Chapter 4
Nicholas woke up and blinked at the sunlight shining through the windows. He had forgotten where he was. He had woken thinking he was at his Yorkshire home, where his bed was by the window and the ceiling was lined with beams. He lay back with his eyes shut and tried to recall where he was.
He could hear birdsong through the window, lilting and mellifluous, and he could also hear the sound of someone walking on gravel paths, dragging something heavy. A thud reminded him that his bedroom was three floors from the kitchen, and it must be the collier throwing coal into the storeroom.
That brought him back to where he was—at Headly Hall, in the countryside, two miles from Weston Manor. He was here to meet Lady Amelia, and plan the amalgamation of their houses. He got out of bed and went to the window.
“My Lord?” a soft voice called outside the door. Nicholas went to open it, shrugging into a dressing gown. It was his manservant, Wycliffe, who had come with him from Yorkshire. He opened the door.
“Beautiful morning, sir,” Wycliffe commented, moving to the fireplace, where he stoked the embers and threw on a log. “Just a wee bit nippy out there, eh?” He blew on his fingers and then headed to the wardrobe.
“Yes, it seems cool this morning,” Nicholas agreed, glad for the warmth of the bathrobe. He looked out of the window, finding his thoughts drifting towards Weston, and its occupants. He frowned to himself.
I really don’t know what to think about them.
The Westons—those members he met yesterday—struck him as an odd sort. Lady Weston was certainly formidable. Lady Amelia was nice, but of a nervous disposition. Martha…he felt his lips lift in a smile. She was certainly bold, and he had to admit it amused him. He had no idea how old she was—she was younger than him, he thought, but certainly not childlike.
“My Lord? Will you wear the gray jacket or the blue?”
“The gray, I think?” Nicholas frowned. It was not his best, but then he had nothing special planned for the day. He would change into something better if he needed to go out. But, for the moment, he foresaw a pleasant morning of relaxation and recovery from the five-day journey it had taken to get here.
When he went into the breakfast room, his father was already there. He felt instantly on his guard as the Duke of Dellminster set aside his copy of the Gazette and looked up at him. The Duke’s body seemed tense and ready for action, and Nicholas felt nervous of what was going to happen next.
“Morning, son,” his father said briefly, as Nicholas sat down at the table opposite him. He selected toast from the toast rack and reached to butter it, not sure what to say.
“Yes…it’s a nice morning,” he agreed awkwardly.
“Hah,” his father said, dismissing his comment gruffly. “Well, it’s a funny part of the world this, eh? Not much happening, damn all to shoot…I’ll be happy back in London. At least there are things going on!”
“Yes,” Nicholas said, feeling unsure what to say. He was so unlike his father in so many ways—he himself found a lot of peace in the woodlands, and he was not missing the shooting, or the city. But his father typically would—he lived for intrigue and diversion.
I sometimes wonder if he chases distractions without because of how empty he is within.
Nicholas kept that thought to himself and bit into his toast, trying to think of something to say. As it happened, he didn’t have to put out any effort, for his father seemed quite content to hold a discussion with no input from Nicholas at all.
“Son, I hope you are liking this place…no matter what I think of it,” he chuckled lightly. “Because you’re going to have to live here. I reckon you like the girl well enough, which is good. You surely appreciate what an important thing you are doing for the family? The Weston Earldom is very influential. More influential in some ways—being closer to London—than we are…despite it being just an Earldom,” he sniffed.
“I am aware of your designs for the future,” Nicholas said. He winced as his father shot him a look.
“Designs, eh! You have no idea, do you?” he snorted. “Someone has to think about it, since it seems you’re wandering about with your head in the clouds, too grand to roll up your sleeves and dig in the muck of intrigue, eh?” he chuckled.
“I said no such thing,” Nicholas said, trying to keep a hold on his anger. Usually, he could brush off his father’s barbed comments, but oddly enough, since coming to this peaceful countryside, he was finding it harder to accept. He felt different, and he wondered what had caused the change.
“You thought it, though,” his father grunted. “You’re one of that sort who wants to wear wool, but doesn’t want to spin yarn, eh?” he laughed, amused at his own joke. “No…I’m looking after the future here, and you’re the one who’ll have to carry it out. Wed the girl, do it quickly, and we can all get off home.”
Nicholas put his toast down. He stared at his father, not quite believing what he had said. His father, oblivious, was stirring his tea, as if the fact that Nicholas would do as he was told was an accepted fact.
“I have the whole season to make my decision,” Nicholas reminded firmly. “In fact, we suggested that we would stay here until Winter begins, in order for me to become better acquainted with Lady Amelia. That was why we took this house, was it not?” Nicholas asked. His voice was not raised, but it was choked with anger.
“The faster, the better,” his father pointed out, as if it was obvious. “If you can get the business concluded in the next few weeks, so much the better. You’ve known about this betrothal since you were old enough to understand.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin primly.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes a moment. He couldn’t have said why, but he felt almost blinded by rage. He took a slow, deep breath and tried to hold the anger down. He soon realized that it was fruitless, that if he sat here a moment longer he was going to shout at his father, something he hated doing.
He pushed back his chair and stood.
“Father, I think it would be best if I went for a ride,” he said carefully.
“Yes, that’s it…off you go.” His father murmured disparagingly. He reached for his paper. Nicholas stiffened in the door, hurt and anger making his face flush. He fought it down.
He’s just trying to make me feel like less than I am.
He knew it was typical of his father, that he tended to try and keep everyone around him on the back foot, indebted to him. All the same, knowing it made it no less scathing.
“Wycliffe?” he called as he jogged up the steps to his room. “Get my riding jacket, will you? I’m going out.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Wycliffe said, appearing at the landing. He had a broom and other things on a trolley which he pulled behind him, and it was clear he’d just been tidying Nicholas’ room. He felt a little awkward—after all, he’d probably only been down at breakfast five minutes. Surely Wycliffe would notice and wonder what had happened?
It’s none of his business. Everyone knows father and son can’t see eye to eye on all fronts!
All the same, he felt embarrassed about the incident, and he was quiet as he wandered in for Wycliffe to help him dress. He stood still while his manservant buttoned up his coat, and then he changed his boots, took his riding hat from the stand in the entrance way and headed out to the stables.
“Saddle my horse, please…I’m going out.”
As he rode out of the gate, he found himself wondering exactly where he might ride. He had only arrived two days ago, and he had little idea of the terrain. The one path, he knew, led up to Weston Manor, which was about two miles away. The other path led an even shorter distance to Bloomington Hall where his uncle lived.
“I wonder what lies further down the path from Weston Manor,” he murmured to himself. He hadn’t had much chance to explore, and since he was too annoyed to want to risk encountering his uncle—who was the person he was closest to in the whole family and the last person he wished to lose his temper with—he headed down the road.
He rode at a good pace, and passed Weston Manor. He felt a strange tingle in his spine as he rode past the big wrought-iron gates. It was forbidding, and yet he felt drawn to it. Again, he found his thoughts moving to Lady Martha. He wondered if she would come to the door if he knocked. It would be refreshing, he thought, to see her.
“Nicholas, stop it!” he sighed.
It was not seemly to think about the younger member of the family. He didn’t even know if she was marriageable. He was sure she must be at least nine-and-ten years of age, so that in itself was safe.
But it was not his place to think about Lady Martha. He should push those thoughts out of his mind.
He turned his horse away from the drive that led to Weston Manor, and went on down the road, wondering where it led.
After about half an hour of riding, he came to a village. It was small, and he hadn’t expected to find one there—it was so small that the retainer at Headly Hall hadn’t even mentioned it. He looked around. A cluster of houses—brick-built and neglected—stood on the roadside. He frowned to himself.
“Worth investigating,” he told himself. He had set out with the plan of getting to know the countryside and with the added intention of riding off some of his annoyance, which he had certainly not achieved. He wanted to stay out for at least another hour—until his father was safely occupied elsewhere—and so he turned left and rode into the village.
The first thing that struck him about the place was its small size. It had a single cobble road, which led up to a tired-looking inn with a trough of water for horses beside it, and two rows of houses, some of which appeared to be shops. More houses clustered around a church, the steeple of which he could just see over the roof of the inn. Feeling curious, he rode on down the street.
When he neared the church, Nicholas realized that he could hear music playing. He thought it was bagpipes at first, then it resolved into a whistle as he listened longer, and he wondered where it was. He looked to his right and noticed a small group on the green. There were tables and small tented structures, and he thought it must be a market of some kind. He rode towards it, wanting to have a good look.
If this region was going to be his home, he might as well find out more about it.
He dismounted and led his horse onto the green, looking for a place to tether him. The horse snorted as if he wasn’t too keen on the small group of people loitering around, and Nicholas stroked the midnight-dark nose of his horse, trying to reassure him.
“Easy, boy…just people. Let’s leave you here, eh, by this fence? Then I’ll have a look around, and come back for you. How’s that?”
He tethered his horse near the gate on one side of the green, feeling awkward lest somebody had heard him chatting to his horse. His father always scorned him, saying he had a soft heart and a softer head.
I’ll only be a moment.
He headed onto the green. Dew soaked his boots and he winced. He could smell food cooking, and his stomach twitched, registering how hungry he was. He had eaten little at dinner and missed breakfast. He followed the smell and arrived at a small stall which was selling baked goods. His stomach rumbled and he felt in his trouser pocket, glad to find a few coins.
“Good morning,” he greeted the stallholder.
“Well met, Lord Calperton!”
He turned around and stared. He had been addressing the person behind the counter, but the voice came from somewhere to one side. He looked down and found himself staring into the grinning face of Lady Martha.
“Lady Martha!” he said with surprise, temporarily forgetting the breakfast, the food, and the fair altogether. He felt his heart lift, seeing her. “Whatever are you doing?”
She chuckled. “I’m helping,” she said pertly. “I always help out at the village fair. This is Penitence’s aunt, Mrs. Ralford. Penitence and I always help at her stall.”
“I see,” Nicholas said, feeling more confused. The young lady with Lady Martha was almost exactly her age, he guessed, with a mass of blonde curls and bright blue eyes in a pretty face. She was smiling at him, but he thought she was nowhere near as lovely as Lady Martha.
She looks beautiful.
He stared at her. She was simply dressed in a muslin gown that must have seen a great deal of wear—it was threadbare at the waist and had a mend in the side as if she had fixed a tear in it. Her hair was wild, the curls framing her square-jawed, dreamy-eyed face.
He swallowed hard. He had never seen anybody look so lovely before. He cleared his throat.
“Lady Martha…you say you do this often?” he asked. “Where is this place?”
She giggled. “This is Westhall, Lord Calperton. The closest to us of all the villages and towns in the Earldom. It’s also the smallest. And I like it,” she added, with a strange defensiveness in her tone.
“I see,” he said. “Westhall.” He looked around, and remembered the tired inn, the cobbled road, and the houses at the roadside. It seemed a poor place, but he could tell she was proud of it, so didn’t want to say so. “What do you do here?” he asked.
“Visit people!” Lady Martha said, a grin lighting up her face. “So many nice people here to meet! There’s Mr. Churleigh, who owns the apothecary business, and Mrs. Hilford, who owns the grocer’s shop. And then there’s Mrs. Ralford, here, and Penitence. Such lovely folk!” she smiled, eyes bright.
“I see,” Nicholas said again, still feeling utterly confused. She spoke about the villagers as if she knew them personally, which was something he found very odd. Lady Martha was the daughter of the Earl of Westford. Why was she out here talking to grocers and apothecaries?
Lady Martha giggled. “You’re looking quite shocked!” she said. “But, won’t you buy some bread? I thought you were about to, and then I interrupted and spoiled the sale. Didn’t I, Mrs. Ralford? Not so useful today, am I?”
Her friend, Penitence, giggled. “You’re always useful, Lady Martha.”
Nicholas looked at both of them, his feelings of confusion growing worse. They looked like sisters, standing there giggling together, and it threatened the very fabric of his world. He had been raised to think of his sort—the nobility—as a breed apart. It was an idea he’d never thought he’d ascribed to, but, seeing Lady Martha act with no regard for it made him realize he still believed it.
Is it right, to be as casual as she is? Am I desperately arrogant, to think there’s something so bad about it?
He set aside his worries and turned his attention to the food before him. There were buns with sugar icing, and pies, and some very nice-looking little loaves of bread. He bought one of the latter—more a bun than a loaf—and paid for it.
“You ladies have eaten breakfast?” he asked the two who were looking up at him, seeming slightly amused at his discomfort. He bridled at that. They shouldn’t think of him as old-fashioned and snobbish! He lowered his arm with the still-warm bread in its cloth, frowning at them.
“Yes. Yes, thank you, Lord Calperton,” Martha answered pertly. “We have had a very fine breakfast. I wish you a fine repast,” she added.
He lifted an eyebrow, trying to tell if she was mocking him. As far as he could see, she was in earnest. He sighed.
“I will. I thank you.” He was about to leave, but he heard them both giggle again and he felt drawn to stay. He liked Lady Martha—in spite of her oddness. He paused. “Are you staying in the village?”
“I will stay here until midday,” Lady Martha answered instantly. “And then I should get myself home for luncheon, before I’m missed. Mama doesn’t know I’m here.” She looked up at him, face suspicious. “And please, don’t tell her I was here? She’d be vexed.”
“Of course,” he nodded. He was relieved to hear that her mother didn’t know where she was, though his thought was instantly followed with a blush of shame. Why did he think it was so shocking for her to be here? He went to the races at Newmarket, and far less salubrious types went there. And if he thought about the places his fellow young nobles w
ent, he would blush. A village fete was delightfully innocent. So why was he acting as if she’d done something shocking?
“You won’t tell her,” Lady Martha grinned. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want her to know you’d been here, too.”
She and Penitence chuckled as if that was funny, and he went red.
“Lady Martha, I assure you. I would not break your confidence because I would be dishonoring my promise to you…not to protect myself against being found out.”
He held her gaze. Her brown eyes lit with challenge, then softened slowly. “I know you would keep your word, Lord Calperton,” she said gently.
Lord Calperton blinked. He had been expecting an argument, but to hear her say that so gently took him by surprise.
“You know?” he asked.
She beamed at him. “You seem like the sort of person one can trust.”
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 4