Loving Lady Marcia

by Kieran Kramer

  Lord Chadwick hadn’t let on in the least. The nerve of the man! There he’d been kissing her, when he’d only just beaten up his brother.

  She couldn’t think of a word to say. But her heart melted. Finn had taken a punch on her behalf. He was simply adorable, even in his disheveled state.

  “It could have been much, much worse,” he added in that old, caressing voice. “I could have flattened him. But I decided to let him go. He’s still a cold fish, you know, even after all these years of being an earl and getting everything handed to him on a silver platter.”

  What a terrible thing to say about one’s brother, especially aloud at a ball. But could she really blame Finn?

  “You need to go home and put a cold beefsteak on your jaw,” she said in a soft albeit authoritative voice, and put a finger to her lips, the same way she’d done with her more rambunctious students.

  “All right,” he whispered loudly, “but there’s no steak at Albany. And Duncan won’t let me visit at his house. That’s why I’m on my fourth glass of Livingston’s best brandy. My jaw hurts like the devil.”

  He waved and grinned at a cluster of debutantes ogling him on Marcia’s right. His appeal was obvious, even with a battered face making him look a bit like something out of that novel by Mary Shelley.

  “Did Lord Chadwick regret hitting you?” she asked.

  “No.” Finn leaned toward her again. “He’s jealous Father liked me better. He’s jealous everyone likes me better.” He groaned. “It’s hell being the second son.”

  “You really should go,” she said. “I swear your face is swelling right before my eyes.”

  Finn stared at her. “This is why I like you so much.” His tone was earnest. “You care about me, even after all these years—I hope. Do you?”

  Her face got hot. “Of course. We—we’re old friends. But you must go home. Now.”

  “You’re bossy.” He grinned. “You didn’t used to be, but I like it.”

  And she couldn’t help herself—she laughed, which made him laugh, and then clasp his jaw with a palm and wince.

  So their grins faded to smiles. Even when he was in this drunken state, she felt how their smiles matched. They always had, since that first one in the carriage long ago, when they’d begun their journey to Liverpool.

  She had a vivid memory of Lord Chadwick reading a book that day, his fingers sturdy around the cover, his eyelids lowered, his mouth in a straight, unforgiving line.

  “You’re beautiful,” Finn said now. “You’re more beautiful now than you were … then.”

  Then.

  She felt herself blush. “Thank you,” she said quickly. He couldn’t talk about then. He should never bring it up again. Ever. “I—I really should go.”

  She walked quickly away, hoping she’d also escape the keen worry she felt that the past might come back to haunt her. Walking past the cluster of dewy-eyed debutantes who’d ogled Finn and were now following her with curious eyes, she felt as if an invisible aura surrounded her: an aura of loss. Of failure.

  Of shame.

  She decided she might as well allow that sense of discomfort to serve as the momentum to drive her toward her final goal of the evening, confronting Lysandra.

  And then she could go home.

  “Let’s be done with it,” she said under her breath, the sounds of violins, laughter, and clinking plates absorbing her softly spoken war cry.

  The viscountess was speaking with three fashionably dressed women, none of them debutantes judging from their boldly colored gowns and their assured expressions.

  Marcia attempted to touch the flower in her hair, but it was gone.

  So be it.

  It represented a lie.

  She felt a sharp, split-second pang of longing for the girl she could have been.

  Ah, well. Considering how rough the earl had been on Finn, did she really want that flower anyway?

  When she got close to Lysandra, she refused to hang back. She had nothing left to lose.

  “Lady Ennis?” Marcia stood close enough to the small circle that one of the women had to move over several inches or risk bumping elbows with her. “May I have a private word?”

  Lysandra’s features were still and smooth when she looked at her friends. They got the silent message and moved away, but not before they stared at Marcia as if she were a nobody with a capital N.

  “I’m not sure I have any desire to speak to you,” Lysandra said in that breathy-little-girl’s voice of hers.

  “I’m quite sure I have no desire to speak to you,” Marcia said, “but it can’t be helped.”

  Lysandra’s eyes flew wide.

  “If you thought I was here to beg for my job back,” Marcia told her, “you’re wrong.”

  She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth or the audacity of her tone. She had been intending to beg. She’d do anything for Oak Hall. But until this moment, she’d not realized that she’d be a terrible headmistress if she were living in constant fear of Lysandra.

  No, she had to stand up to the cunning viscountess now if she wanted a future at her beloved school.

  “Go away.” Lysandra took a sip of some sparkling wine and stared off into the distance, her lips pursed in what she must assume was an attractive pout.

  Marcia could feel the eyes upon them, the whispers that were traveling fast about the room.

  “Not until I ask you a question,” she said. “Did you dismiss me so you could shut down the school permanently, without my interference?” She could hardly breathe as she waited for the answer.

  “And if I did, what concern is it of yours?” Lysandra said in petulant tones, finally looking directly at her.

  “It’s a huge concern of mine,” Marcia said stoutly. “I love Oak Hall and the people there.”

  Lysandra shrugged. “I’m a widow. I see no need to endanger my own financial security by siphoning off a great deal of my late husband’s wealth to Oak Hall.”

  Marcia had expected an answer along those lines, but she was rocked to the core, nonetheless, by the painful truth: Her girls, bright and lovely, and her school, that dignified pile of rocks worn by the sun and rain and years and years of children traversing its halls … they were to be separated one from the other.

  Oak Hall was to be closed.

  It was a tragedy of momentous proportions.

  She had to swallow the lump in her throat and swear herself not to cry. “I’m here to proposition you, my lady.” She used her headmistress’s voice, but it was also the voice of someone willing to break the rules if she had to.

  “Oh, really.” Lysandra gave a bitter laugh. “You. Propositioning me.”

  “But first, I must tell you that if you close Oak Hall, you’ll look uncharitable, unable to cope, ignorant, and disrespectful of the fine traditions that meld our society.”

  “Hmmph,” said Lysandra. “You sound as if you practiced that little speech.”

  Oh, God, she had. Over and over in her head since yesterday afternoon.

  “Hello, Sir Martin,” Lysandra trilled, and waved the tips of her fingers to a dapper older gentleman walking by. “Lady Pringle? How are you?” She bestowed a tilt of her head to the grande dame in burgundy silk, who was filling a plate with prawns.

  It was an obvious ploy to make Marcia feel two inches tall.

  She would ignore the silly attempt.

  “If you shut the school down,” Marcia said a little too loudly—because at this point she was going strictly on what was inside her this very minute; Lysandra didn’t care one iota about Oak Hall, and she was a horrible cow—“you’ll be missing out on an opportunity to rise through the social ranks faster than you ever imagined possible. Much faster than the predictable route you’re taking now, my lady.”

  Lysandra crossed her slender arms over her voluptuous bosom and stared sulkily at her. “Oh, really,” she said. “And what predictable route is that?”

  “Marriage to Kitto Tremellyn, the Earl of Shaftsbur
y. Another man old enough to be your grandfather.”

  Fate was kind at that moment. Marcia’s words came at a distinct lull in the noise level at the ball. Lady Pringle’s hand, the one holding a prawn, paused in midair. Sir Martin, who’d begun to search for the cigar in his pocket, seemed to forget he needed a smoke.

  Lysandra slid her eyes to them uneasily, then looked back at Marcia. “Only a fool would ignore an opportunity to acquire more wealth. And rank. I would be a countess.”

  “Most people would agree with you,” Marcia said. “But at what cost would come this elevated prosperity and status?”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Lysandra said, her chest heaving, apparently much to Sir Martin’s delight. He’d given up looking for the cigar and was staring raptly their way.

  “Are you sure?” Marcia asked her. “Because if you follow my suggestion, you can go to Cornwall on genuine holiday. You can relax and amuse yourself without worrying every moment you’re there about how you’re going to adjust to putting up with yet another husband who controls the purse strings, as well as your comings and goings.”

  That statement seemed to stun Lysandra into silence.

  Marcia mentally crossed her fingers. “If you allow me to make Oak Hall the fashionable school you long for it to be, and also allow me to maintain it as the substantial bastion of learning it already is, then you’ll win kudos and admiration from your friends. Your level of influence will increase among the ton, and you won’t need a wedding ring on your finger to achieve your social and financial aims. You will be free, my lady, to live life as you care to. And you’ll leave a legacy to be envied.”

  Lysandra studied her a moment. Marcia could see the curiosity she was desperately trying to hide in her eyes. “And how would this be accomplished?” Her tone was curt.

  “By allowing me to seek out new students on your behalf, students who’ll bring the school into social prominence,” Marcia said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to make Greenwood students long to transfer to Oak Hall because it’s not only the better school—it has a certain je ne sais quoi that their school lacks?”

  “Yes.” Lysandra’s eyes widened. “I’d love for that to happen. Why didn’t you think of it months ago? A year ago?”

  Marcia had no answer. “I—I was—”

  Oh, God. She’d been making the school her own little kingdom. Hiding away from the world. Running from the past. All in the name of helping everyone else.

  That was what she’d been doing!

  Guilt assailed her, and she blinked furiously. “I’m sorry. It was a terrible oversight. But now”—she paused for dramatic emphasis—“now we need to ensure Oak Hall’s future. That won’t happen by itself.”

  Lysandra arched a scornful brow. “It’s too late. Much too late. Leave me be. This time, I truly have heard enough.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Lissy.” The last time Marcia had called her by that nickname, they’d been thirteen.

  Lysandra turned around, slowly. “What is it?” Her face was tight.

  Marcia inhaled a secret breath and prayed for courage. “I know something. Something no other school knows. And it could be very big.”

  “What?”

  “The Duke of Beauchamp’s granddaughter is unhappy at her Swiss boarding school.”

  “You’re jesting. It’s supposed to be the best in the world.”

  “Can you imagine how wonderful it would be if she came to Oak Hall? Greenwood would be so jealous. Oak Hall would become the coveted school to attend. And society’s elite would know that you’re the benefactor and would seek your approval to get their daughters in.”

  “Yes.” Lysandra sounded intrigued. “I’d like that.”

  “Then let me try.” Marcia swallowed hard.

  “I seriously doubt this will work. The duke is extremely reclusive.”

  “That may be, but it can work. I know it can. But you’ll need to do your part, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Lysandra’s eyes flared with resentment.

  “You’ll need to act friendly toward me. You’ll tell your friends that it was a bad rumor that I was let go, bandied about by jealous competitors. You’ll tell them that the truth is, I—I knew my duty—to marry—and instead of breaking all ties with the school, I decided to leave my post and seek out students on the school’s behalf here in London. You can even tell them I’m wearing my sister’s gown tonight because my own wardrobe is being made by the best seamstresses in Paris and will be delivered next week.”

  “My goodness, you’re sneaky.”

  “I can be a friend of the school, with your help. Please. Don’t close Oak Hall without trying this first.”

  “It would be nice to have a duke’s granddaughter.”

  “Wouldn’t it?” Marcia was on tenterhooks by this time.

  Lysandra sighed. “Very well. I’ll keep the school open past the end of term if and only after you do all you’ve promised.”

  Marcia felt a great rush of joy, but she would remain calm. Serene. As a headmistress should. “Thank you, Lady Ennis. You won’t be disappointed.” She hesitated. “We should embrace now. An act of pure theatre, I assure you.”

  “Dear God,” Lysandra muttered.

  Marcia leaned forward and gave her an awkward hug.

  “You might manage to keep the school open with this strategy of yours to win over the duke,” Lysandra said in her ear, “but don’t expect me to invite you back as headmistress or teacher. You’ll stay in London. The most you’ll ever be is roving ambassador for Oak Hall.”

  For a moment, Marcia pressed her eyes closed and attempted to ignore the pain near her heart. “All right,” she whispered. Then she pulled back and smiled sweetly, as if Lysandra were her best friend.

  Lysandra smiled back, but her eyes were as cold as ever. “I’ll be back from Cornwall in a few weeks,” she said. “Everything must be in place by then, or the deal is off.”

  And then she blew Marcia a small, entirely false kiss and walked away.

  Chapter Eleven

  The day after the Livingstons’ ball, Joe’s kite flew over his head and got caught in a tree in the park.

  “Papa!” Joe cried. “It’s stuck!”

  When Duncan saw it was Finn who’d flown it there, he wasn’t surprised. Finn had a way of being involved whenever things went wrong, either big or small. There he was, with a still slightly swollen jaw Duncan couldn’t regret giving him over Lady Marcia.

  That had been a very big wrong, indeed, one that Duncan couldn’t get out of his head. Lady Marcia had been compromised. For the past four years, she’d suffered under the burden of a great secret. If society ever found out, she’d be ostracized.

  And Finn hadn’t changed his ways. There’d been the cuckolded husband in Virginia, after all, and who knew how many others.

  Now they were existing under a tense truce, and Duncan wasn’t sure Finn should even be around Joe. But he’d told his brother he’d give him another chance to prove himself. His goal this morning, one which he’d gone back and forth about, was to forge a small friendship between Finn and Joe. Nothing too close, simply a cordial relationship that Duncan would always oversee.

  “Papa?” Joe cried. “Please hurry. I’m afraid it will tear.”

  “I’ll get it before it does.” Duncan made a flying leap, grabbed a branch, swung himself up, and climbed up to one of the highest boughs of the elm. Then he shimmied out onto the offending limb on which the kite was snagged.

  After this outing with Joe and Finn—if he survived it—he’d pay a call on Lady Marcia.

  That kissing episode in the sitting room at the ball had not been planned; however, he was very glad it had happened. She’d been lush and exciting. Warm and inviting. Erotic. All the things a man wanted in a woman he was kissing for reasons that had nothing to do with love.

  She’d been wound tight as a clock spring before they’d shared a few moments of passion, and afterward, she’d been poised and focused, bac
k to fighting battery and ready to take on Lady Ennis.

  Mission accomplished. She’d even thanked him for it, which had amazed him. The only person who’d ever noticed when he fixed things was Joe. Adults never had, especially Finn.

  He sincerely hoped he had many more such pleasurable missions with Lady Marcia Sherwood.

  “Whoa.” He’d almost slipped on the branch.

  “Papa!” Joe cried.

  “I’m okay,” he called down, embarrassed. He needed to focus on the kite, not on memories of Lady Marcia’s hips and bottom and sweetly scented hair.

  “Go left,” Finn said, waving his arm while Joe squinted up at the tree. “Farther out now.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Duncan shimmied a few more inches out onto the branch and after a few vain attempts—during which he was heckled by Finn—he was able to knock the trapped paper diamond from its perch.

  It sifted through the air to the ground, where Joe was able to catch it. “Oh, good job, Papa!” He grinned up at him, two rows of shining white teeth beneath a mop of golden hair.

  God, he was Finn all over again, at least in looks.

  “Yes, good job, Papa,” echoed Finn, the thankless wretch.

  Duncan glared at him.

  “He’s not your papa,” Joe corrected Finn.

  I might as well be, thought Duncan.

  “It’s called a joke,” Finn said to the little boy.

  “Ohhh.” Joe grinned up at his new relative and, after a moment’s hesitation, shyly held out his hand.

  Finn stared at him a few seconds then took it.

  God. Duncan felt sick for a moment. He wasn’t sure he liked seeing Finn holding Joe’s hand. He’d better be careful. Joe would wrap around his heart in a flash. And then what would Finn do? Try to take him back?

  Just let him try, thought Duncan. But while he was busy being irrationally jealous, he was jabbed by a broken branch, which made a massive rip in the back of his jacket.

  His brother looked up and laughed. “Serves you right for climbing that tree.”

  Joe giggled with him.

  “Right, you two.” Duncan had to play the good sport. “Here I saved the kite, and these are the thanks I get? You’d better watch out. When I reach the ground, I’m coming after you. Especially if you’re wearing the color green.”