“I don’t know as I would advise it, sir.” Ned Ostley, his gaze on the pink line that was barely detectable along the edge of the pad of Malcolm the Great’s hoof, pursed his lips and shook his head. “Could flare up again.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Hopkins put in placatingly, his gaze on Richard’s frowning face.
Ostley patted Malcolm’s glossy neck. “You won’t want to risk this fellow.”
Malcolm fixed his large eye on Richard as if to echo that sentiment; normally, after being idle for days, the horse would be fractious and wanting a run. Instead, the look in that dark eye spoke of peace and contentment and a disinclination to be disturbed.
Richard clenched his jaw. His hands gripping his hips, he drew in a deeper breath and tried to quell, or at least contain, the impulse urging him to flee.
Now, before anything more could occur between him and Jacqueline.
A decade and more of running from the advances of—in some cases, extremely inventive—young ladies had created a self-protective drive that gave no quarter. He could barely think through the alarm flooding his brain.
“Very well.” He forced out the words; there seemed little else he could say. “Tomorrow, then.” He looked at Malcolm. “But we will have to leave then.”
The horse snorted and looked away.
“So,” Hopkins said, turning to walk up the stable aisle beside Richard, “I suppose you’ll be going to the fair with Miss Jacqueline and the others, then, and I should saddle up the gelding along with Miss Jacqueline’s mare?”
And that, Richard suspected, was the real—or at least, another major—reason Ostley and Hopkins didn’t want him to leave. They’d heard through the household grapevine of their mistress’s difficulties with her would-be suitors the day before and that Richard had come to her aid. The pair—indeed, the whole household—would be infinitely happier if he accompanied Jacqueline to the fair.
If he had to remain at the Hall for another day, he would be happier with that arrangement, too. Regardless of his intention to flee her presence, the thought of her being prey to unwelcome attentions twisted something inside him.
He nodded. “Yes. Given I need to kick my heels for another day, visiting the fair”—even with your mistress—“will fill the time.”
A fair was an eminently public venue; as long as he resisted all attempts to create a private interlude—and heaven knew, he was experienced enough to have no qualms on that score—then acting as Jacqueline’s friendly protector for one more day shouldn’t pose any real risk.
He’d gone out to the stable early, hoping to get away as soon as the household was fully awake. With escape denied him, he parted from Hopkins in the stable yard and headed for the breakfast parlor.
From the instant Jacqueline joined him there, he remained on guard, but after that awkward scene the previous night, she’d clearly taken his intentions to heart; if anything, it was she who maintained a certain distance between them.
A distance, he now realized, that had not been there before, even at their first meeting.
Regardless, he could hardly cavil, and two hours later, as he walked by her side onto the fairground, he told himself he was glad of her understanding.
The field in which the fair was set up was located to the west of the village of West Pennard. The village lay on the road between Shepton Mallet and Glastonbury, so was easy to reach for all those interested in the fleeces, woolen cloth, leather, horn, and associated products displayed on the fifty-odd stalls that ringed the field. In between the farmers’ stalls were those of blacksmiths, farriers, and similar trades offering tools and equipment of interest to the farmers.
The stalls were arranged around the periphery of the field, while in the center, holding pens were filled with animals of various sorts, but mostly with sheep and lambs.
Jacqueline strolled the fair, circling past the stalls, nodding and exchanging greetings with the locals whose paths she crossed and pausing at the stalls of the Hall’s farmers to smile and speak encouragingly. She was determined to appear untroubled and unconcerned, to behave as she usually did, even though, inside, she was—still—railing against the fate that had sent Richard Montague riding into Balesboro Wood.
She felt more helpless than she’d ever felt before. Helplessness over fixing something that was wrong wasn’t an emotion she was accustomed to feeling, and it raked at her with sharpened claws. She wanted to reach for him, to shake him and force him to look at and appreciate what she could now so clearly see—what she was convinced could be theirs—the strength, the security, and the satisfaction that a union between them would bring to them both. To see how right such a marriage would be.
From where her unwavering belief drew its strength, she couldn’t have said, yet that did not diminish her absolute certainty in the least. She’d known him for only a matter of days, yet she now knew—beyond question—that he was hers. The one chosen to stand by her side.
The one ensnared by Balesboro Wood and sent to the Hall and her.
She wanted to speak of it, to give voice to her certainty and try to persuade him—
But she couldn’t.
The same powerful, irrefutable certainty that told her he was her rightful mate also insisted that only if he came to her, cleaved to her, of his own free will, with his own understanding—his own certainty—would they be able to claim what could be theirs.
She wanted to act, but there was no point in even trying.
The critical decision, in this instance, did not lie with her.
She slanted a sharp glance at Richard’s face, handsome and austere, his expression outwardly easy, yet to her educated eye, closed against all comers.
The fact he was pacing beside her was no help at all. While maintaining her outward calm, she was forced to constantly battle her senses’ obsession with him. But he’d made it clear that it was only the need to allow his horse another day to recover from the inflammation that had affected the beast’s hoof that was keeping him there, so her senses would soon have nothing to focus on. Metaphorically gritting her teeth, she forced herself to ignore his presence and concentrate on why she was there—the business of the fair.
If he and she were meant to be…
Despite the clamor of her emotions, it seemed she would have to place her trust in Fate and those higher powers said to guide the lives of such as she, the guardians of Nimway Hall.
A tug on her sleeve had her turning to find Elinor pointing to a nearby stall.
“There’s some very nice woolen lace over there.”
Jacqueline accompanied Elinor to the stall; to her relief, no one else seemed to have noticed the distant stiffness that had sprung up between her and Richard.
“Miss Tregarth! Well met, my dear lady!”
Jacqueline swung around to behold Lord Wootton bearing down upon her. His cheeks were ruddy, his fine, pale, not to say wispy hair covered by an over-large wig, he came striding past the stalls, his protuberant gaze, as usual, fixed on her.
She couldn’t help it; she glanced at Richard—only to find he was already strolling to resume his place by her side.
Instinctive protectiveness had spurred Richard into motion. Nevertheless, he was glad of Jacqueline’s wordless appeal; it silenced the niggling voice inside him that demanded to know by what right he was stepping in and how he could be certain Jacqueline wished him to. Her look gave him the license he craved.
His gaze locked on the approaching lord, he halted close by Jacqueline’s side, deliberately placing himself within the field of Wootton’s tunnel vision.
Wootton blinked, and his feet slowed. His eyes widened as his gaze dwelled on Richard, then Wootton visibly swallowed.
He couldn’t turn away without being obvious; perforce, he came forward, but in a much less forceful manner. He made Jacqueline a leg, and she curtsied.
“Sir.” With one hand, she indicated Richard. “I believe you met Mr. Montague yesterday.”
Richard exchanged a stiff
bow with his lordship.
Straightening, Wootton glanced briefly at Richard’s face, then, with increasing nervousness, looked at Jacqueline. “I…er, hope you enjoy your day about the stalls, Miss Tregarth. You and your party.” Wootton had noticed Elinor, who, after purchasing some lace, had turned and joined them; he bowed to her. Straightening, he tugged his coat down, then gripped the lapels as if for reassurance. His eyes shifted, as if he wasn’t sure where to look. “I…ah…must get on. A pleasure, as always. If you’ll excuse me?” He bowed again.
“Yes, of course.” Jacqueline inclined her head graciously.
Richard coolly half bowed.
Beside them, Elinor watched his lordship depart. A frown tangling her fine brows, she shook her head. “I’m so glad you’ve never wished to look in that direction, my dear. He really wouldn’t do.”
Richard glanced at Jacqueline—as she glanced at him, amusement glinting in her eyes. The sight soothed something inside him; he felt his lips curve and looked away.
To survey the crowd, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
He might not approve of the unreasoning, unrelenting pressure to protect Jacqueline that had, apparently, taken root in his soul, and he definitely didn’t like being helpless to deny it, yet the satisfaction that warmed him over accomplishing such a simple task as discouraging Wootton was undeniable.
Given he would be leaving on the morrow, he might as well accept the role his instincts urged on him and enjoy the small pleasures of the day.
He strolled beside Jacqueline, idly listening to her exchanges with her people as well as to various discussions and negotiations with farmers from farther afield.
Once again, he saw how tirelessly she worked to advance her farmers’ various causes; with a word here, a suggestion there, she was instrumental in sending a significant amount of business their way.
At one point, Richard glimpsed Sir Peregrine Wallace standing between two stalls at the edge of the field. Jacqueline had halted to speak with a stallholder; beside her, Richard stared at Wallace—until Wallace saw him.
Across the intervening yards, with warning and challenge in his eyes, he held Wallace’s gaze—until Wallace broke the contact. Wallace looked aside, then stepped into the flow of fairgoers and walked away.
Thereafter, Richard kept his eyes peeled; he—his instincts—did not trust Wallace, not even as far as he could throw him.
Five minutes later, Jacqueline and Elinor were busy investigating the offerings of a weaver from the north. Richard moved to the end of the stall the better to scan the shifting throng now packed between the stalls and the central animal pens. Almost immediately, his gaze was drawn to a personable gentleman with light-brown hair neatly tied back in a queue. The man’s appearance was a touch above most others Richard had seen thereabouts, but in a subtle way—he was well dressed, well turned out, his clothes of good quality and well chosen to make the most of his otherwise average stature. His features were good, the cast of his countenance pleasing.
The gentleman’s gaze was fixed on Jacqueline.
Richard glanced her way, just as she and Elinor parted from the weaver and turned to continue their stroll.
His senses locked on Jacqueline, Richard knew the instant she noticed the approaching gentleman; her eyes flared—not with pleasure—and she stiffened. She halted.
Even more alarming, Elinor also saw the gentleman and, halting, too, all but visibly bristled—like a frosty hedgehog.
Richard looked back at the gentleman, swiftly closing on his target, but the man was all smiles and nicely judged charm as he came to a halt before the two ladies and swept them both elegant bows.
“Miss Tregarth—Jacqueline, if I may presume on our long acquaintance. And Miss Swinford. It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am.”
Jacqueline rose from her instinctive curtsy and, before Elinor could speak, coldly stated, “Mr. Marbury.” She was certainly not going to call him David. This was the man who had broken her heart when she’d been young and still naive enough to think that any gentleman who wanted to marry her must at least feel affection for her. Clasping her hands before her, she raised her head and met his eyes with all the icy disdain she could muster. “I trust we see you well, sir.”
Marbury smiled—reminding her just how easy it had been to trust him. To trust in his glib assurances. If she hadn’t heard the truth of his view of her from his own lips, she would never have seen through his polished façade. “You perceive me in the pink of health, my dear Jacqueline. I don’t need to inquire of you or Miss Swinford—I can see that you both are prospering in every way.” Marbury’s gaze locked on Jacqueline’s face. “You remain as beautiful as ever, Jacqueline—indeed, with no fear of contradiction, I believe I can state that, over the past years, your beauty has only grown more pronounced.”
The compliment was delivered with a smiling expression designed to induce any young lady to lap up his words with a giddy sigh.
Coldly, she arched her brows. “Indeed, sir? But what brings you to the fair? I had not thought your interests ran to sheep.” She was no longer a young maid to be cozened by charm.
Marbury’s smile didn’t falter. “As you say, my interests are rather less bucolic.” He swung around, angling so that he put himself more definitely beside her. His gaze scanning the fairground, he went on, “I admit that I never understood, much less do I share, your liking for country life.” He lowered his voice. “However, I understand you are still unwed, fair Jacqueline. Consequently, given we so nearly tied the knot years ago, I wondered if, now you are older and no doubt less susceptible to missish sentiment, we might, perhaps, reassess the prospects of a joint future.” He returned his gaze to her face; although his expression remained pleasant, his eyes had grown harder. “Being a lady alone, coping with the business of an estate, makes you a target for the unscrupulous, my dear. You should really think about that.”
Fury burned, cold and crystalline, inside her. She held Marbury’s gaze, her own gaze level and direct. She was aware of Richard, two paces away at the end of the stall, watching, listening—waiting to ascertain whether Marbury, outwardly more suitable than any other of her would-be suitors, was a gentleman whose company she might wish to entertain.
But at Marbury’s last words, Richard’s features had hardened, and he’d tensed, but she was no longer the young girl she once had been. More, she was honestly incredulous that, given the manner of their parting, Marbury was yet so conceited he believed that he could return and cozen her into marrying him and losing control of Nimway Hall and all that went with it. “Mr. Marbury, allow me to assure you that I have absolutely no interest whatever in joining my future with yours or in linking myself in any way with you.”
Marbury’s assured composure cracked. His features tightened, and his tone was edged with contempt as he replied, “My dear Jacqueline, you fail to comprehend—”
“Sadly, sir, it appears to be you who lack comprehension.”
A frown marred Marbury’s handsome countenance, and he reached for her arm.
Deftly, she swung aside, preventing him from touching her. Her gaze flicked Richard’s way to find him closing the short distance to her side; she returned her gaze to Marbury and, with a graceful gesture, indicated Richard. “Mr. Marbury, I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Montague.”
Plainly taken aback, Marbury blinked at Richard; a hint of unease flashed through his eyes before his face hardened.
Richard met Marbury’s coldly irritated gaze with one of arrogant dismissal. With specious politeness, he half bowed. “Sir.”
Lips tight, Marbury was forced to return the courtesy. As he straightened, his gaze flicked to Jacqueline.
Richard spoke before Marbury could. “My dear, time is passing”—he gave full rein to his London drawl—“and I regret to say that if you wish to call on all your farmers, we’d best be moving on.”
“Indeed.”
Smoothly, he offered his arm; equally smoothly, Ja
cqueline reached for it. Something primitive inside him calmed at the touch of her hand on his sleeve, the weight as it settled there.
Dripping aloof superiority, he directed a brief nod Marbury’s way. “Sir. A pleasure.” A glib and customary phrase; in this case, the words were patently meaningless.
With a glance, Richard gathered Elinor, who, judging by her bright eyes, was pleased and entirely approving of his actions. With his head arrogantly high—ignoring Marbury as if he had already disappeared from their view—Richard steered Jacqueline on.
Until Marbury had reached for her arm, Richard had been trapped by indecision as he’d weighed up what his instincts were urging against the observations of his rational mind. Marbury appeared significantly more acceptable than Jacqueline’s other suitors. As Richard was leaving the next day, and as Jacqueline was definitely not his in any way—given he was refusing to lay claim to her—what right had he to interfere with Marbury’s suit?
Thus had spoken his rational mind. His instincts had paid not the slightest heed.
All they had seen was Marbury’s over-glib utterances and Jacqueline’s icy reaction; there was, transparently, some past history between them.
Then Marbury had tried to touch her—to coerce her—and that had been that. Jacqueline turning to him had simply confirmed that he’d been right to step in.
He might not be the marrying sort, but he was definitely the protective sort, and at least in his mind, he’d accepted the title of Jacqueline’s protector for that day.
They halted before another stall, and with a soft “Thank you,” Jacqueline drew her hand from his sleeve.
He squelched the impulse to reach out, snare her hand, and return it to that soothing spot. Instead, he waited patiently while she and Elinor chatted and exchanged news with one of the Hall’s farmwives. But when Jacqueline rejoined him and, with Elinor trailing behind, they walked on side by side, he noticed a frown lurking in her eyes. He seriously doubted the frown had been occasioned by the farmwife, who had been a jolly sort, excited and content with her day thus far, and it hadn’t been there before Marbury had accosted her.
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1750 - JACQUELINE Page 16