the going-about-it part that has me flummoxed.”
Keeping his expression neutral, Cortland nodded, hoping a question or two would help him to gain a better understanding. “What exactly do you want to do?”
Pen looked down at his boots, then scrubbed his face with his hands before answering, “Well, Mrs. Birtwistle, of course.”
Cortland’s brows rose. He’d been aware of Pen’s admiration of the widow, but during the two times he had gone with Pen to call on Fielding Manor, he had not shown by words or actions that his regard for the widow was particular. And as for Mrs. Birtwistle, she had been exceedingly polite, but she had not, as far as Cortland could see, shown Pen any marked attention, and allowed her brother to take the lead in the conversations.
“The thing is,” Pen continued, “my sister seems to have taken Mrs. Birtwistle in dislike. I cannot account for it because Mrs. Birtwistle is most congenial and I find her easy to converse with. But if Vanessa doesn’t like her, I’m not sure how it would work.”
Rhonda Woodward Page 19
