by Cardon, Sara
Marjorie glanced through her lashes before scraping her pencil across the page. “Yes, quite. I need to thank you for assisting me and sending for my aunt and Doctor Hill. It was much appreciated.”
“I was happy to be of assistance.”
After yesterday’s scare, he needed to assure himself—because of his connection with Marjorie’s father—that she was restored to good health. She said she was recovered, but he intended to watch her a moment or two and come to his own conclusion. Her coloring looked restored—a coral pink flush to her cheeks and lips. No lines or shadows hinted at the struggle she had endured to draw breath.
Miles had also wanted to find Marjorie because he felt a hint of remorse for his maneuverings in keeping Reginald away this morning. Miles had slipped an idea to Lady Du’Breven, which the shrewd woman had acted upon. Reginald was likely at this moment in the countess’ company while she regaled him with her family history. If he could, Miles would issue a word of warning to Marjorie about Reginald, which might be the most difficult task he set out to accomplish today because she likely would not believe him.
Marjorie stayed silent. He frowned at her lack of response to him, dissatisfaction gnawing like an empty stomach. He watched the breeze tease tendrils of her maple-leaf hair towards him, with flashes of gold and reds in brilliant hues. In the dappled light, her hair gleamed like a riot of autumn color.
“What are you drawing?” he asked.
Her gaze flew to his, her eyes wide. He scooted closer, but she crushed the book to her middle.
“It is nothing.”
If it was nothing, she would show it. Miles leaned back and propped his arm along the back of the bench, but he was curious to see what she worked on. He could wait until she relaxed before sneaking a glance.
“Did the physician offer any insights?” he pressed.
“He shared a few interesting ideas.” She kept her eyes down.
Wellington began chewing on some plants. “Come away, Wellington. That foxglove is poisonous.” Wellington ignored him and began digging.
“Such as?” He waited.
“Such as drinking strong coffee when breathing becomes hard.” She wrinkled her nose.
“How American.”
“That is precisely what I thought.” She smiled. “He said to keep clear of dust, which may trigger my lungs. And he prescribed a small amount of devil’s snare in my tea.” She shuddered.
He leaned forward. “Devil’s snare? The man must be daft.” As if taking poison was acceptable.
“Hmm. If the dosage is miniscule, devil’s snare is known to relieve a lung attack. He cited research from India.” She spoke in an absent manner. She had removed her gloves, and he watched her slender fingers as she moved the pencil across the page.
He frowned. “I should like to see the study.”
She glanced up, her eyes clouded. “Why?”
Why indeed? Because her father was his employee.
The breeze stirred her hair, and he had an irrational desire to feel the texture of it. He glanced away, unnerved by the attraction he felt towards her. She was a pretty woman, and it could not hurt to enjoy her beauty for a moment. Besides, it was relaxing here. “What do you want to do while you are at Somerstone Manor?”
Marjorie began sketching again, her face brightening. “Everything. I want to make new friends. I want to see every portrait and hear the stories of the people who lived here. I want to visit the stables and ride, walk to Wentworth Castle, and search for secret passageways. I want to dance under the stars. I want to feel the spray from the miraculous fountains and learn how they pump water.” She glanced up, and the passion in her eyes made Miles catch his breath.
It was not the standard answer he had expected, and his attention was arrested. He marveled at the woman before him. She possessed an unusual combination of intelligence and vibrancy, and he found her fascinating. He had always enjoyed her open enthusiasm, ever since she was a girl walking about barefoot.
He clasped his hands and shifted to the end of the seat, surprised at himself. A Faustus devil must surely be trying to sit on his shoulder. He shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. Her father was his stable master. Miles’ honor demanded he look after Marjorie’s welfare—as a protector in her father’s place. Marjorie was without a doubt the wrong woman for him. He could almost sense the disapproval of his ancestors settling like a cold apparition. It was time for him to return to the house.
He said, “I should go,” just as she simultaneously said, “And you?”
Miles rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You first, please.”
“I only wondered what you should like to do while at Somerstone,” she said, looking up at him with genuine interest.
He stood, smiling at how grounded and dry his answer sounded compared with hers. “I am meeting with the steward to see how the estate is managed and to compare practices.”
She did not reply, her lips pressed in thought. She refocused on her drawing.
Miles shifted behind the bench to see the page. From his viewpoint, he recognized the shape of a man’s jawline. Reginald. A burning sensation started in his chest, like acid eating away his flesh, worse than any devil’s snare. She was not safe where his brother was concerned, especially when Reginald might seek a new relationship to fill the hurt left by his last one.
She snatched her book away and turned, glaring at him. “You said you would not look.” Crimson stained her face, but she held his gaze.
“I made no such promise.”
Marjorie stood, gathered her things, and began striding in the direction of the house. He kept pace with her. Wellington chased after them, barking, which woke Marjorie’s companion.
“Your infatuation with Reginald is not healthy, Miss Fairchild.” It was not how he had planned to have this conversation, but he felt compelled to warn her.
Her steps faltered and she stopped to face him. “You astonish me.” She shook her head.
“You make excuses for him,” he said. “Are you willing to settle for someone who is not your equal?”
“My equal?” Miss Fairchild blanched as if he struck her.
Miles pressed his lips together and inwardly groaned. “I am not trying to offend. I refer to your character. You are better than he is.”
Marjorie’s mouth parted and she stared at him in bewilderment.
He meant it as a compliment and wanted her to accept it—outside of the bounds society placed on accomplishments, wealth, or connections. Outside of her relationship with his scoundrel brother or himself. If she could see how very not like a gentleman his brother was, then perhaps she would be safe. Yesterday she had accused Miles of not behaving as a gentleman, which stung. He needed to prove himself and stay in her good graces in order to keep her safe.
He grew uncomfortable with her silence. “May Wellington and I escort you back to the house?” he asked.
Marjorie glanced down and put a hand to her neck. “I—I can find my way, but thank you, my lord.” She did not meet his gaze and set off at a smart clip. Her sash was coming undone, and he tracked its path past the slender curves at her waist.
He gathered Wellington in his arms and followed, an idea circling his mind. Besides her father, had any man treated her as well as she deserved? If Marjorie knew the difference between a true gentleman and a counterfeit, Reginald would be knocked off his undeserved pedestal. Miles narrowed his eyes, studying her retreating form. They only had two weeks at this house party, but he resolved to show Marjorie how a real gentleman treated a lady.
7
Puzzles to Solve
The cuisine at Somerstone lived up to its reputation. Marjorie finished every last bite of her bread and butter pudding embellished with currants and walnuts. Throughout dinner, she had tried not to glance at Lord Beauchamp, but she could not help herself. He had astonished her by showing up in the woodland garden when she had expected his brother. But what puzzled her the most was what he said about her. “You are bet
ter than he is.” She could not believe such a statement. Her entire life, people leveled her because of her parentage. She was always on the bottom, whereas Reginald could move within any social circle.
As she entered the grand drawing room for the musicale, she looked over her shoulder for Reginald. He was just behind her, and her eyes widened. He put a finger to his lips, motioning outside the door. Feeling off-balance, she followed him back to the hall.
“Pardon me for being unconventional, but Lady Du’Breven calls for me at the most inopportune moments.” A grin split his face, and an answering smile bloomed on her own, as if they were children stealing a sweet from the kitchen. “What do you think of this fascinating portrait?” He gestured with mock interest.
“Um.” Marjorie glanced around in confusion. Then the masterpiece came into focus and everything else faded away. She stepped closer. “Oh, it is wonderful,” she exclaimed. The portrait captured a feeling of classic Renaissance art. It moved her like poetry. She slid a finger along the frame and saw the signature. “This is a work by Sir Joshua Reynolds." Her jaw dropped. Excitement bubbled over and she reached out to Reginald. "See how this tells a story, rather than having finely dressed people sit for a portrait?”
“Ah, yes.” Reginald gave a cursory glance at the painting and blew out a breath.
Her eyes trailed along the subjects, snagging on a fascinating detail. Two snakes in the baby’s grip. She bounced on her toes. “It is Hercules. See the gift Hera sent him? This is the original.”
Reginald was facing away, glancing down the hall. “What?” he asked. “Ah, yes. Charming family portrait.”
“It’s not—”
“Say, have you heard the story of when I bested my friend Mr. Webb in cards?” He launched into the account without waiting for her reply.
Her cheeks flushed and she glanced down. She had bored him. Aunt Harriet’s advice on tamping down her enthusiasm pained her. Would Reginald realize she was interested in him? With difficulty she tipped her chin up to focus on him.
“And he has never forgiven me for winning his stallion,” he concluded. “But I don’t always win, and not everything is a game to me.” Reginald stepped closer than he should. She ought to step back. Twisting her hands, she stayed put.
“I am terribly sorry for missing our walk in the garden. Lady Du’Breven began talking about her family, and I could not get away.” His hair fell into his eyes.
She smiled softly, forgiving him immediately. “But I received your letter, so I was not expecting you,” she whispered. Curiosity about the notes filled her mind, but too many people could overhear if she posed such a question.
Reginald regarded her quizzically. “Just so.” He motioned to the music room. “Will you be singing tonight?”
Marjorie bit her lip and shook her head.
He raised an eyebrow, then glanced beyond her and sighed. “It appears I am to be called away yet again. What a shame.”
Miss Greystock, the countess’ companion, rushed forward. Marjorie shifted her feet on the carpet and gave up the comfort of sinking into her conversation with Reginald.
“I have your seat picked out for you, Miss Fairchild. Come this way,” Miss Greystock said.
Lady Du’Breven touched her fine jewels as they passed. “I look forward to seeing how this evening’s entertainment progresses.” Something seemed to pass between the countess and Miss Greystock.
Aunt Harriet met Marjorie and clasped her hands. “Lady Du’Breven is up to something.”
They caught up with Miss Greystock. She led them past the fireplace with a hint of cedar and past rows of chairs where guests mingled. Marjorie’s feet stopped moving when she discovered where Miss Greystock ushered them. Lord Beauchamp sat in the back row, his arms folded and his chin on his chest, an ankle dropped over one knee. Beside him were two empty chairs.
“These seats are best for viewing the performances and not too close to some of our more enthusiastic performers,” Miss Greystock said. “Mrs. Jones, may I have a private word with you? It will take but a moment.”
Aunt Harriet sucked in her cheeks, lifted her eyebrows, and then followed Miss Greystock.
Lord Beauchamp stood. “Good evening, Miss Fairchild.”
Marjorie’s pulse throbbed. All her insecurities about her social position resurfaced. Lord Beauchamp appeared as polished and aloof as always. She reluctantly inclined her head and situated herself, careful to keep her posture precise.
“Since we last met, what have you found to entertain yourself?” he asked.
She smoothed her skirts, uncomfortable with his attention. Did he really care to know, or was he making polite conversation? “Aunt Harriet and I looked at the art in the Pillared Hall.” They had also snuck into the billiards room, but she did not share that. She thought of the painting of Hercules. “I just made an amazing discovery—” She stopped and frowned. She was about to rhapsodize over the painting but did not want to bore him.
Lord Beauchamp leaned towards her. “Please finish your thought. An amazing discovery? Did you find a secret passageway already?”
“No, it is only a portrait by an artist I admire.” She tried to gauge his interest, but he had the same half-smile, half-pensive look he often wore, and she had yet to figure out what it meant.
“Pray tell.”
She began tentatively, but she continued when he nodded and asked engaging questions.
“Now that I know something of the ‘grand style,’ I will never settle for a simple anecdotal portrait again,” he mused.
Marjorie flushed with gratitude and eased into her seat, crossing her ankles. “And what have you found to entertain yourself with today?”
He paused, a flat expression on his face.
“What do you do for entertainment, when you have a chance?” she rephrased.
“I don’t have time for frivolous matters.” He scowled at the ladies arranging music near the piano.
“Some would say ‘frivolous matters’ bring joy to a life worth living,” she ventured to say.
His brows pulled lower.
She did not want to vex him and so switched the question. “Tell me, what have you accomplished today?”
“Not enough.” He glanced at his brother. “Are you performing tonight?”
“No. I dislike performing,” Marjorie confided.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
She shifted on her seat. “I do not like being embarrassed.”
He smiled softly.
“Do you find that amusing, my lord?”
“No.” His denial did not match his expression.
She nodded as if he made perfect sense, though he did not. “Have you no fears?” she challenged.
“I suppose I do.”
Now she was curious. She leaned closer. “What would those fears be?”
He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. His eyes smiled even if his mouth did not. “I don’t feel like divulging them at the moment.”
Marjorie smiled despite herself. “At the moment?” How surprising. Lord Beauchamp was funny.
8
Ballads and Bravado
Miles glanced beside him at Marjorie, sitting with her hands primly in her lap. She smelled like lavender, with a lemon overture. As soon as her aunt returned to sit beside her, Marjorie had retreated back to her timidity. She no longer looked at him or shared her thoughts. Then an accompaniment began, and a swathe of music separated them. She sat perfectly still and ramrod straight. She must not wish to sit beside him. Did his presence bother her? Dissatisfaction worked its way under his skin.
The young lady on the pianoforte ended with a flourish. He joined in the polite applause. The young woman smiled, revealing unsightly teeth, and Miles winced in sympathy. No wonder she always carried a fan.
Next, Miss Standish sang, making most in attendance grimace. Lord Ian gallantly joined her in singing. His deep baritone could have been a eulogy for the demise of the song. Miles bit the inside of his lip, consi
dering Lord Ian’s intention to rescue Miss Standish.
Miss Winters took a seat at the piano, and Miles sighed in relief. Her fingers marched across the keys. Reginald turned pages for her at the piano and watched Miss Winters with rapt attention. Finally, something had gone right. Miss Winters curtseyed twice when she finished.
Mrs. Jones leaned close to Marjorie and whispered, “Miss Winters is such a lovely girl, but she should not display herself with such pride.”
Marjorie put a finger to her lips and glanced about. When their gazes connected, she blushed.
“It is nice to know she has a flaw.” Marjorie spoke to her aunt, but looked briefly at him.
He lifted his eyebrows at the lighthearted barb.
Miss Winters had finished but had not yet left off commanding the room’s attention.
“I want to add something special to the program this evening,” Miss Winters announced. “A certain young lady is too modest to perform without encouragement.”
“I am surprised Lady Du’Breven allows her to play hostess,” Mrs. Jones whispered.
Miles frowned, knowing Miss Winters did not have permission. Her lack of good manners grated.
“It is with great enthusiasm that I present Miss Fairchild to sing for us.”
Miss Winters began clapping, and others joined in, all except Marjorie, her aunt, and Miles.
Marjorie looked frozen with shock. Miles’ heart turned over at the sight of her pale complexion and wide eyes.
“What did she say?” Marjorie gripped her aunt’s arm.
“Dearest, Miss Winters announced you.”
Marjorie shook her head in denial.
Miss Winters affected innocence. Miles narrowed his gaze and pressed his lips tight. Of all the scheming, disgraceful, cold-hearted moves. He needed to quit overestimating people’s humanity.
“Come, Miss Fairchild. Do not be shy,” Miss Winters said again as if Marjorie were a child in leading strings.
