“How do you know your future isn’t in London?”
“It isn’t,” she said with certainty, sounding years older than she was.
They strolled in the direction of the river, passing a pair of young ladies who peered at Trent from beneath their lashes, giggling the entire time.
“I have nothing in common with these nitwits,” Jordana hissed beneath her breath. “And I find it appalling I must watch my father be mooned over. You simply aren’t that handsome.” Two bright spots of red stood out on her cheeks. “It is humiliating, Papa.”
“I apologize for any embarrassment.” Trent tried not to laugh at Jordana as the wind ruffled through his coat. The morning was pleasant but cool, the sun struggling mightily to peek through the gray clouds littering the sky. The air smelled of grass and a hint of rain, along with mud. The river was just over the rise. As they turned and strolled between two large oak trees, neatly sidestepping a gentleman and his dog, Trent finally saw Marissa.
She was sitting in a handsome, horribly expensive carriage, drawn by perfectly matched ebony horses, their coats shining in the muted sunlight. The oval of her face peered through the window of the vehicle, sapphire eyes widening as she caught sight of Trent.
Her driver, a large mountain of a man, watched them approach before nodding and jumping down from his seat.
A ripple stretched across Trent’s heart. It was the same every time he saw her.
Assisted by the driver, Marissa stepped out of the carriage, the indigo skirts floating above her ankles revealing fine calfskin half-boots. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight chignon at the base of her neck, only a few strands left to dangle against her temples. A small hat, festooned with an ornate twist of ribbon and flowers and tilted at a saucy angle, sat atop her head. She inclined her chin in his direction, as regal as any queen.
If I had any sense at all, I’d abscond with her and bed her until she surrenders.
“Lord Haddon.” A girlish voice twittered from behind him. “Is that you?”
Jordana’s displeasure was evident by the way her fingers twisted into his arm.
Marissa paused beside her carriage, a frown darkening her lovely features as her gaze focused on something beyond Trent’s shoulder.
“Lady Christina.” He turned and bowed smoothly as Jordana slipped her arm free. She spared a silent but polite greeting to Lady Christina before walking to greet Marissa who had moved several paces in Trent’s direction.
Lady Christina watched Jordana’s retreat, the smile gracing her rosebud mouth faltering when she noticed Marissa. Looking up at Trent, she composed herself. “Lord Haddon, how delightful. I had no idea you liked to walk so early.”
“I like the quiet of the morning,” he said. And you’ve disturbed it. He cast a sideways glance in Marissa’s direction, willing her to come closer.
“I do as well. What a coincidence.”
Trent didn’t believe in coincidences, at least in regard to Lady Christina Sykes. “A lucky one,” he said, blandly polite.
“May I present my cousin? Miss Regina Applewaite.” Christina pulled the plump girl she’d been walking with forward.
“Miss Applewaite.” Trent bowed again before nodding in the direction of Jordana and Marissa. “My daughter, Miss Ives. And Lady Cupps-Foster.”
“His daughter’s chaperone,” Lady Christina informed Miss Applewaite before smiling up at Trent.
He kept his own smile pasted on his face, refusing to react to Christina’s assumption. He supposed it was a natural conclusion for her to make. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Christina, Miss Applewaite, we were just about to take a turn around the path.”
A frown pulled down the corners of Lady Christina’s perfect, pink lips. She batted her eyes and waited for him to suggest she and Miss Applewaite join them. When he didn’t, Lady Christina gave a small, quiet, barely noticeable sound of frustration. Looking again in Marissa’s direction, she said in a voice that was sure to carry, “I’m pleased you’ve found an older widow to act as chaperone for Miss Ives, my lord. I had considered suggesting just that thing.”
“Indeed?” Christina was barely older than Jordana herself. Trent found her know-it-all manner off-putting to say the least.
“I was relieved when my mother informed me that you’d engaged Lady Cupps-Foster to fill the role.”
“I’m not sure how Lady Stanton came to such a conclusion.” Trent had never referred to Marissa as Jordana’s chaperone. Ever.
Christina’s fingers fluttered boldly just above Trent’s wrist. The tiny curls spilling from her coiffure and down her cheeks trembled in a fetching manner. “I grew curious, my lord, after seeing you dance with Lady Cupps-Foster at the Cambourne ball. And I drew an incorrect conclusion.” She bit her lip. “But my mother assured me your interest in Lady Cupps-Foster could only be for the benefit of Miss Ives, as you are a widower.”
“And how did Lady Stanton reason so?” Christina was unlikely to catch the hint of mockery in his tone.
“Well,” Lady Christina stuttered, glancing at Marissa.
Marissa stared back, brow raised, one foot tapping with impatience.
Trent was certain she could hear every word.
“Lady Cupps-Foster is many years your senior which would preclude—that is to say—your friendship with her is more professional in nature. My mother has cautioned me on jumping to ridiculous conclusions, especially when it clearly isn’t warranted.”
A sound of feminine outrage came from behind Trent.
“It is completely acceptable for you to ask an older widow to help you,” she hastily added, “in the absence of a Lady Haddon.” The fingertip of her glove dipped to Trent’s wrist. “Now that my mother has explained, I feel much better.”
Trent took a deep breath, momentarily shocked at Christina’s audacity. “If you’ll excuse me, I fear my daughter grows impatient. I bid you both good morning.”
“But they’re already wandering off,” Lady Christina said in a low tone. “They’ve left you in my care.”
Miss Applewaite made a nervous twitter.
He turned to see Marissa and Jordana retreating down the path, leaving him to his fate which he supposed he deserved for giving Lady Christina even a modest amount of encouragement.
Marissa’s skirts were twitching with agitation, her hips swaying with annoyance. She stopped abruptly and looked at him over her shoulder.
The sapphire eyes sparked with possessiveness as she took in Lady Christina and Trent. Jealousy flared sharply across her lovely features before Marissa turned her back on him. She straightened her shoulders, her attention returning to Jordana.
That gives me a fair amount of hope.
Trent bowed again. “Enjoy your walk. Lady Christina. Miss Applewaite.”
Lady Christina made a poof of disappointment as Miss Applewaite took her arm, moving her back the way they’d come, a footman and maid trailing at a discreet distance.
Trent hurried away, lengthening his strides to catch up with his daughter and Marissa. The two had their arms linked, and the sound of Marissa’s laughter met his ears.
A wonderful sense of joy filled Trent at the picture the two made, with their dark heads bent together like conspirators, their skirts swaying in tandem as they strolled along the path.
He quickened his steps.
There was nothing Trent wanted more than to see the sight before him for the remainder of his days.
9
Marissa listened with half an ear to Jordana who was babbling away about something to do with body parts. Honestly, the girl seemed enamored of grisly details. But she didn’t stop Jordana’s earnest chattering. Marissa had been far too busy watching Lady Christina flutter about Haddon like an overprivileged butterfly. She’d heard enough of the conversation between them to know the little nitwit had dismissed Marissa as nothing more than an elderly matron, undeserving of attention from a man like Haddon.
A raw, biting possessiveness had filled Marissa so sharply tha
t her fingertips had burned as if scorched by a hot pot of tea. Folding her hands into her skirts, she forced her features to relax. It wouldn’t do for Haddon to guess at her feelings. She’d loved Reggie, but he’d never made her feel as if she needed to defend her claim on him.
But you don’t have a claim on Haddon.
Marissa had to resist the urge to march across the grass and slap Christina Sykes on her pretty, pink little face and challenge her for Haddon. Pistols at dawn. Or swords. She’d even defended herself with a large frying pan once.
Little twit.
“Have I said something to make you angry?” Jordana said. “You’re scowling.”
Haddon was nearly at their side, his legs making short work of the distance to join them.
“What? No, dear,” Marissa assured her, forcing a smile to her lips. “Whatever would make you think such a thing?”
“Papa says I’m far too blunt at times. I shouldn’t have told you about the books I’d gotten at Thrumbadge’s. I suppose the subject is somewhat grisly.”
“Not at all, Jordana.” Truthfully, she hadn’t been listening. Something about the way blood pumped through a person’s heart. Very disturbing. She’d tuned it out. “There is very little which offends me, else I would not have survived so long in society. But you must not discuss your interests with everyone you meet, especially in London.”
Jordana was convinced she had every right to tramp around Derbyshire and assist in childbirth, the mere thought of which made Marissa swoon. If anyone was in need of feminine encouragement and direction, it was Jordana.
Even more reason for him to remarry.
The thought of a new Lady Haddon filled her with an almost unbearable melancholy.
Haddon finally reached them, his gaze lingering over Marissa, though she hadn’t any idea what he was thinking. “My apologies for the delay. How wonderful to see you, Lady Cupps-Foster.”
“You were otherwise occupied,” she said in a crisp voice.
The pale of his eyes darkened like quicksilver, never leaving her face. “Unexpectedly detained.”
Marissa told herself to breathe, a feat difficult enough with how tightly her stays were laced. And she was annoyed with him. He’d not even bothered to correct Lady Christina’s assessment of Marissa as an elderly chaperone.
“Lady Stanton should have a discussion with her daughter on a more ladylike way of speaking. Lady Christina’s voice is a bit shrill drowning out even the birds singing in the trees.”
A tiny, knowing smile hovered at his lips. “Lady Christina sends you both her regards.”
“How kind.” Marissa savagely tamped down the jealousy snarling inside her. She told herself it didn’t matter what Lady Christina or her mother thought. The end result was the same. Marissa had no claim on Haddon. And she detested being envious over Lady Christina’s pert bosom and youthful glow. It wasn’t becoming.
Marissa was the daughter of a duke.
The trio walked for several minutes with only the sound of their feet crunching on the gravel to break the silence.
Elderly widow. Chaperone.
A burst of laughter filled the air as they passed a group of gentlemen on horseback, one of whom hailed them in greeting.
Haddon waved back.
“I was telling Lady Cupps-Foster,” Jordana began, “about the book I’d purchased at Thrumbadge’s.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” Haddon shot Marissa a look of apology. The breeze ruffled the hair around his ears and caught against his collar.
Why must he be so bloody handsome? Couldn’t he have a wart or some other unattractive disfigurement?
“She isn’t.” Marissa nudged Jordana to take out the sting of her father’s rebuke. “I am hopeful to persuade Jordana to read something more appropriate. A fashion magazine, for instance.”
Jordana stopped in her tracks as a gust of wind blew up sharply. “I would never.”
A laugh escaped Marissa at the look on Jordana’s face at the mere mention of reading The Ladies Pocket Magazine, or something similar before gasping as her clever little hat shifted, becoming dislodged from its mooring of pins.
“Drat.” She reached up and adjusted the brim.
A rumble of thunder rippled across the park as patches of fallen leaves swirled and eddied in the gusting wind. Their time in the park would be cut short, it seemed, by the impending storm.
“I think we’d best turn around.” Haddon peered up at the sky, his eyes the exact color of the gathering thunderclouds.
Marissa cursed under her breath. Next she would find herself composing an ode to his cheekbones or something equally ridiculous.
“My lady?” He quirked a brow at her, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I only said I was in agreement,” she assured him.
Jordana looked up at the sky, sticking out her tongue as the first raindrops began to fall.
Another rush of wind, this one much stronger than the others, had Marissa holding down her dress lest all of London see her underthings. The hat rocked precariously, struggling to stay atop her head, before lifting from her hair and scuttling down the path.
“Bloody hell.”
Neither Haddon nor Jordana showed the least bit of shock at her language which was mildly disappointing. “I apologize, Jordana, I should not have cursed.”
“Oh, I’ve heard my father say much worse.”
“Much worse,” Haddon agreed, the mischievous smile Marissa so adored fixed firmly on his lips.
Marissa stomped to where her hat had fallen to the ground, sighing at the wet leaves sticking to the brim. Perhaps it could be repaired. She bent and tried to grab at her hat while simultaneously holding down her skirts which were determined to creep up her legs.
Another gust of wind blew across her ankles bringing several fat droplets of rain.
The hat slid away from her and across the wet grass, bumping over a large bush to land well out of her reach.
Damn and blast.
“Leave it,” Haddon said from the path, taking hold of Jordana’s arm. “The sky will open upon us at any moment.”
Marissa was incredibly annoyed. At herself. At Haddon. At Lady Christina. And at her bloody hat. “I will not. It is one of a kind, made especially for me.”
As she watched in horror, the wind took her precious, one-of-a-kind hat up into the air where it hovered for a moment before sailing toward an oak tree. The ribbons across the brim tangled on a low hanging branch, the hat swinging in the air, taunting Marissa.
Her new bloody hat.
This was what came of jealousy over the likes of Christina Sykes. She strode to the tree, ignoring the approaching storm and jumped up, the ribbon fluttering just out of her reach. A drop of rain fell right on the end of her nose. She was going to become a drenched, matronly—
“Jordana.” Haddon spoke from behind her. “We’ve only just gotten you well. The doctor says you cannot afford to catch another chill which could settle in your chest. Get to our carriage and head home before the storm descends. The temperature has already dropped.”
“But—”
“Now, Jordana. I’ll see to Lady Cupps-Foster and her hat.”
“Goodbye, Lady Cupps-Foster!” Jordana ran in the direction of Haddon’s carriage whose driver, seeing the approach of rain, had already steered the vehicle further into the park to intercept them.
“Take her directly home,” he yelled at the driver before turning to Marissa. “I may have to beg a ride.” Haddon’s voice vibrated down into her skin, dispelling the cold and warming her from the inside out.
“Why don’t you just go?” Marissa didn’t want his help. Nor was this about her hat. “Elderly widow that I am, I’m fairly certain I can retrieve this hat myself.”
“I believe the term she used was older widow. I’ve no intention of leaving you here alone, jumping around like a mad hare.” He looked back at his carriage which was pulling away now with Jordana tucked safely inside.
“The
re’s no need, Haddon. Truly.” She made another leap at the ribbon fluttering just out of her reach.
“You realize, Marissa, that no matter how hard you jump, you won’t be able to catch it.”
Marissa shot him a murderous look and continued to leap toward the branch, fingers spread to catch at the fluttering piece of ribbon.
An older widow. An appropriate chaperone. Is that all I am?
Isn’t that all she wished to be to him?
“Christ, Marissa. It’s only a hat.”
I called him a dalliance, which is so far from the truth. I suppose we’re even now.
Rain began to pelt them, the droplets big and fat. The wind blew, no longer in sharp bursts but in steady, chilling gusts. They would both catch cold if they didn’t leave soon.
“I don’t need your help.” Looking down at the rain spotting her dress and dripping down her shoulders in rivulets, with the hat ruined, and her hair sliding from its pins, Marissa gave a small cry of frustration.
Now she appeared to be an older bedraggled widow.
Haddon swept past her. Taking off his coat, he nestled it around her shoulders and handed her his own hat.
Marissa shivered in pleasure as the coat fell over her. The fabric was still warm from his body and smelled deliciously spicy, just like Haddon.
“I’ll fetch it, Marissa. Your carriage is just down there. I’ll get your hat and then see you home.”
“No . . . I mean you don’t have to.”
Haddon ignored her and began to scramble up the tree as if he’d been born to climb. His shirt was soaking wet, the fabric clinging to the sculpted lines of his back and arms. There was no hesitation as he made his way up the tree, each movement imbued with graceful agility, sure and confident. He reached the branch from which her little hat dangled in a matter of seconds. Haddon would rival Brendan in his ability to climb. Her eyes lovingly traced every muscular line of his body, noting the way the rain made the ends of his hair curl about the collar of his shirt.
Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7) Page 9