“The dress is warm, as evening gowns go.” She readjusted the green shawl to more effectively cover her shoulders. “I will go up to bed soon, my lord, I promise.”
“You promised Aunt Penny the same thing more than an hour ago. What sort of lady breaks her word to a frail, elderly woman?”
He remained by the hearth, elbow propped on the mantel. The fireplace threw out the only heat to be had, and he liked being near enough to Lady Margaret to enjoy her flowery scent.
“Aunt Penny is diminutive,” Lady Margaret replied. “She is far from frail. I want to be just like her, should I be allotted my threescore and ten.”
“You want to enjoy disrupting the king’s peace? To thrive on creating chaos and misrule?” Though, Marcus liked Aunt Penny. No guessing where one stood with her, no carefully assembling a litany of flattery, no boring eternities spent listening to the same stories over and over.
“You are scowling, my lord. I think Aunt Penny does what she can to ensure that the peace enjoyed by others is genuine, and she thrives on being herself.”
“I am scowling because I have just realized the true nature of my dealings with my own sister. I treat her as if she’s already elderly and difficult, and I do believe that’s exactly how she wants to be treated, though she’s no older than you.”
Lady Margaret set her quill in the pen tray and tidied her documents. “My brother has the same effect on me. I’m always placating, tiptoeing, tacitly begging for forgiveness, approval being a lost cause. I’m lately wondering why this arrangement has gone on so long, though it comes down to money.”
The late hour, the closed door, the firelight… They apparently inspired honesty.
“Your brother holds your purse strings?” That arrangement would be expected, unless Entwhistle’s late father or a surviving Entwhistle brother performed that office.
“He does not, I having no purse strings worth holding. Should the day ever come when my means are gone, Lucien is all Charlotte has. I antagonize him at peril to her well-being.”
No purse strings? No means at all? For an earl’s daughter, such a situation was unheard of. “Surely you have a widow’s mite, a jointure of some kind?”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back to rest against the chair. That posture was nearly alluring, exposing the graceful curve of her throat, the hint of collarbones, the clean line of her chin.
Perhaps I had too much wine with dinner. Or not enough.
“I had a jointure. I was eighteen when I married Peter and much consumed with having become a mother. The settlements were a hasty affair, and I was not informed of the details. My father was still alive then, though fading, and I gather he did not feel it wise to press too hard for financial contributions when Mr. Entwhistle Senior was unhappy with his son. Papa doubtless trusted that my family would always be able to provide for me.”
A dying man might strike that bargain, but Marcus could not respect him for it. “Your family refuses to provide for you?”
“I get on poorly with my sister-in-law. I doubt anybody would fare well with her, but her fortune revived the earldom’s flagging health very nicely. When Charlotte was three, Evelyn and I had a very great row over one of the governesses, who was much given to beating small children. I left the family seat, confident I could manage on the monthly funds the solicitors sent me.”
Beating… small… children. “Of course you left. She likely hired that governess expressly to drive you out.”
Lady Margaret studied him. “Do you think so? Evelyn is quite religious. She has a Bible verse for every occasion—nearly all of them Old Testament—and spare the rod was ever on her lips.”
“But was the rod applied to her children, too, or only to Charlotte?”
“To be fair, caning in the nursery was not limited to Charlotte, but Charlotte was the youngest by several years, and she caught the worst of it. My brother refused to intervene, and Charlotte was developing a nervous disposition. Evelyn claimed a three-year-old was having nightmares and accidents to curry my sympathy. I had to leave.”
Marcus fetched a pillow and lowered himself to sit on the raised hearth behind the desk. Very unlordly of him, but the night had reached an unlordly hour, and his day had been long.
“For the countess to use the child to establish household despotism was a low, scurrilous tactic.”
“Her tactic was effective. I flounced off in high dudgeon, consigning myself to the comfort of righteous penury. That worked for about six months, then the solicitors informed me I would soon receive the final payment from the funds due me as a function of my marriage.”
Her ladyship spoke dispassionately, reciting a tale of long ago and far away, in a land where young widows learned hard lessons.
“You were receiving payments from the principal, rather than from interest?”
“So I was told. My lord, this is all very old news, and the hour does grow late. If you leave me to my labors, I will go up to bed within the hour.”
Lady Margaret’s eyes were shadowed, and not simply from bodily fatigue. This recitation, more betrayal from Entwhistle and from her own family, wearied her in spirit.
“Now you spout falsehoods, and you look quite convincing doing it, but I am on to your tricks, Lady Mistletoe. We never did decide where the infernal kissing bough should go.”
“You need not have a kissing bough if you don’t want one.”
Marcus abruptly and quite passionately wanted at least three, all hanging in close proximity to wherever Lady Margaret tarried. The impulse took him halfway by surprise, but also halfway as confirmation of a looming suspicion.
He was attracted to his houseguest. Of all the peculiar turns to be served by a body that had mostly learned to leave him in peace.
“I will have my kissing boughs,” he said, “so Aunt Penny can ambush the unsuspecting. She has a powerful sense of humor, which the footmen apparently share.”
“I love that about her,” Lady Margaret said. “I have not laughed in ages as I laughed at dinner.”
Aunt Penny had told a story about Marcus’s own father, one from Papa’s misspent youth, before Mama had sorted him out.
“I enjoyed her stories too.” Marcus had enjoyed seeing Lady Margaret relaxed, relishing a good meal, attired as an earl’s daughter should be. He did not enjoy contemplating the realities she faced. “Would your brother truly leave his own niece on the parish if your ability to provide faltered?”
“That is the question, is it not? I don’t think he would. Peter appointed me guardian of Charlotte’s person in his will. She is a girl, and I believe he was making a final statement regarding whose ‘fault’ Charlotte’s conception was. It’s unusual, but a widow can have custody of her children.”
The Duchess of Kent had legal custody of her daughter, Princess Vicky, as a result of her husband’s documented final wishes. The child’s royal uncles were most unhappy with that arrangement, but it was entirely legal.
“So you bear the burden of Charlotte’s expenses.” And thus, of dowering Charlotte when that daunting task arose. “I could have a word with your brother. A word involving my fists, pistols, or swords.”
Marcus didn’t approve of dueling in the usual course, but a duel to the first touch or first blood could force a man to address an oversight of honor.
Lady Margaret stroked his hair with ink-stained fingers, brushing an errant lock back from his brow. “You are such a sweet man. You cannot know what a lovely offer that is, but I am playing a chess game against my brother—or against his countess—and the cost of my defeat will land on Charlotte. I cannot afford to antagonize him. The best I can hope for is a draw.”
The hour approached midnight, and Marcus was distracted by a surprisingly insistent desire, but Lady Margaret’s situation sat ill with him. Some aspect of the battle with her brother wanted further study. Why would an earl reduce his own sister to penury? Why cling to an old scandal so ferociously? Why wouldn’t a conscientious brother do all he cou
ld to bury the talk regarding Charlotte’s illegitimacy? If the titleholder acknowledged the mother and child enthusiastically, polite society would at least tolerate them.
Marcus would consult Aunt Penny on the matter and have a word with Papa and Eliza. Lady Margaret’s situation needed pondering.
And the lady herself needed her rest. “You are cautious where your family is concerned, a sentiment I share. One loves them, but one treads carefully. If you should develop a lung fever, you will be in no fit state to decorate anything but a sickroom, my lady, and your family will deal with me most un-carefully. Won’t you please allow me to light you to your room?”
Because he sat on the hearth, and she’d turned the chair behind the desk toward the flames, they were nearly at eye level. Another question came to Marcus’s mind: Won’t you please share a kiss with me?
He sat back and consulted his pocket watch. “You will never last through tomorrow’s great busyness if you go short of sleep again tonight. I can have a maid wake you early, but let’s to bed, shall we?”
The question should have been a brisk conclusion, not an occasion for the lady to smile—to smile mischievously—at his wording.
“Your effusions of charm have convinced me, my lord, as has my aching back. If I remain here much longer, I will fall asleep over my papers anyway. An early waking would be appreciated. You are well advised to go out tomorrow immediately after breaking your fast. You will think a thousand devils have invaded your house at first light.”
A few imps had apparently invaded Marcus’s imagination, for Lady Margaret was looking more kissable by the moment. He rose and offered her his hand.
“The arms of Morpheus await, as do warmed sheets, snug quilts, and soft pillows. I will call upon family tomorrow, and your invading army can plunder the peace of my home unopposed. Expect Aunt Penny to appoint herself your second-in-command.”
Lady Margaret took his hand—her fingers were like ice—and rose. “I have never had a second-in-command. We will either come to blows or conquer the known world together.” She leaned closer, close enough to drop her forehead against his chest. “Thank you for your many kindnesses, my lord. For the first time in ages, as the holiday season approaches, I wish somebody very specific well-earned, sincere joy.”
She straightened quickly, before Marcus could turn the moment into an embrace. Where the hell had his reflexes gone, the ones that had saved him so often in battle? He inquired politely about Charlotte’s knee on the way up the steps, he asked what time her ladyship would like to be awakened—roused had almost come out of his mouth—and he made sure the candles in her sitting room were lit before offering her a good-night bow.
“And good night to you, too, my lord. I did not think it possible, but I am enjoying the hospitality you have extended, and I know Charlotte will treasure the time we’ve spent in your household.”
Marcus set aside his candle and possibly the last of his wits too. “Is that an early farewell? If so, might I ask for a farewell kiss?”
He kept his hands to himself when he made that request, for this woman had been ill-used, and the consequences to her had been grave. Still, he did not withdraw the question. She was no defeated wretch to be cozened into reluctant folly. She was a very self-possessed female and the first lady to attract his masculine notice since he’d sold his commission several years ago.
“I ask for only a kiss,” he clarified, “one freely shared. Or I can bid you good night and make no mention of this request ever again.”
Oh splendid. She was smiling at him again as if he’d bungled a recitation of Wellington’s titles. “You have stolen other kisses?”
“On rare occasion.”
“You aren’t very good at it, asking permission first, offering assurances of discretion and disclaimers of honorable conduct. If you were a thief, you’d summon the watch to observe your crime before you committed it.”
“I am not a thief, and a shared kiss is the furthest thing from a crime. Sending a fellow off to mind his own business is certainly a lady’s prerogative as well.”
He wanted to kiss her—and more—but he also liked standing close to her and debating the philosophy of flirtation.
She gathered her shawls, and Marcus resigned himself to a night spent in self-recrimination—after he’d indulged in self-gratification. Instead, Lady Margaret opened her shawls like angel wings and stepped near enough to envelop him in their warmth.
“My holiday token,” she said. “It’s time I bestowed one out of joy, rather than duty. Past time.”
And then she pressed upon him the sweetest, boldest, most luscious kiss imaginable.
Meg tried to hide in her rooms when the household began to stir in the morning. She wanted to enjoy a few minutes of peace and privacy over a cup of tea and a buttery croissant.
She also wanted to hide from Lord Marcus.
The man reading his newspaper at the breakfast table could not possibly measure up to the swain who’d kissed her good night. His military bearing had turned to a sheltering embrace, his hands had ever so gently urged her closer. That mouth of his, usually a grim, disapproving line frequently making crisp pronouncements and issuing terse commands, had turned tender and subtle.
His lordship was a terror, or perhaps Meg’s limited amatory experience was the problem. She’d had no idea a man could send a woman’s wits fleeing straight up the chimney with a good-night kiss. She’d told herself Peter’s initial overtures had been masterful. In hindsight, Peter had been pushy and crude.
Lord Marcus had been—why not be honest?—wonderful. He’d parted from her on a polite bow, but he’d also kissed her lingeringly on the cheek before disappearing into the corridor. Meg had ducked into her bedroom and leaned against a bedpost, her insides a-flutter, her mind full of doves on the wing and merry choruses.
In the frigid light of dawn, the doves had departed for warmer climes, taking Meg’s courage with them.
She was startled out of her ruminations by a sharp rap on her bedroom door. “Wake up, child. We’ve work to do and cinnamon buns to consume.”
“Come in, Aunt Penny.”
“You are awake and dressed. All to the good, or Marcus will escape before we can interrogate him. He mustn’t be allowed to wander off before we’ve given him his orders.”
Aunt was dressed all in green, a miniature version of Father Christmas, though to Meg’s knowledge, that venerable figure had never worn a bright gold shawl and gold slippers. More fool he, because Aunt looked both festive and warm.
“I had a croissant,” Meg said. “You may interrogate his lordship in private, while I look over my schedules one last time.”
“One croissant? No wonder you are so wraithlike. You must fortify yourself for the ordeal ahead, my dear. I know of what I speak.” She thumped her cane on the carpet, making the tea service on the hassock rattle.
“The ordeal of decorating the foyer? I assure you, ma’am, that as ordeals go, that one—”
Aunt thumped her cane again and started for the door. “Of course I don’t mean a spot of decorating. You know what you’re about when it comes to the boughs of holly and so forth. I mean the ordeal of putting up with Marcus early in the day. The poor boy left his sense of humor in Spain and his grasp of joy somewhere on the slopes of the Pyrenees.”
No, he hadn’t, though perhaps he’d tucked that sense of joy so far out of sight it might as well be misplaced. Meg followed Aunt from the sitting room into the corridor. “His lordship intends to visit family today. You need not give him orders.”
“Of course he’ll visit family. Heaven knows they can’t be bothered to call upon him. I vow Maria was the pick of the litter, and she had the bad form to go and die on us. Cathcart is bereft, of course, but then, they were a love match.”
“Cathcart, ma’am?”
Aunt was off and down the steps. “The present titleholder, Cathcart Helmsford Aurelius Boethius Bannerfield, whom I have known since he was still in dresses. He spends more t
ime moping in his library than being a marquess. I’ve been tempted to take him in hand, even if he is getting a tad venerable. One doesn’t want to intrude on grief.”
Heaven help the marquess. “One needs friends most when one is grieving.”
“You grieved for that ridiculous Entwhistle boy? I’m sorry to hear it. The story that went around was he had to be tied to the mast and brought back to England bodily to do his duty by you and the child. That is not the conduct of a man overcome with devotion. Don’t waste your youthful good looks grieving for the likes of him.”
That was certainly honest. “Not even a little?”
Aunt waved a hand adorned with white lace finger gloves. “Oh, one must observe the expected rituals. He was cut down in his prime, the flower of young manhood and all that, but he was a rotter. A disappointment to his papa, who no doubt sent him to the military where his swaggering about wouldn’t cause a scandal. Somebody should have made sure he never stood within twenty feet of you.”
She peered at Meg as if this observation merited a reply.
“That somebody would have been me, and I was apparently not up to the task.”
They had reached the breakfast parlor, and Meg longed to step down the corridor and examine her reflection in the nearest mirror. She wore another borrowed dress, a lusciously warm raspberry velvet with a cream underskirt that rustled softly as she walked. A pair of black wool stockings—cashmere, perhaps?—had been included with the dress, and Meg was warm despite the chill permeating the house.
“You had been out exactly one Season when you met Entwhistle,” Aunt said. “I recall the sensation you made, how everybody remarked on your resemblance to your mama, and how proud she would have been of you. She would still be proud of you, you know. Somebody needed to stand up to young Webberly. I know he’s your brother, but men have it all their way all too often. It is our bounden duty to keep them humble despite their conceits.”
After that extraordinary speech, Aunt pushed into the breakfast parlor, letting a warm whiff of cinnamon and butter into the corridor.
Yuletide Wishes: A Regency Novella Duet Page 6