One Wicked Winter

by Emma V. Leech

  “He isn’t dull at all, he’s ... he’s academic,” she said with dignity, hanging her dress up with care and turning her attention to Crecy’s. “And it’s not as if I have any other options. He’s the only single man who so much as acknowledged my existence.”

  She undid the fastenings of Crecy’s gown as her sister made a disparaging noise, and mentally thanked Violette for being so thoughtful as to give them connecting rooms. They couldn’t afford the services of a lady’s maid, giving the excuse that theirs had been taken suddenly ill if anyone asked, and always saw to each other’s toilette.

  “The marquess spoke to you,” Crecy said, turning her head and giving Belle a diabolical grin. “You’re the only female he spoke to all night, you know.”

  Belle felt an unaccountable lurch of something in her chest at the idea that the imperious marquess might have taken note of her, and then gave a bark of laughter.

  “Yes, he went out of his way to try and frighten me off, not just from him, but out of the castle itself!” she replied, shaking her head in amusement.

  Crecy went off into peals of laughter and sat back on the bed in her shift and stays, leaving her dress where it had fallen. Belle sighed and picked it up.

  “Well I think you would do him good, Belle, but I’m afraid you might be right,” she admitted as Belle hung it beside her own. “I heard him muttering to Lord Falmouth about the peculiar Holbrook girls and their vulgar aunt. I believe he referred to me as the pretty, odd one, though I think he may have meant, the pretty odd one,” she corrected with a grin. “And apparently you’re a blue stocking with too many opinions.”

  Belle gaped at her. “He ... he said what?”

  Crecy tutted and began to repeat herself. “He said Aunt Grimble was vulgar ...”

  “Oh, I don’t give a damn about Aunt Grimble, everyone can see she’s vulgar!” she cried in fury, as Crecy gaped at her outburst in astonishment. “What did he say about me?”

  Crecy swallowed and gave her a wary look. “Umm, he said you were a blue stocking with too many opinions.”

  “Well, of all the ...” Any sympathetic feelings she made have harboured for the damaged marquess went abruptly up in smoke as Belle seethed with indignation. How dare he!

  Of course, she should never have shown such an interest in Stevenson’s locomotive engine, usually she knew better. But meeting a man so recently having seen the project first-hand had lit her enthusiasm, and Mr Russell hadn’t seemed to mind at all, nor Mrs Russell, come to that.

  With fury, Belle made herself a solemn vow that if ever she should have words with the marquess again, she would stand up to him and not, under any circumstances, back down. A blue stocking she may be, but hen-hearted she wasn’t.

  On the other hand, she also decided that - if at all possible - she’d go a long way out of her way not to speak to him at all!

  Chapter 7

  “Wherein vulgar aunts and a mocking marquess give poor Belle a fit of the dismals.”

  Belle closed her eyes and prayed that Aunt Grimble would choke on the pastry she was stuffing her face with, and save them all from further humiliation. Sadly, God was disinclined to help her out at this moment, and the blasted woman continued to address remarks to her social superiors as if they were bosom buddies of many years standing.

  Lady Scranford tittered and smirked, and spoke behind her hand to her friend Miss Cranton in a whisper that was loud enough to be clearly heard by most of the table, about the vulgar, inching creature and her shabby nieces.

  Swallowing her ire with difficulty, Belle reached for her chocolate and sipped, her stomach too twisted with tension to face eating anything. Crecy seemed oblivious, eating little either, but stared out of the window at the grounds with a dreamy countenance that suggested her thoughts were a very long way from the assembled company. Her admirers all bore identical expression as they in turn, gazed upon Crecy.

  “Yes, yes, that’s quite enough of that!” Lady Russell barked, effectively silencing Aunt Grimble, who finally did choke on her pasty.

  There was a God.

  “What are all you young people up to today, then?” she demanded.

  Various plans were put forward, some venturing out to visit the village of Longwold itself, some riding, and others opting to stay inside in the warmth and play cards.

  “I’d love to go for a walk in the gardens,” Crecy said to Belle, unwittingly giving all the young men in the room an excuse to offer their arm to her. Lucretia shot Belle an appalled look of pleading and Belle swallowed a smile.

  “I’m sure my sister would love nothing better on another day, gentlemen,” she said with a kind smile. “But she is too sweet to tell you that she has something of a headache this morning, and so, not up to company.”

  The gentlemen all stood as she and her sister got to their feet.

  “Nonsense!” Aunt Grimble snapped, startling everyone in the room, especially poor Lady Sinclair who dropped her teacup, gaining herself a tut of reproach from Lady Russell. Aunt Grimble, however, was oblivious and undeterred as she scowled at Belle. “If the earl wants to walk with Lucretia, he should be allowed to!”

  Belle and Crecy froze, both appalled as Lady Scranford tittered once more and muttered the fateful words, fortune hunters, under her breathe.

  Both of them glanced at the Earl Stanthorpe, who had gone a remarkable shade of red behind his tumbling yellow curls and Belle could almost feel her sister’s flinch of humiliation.

  “I’m sure his lordship will understand,” Belle said, annunciating each word with deliberation and staring at her Aunt with quiet fury. To her horror, Aunt Grimble actually opened her mouth to offer further objection, but Lady Russell got in first, calling loudly across the breakfast table.

  “Mrs Grimble, do tell me, wherever did you get that remarkable turban, it’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen!”

  Belle smothered a grin as the words were most certainly not complimentary, and lost no time in guiding Crecy away.

  “Come, Lucretia, let us go and get you some fresh air.”

  The two of them hurried from the room, rushing to collect pelisses and bonnets, and escaped into the garden as fast as they were able.

  Belle hauled in a lungful of crisp, icy air and exhaled with relief. “Oh, my word,” she moaned. Crecy slid her arm through hers, shaking her head.

  “I just wanted to sink,” she muttered, looking dejected. “As if I would be interested in that silly man.”

  Belle looked over at her sister and gave a sad smile. “Oh, but he’s rather nice I think, Crecy.”

  “Of course he’s nice!” Crecy replied in astonishment, looking utterly horrified. “But why on earth would I want to marry a nice man?”

  Belle stopped in her tracks, staring at her. This was not the first time Crecy had uttered such incomprehensible and concerning words, and Belle felt a chill of foreboding. “Why wouldn’t you want to marry a nice man?” she asked, frowning.

  Crecy glanced at her and for a moment Belle thought she caught a slightly panicked, guilty look in her sister’s eyes, but then she laughed and the moment was gone. “Oh, Belle,” she said, her voice light. “Do you really think the Earl of Stanthorpe would make for me a suitable husband?”

  “No,” Belle replied, still watching her sister with misgiving. “I think it would be a terrible match and that you would scare the poor man to death. But that doesn’t answer the question. What kind of man do you want, if not a nice one?”

  Crecy fell silent and avoided her sister’s gaze. “Not one like that,” she said at length. “In fact, I may never marry at all,” she added, with such defiance that Belle began to feel truly alarmed.

  She stopped and caught Crecy’s hands, turning her so that they stood face to face.

  “If I marry well, Crecy, dearest, you’ll never be made to do anything or marry anyone you don’t wish to, you have my word. But you must see how precarious our position is? And I don’t understand how you can object to marry
ing a man you admire and love, after all? Don’t you want to fall in love?”

  Crecy gave a laugh and turned away and tucked Belle’s hand into her arm, drawing them forwards once again. “Of course,” she said, her tone amused and rather practical. “But that doesn’t mean I have to marry.”

  Belle froze, utterly appalled. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, all at once taut as a bow string as terror struck her heart. “Has Aunt Grimble said something to you?”

  “Aunt Grimble?” Crecy echoed, looking confused and putting that terror to rest at least, for now. “No, why should she?”

  Belle let out a sigh. “You will not ever, ever, do something as foolish and reckless as accept a carte blanche from a gentleman, do you hear me?”

  “Oh, Belle!” Crecy exclaimed, her lavender-grey eyes flashing. “I’m really not such a green goose as you’d like to believe.”

  “Sometimes, I don’t know what you are,” Belle admitted, wishing, as she did most every day, that her mother were here to guide her, as she didn’t seem to have the slightest clue what she should do with Crecy.

  Crecy looked up at her then, a rather bewildered and frightened look in her eyes. “I don’t know either, Belle,” she admitted on a whisper, looking so lost that Belle’s heart clenched.

  “Oh, Crecy!” She pulled her sister into an embrace and kissed her cheek, forcing her face to smile and look merry, though her heart was filled with anxiety. “I didn’t mean it, of course. Only you say the most vexing things sometimes. Come along,” she said, wanting to forget the awkwardness and enjoy the pleasure of being in such a wonderful place. “Let us go and investigate some of these lovely grounds.”

  They wandered for some time, delighted by the glorious vistas of rolling countryside and the magnificent gardens, which were still beautiful even in the barren month of December.

  The bones of the garden were frosted and still sparkling white at this hour, and Belle found herself enchanted. Her favourite place out of all the different gardens that surrounded the vast castle was the Elizabethan knot garden. Laid out against the honey coloured stone of the castle walls on two sides, the remaining two were closed in by high yew hedging, giving a private feel, even though many leaded windows looked out from the castle itself.

  The thick, bare stems of a climbing rose scrambled over the walls and around the windows, and Belle longed to see it in the summer. She imagined the stunning picture is would make in the sunshine, when those roses would bloom in profusion and she could sit and listen to drowsy bees as they flitted from flower to flower.

  For now, though, the tightly clipped and manicured box hedging laid out a symmetrical and intricate path among the gravel and they followed it back out and carried on their way.

  “I’m cold,” Belle admitted some time later as they looked up and discovered themselves far from the main entrance of the castle. The sky had darkened rather, and the temperature dropped further still, an icy north wind tugging at their skirts.

  “Me too,” Crecy admitted, her pretty nose red and her cheeks flushed.

  They looked around and wondered which way would take them indoors the fastest.

  “I don’t want to walk all the way back to the main door,” Belle said. Her feet were like ice by now and she’d lost feeling in her toes almost an hour since. “Look,” she said, gesturing to a large, studded wood door. “We can get into the castle here, and we’re bound to bump into a servant or someone who can guide us back sooner or later, and you did want to explore,” she added.

  Crecy nodded, stamping her feet. “Yes, all right, at least we’ll get out of the wind; it’s really picking up now, though I doubt we’ll see a ghost at this time of the day.”

  “What a pity,” Belle muttered, turning the large iron door handle with frozen fingers.

  The interior of this part of the castle was dark and gloomy, and truly not much warmer than outside, but they were indeed out of the biting wind.

  “Come along, then,” Belle said, grinning and feeling rather adventurous herself as they set off.

  They stumbled though endless corridors and vast rooms all shrouded in Holland covers, until the sound of voices reached them. By this time, they were chilled to the bone and dreadfully hungry, only too aware that they were late for lunch. Hurrying towards the voice, they both stopped in their tracks as the most extraordinary scene opened before them.

  They had followed a corridor which now flanked one side of a large atrium within the castle building itself. It was obviously a sheltered, private garden at most times of the year with a large rectangle of grass at its centre, but now its purpose appeared rather different.

  A short, wiry man dressed in coarse trousers and a shirt that was untucked, braces hanging loose, appeared to have two, small, compact pads strapped to his hands which he held aloft, and his opponent - if that was what he was - was hitting the pads with fast, determined punches.

  “Come on,” the little fellow bellowed. “Jab, roll, cross hook. Again!”

  Belle gasped and felt her heart leap to her throat, for the man throwing the punches was none other than the marquess.

  Stripped to the waist, his bare torso glittering with sweat and his dark hair falling across his forehead, he looked very far removed from the haughty peers of last night. This man was lithe and dangerous, and powerful in a purely animalistic manner that had nothing to do with titles or money.

  He was magnificent.

  Belle felt Crecy tug at her arm and knew, knew, that they should hurry away as her sister suggested, but she was rooted to the spot. The glow in her cheeks had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold any longer, and a strange kind of aching heat pooled low in her belly and seemed to spread, warming corners of her own self that she had previously been unaware of.

  “Jab, roll, cross, hook,” the little fellow said again, lunging out with one of the pads as the marquess ducked and resumed his position. “Jab, double roll, hook, cross.” The instructions were barked out with dizzying speed and the marquess responded just as fast, his movements almost too swift to track. “Jab, slip, hook, cross.”

  Belle stared, fascinated by the speed and skill and the sheer ... power. The marquess didn’t seem to be the least bit tired, his skin glowing with vitality in the cold winter air, muscles bunched, taut and flexing as Belle found her mouth was dry. There was a part of her that wanted, more than anything, to reach out and glide her hand over that slick, sweat-sheened skin and discover just how it felt.

  “Belle,” Crecy whispered, tugging at her sleeve once again.

  Broken out of her reverie and back to the real world, Belle started in horror but it was too late. The short fellow, perhaps sensing movement, looked over, missed his timing and didn’t lift the pad in time to meet the powerful fist which clobbered him hard, sending him sprawling to the grass.

  Belle gave a squeal of alarm and remorse, and hurried forward as the marquess uttered an obscenity so shocking that she slithered to a halt on the icy path.

  He snapped around, green eyes flashing with irritation.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded as Belle quailed a little, aware they had been prying. But his damned appalling manners lit something inside of her and she remembered her vow not to be cowed by him. Aware she was probably red-cheeked and praying he’d think it was merely because of the cold, she raised her chin.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Forgive us, my lord,” she began her voice laced with contempt for his horrible manners. “We have been walking all morning and become rather lost. We are chilled, through, and merely sought a way back inside and out of the weather. We did not mean to disturb your ... your ...” She faltered, wondering what exactly he had been doing. “Your exercise,” she finished, deciding that must cover it.

  “But having come across it you decided to stay and watch the show?” he demanded, one dark eyebrow raised, his tone mocking. “Like anything you see?” he asked, his tone lewd and insulting.

  Belle heard Cr
ecy gasp in fury at his words, but she held the insufferable man’s gaze, gathering her courage. “I was intrigued,” she admitted, seeing surprise in his eyes at her words. “I have never seen a fight before, or whatever this was, and it was ... stimulating,” she admitted, hoping he wasn’t aware just how stimulating she’d found it.

  Crecy muttered something she couldn’t hear and Belle ignored her, too caught up in refusing to be intimidated by this arrogant, rude, bad-tempered ... glorious man.

  “Stimulating?” he repeated, that eyebrow inching higher. He prowled – yes, that was certainly the word - prowled closer.

  Belle swallowed.

  “I am very sorry that I distracted you,” she added, hearing a slightly raspy quality to her voice as he now stood close enough to touch. She clenched her fists, lest the desire to do just that overwhelm her, but could not help but allow her gaze to travel over a simply delectable, sculpted torso. Heaven’s above. She somehow doubted Lord Nibley looked like that under his shirt, and then scolded herself severely for even thinking such a thing.

  “It’s Charles you should apologise to,” he snapped, though as she dragged her unwilling gaze from that fine torso and met his eyes she thought she saw a glimmer of amusement there. And a whole lot of male pride. “Ah, there you are Miss Holbrook,” he murmured as she finally made eye contact.

  She stared back at him, assuming she was by now a revolting shade of scarlet, but refusing to look away. “Then I apologise to Charles also,” she added, rather surprised at how calm she sounded. “Now, if you would be so very kind as to guide us as to our path, we will leave you in peace.”

  There was a moment’s silence as he watched her, considering, and then he took an indecent step closer so that they were almost touching. He stared down at her as she was forced to lean her head back to keep eye contact, and she felt the flutter of his breath as it clouded around her. “Don’t you want to watch the rest of the show?” he asked, his voice low and intimate, making that strange and unfamiliar heat in her belly liquefy and burn hotter still.