Daisy tilted her head to the side in contemplation. “I doubt that is the case. For it sounds like he has known happiness and contentment in the past. Perhaps he is fearful of finding it again.”
“Because there is the risk of losing it,” Marigold said, nodding her head, following Daisy’s thoughts. “I suppose I can understand that.”
“But why, Marigold?” Daisy asked, eyeing her once more. “Why does it bother you if that is the life he chooses?”
“Oh, you know me,” Marigold said with a bit of a laugh, “I do not like to allow anyone to suffer.”
“Is there anything else to it?” Daisy asked. “Do you feel anything for him?”
“Well, of course. I pity him,” she said.
“And nothing more?”
Marigold shook her head, though she could feel turmoil roiling within her stomach.
“What more could there be?” she asked.
“I’m not sure… affection, perhaps? Some desire?”
“No!” Marigold exclaimed, refusing to acknowledge the thought. “He is quite rude, and I believe it would be easier to have Clover speak than to convince him to do so.”
“I was simply asking,” Daisy said, shrugging. “You never know.”
“Besides, he is a marquess,” Marigold said, holding up her hands, which only caused Daisy to laugh.
“Nathaniel is a duke, and look where we are now,” she responded. “All I ask of you, Marigold, is that you do not allow yourself to be hurt by him, all right?”
“Of course,” Marigold said, and then Daisy turned her attention to the dog.
“Now, how do we convince Father to allow you to keep Clover?”
“I had thought he would be overcome by affection for him,” Marigold said with a sigh. “But so far, that is not the case. He likes him well enough, but he worries that he will be a nuisance to the boarders.”
“Has he been so far?”
“Only to one boarder in particular,” Marigold responded, biting her lip.
“Well,” Daisy said contemplatively, “I have come to learn that people can certainly change, so it is best not to assume too much. That being said, Marigold, you are my main concern. I know how upsetting it is to you when one of your creatures doesn’t make it, and I do not want a man such as this marquess to break your heart.”
“Have you heard anything about him, or his name mentioned, since you’ve been in London?” Marigold asked, curious.
“No,” Daisy shook her head. “But then, I haven’t been there long and I have yet to make many friends, though I have come to be acquainted with some women.”
“Yes, tell me of your life in London!” Marigold exclaimed, eager to know more. She didn’t think she would ever want to live in such a place herself, but she was excited to hear of Daisy’s new world.
Daisy was happy to share, and Marigold sat back contentedly to listen, though her mind remained on Daisy’s words and a certain surly marquess.
* * *
Marigold had always been a light sleeper, particularly now that Clover slept on the floor beside her bed — or in her bed, as the case may be. She knew she was likely creating a bad habit, but she couldn’t help the comfort of his little warm body curled up beside her when she drifted off to sleep.
Now he was spinning in circles, around and around in the bed beside her, and Marigold finally sat up to determine just what was wrong. Finally, he made to squat and Marigold sprang out of bed to swoop him up in her arms.
“Oh, no you don’t!” she exclaimed as she raced out the door of her bedroom and down the stairs, opening the back door so that he could get out in time to relieve himself. That was one problem with a puppy, she had soon learned. It was also why her father would prefer the dog live out of doors, perhaps at the stable next door. But Marigold had managed to keep him from making any trouble in the house — so far.
Clover returned not long after, and Marigold let him back into the inn and began to climb the stairs when Clover ran away from her toward the kitchens.
“Oh, bother, Clover,” she said. “Are you really still hungry? I fed you not long ago at all. I’m not sure how—”
When she swung open the kitchen door in chase, however, she came to an abrupt stop, for there in front of her was not just Clover, but another body as well.
Lord Dorchester sat at the table within the kitchens, a dish of leftover dinner sitting in front of him.
“Let me guess,” she said with a sigh and a half smile, “Dinner tonight was so much better than usual, you had to have seconds?”
He stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Dinner is always just fine.”
“You don’t need to lie,” she said with a laugh as she took a seat across from him, though she noted his forehead creased as she did so — he obviously would have preferred to be alone, but now that she was here…
“Daisy is the best cook of all of us. Which is unfortunate, as she is now the one who employs cooks and kitchen maids and the like, while the rest of us must continue to fend for ourselves and prepare food for others.”
“The meals every night are quite satisfactory,” he said in his matter-of-fact way, and Marigold simply rolled her eyes. Though she appreciated his kindness — well, kindness in his own way, she supposed.
“Tell me, Lord Dorchester,” she said, “which dish is your favorite? I shall be sure we make it one of these nights.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his eyes on his plate. “I cannot say I have one.”
“Everyone has a favorite,” she insisted. “What is yours?”
“I have always enjoyed roast chicken and egg sauce,” he said, and when his eyes took on that faraway look, Marigold realized she had touched on a memory.
“Lucky for you, I am able to create such a thing,” she said triumphantly before adding, “though perhaps not with as fine of skill as the cooks who would have prepared it for you at home.”
“My wife actually liked to cook,” he said quietly, and Marigold nodded.
“That’s wonderful she was still able to do so.”
“You can do as you please when you’re a marchioness, I suppose,” he said with a shrug.
“As long as the marquess agrees, I imagine?” she suggested with a soft smile.
“She could have me agree to anything,” he said. Marigold thought she might have actually seen the slightest of smiles grace his lips, though she could have been imagining it.
“Well, it sounds as though she was lovely,” Marigold said. Lord Dorchester nodded, then finally looked up at her, his blue eyes catching the soft light of the candle between them. She was taken aback momentarily by their intensity.
She also suddenly became very aware of the fact that she sat there across from him in her night rail and a wrapper, with him similarly clothed.
Marigold cleared her throat, prepared to leave, but for some reason, tonight he seemed to be in a more talkative mood than she had ever seen him in before, so she was reluctant to leave.
“I’m not sure if I ever should have gone to war,” he said suddenly, and his comment took her so off guard that she nearly stood up in shock.
“No?” she said cautiously, not wanting to say too much, to allow his flow of words to continue.
“I now believe I went because I thought I would die,” he said, his eyes faraway, as though he had forgotten that she was here in front of him. “I nearly did, and I hoped for it, prayed for it. I nearly met my end, but then I was given a second chance. Why?”
He looked at her now as though she may have the answer, though of course, she had no idea. Only he could discover the reason.
“Perhaps… you still have life to live — a greater purpose, if you will,” she suggested, though he seemed fairly skeptical of the idea.
“I haven’t done many great things in my life,” he said. “I’m not sure why that would begin now.”
“You likely were everything to your wife,” Marigold said. “Sometimes a small act done f
or one person can cause the greatest difference.”
“You are a philosopher, Miss Tavners,” he said with what Marigold thought, if she wasn’t mistaken, was the slightest hint of a smile.
“I don’t think so,” she laughed. “I just like to observe people.”
“How is your bird?” he asked abruptly, and her eyes widened, as she was shocked he would have given another thought to the little thing.
“The bird is doing well, actually,” she said. “Her wing is healing and I think I should be able to release her in a couple of days.”
“I thought the bird was a ‘he.’”
“Now that I have come to know her, I am fairly sure she is a female.”
“How would you even know that?”
“She is a warbler,” Marigold explained. “Upon consulting one of my books, the females have a primarily unstreaked chest whereas the males have chestnut streaks.”
“You are an interesting woman, Miss Tavners,” Lord Dorchester said. Marigold felt slightly uncomfortable, for she wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.
“I have been told I am a bit strange, I suppose,” she said slowly. “All of us sisters are, in our own way.”
“I meant no insult,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. “It was a compliment.”
“Well, then, I suppose I thank you,” she said, willing away her discomfort at such praise as she really didn’t deserve it.
“How long do you think you will stay here?” she asked, and he shrugged slightly.
“I am not entirely sure. I should be getting back to my responsibilities, yet…”
When he remained silent, Marigold allowed his unspoken words to remain as they were. She assumed he likely was putting off returning to all that would remind him of his former life, in particular his wife, but he wouldn’t want to say such a thing.
“What are the primary responsibilities of a marquess? I’m afraid I have never met one before. Of course, I have met a duke now, but I didn’t know who he truly was for most of the time that I was in his company.”
“I look after a few estates,” he said. “And I will attend Parliament once more when it reconvenes. That is one thing I certainly have not missed. I was never particularly attendant, I must say.”
“I can hardly imagine having the responsibility of the entire country on my shoulders,” Marigold said, unable to fathom such a thing.
“Well, there are a good many of us, at the very least,” he said.
Marigold stared at him sitting there with his plate of food in front of him, his shock of dark hair falling over his forehead, and she had an urge to reach out and push it back. His scar was still painfully red, and she wished he would accept help for it, but he still did not seem particularly inclined to allow her to do so, so she would just wait. She wondered at what other scars covered him — and how many were physical, and how many were held deep inside.
Despite all that she knew of him, how much she had wanted to help him, as they sat there in their nightclothes, she began to notice more than just his scars and his pain. His wrapper was open ever so slightly at the top, revealing bronze skin underneath — skin covered with a smattering of dark hair. She wondered what it felt like, the hair upon a man’s chest, particularly this man’s chest. It appeared to be coarse, crisp. The muscle underneath looked hard and strong, and suddenly an image of her fingertips upon it ran through her mind, causing a longing of desire for him to flash through her.
Marigold swallowed hard and closed her eyes so that the tempting bit of skin was no longer in front of her face. The marquess would be horrified if he knew what she was thinking at the moment. The man was clearly still mourning his wife, and here she was, practically… lusting after him. What was wrong with her?
“I… ah, I should go. To bed. Alone. Of course, alone. Well, with Clover,” she said, suddenly stumbling over her words, so flustered she was.
He didn’t seem to notice. His gaze remained on the table and he just nodded.
“Goodnight, Miss Tavners.”
“Marigold. Marigold is fine. Goodnight, Lord Dorchester.”
And with that, she fled.
10
Jacob was unnerved — and much more than slightly. Last night with Marigold, he had admitted more to her than he had ever even thought to himself. Somehow, speaking with her came naturally. Why, he had no idea. It was just her calm soul, he supposed. The same countenance that was responsible for healing baby birds and taking in stray dogs.
But it was more than that. If it had only been the fact that he had allowed her to access thoughts he had been resisting for so long, that would be one thing. But when he sat across from her at that kitchen table, staring at her in her pale pink wrapper, one side slightly slipping down her shoulder to reveal creamy skin underneath, what had rushed through him was desire that had been dampened for so long he had never thought it would return.
Had it been desire or the emotional opening, he could ignore it. But the fact that both had arisen? That scared him more than he wanted to admit.
After watching her serve their entire breakfast, he hadn’t been able to take one more moment of remaining in the same building with her and had taken for the paths beyond the town. They seemed to meander through a marsh of some sort, which at first he thought would be rather melancholy, but in fact, his surroundings had a strange beauty about them. They were far from any manicured garden he had ever seen but were instead formed by nature, which he found actually more appealing.
He was so occupied with looking around him that he nearly tripped over a large stone, but caught himself just in time.
“Goodness, are you all right?”
He closed his eyes. She could not be here, again, could she?
But yes, there she was. She and that dog.
“Are you following me around the town?”
She came to an abrupt stop.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“It seems everywhere I go, there you are.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, snapping her fingers at Clover to get the dog to follow her. “We were actually on our way back, anyway. We were just collecting a few herbs.”
“For dinner?” he asked, unsure what she would find in a marsh that he would want to eat.
“No,” she laughed. “For remedies. I don’t know much, but I try to keep a few things on hand. I have been reading some…”
“Yes?”
“Honestly, if that scar does pain you, I think I can help.”
He brought a hand to his cheek. He recalled her saying something of the sort before, but hadn’t wanted to let her touch it. It was rather sore, however, and if there was something that could lessen the pain…
“Very well,” he said, and he saw her start in response.
“You’ll allow me to?”
“We can try once and see what happens.”
“Oh, wonderful!” she exclaimed, a brilliant smile lighting her face, and he could hardly believe that his agreement could cause her such happiness — and that her response could cause his own heart to lift. “I actually have everything ready back at the inn, just in case you happened to agree.”
“Lead the way,” he said, and as they meandered back through the marsh, she pointed out various plants, their origins, and what they could be used for.
“How did you learn such things?” he asked as he threw a stick for Clover, who took after it excitedly.
“Mostly through books,” she said. “There was a woman in the town many years ago who used to be a healer as well, and I was always a bit fascinated by what she did, though I can certainly not call myself anything of the sort. I far prefer to attend to four-legged creatures.”
“Like Clover.”
“Yes, like Clover. I actually found him back there a ways,” she said, pointing down one path in particular, and he followed her finger.
“By himself?”
“By himself. I looked everywhere for a mother or other dogs, but couldn’t find a sign
of anything, so I took him home. I only hope my father will let me keep him.”
She bit her lip worriedly.
“What do you mean? Isn’t he yours?”
“My father said temporarily, until I find someone else who would take him.”
“Why would he care if you had a dog?”
“He said I am busy enough without having the responsibility of a dog. That it is liable to bother the boarders. Which, I suppose, he has, as you can attest to.”
“He’s just a puppy,” Jacob said, despite his previous misgivings, feeling the need to defend the dog, who was now trotting along at his side, the stick in his mouth.
“Of course, I completely agree with you,” Marigold said. “But my father can be… stubborn.”
Jacob nodded, remembering the Duke’s words. Perhaps Elias Tavners was simply worried about the cost of another mouth to feed.
They returned to the inn, their silence having grown from awkward to companionable.
“Shall I meet you in your sitting room, then?” Marigold asked, and Jacob shook his head. He had no wish for Westwood to witness whatever treatment she might provide.
“Will you bring it to my room?” he asked, and Marigold worried her bottom lip again, which he truly wished she would stop doing, for it only made his mind jump to all the things he himself would enjoy doing to her lips. Thoughts which should not be there, but try as he might to resist, kept creeping in.
“I am not sure if I should,” she said hesitantly, and he held up a hand.
“The door can remain open, and I will be the perfect gentleman,” he promised. “I simply have no wish to be on display any more than I already am.”
After a moment, she sighed, and he knew he had her agreement.
“Very well,” she said. “I shall see you there in a few minutes, unless you would like to eat something first?”
“No, I’m fine.”
And so he found himself nervously awaiting her a short time later. Why he was nervous, he had no idea. He certainly had no reason to be, other than the fact that her ointment might sting a little. He was a soldier, however. He had lived through the sword going through him in the first place and his chest being cut open, so surely a little salve should not worry him.
A Marquess for Marigold: The Blooming Brides Book 2 Page 6