He turned around and walked out of the room.
He was vibrating with anger and horror. He didn’t want his father to know what an impact he had made, so he went sedately down the stairs and into his room. There, he gripped the wardrobe door and slammed it with a mix of frustration and rage.
A curse on that man!
His father was infuriating, but he should not have the power to make Nicholas feel like this. He should not let his father dictate his moods this way. He took a deep breath and sat down on the bed.
“I’ll go to Weston Manor first,” he told himself aloud, making plans. “And then I’ll go to Uncle’s home. If Martha needs me, she should go there. I am sure Uncle would allow her to stay, as well, if she needed it.”
He stood up and shrugged on his coat, tugging on his boots before he ran briskly down the stairs and out of the front door. He vaulted into the saddle and did not stop until he reached Weston Manor.
As soon as he got there, he reined to a halt, the gravel spraying up around his horse’s hoofs. He threw himself from the saddle and ran up the steps to the front door, heedless of who saw him. Heart thumping, still not quite able to forget about his father’s dark words, he knocked at the door.
“Good afternoon?” a stern-faced man greeted him. He vaguely recognized him and he was sure the man would likewise remember him, too.
“I’m here to speak with Lady Martha. Is she in? It’s urgent,” he demanded.
The older man raised an eyebrow, but nodded slowly. “I will inform her directly,” he said.
Nicholas stood on the doorstep, pacing with impatience. He didn’t know why exactly, but a horrible sense of urgency had descended on him. He felt a crushing relief as Martha appeared in the hallway.
“Nicholas?” she frowned.
“Martha!” he bowed swiftly and rested a hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. “Are you safe? What happened?”
Martha frowned up at him, a small smile twisting her lips. “Nicholas? Yes…I’m quite safe. Nothing untoward happened to me. Since you left, I have discussed the matter with my mother. She was less than pleased, but I believe that the result will be that there is less…restriction on my movement from now.”
“Oh.” He felt a sudden outpouring of relief. “That was very brave,” he added with a small smile.
Martha paused for a moment. “It was not easy, no,” she agreed. “But it had to be done. And now, well, now I suppose we are free.”
She looked up at him and he felt his heart melt as he looked into her eyes. The enormity of it was amazing. They had outlasted all that pain and horror, and now they were free to be together as they had always wished to be.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, we are free.”
She looked up at him and he looked down at her and then he bent down and pressed his lips to hers. They were in the entrance way of her house, and he realized that it didn’t matter anymore.
He held her body against him and tasted the sweetness of her lips and he felt as if he was melting into her. Her lips were as soft as petals and he shivered as his tongue brushed them, an ache of longing that was almost too much to bear growing inside him. His eyes were shut and his arms wrapped around her body, feeling the softness of her pressed against his firm chest, his hands at her waist. He felt as if he never wanted to stop kissing her. His body tingled and ached, and all the tension and horror of the last months disappeared and left him feeling safe.
The longing grew more intense as she stroked her hand down his back. He stepped away, knowing that if he did not he would never be able to. His chest heaved and he looked at her, wonder and amazement flooding through his veins.
She smiled up at him shyly, her eyes filled with hesitance and joy. He looked down at her and stroked her hair and his heart filled with light. He knew, now that they could be together, things would be different. He couldn’t wait to find out what would happen.
Chapter 32
Martha went up to her bedroom, feeling dazed and as if she was floating. She smiled to herself, thinking of the conversation she’d just had with Nicholas. And that kiss.
She had never imagined anything could feel as wonderful. Her cheeks flushed as she recalled how it felt as his lips pressed to hers, his tongue probing to pass between them. Her body tingled and she ached to hold him against her once again, to feel that sweetness and joy flood through her again.
Her mind drifted to the conversation they had afterwards, about what they would do now that it was possible for them to do as they pleased. They had discussed their plans and it had all felt almost dreamlike, it was so wonderful.
She stood up from the bed, where she’d been lying, lost in thought, and went to her desk.
“I need to write to Father.”
Her mind moved to the immediate needs of the future and a small frown creased her brow. Now that she knew the true events around her mother’s decline, she knew absolutely that her letter had never reached him. She and Nicholas had both agreed that the first thing they should do was inform her father, the Earl, of the situation.
But what can I say to him?
She put her head on one side. There was no way she could tell him the whole story, she decided. She was not going to expose the lie her mother had told, or tell him that she had written and her letter had gone missing.
She dipped her quill in the inkwell and started to write.
Dear Father,
I trust you are in good health and that London is not exerting too many demands. I regret to inform you that matters at home have been somewhat difficult. While the difficulties are now resolved, I would dearly like to request that—if your business does not hold you in the city—you might return to the countryside. I hope to explain matters to you in person at your earliest convenience.
Yours sincerely, Martha.
She leaned back in the chair and read over the letter. It was extremely formal, but that was simply because if she even tried to express how she felt, it would take five sheets of paper to attempt it. She hoped that the tight formality would alert her father to how difficult matters had been. She reached for sealing wax and sealed it, then called for Penitence. She was not trusting anyone else with her letters from now on.
“My Lady!” Penitence looked happy. “You wish me to take that letter to the village? Of course.”
Martha looked at her, head tilted. “What?” she asked, grinning at Penitence. Her maid looked unusually cheerful.
“Oh! That was Lord Calperton, was it not, My Lady? I saw him leave now.” Her eyes were bright.
“Yes,” Martha said guardedly. “Why?”
Penitence chuckled warmly. “Nothing, My Lady. Nothing at all. Will you be going somewhere tomorrow?”
“No,” Martha said, still grinning, though a frown crossed her brow. “Why would you ask that?”
“No reason, My Lady.” Penitence said. “I’ll take your letter down to the village.”
“Thank you,” Martha said, still wondering what exactly had possessed her maid. She only realized after Penitence had gone that she must have seen her kiss Lord Calperton in the hallway. The gossip must have done the rounds of the servant’s quarters.
She smiled. She couldn’t possibly be angry or offended—not when she was so happy.
She sat down at her desk again, and was still sitting there when she heard footsteps going past the door. They were rather fast, light steps, and she stuck her head out curiously. Amelia was at the top of the stairs. When she saw Martha, she turned around with a big smile.
“Sister! There you are. I was just going up to fetch my cloak. Alton is here. He wanted to ask me to go for a walk with him. Rochelle will go with us. There’s still an hour or two before dinner.”
Martha felt her heart fill with warmth and she nodded at once. “Of course. Enjoy the walk. I am thinking of going for a ride, myself. Miss Millway, my riding instructor, will be here this afternoon, so I might as well.”
“Of course,” Amelia said with a grin. �
�And when I get back, I thought I might try that new book of Chopin sonatas. If there’s time after dinner.”
Martha nodded as her sister ran lightly off.
She went down to the kitchen, looking for Miss Millway. She found her at the kitchen table.
“I want to go up to the woods,” she said.
An idea had been forming in her mind since the early afternoon. She had to return Lord Redfield’s cloak to him, so why not combine the two excursions into one? She would be perfectly safe, and there was no reason anymore to fear going there.
“Of course, Lady Martha. We can set off at once.”
The day was cloudy, but a breeze came up and started to blow away the clouds as they headed up the hill towards the manor. Martha felt tense, thinking that maybe Miss Millway knew about the ban and would try to dissuade her from going to the manor.
“Are we stopping, Lady Martha?” Miss Millway asked as they neared the place. Martha nodded. Her throat felt too tight for speech, that terrible fear of her mother’s anger coming back for a moment.
“Yes,” she managed. “I have a need to speak with Lord Redfield. If you might accompany me in?”
“Of course, Lady Martha.”
Martha nodded her thanks. She hadn’t experienced this feeling of impending horror on her first visit.
I can do this. Mama betrayed me and I no longer owe her unquestioning obedience. I never owed anybody that.
Martha took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“My Lady?” the butler looked at her in astonishment. He also looked pleased, she thought. “Why, this is unexpected! Wait a moment…I will inform his lordship of your visit.”
A moment later, still smiling, he showed her in. Miss Millway followed her into the hallway. Martha looked up at the vaulted ceiling and felt her resolve waver. She was considering just leaving the cloak—which she’d brought bundled up—when Lord Redfield appeared.
“My Lady,” he said, and bowed low. “I was not expecting visitors. Welcome. Welcome,” he added, nodding to Miss Millway. “This is a surprise. Will you take tea with me? I will have it sent to the drawing room at once.”
Martha looked at Miss Millway, who lifted a shoulder. She let out a steadying breath. “Yes, please. That would be very nice.”
They followed him up the stairs.
Martha sat down on the chaise lounge, looking around the drawing room. She had been so cold and daunted on her first visit that she’d barely noticed her surroundings. Now, as she studied the walls with their green acanthus-leaf paper and the Restoration-style furniture, she wondered how long Lord Redfield’s family had lived here, and in what a penurious state he must find himself. Everything was so old.
“My Lady,” he said, interrupting her thoughts as the butler came in with a trolley. “I must ask you to forgive my inhospitality—I am so unaccustomed to visitations.”
Martha thanked him as he poured her a cup of tea. “I assure you, your hospitality is not lacking,” she said. She nodded as Miss Millway took a cup of tea and a plate of cake, and then headed away to the other side of the room. When Martha looked around to check where she was, she saw her studying the paintings.
Martha glanced around the room, noting the sheer number of paintings. There were studies of landscapes, some paintings of horses and coaches, and so many paintings of people.
There were portraits of ladies and gentlemen, a painting of a farmer, and some of everyday folk. Martha was struck by the tenderness with which the faces were rendered. Whoever had painted them had a caring outlook and had portrayed the people with compassion and insight.
“I can’t help admiring the collection of artwork you have,” Martha remarked, sipping her tea. “Whoever rendered these is a great artist.”
She was surprised when Lord Redfield went crimson. “No…not all that great,” he said awkwardly. “My Lady, they are work of my own hand.”
“You painted them?” she asked, dumbfounded. She was surprised—not only because it was uncommon for nobility to paint as more than an occasional hobby—but also because of how fine the paintings were, and how sensitive.
“My Lady, I confess, I did. A childish hobby, I’m afraid. I am rather ashamed to own up to it.”
Martha gaped. “You have no need to be ashamed!” she exclaimed. “You have remarkable talent. You should be very proud of yourself for these. You have a skill such as is rarely seen.”
He looked up, and Martha thought his hazel eyes looked surprised, and also pleased. His careworn, lined face was still, but his eyes shone. “Thank you, My Lady,” he said softly. “Only one other person has ever been as encouraging as you. That means a great deal to me.”
The paintings were truly good, and Martha was shocked that Lord Redfield had never noticed that himself. She could wish to have such immense talent herself—and she had always been congratulated on being particularly good at portraits.
“You should know how talented you are,” she said softly.
“Thank you,” he said again. Martha thought his lined face looked deeply moved. “Forgive my earlier remarks. My father always said it was a stupid waste of time.”
Martha could imagine that all too well. As a young lady, she was expected to paint, draw, sing, and learn the modern languages. As a gentleman, however, he would have been coerced into all manner of outdoor pursuits, and painting would be frowned upon.
“He might have said it, but it didn’t make it true,” she said simply.
He looked away and she could see on his face how moved he was. She guessed he would prefer to forget about the paintings when he changed the subject.
“It looks like the rain might return. I trust you have a means to get home safely?”
Martha nodded. “We rode here. Miss Millway will ensure I get back safely—she’s my riding instructor.”
They talked for a while longer about riding, the landscape, and the rain and how it was so good for the farms. Safe, ordinary things that had nothing to do with the past, or the paintings on the walls. After they had finished their cake and tea, she put aside her plate and glanced at Miss Millway.
“We should go back,” she said carefully to Lord Redfield. She sensed he was feeling a little emotional. “I must return in time for dinner.”
“Of course, My Lady,” he said, getting to his feet. “Is there something I can do? My manservant can escort you as far as your lodging?”
Martha shook her head, touched by his offer. “Thank you, but we will be quite safe. And thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
Lord Redfield bowed again. “Of course. Of course. Anything I can do to help, I would be only too pleased.”
Martha nodded. “Thank you, Lord Redfield. Take care.”
She curtseyed and said her farewells, and she and Miss Millway rode back to the house together.
As she rode, Martha found herself thinking a great deal about Lord Redfield. He seemed so lonely, and so sad. She sensed there was some story in his past, and she wished she knew what it might be.
“What a rare sort, eh?” Miss Millway said as they rode. “And all those paintings! So strange.” She shook her head gravely.
“Why should he not have paintings?” Martha asked, feeling nettled. “I think painting is a very worthy pastime for a gentleman.”
“Oh, of course. Excuse me, My Lady. I meant no rudeness by that.”
“I know,” Martha said gently. “I should not have spoken so harshly.”
She couldn’t help thinking about the paintings all the way back. They were so careful and so talented, and she also felt as if the style—the looser brush-strokes, the use of high contrast—was somehow familiar. She was still thinking about it as she went upstairs to her bedroom. She filed the thought away, sure that the reason for it would become apparent soon enough.
It had been a long and eventful day, and she was pleased when, an hour later, she sat down at the table for dinner. Amelia was there, too.
“Mama said she would not join us for dinner,�
� Martha informed her.
“Oh,” Amelia said. She looked radiant.
They had a wonderful dinner—just the two of them together—and Martha was amazed by how much she enjoyed it.
When she went up to bed, she drifted off to sleep almost at once. Her thoughts were filled with a mix of lovely images from the day, and of Lord Redfield’s paintings. The questions they raised were still in her mind, and she wondered if she would ever know the answers to any of them.
Chapter 33
Nicholas looked out of the window of the breakfast room, smelling the rich scent of warm tea and toast. He could see the sunlight through the autumnal mist that hung over his uncle’s garden. He felt deeply peaceful and he found himself drifting in a haze of relaxing thoughts.
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 24