“Long ago you made a forecast at the bow of a sailing packet,” he said. “I must know if your prediction has come to pass, if you’ve found your perfect—”
“You’ll be happy to hear,” she interrupted him, her chin tilted up, “that like you, I’ve learned to be more contained in my emotions. There is no perfect love. No perfect life. I’m fine with that. In fact, I’m quite content. Good-bye, sir.”
Her invisible compass directed her to make an immediate right into oncoming traffic, which she evaded handily, although her maid let out a shrill squeak and grabbed hold of her mistress’s spencer for guidance. Once they reached the other side, Lady Marcia continued up the street, her now pale-faced maid trembling behind her.
Duncan didn’t know why he did it. But he went after her again, pausing to allow a milkmaid carrying a yoke with two brimming buckets to cross in front of him.
“I’d like to call on you tomorrow, if I may,” he told Lady Marcia when he caught up with her.
She wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t live in London. But thank you.”
He put a hand on her elbow. “Please give me a moment more.”
She stopped abruptly and looked at him, her eyes giving nothing away. Nothing at all.
When had she learned to do that? And why? The only sense he had that all was not well with her was the flush in her cheeks.
“I remember you on that sailing packet,” he said, hoping to peek over the invisible wall between them. “You were like Joan of Arc. Or Athena the warrior goddess.”
“I’ve grown up.” She took off again, her stride long and sure. “I’m only in Town because Lady Ennis wants the girls in green silk choir robes. I’m gathering swatches.”
“Lady Ennis? Girls? Choir?”
“You’re asking far too many questions.”
Duncan exhaled a frustrated breath. “I see you’re determined to continue about your business.”
“Yes, I am. I’ve not much time.”
“Tell me the essentials. Please.”
She sighed and kept walking. “I finished my studies at my boarding school in Surrey and rather than come to London for a Season, I stayed on as a teacher. And now I am headmistress.”
“Headmistress? At your tender age? Although I can’t say I’m surprised. You’d have been a leader on the social scene in London. Instead, you’re leading a school. That’s marvelous.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “I’m glad you think so. Overnight, I went from debutante to bluestocking. The Polite World, mad as it is, did not approve. Now I really must be going.”
“All right, then. But know that I wish you well. If you’re ever in Town again, I should like very much to call on you.”
“Please don’t bother,” she said in a breezy fashion. “When we were thrown together years ago, you were barely aware of my existence. And I’m perfectly fine with that state of affairs. Really.”
She tossed him a polite smile.
Good Lord. He had ignored her, but she’d been so young, and he’d been so very tense, wrapped up in his new responsibilities as earl, one of which was to contain his hell-raising brother. He supposed she considered his lack of interest in her then a slight. Perhaps she had a bit of vanity about her, after all, which would be too bad. He was tired of conversing with women whose goal in life seemed to be to collect male admirers much the same way they indiscriminately accrued ribbons and bonnets.
“I see,” he said. They’d come to a corner. “Your servant, ma’am.”
She nodded briefly, then followed by her scurrying maid, crossed yet another street. She looked noble, serene, and quite beautiful in her plain gown, a serviceable reticule dangling from her arm.
He stared after her. She maddened him. Just as she had on that sailing packet.
Good riddance, he thought, and placed his hat on his head, determined to forget the encounter had ever happened, determined to forget her.
But he knew he wouldn’t. After all, he still thought of her as his girl-on-the-prow.
Damn her for being so memorable.
Chapter Three
Insufferable. Smug. Deluded.
That was what Lord Chadwick was.
How could he think for one moment that she’d want to stand and chat with him when he’d sent Finn to America early so he could keep them apart?
Ten minutes after her unsettling encounter with the self-appointed arbiter of her romantic destiny, Marcia stood in the vast entryway at the Brady house on Grosvenor Square, her legs still shaky, her heart racing. She wasn’t used to being thrown off kilter by anyone, especially by a man who didn’t deserve her attention.
Four years ago, the earl had ruined her life—or almost had.
She’d be a fool to forget.
It didn’t matter that today he’d been bold and attractive, vivid and interested. In her. Not in the society miss who’d eluded the marriage mart but in the woman who’d lived a substantial life since they’d last met in Dublin.
She’d not spent time with many men outside her family since those days. Only old Lord Ennis, the late viscount and benefactor of Oak Hall, and the few hopeful but hapless fellows Mama had brought to Ballybrook in the summers in hopes of enticing her to become romantically involved with one of them.
But not one had made her painfully aware of his masculine presence the way Lord Chadwick had today. He’d been diabolical, really, somehow making her feel as if she were the center of an intriguing universe of which he was an exciting part. She’d been secretly flattered and had felt an urge to explore that world … to explore him.
She couldn’t believe she was thinking along such lines and almost wished for the earl of old, the one who’d had his nose buried in a book in that carriage or been distracted by his duties as a peer of the realm. That Lord Chadwick she could easily dismiss out of hand.
And dismissal was her primary aim in matters involving men. She’d been hopelessly compromised by Finn, so she was beyond the pale. Whether anyone else knew it or not, she did. She’d never forget how carelessly she’d fallen in love, how quickly she’d sacrificed her future on the altar of passion.
Marriage, for her, was no longer an option. And no matter how hard her family pressed her to become engaged, she swore to herself she would never trick an unsuspecting man into marrying her—would never lure anyone into believing she was the sweet, innocent, eldest Brady daughter—only to discover afterward that she wasn’t a virgin.
That wasn’t her idea of living an authentic life.
No. She’d had her romantic love, and now it was behind her, thank God—it and all the hurts that ensued as a result of succumbing to it.
She’d flung herself into a new role. She was a headmistress now. A leader of girls. A protector of an institution, guardian of a legacy. And the longer she held her position, the greater her craving to see young women launched on a trajectory of success.
Her maid gazed up at the ornate ceiling, her eyes like saucers.
“Good thing we don’t have naked male cherubs on the ceilings of the classrooms at Oak Hall,” Marcia told the family butler with an ironic twist to her mouth. “We’d never get any work done.”
She allowed him to take her things.
“Welcome home, Lady Marcia,” he said with touching fervor.
“Thank you, Burbank.” She took advantage of the fact that he was trapped holding her packages, bonnet, and spencer and kissed his cheek. “I’d like to surprise Mama, so I’ll wait in the drawing room.”
“Very good, my lady.”
She sent her maid to the kitchens for tea. Burbank instructed a footman to find her mother. And then he instructed another footman in the stiffest of tones to ensure that a proper tea tray was prepared, one that included currant buns with extra icing.
They were her favorite, Burbank knew. Although of course, nothing was said aloud. It wasn’t done for a butler to speak of his fondness for a certain, oft-absent young lady of the household.
As the servants dispersed to
fulfill their various requirements, Marcia was more aware than ever that she’d given up this pampered London life and instead had taken up one that involved a great deal of labor and sacrifice. With startling clarity—considering that she found herself in the most mundane of domestic situations, sitting alone on an expansive ivory silk sofa and waiting for her mother—she realized exactly why she’d undergone such a formidable change.
It was so she could tell that wretched Duncan Lattimore, the next time she saw him, how fulfilled she was, how over her painful past she was.
Today had been that day. She’d no idea how intensely she’d longed for such a meeting to happen, how well she’d prepared herself—years and years of activity designed to prove she was capable and whole despite his reckless interference in her life and in Finn’s.
She closed her eyes, waiting for vindication to sweep over her.
And felt nothing.
Oh, God. What did it mean … that she felt nothing?
Delicate footsteps rang down the hall, and she opened her eyes. She wouldn’t think of anything but what she felt at the sound of those footsteps, which was excitement. Love. And a little bit of affectionate tension.
Mama appeared at the drawing room door, a vision in pale blue, her fair, almost white-blond hair swept up in an elaborate coif. “Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you!”
Marcia leaped to her feet. “And you, Mama!”
Like two desert travelers glimpsing an oasis, they walked toward each other across a plush gold Aubusson carpet and met beneath a chandelier dripping with sparkling crystals.
Her mother took her face in her hands and kissed both cheeks. “I wish you’d told us you were coming. Daddy took the whole family to see a new horse he’d like to buy. I’ve already seen it, of course. But he likes the children’s opinions. It’s the Brady way, he always says. As you know.” Her eyes twinkled.
Marcia laughed. “I do know Daddy’s insistence on doing things the Brady way.” She gave her mother a long hug, savoring the feel of her, inhaling the strawberry scent of her. “I’ve missed you. And I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming. This visit is very spur of the moment—and short, I’m afraid. I left my driver at an inn nearby. He’ll be here to pick me up in an hour.”
“What a shame,” said Mama, then brightened. “But Burbank’s ordered tea. We’ll have that and catch up, just we two.”
She linked her arm through Marcia’s and took her upstairs to a cozy sitting room overlooking the back garden. There they sank onto a plump floral sofa covered with a plethora of chintz pillows. The room was so Mama’s style, soft pink and cream with accents of leaf green.
Marcia sighed. It felt good to be here, back in the bosom of her family.
“Lady Ennis sent me a note this morning,” she said. “It seems it was imperative that I come up to London today to look for silk for the choir robes, even though the girls’ next concert isn’t for several months and I have tomorrow’s assembly notes to prepare. We’re expecting several parents to attend.”
Mama took her hand and squeezed it. “My, you’re busy. Did you see anyone we know while you were out and about?”
“Yes.” A vague heat spread through Marcia’s chest. “Lord Chadwick. We happened to meet on the street.” She wouldn’t share the extent of the story, the awkwardness—and intensity—of it all.
“Not everyone approves of him, you know, but I must say I’ve always enjoyed his company the rare times he’s been in Town.” Mama was very fond of people in general and rarely spoke ill of anyone. “I get the impression he’s showing up more often these days. Perhaps we’ll see him sooner rather than later.”
“Why would anyone disapprove of him?”
Mama laid a hand over Marcia’s. “He has a son. Born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Really?” Marcia couldn’t help her surprise.
Mama nodded. “He lives quite openly with the child. I don’t think the earl gives a fig for what society thinks, which is why certain people disapprove of him. You yourself have never seemed keen on him.”
“No,” said Marcia. “Not particularly.” And she never would be. The news about the son certainly made him more interesting, but she’d give him no credit for his compassion. None at all. She knew it was small of her—she knew. But Lord Chadwick inspired extreme reactions in her, all bad, she was afraid.
“Finn was the one with all the charm.” It was as if Mama had read her mind. “Remember the wedding in Ireland? You were quite besotted with him.”
“I do remember,” Marcia said evenly. “But let’s talk about”—what? who?—“Daddy.” Her tone was bright. “How is he?”
“Oh, he’s doing very well.” Mama chuckled at the thought of him, and Marcia’s heart, hard as it felt toward the earl, couldn’t help but warm. She loved that her parents took such delight in each other. “Although he misses your early morning discussions over breakfast.”
“At least we have Ballybrook in the summer.” How she missed their Irish estate when she was away from it! “Paradise on earth.”
“That it is.” Mama’s voice softened. Over the years, she’d begun to speak a bit like Daddy. “But Ballybrook’s across the Irish Sea, darling. There are all kinds of eligible young bucks asking after you here in London. How many more years must Daddy fend them off?”
“But I’m headmistress now,” Marcia reminded her gently.
Mama had the grace to look abashed. “That’s a very important position. And you’re so young. The youngest headmistress they’ve ever had.” A gleam of pride lit her cerulean-blue eyes. “Lord Ennis saw what Daddy and I see: You’re a born leader.”
“Thank you, Mama. The truth is I don’t miss those young bucks. I’m perfectly happy where I am.”
Mama squeezed her hand. “Then I’m happy for you.”
But Marcia knew her parents, much as they supported her, wished to see her married and settled. It was an underlying point of conflict that had existed between them since the day she’d refused their offer of a debut in London, complete with an appearance at Court, after she’d finished her studies at Oak Hall. Instead, to her parents’ dismay, she’d asked for, and been granted, a small party at Ballybrook in the summer, followed by a modest ball in Dublin.
And then she’d shocked them all by returning to Oak Hall to teach.
A servant brought in a lovely tea tray, and her mother began the old, comforting ritual of pouring tea—Daddy’s favorite Irish blend—chatting all the while about Marcia’s siblings. Gregory enjoyed being a man-about-town but also worked with Daddy several days a week on house designs. Peter fancied himself a Corinthian and loitered around Tattersall’s and Gentleman Jackson’s with his friends. Janice had made her debut and presentation at Court several weeks before, and the whole household was at sixes and sevens attempting to keep up with all her gentleman callers; Robert was home because he was between halves at Eton, and Cynthia was mad for Greek mythology and had asked Mama to call her Andromeda.
While she listened, Marcia reflected that she was as happy as one could be when one had sworn off romantic love. Now she could focus on everyone else—her family, friends, teaching staff, and students—and not her own paltry affairs of the heart.
But she could use that cup of tea to calm her rattled nerves. She was still stunned—mortified—at her extreme reaction at seeing Lord Chadwick. She’d been barely civil to him. Something deep inside her that she’d thought long dormant had woken up at the sight of his face, something that went beyond that vindication she’d been after.
Funny. He’d become even more handsome over the years—and somehow, more youthful. The old stodginess was gone. She wondered how he’d managed that. Probably becoming a father had had much to do with it. Perhaps he’d even been in love with the boy’s mother, and the experience had softened his heart.
Marcia was dying to learn more details about the situation, but she daren’t ask. She reminded herself she’d no need to. Lord Chadwick wasn’t her concer
n, and she was no gossip.
“I’ll box some of these up for you to take home,” Mama said, and held up a plate brimming with currant buns.
Home.
It touched her to know Mama appreciated that she’d carved out a life for herself. She was a grown woman with her own hopes and dreams, and she was pursuing them, wasn’t she?
Marcia allowed herself to take a certain satisfaction at the memory of Lord Chadwick, who’d once ignored her so thoroughly, practically chasing her down the street.
It felt good to be in charge. It felt even better to allow no one to hurt her, ever again.
She was reaching for a currant bun when a sweet-faced maid she’d never met came to the door. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” She curtsied to Mama and looked shyly at Marcia. “A Lady Ennis has called to see you, Lady Marcia. She says she has a matter of business she’d like to discuss with you in private. Burbank placed her in the drawing room. He says he’ll send her away if you’d like to continue your tea uninterrupted.”
Marcia felt a jolt of surprise. Lady Ennis—or Lysandra, as Marcia thought of her—was her old classmate at Oak Hall. Like Marcia, she’d stayed on to teach after graduation, but while Marcia had stayed by choice, Lysandra had had nowhere else to go. She’d been a charity pupil. But she was shrewd and well able to ply anyone with her winsome charm, if she must, including Lord Ennis.
He’d married her. What did it matter that he was forty-five years her senior?
The next thing Marcia knew, Lysandra—who required all her old “friends” at Oak Hall to address her as Lady Ennis now—had removed herself to the viscount’s London town home and the glittering social life of the ton. But in the wake of the viscount’s death, she became the school’s benefactress and, by necessity, had been drawn kicking and screaming back into the life of Oak Hall.
Marcia stood and smoothed her skirts. “I wonder why she’s come here to discuss school business?”
“Perhaps she’s saving herself a trip to Surrey,” Mama said. “But how did she know you’d be with us?”
“She must have guessed I’d stop to see you.” Marcia inhaled a deep, calming breath. “Lysandra is the only part of my job that I don’t care for, Mama. Good thing she lives here in London and visits the school only rarely. I still can’t believe Lord Ennis was taken in by her. He seemed so clever. And kind.”
Loving Lady Marcia Page 3