Miss Marcie's Mischief (To Woo an Heiress, Book 2)

by Randall, Lindsay

  Penelope guessed otherwise.

  However eccentric she might be, Penelope Barrington knew the look of love when she saw it….

  *

  Marcie found herself transformed into a vision as her cousins saw to it she was outfitted in a gown of the softest white silk, a pair of pearl-encrusted slippers, and a richly embroidered white scarf to drape across her shoulders. Her hair, brushed until it shined, was styled in a fetching cascade of burnished coppery curls.

  Marcie felt protected and safe with her family around, and that, she decided a moment later as she was led to the stairs, was the only reason she took the first steps that would transport her downstairs and into the company of the Marquis of Sherringham.

  Marcie remembered to keep her head held high, as her cousins had instructed, and tried to glide rather than walk down the stairs. She fought to keep her posture erect, elegant and natural—if one could actually do such a thing! And she found, to her amazement, that she was quickly given a warm and effusive welcome by Aunt Nellie’s numerous guests. A great fuss was made by all, and Marcie began to believe that becoming a lady wasn’t such a hopeless thing after all.

  But alas, she soon realized, her momentous entrance proved to be all for naught, for the marquis had not yet returned from some “business matter” he’d previously embarked upon. No matter, Marcie told herself, for stuffy the man must be if he found reason for conducting business on Saint Valentine’s Day. He obviously didn’t believe in Cupid, or birds singing in the trees for their chosen mates, or even in love that could come calling on such a day.

  But the truth of it all was that Marcie couldn’t help but think of her Cole Coachman, who was no doubt speeding along snowy roads and delivering his remaining Valentine’s parcels which he’d so bravely watched over during the miles to Burford. Marcie mightily wished she was still riding upon the bench beside him, with Prinny perched atop her shoulder and a chilling wind slicing through her curls. Ah, thought she, if only she could turn back the hands of time….

  Marcie’s thoughts were jolted back into the present when it was announced dinner was served. She found herself seated beside a young gentleman who deluged her with stories of his father’s thriving shipping company. By the time the final course was served, Marcie had learned more than she wished to know of trade in the West Indies. Though the Marquis of Sherringham was not present, his sisters-in-law were. Patricia was the elder of the two. She was a tall woman with dusky curls, a patrician nose, and shrewd brown eyes that missed nothing. Georgiana, the second sister-in-law, reminded Marcie of a sparrow, for she had a soft voice, was tiny and slender, and seemed perfectly happy to allow Patricia to set the pace for her. Though both women were extremely gracious and kind to Marcie—perhaps too kind, Marcie thought—she couldn’t help but believe that the women had been frightfully spoilt throughout their lives. No doubt the Marquis of Sherringham indulged his brothers’ widows, for every sentence either lady spoke began with “I told Sherry I wished for…” or “Sherry, of course, agreed with me when…”

  At long last, the dinner came to an end and everyone moved to the front drawing room where a game of choosing one of the ladies’ handmade hearts commenced. The unmarried ladies had made hearts, and all were placed upon a long table at the side of the room. Each unmarried gentlemen was to choose a heart, on the back of which was written a name. The fun of the game was that the lady whose heart a gentleman had chosen was to be his dance partner for the final waltz… and, hopefully, would prove to be that gentleman’s Valentine.

  Marcie, having come late to her godmama’s houseparty, hadn’t made a heart.

  “Oh dear,” exclaimed Mirabella just before everyone commenced toward the table. “But Marcie hasn’t a heart.”

  “Even if she had made a heart, the marquis is not yet here to have a chance of plucking it from the table,” added Meredith, frowning.

  “I do not mind,” said Marcie, hoping to lighten her cousins’ moods.

  “But we mind,” said Meredith. “How I wish Lord Sherringham had not dashed off so quickly, and how I wish the two of you had arrived earlier in the week.”

  Marcie tried to soothe their agitation with a gentle smile. “Go, the both of you. Who knows? The two of you might actually meet the men of your dreams this special night.”

  “But what of you, Marcie? We want you to meet the man of your dreams,” said Mirabella.

  I already have, thought Marcie, and I call him My Lord Monarch.

  “I’ll be fine,” Marcie insisted, wondering if she would ever be fine again without Cole Coachman. Besides, there was no other man she wished to have her heart than Cole.

  As the merriment began, Marcie slipped away and headed upstairs, where the children and their governesses were spending the evening. Marcie found herself in the midst of a crew of rambunctious children. Several governesses were shaking their heads in dismay at the children’s chattering noise and hasty movements, but Marcie just laughed. She remembered clearly what it was to be young and unfettered and let loose in a place where no parents were present.

  She threw herself into a hectic game of charades with the youngsters, laughing with them when no one could get the clue of a Cupid spearing a lady’s heart—not even Marcie.

  Soon, the band of children broke apart, some of them commencing a game of tag within the room and a few serious others sitting down for a game of chess.

  Marcie gravitated toward the tag players and then, once she was worn out chasing around sofas and such after them, moved to the few children playing chess.

  A tiny slip of a girl appeared at Marcie’s side. The child looked directly at her, and to Marcie the girl’s large, expressive gray eyes were hauntingly familiar; they reminded Marcie of Cole Coachman.

  “Hello,” Marcie said, once again unnerved by thoughts of Cole. “What is your name?”

  “Charlotte,” replied the tiny wren of a girl. She held up the doll she’d been clutching to her chest. “I cannot tie Doll’s new bonnet.”

  Marcie smiled. “Here,” she said. “I’ll help you.” Carefully, Marcie worked the intricately made bonnet atop Doll’s head, then tied a bow beneath the porcelain chin. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect!” Charlotte beamed, smiling a wide grin that held a flash of someone too dear to Marcie. “The bonnet was a gift from Uncle Sherry. He promised to teach me how to tie a pretty bow—just like the bow you made.” Charlotte hugged Doll tight. “I love my new bonnet. Uncle Sherry knew I would. He is the Marquis of Sherringham,” she whispered proudly.

  Marcie stilled. “Oh?” she murmured.

  Charlotte nodded, dark curls bobbing. “Uncle Sherry is a very important man,” she added clearly awestruck by her uncle.

  “Indeed he is,” agreed Marcie, thinking of the stuffy Marquis of Sherringham she was destined to meet. A part of her was surprised that such a man would deign to gift his niece with a new bonnet for a favored doll.

  “Uncle Sherry always takes me for lemon-ice when we’re in Town. My sister says he is just being polite.”

  “But you know better,” Marcie hazarded, seeing the girl’s eyes light with love.

  Charlotte nodded. “Uncle Sherry loves me,” she said, utterly sure in that knowledge. “He might not always tell me so, but I know he does.” She gazed down at her doll, smiling. “It is a very pretty bonnet, is it not?”

  “Yes, Charlotte, it is.”

  The child then moved off, leaving Marcie to stare after her. Marcie thought of the girl’s haunting gray eyes—eyes that reminded her of Cole Coachman. Cole had talked of his many nieces. Had he ever bought a bonnet for one of them? Marcie felt certain that he might have. As for the Marquis of Sherringham, she pondered over the fact that she’d heretofore thought him stuffy and unfeeling only because of his exalted title. No doubt she’d listened too often to her father telling her that all swells were stuffy folk. Perhaps Lord Sherringham would prove different. Perhaps the man would not be as high-handed as she’d imagined. She
must not judge him before she’d even met him. But the trouble was, Marcie did not wish to meet him. She could not imagine that his lordship would be more intriguing, more exciting than Cole Coachman.

  The sounds of the other adults moving into the ballroom downstairs could suddenly be heard. There was much gaiety. No doubt the ladies and gentlemen were looking forward to the last waltz, the ladies wondering who would be their Valentine, and the gentlemen keeping the name of their dance partner a secret. It was time to go into the ballroom. Time for dancing, and dreaming, and finding one’s true Valentine… but not for her. Marcie felt her heart constrict.

  She left the children, heading downstairs, but held back from the other adults as they streamed, coupled arm-in-arm, inside the candlelit room. She had no place in their merriment, no special other within the group whom she hoped to love and trust and honor forever. She drew away from their course, veering instead back into the room they’d just departed. She saw a ribbon of forgotten pink lace, most likely fallen from one of the many hearts that had graced the table. Absurdly enough, her eyes teared at the sight. How she wished she’d had a heart upon the table for Cole Coachman, and that he’d been present to pluck it up and hold it close. But such a thing was not to be.

  Marcie picked up the lace and moved toward one of the window seats, where one of the eligible ladies had obviously made her Valentine’s heart, for there was a bit of paper, some shears, an ink pot and quill, and even a lone white ribbon.

  Marcie scooped up the shears and began to cut a heart out of the pink paper, her eyes misting as she thought of Cole. She kept cutting, barely able to see past her tears, and was rewarded with a lopsided, woeful-looking heart. She cut two holes in it, one at the top, the other at the bottom, and pulled the pink lace and white ribbon through each. She then tied two bows and, dipping the quill into the ink pot, wrote the words To My Lord Monarch on the front, and on the back, From your Mischievous Miss Marcie. She then propped the heart against the window. It tipped against its lopsided edge, looking sorry and silly and as miserable as Marcie felt.

  Marcie sighed, staring out into the dark, wintry night. Where was her Cole Coachman? What was he doing? Was he warm and safe, enjoying the holiday? Or was he still traveling along the winding roads of the Cotswolds, urging his team ever northward? Marcie didn’t know.

  She did know, however, that she missed him, his smile, his warmth, and the sight of his fog-colored eyes. Missing him would be the bane of her life… and remembering him, she decided, would be her only joy.

  She wondered how life could be so cruel and so giving all at the same time.

  *

  Penelope found Marcie just as Marcie placed the heart against the window. After a moment of just watching her goddaughter, she said, “You look like a sad Cupid.”

  Marcie jerked her gaze away from the window, surprised to find her godmama in the room. “I guess I am just overly tired, Aunt Nellie.”

  “It seems to me, my dear, you are rather a woman in love.” She moved across the room, coming to stand beside her goddaughter. “Care to tell me about it?”

  Marcie sat up straight. “However could you have guessed?”

  Penelope smiled. “I have traveled far and wide during my long life, and if I have learned one thing, it is that love, though it can wear many disguises, has but one spark. I see that spark in you now, my dear.”

  Marcie lowered her lashes. “‘Tis true,” she admitted, needing to share her secret. “I have fallen in love.” She lifted her gaze to her godmama. “I’ve fallen in love with a man who wants nothing to do with a willful miss who has run away from her boarding school. He—he is a coachman who takes much pride in his work, and who, alas, has little time for a mischievous miss such as me. I fear I am not at all what he desires,” she uttered hopelessly.

  Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain of this, Marcie? Are you sure the man wants nothing to do with you?”

  “I am,” Marcie whispered, and then she bent her head, trying not to allow her emotions to overtake her yet again.

  Penelope was not fooled. She reached down to give one of Marcie’s hands a gentle squeeze. “Take heart, my dear Marcie,” she whispered. “Saint Valentine’s Day is a time of lovely miracles. All manner of wondrous things might occur, you know.”

  “Do you really think so, Auntie?”

  “I do,” replied Penelope. “Now dry your eyes, take a moment to compose yourself, and then join us in the ballroom.” With that, she turned and headed out of the drawing room.

  Marcie stayed where she was for a moment, pondering Penelope’s words. Though Marcie knew in her heart she would most likely never see Cole Coachman again, she also realized that she’d been blessed by being given such loving cousins and godmama… and, too, there remained the possibility of one day meeting up with her handsome coachman. After all, she intended to return to the vicarage and retrieve Freddie, and Masters Neville and Theodore. Who knew what the road from Stormhaven to the vicarage might hold?

  Marcie, ever hopeful, decided then and there that she should join the Valentine’s celebration and set her own woes aside. So thinking, she left the window seat and headed for the ballroom to join the others.

  *

  The guests danced and laughed amongst themselves. And they whispered about the mystery of who would be paired with whom for the final waltz. The room was filled with love and laughter.

  Marcie felt like an odd wheel. She did her best to mingle with the crowd, and to look as though she belonged. But her thoughts remained with Cole Coachman.

  Just before midnight, and before the last waltz began, Marcie slipped out through the terrace doors, glad her godmama had thought to have the groundskeeper sweep away all the snow from the stone walkway leading to the inner fountain of the frozen garden. Even the garden walks had been brushed clean.

  Marcie wrapped her arms about her and moved slowly toward the inner fountain that was coated in ice. From beyond, she could hear the laughter from inside the house.

  She was alone.

  Or at least she’d thought she was.

  All of the other guests were inside the house. All but one, that is.

  He stood—rather nervously Marcie thought—just to the right of the fountain. Marcie strained to make out his features, but the bright light of the lamps strung about the wintry garden on either side cast the man’s face in shadows. She thought she recognized the broad width of the shoulders, the way in which he held his head high….

  But no, she told herself. She was imagining things. The man wasn’t Cole Coachman.

  “There is punch and sweetcakes inside,” Marcie offered, motioning toward the house.

  The man did not move.

  Marcie, though at first frightened, found she could not move from her spot. A chill wind whispered against her. The lights wavered. She heard the musicians begin to play the final waltz far off in the distance. Saint Valentine’s Day was drawing to a close.

  “Please,” said Marcie, feeling an inexplicable and odd sort of connection to the lone man cloaked in shadows. She didn’t want him to miss out on the last bit of gaiety in the ballroom. “Go inside and join the merriment. I’d hate for you to spend the final moments of Saint Valentine’s Day alone.”

  “Why?” whispered the still figure.

  Why indeed? thought Marcie. But she knew why. It was because she believed in the wonder of Saint Valentine’s Day. Though she had lost Cole Coachman for now, she very much trusted that she might yet again meet him, somehow, someway, in the future. And lastly, she remained very much a mischievous miss who could not turn her back on any mystery. The man standing in the shadows was somehow a very enticing mystery.

  “Because it is Saint Valentine’s Day,” Marcie said in answer to his question, deciding also to join the others inside. “No one should be alone on such a night. Come.” She motioned toward the walkway leading to the ballroom doors.

  “You are quick to welcome me into your world,” he said, still not mov
ing. “I should warn you I have, in the past, been one to avoid a crush of people.”

  “Perhaps this night could be the start of something new for you. I have been told that all manner of wondrous things can happen on Saint Valentine’s Day.”

  “And do you believe such words?” asked the stranger, his voice oddly familiar.

  Marcie fought not to make a connection between the man’s voice and the remembered sounds of Cole Coachman’s. Her ears were playing tricks on her, that was all. “I was once told,” said Marcie truthfully, “that I am a dreamer.”

  “And are you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, thinking of Cole and her hopes of one day meeting him again. “I guess I am.”

  “Pity,” replied the stranger. He stepped forward, into the light. “I was hoping you might be a believer… a believer in two people destined to meet.”

  Marcie gasped as the man came fully into view. “Cole!”

  Cole Coachman nodded. “I am he,” he admitted, “though I am also known as Lord Sherringham. Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am the Marquis of Sherringham, the same who was intended to pay court to a certain heiress—though I had no idea you were she.”

  Marcie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Cole Coachman was actually the Marquis of Sherringham, the very man she’d been dreading to meet? She felt her cheeks flame, recalling all the heated words she’d flung at him.

  “Oh, what a fool I must seem to you.” Embarrassment engulfed her. “I had thought you to be a coachman and not a lord,” she gasped, recalling all the outrageous things she’d done. “I wish that I had never stopped your carriage. You must think me impertinent and disrespectful and—”

  “I find that you are all that is agreeable,” he said swiftly. “Please, do not be upset, and never, ever say that you wish you’d not stopped my coach. I donned the guise of Cole Coachman because I was weary of my life as it was. And then you appeared, and suddenly I was invigorated again for the first time in a very long while.”