Loving Lady Marcia

by Kieran Kramer

  Duncan’s chest tightened at the rebuke. “Come, Joe.”

  Reluctantly, Joe stood and followed him to the front door, which the butler held wide.

  Duncan turned to the secretary and looked steadily at him. “His Grace is making a huge mistake in not granting Lady Marcia an interview.”

  “I don’t think so. I wonder whatever caused her to think he was looking at schools in the first place?” The man’s expression was completely closed.

  When Duncan stepped outside, he realized how badly he’d failed. He’d not helped Lady Marcia—he’d only hurt her mission. And now what would she do?

  He had no choice but to go home.

  But what he didn’t realize at that miserable moment was that a small boy had decided not to go with him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Finn was here. And Marcia was ready to go.

  More than ready.

  She was anxious to tie up those loose ends of theirs.

  She didn’t care that she’d taken a fifteen-minute nap after all their callers had left and dreamed a heated dream about kissing Lord Chadwick instead.

  She put the erotic images right out of her mind when she saw Finn sitting on the sofa in the drawing room. Even with that little cut above his lip, he looked like a god—but a god who followed her every move, a warm light of appreciation in his eyes.

  And mischief. There was always that.

  “Where’s Janice?” Marcia asked her mother, who was sitting by Finn and netting a purse.

  “She might be in the back garden,” Mama said. “She had her favorite parasol out there earlier—she was reading on Daddy’s new reading bench. Perhaps she went to fetch it.”

  “I’ll look,” said Marcia.

  “We’ll wait for you.” Finn sent her another look, and she knew exactly what it said: Hurry back.

  Her stomach dipped. Her toes and fingers tingled. She felt a little unsteady on her legs.

  Finn was enough to turn any sensible woman’s head to mush.

  She began a dreamy walk through the house to the back garden. It was annoying, however, that those lurid images of Lord Chadwick kissing her in her shift kept supplanting her daydreams about Finn.

  “Excuse me, my lady.” It was Burbank. He held a note out to her. “This just came.”

  “Thank you, Burbank.” Marcia stood in the corridor and read the envelope. It was from her new friend, Dr. Trimp.

  As she read it, her heart beat faster and faster. And when she was done, she folded the note into a small square.

  Dr. Trimp’s acquaintance Ella McCloud, headmistress of Greenwood, had found out that the Duke of Beauchamp’s granddaughter was unhappy at her Swiss boarding school. Miss McCloud was in the midst of making preparations to visit the duke!

  “You know what this means,” the doctor had written. “You’ve no time to lose.”

  Marcia’s dreamy haze was replaced by an extreme set of nerves. Her temples sweating, she made her way through Daddy’s library and opened one of the French doors leading outside, which was precisely when she had one more vision of the Lord Chadwick of her dreams kissing that delicate place on her collarbone. It was also exactly when Peter threw a leather-wrapped ball to Robert, who stood ten feet in front of Marcia, his hands above his head.

  The ball sailed above Robert’s outstretched fingers and hit her square on the nose.

  * * *

  When Marcia opened her eyes seconds later, she was looking straight up at Peter and Robert.

  Damn that Lord Chadwick! was her first thought. This was his fault.

  “Are you all right?” Peter asked her.

  “You keeled over like a bowling pin,” Robert said. “Peter’s got quite the arm.”

  She touched her nose and realized the pain was no worse than the time she’d burned the back of her hand on a hot stove. In fact, the harsh, initial sting was beginning to recede. A low throbbing took its place. But she sensed, from the looks on her brothers’ faces, that her outing with Finn was doomed.

  So be it. She had to go see Lord Chadwick and speak to him of the Duke of Beauchamp.

  “I—I think I’m fine,” she said. “I didn’t black out. Not really. I was more surprised than anything. Help me up?”

  “Of course,” said Peter and Robert together.

  She winced. “Is it swelling?”

  Both boys peered at her.

  “It’s red,” said Peter.

  “Bright red,” added Robert with relish.

  “What happened to you?” Janice asked in the drawing room when Marcia returned, Peter on one side of her and Robert on the other, each of them holding one of her elbows.

  Finn stood up, his eyebrows lofted. “Lady Marcia? Are you all right?”

  Her heart almost melted at the concern in his voice, but she resisted. Instead, she thought of the girls and teachers at Oak Hall and how much they needed her to win over the Duke of Beauchamp.

  “We’re so sorry, Mama,” Peter said, his cheeks flaming when Mama strode quickly to Marcia’s side.

  “We didn’t know anyone was coming out that door,” Robert added in a small voice.

  “It wasn’t their fault,” Marcia said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Thanks to the Lord Chadwick in her dream.

  “It was an accident, boys.” Mama’s tone was brisk but understanding. “Put your hands down, please, dear,” she told Marcia.

  Marcia did as she was told and saw Finn wince. Heavens, did she look that bad?

  Mama sighed, little lines forming around her eyes. “You took quite a wallop. I think you may bruise, but thankfully, I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “I—I think I see the beginning of swelling already,” Janice said, her voice wavering.

  These days, Janice was fearful of all sorts of diseases and disasters.

  “Do you?” Marcia asked in a whisper, pretending her nose hurt like the very dickens.

  “We need to put a cold poultice on that right away,” Mama said. “Burbank, will you see to it, please?”

  The butler had been hovering in the drawing room door. “Yes, of course, my lady.”

  Mama turned to Finn next. “I’m sorry, but in this condition, Marcia can’t go with you to Astley’s.”

  “Of course not,” he said, staring at her.

  Marcia could swear he restrained a shudder. She swiveled her head to look at Cynthia. “Do I look awful?” she said low.

  Cynthia bit her lip. “Not yet. How long will it take before it turns different colors?”

  Janice put a hand to her heart. “Oh, no,” she said weakly. “I hope it won’t do that.”

  Mama took charge. “Marcia, if you can’t go to Astley’s, neither can Janice,” she said firmly. She looked again at Finn. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lattimore. I do hope they can go some other time.”

  Marcia could read all over Janice’s face how upset she was, even though she did her best to hide it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to both Finn and Janice.

  “Wait,” said Robert. “I can take Marcia’s place. Would that do, Mama?”

  Mama sent him a chiding look. “Robert. That’s bad of you to invite yourself.”

  He grinned at the company. “Please, Mama. Please, Mr. Lattimore.”

  “Of course,” Finn said doggedly.

  Janice’s face brightened.

  “I’d like to go, too!” Cynthia hopped up and down and clapped her hands.

  “There are only three seats,” Mama told Cynthia. “Robert is older, and he did ask first.”

  There was a painful, small silence, and then Finn spoke. “Both Robert and Cynthia can have seats. I’m sure I’ll be able to wrangle another one for myself.”

  “Mr. Lattimore!” Mama cried. “You’re too kind.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, a golden lock of hair falling over his eye.

  “Are you sure?” Mama asked him.

  Janice looked ecstatic.

  “Quite sure.” He didn’t look at he
r, but Marcia was certain he was doing this for her.

  Guilt racked her, but her heart warmed, and she wondered again what it would be like to kiss Finn now that he’d become a man.

  There was a great deal of hustle and bustle as Mama and Burbank worked to get Cynthia and Robert ready—Robert was suddenly hungry, and Mama rang for biscuits to stuff in his pockets. All the while this was going on, Janice had a silly half-smile on her face.

  Burbank brought Marcia her poultice. It was time for her to retreat upstairs with it, but she wouldn’t go yet. Not until the party was out the door. She sank onto the stairs and held it to her nose, feeling embarrassed. Finn stood in the entryway, looking bemused, possibly bored with the logistics of getting younger people ready for an unexpected outing, and a trifle overwhelmed. He cast a few glances at Marcia, almost as if he were afraid to make eye contact with her.

  Most of all, he looked very, very handsome in his high-top boots and bottle-green coat and burgundy waistcoat beneath.

  “We’ve both sustained facial injuries now,” she said with what she hoped was a feeble smile.

  He finally settled his gaze on hers. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Hopefully, the swelling won’t be much, and I’ll be fine tomorrow. You seem to have recovered.”

  “Yes, I have.” He turned to observe his own reflection in the hall mirror, running a finger over his own diminishing battle scar near his mouth before turning back to her. “I certainly hope your nose isn’t broken. That would be a shame … for your face.”

  She could swear he was implying her looks would be ruined!

  Janice’s eyes widened, and they exchanged glances. She could tell Janice agreed with her that Finn’s remark was gauche, to say the least.

  But then Marcia remembered how overset he might be by the goings-on around him. How kind he was to take Janice, Robert, and Cynthia to Astley’s. And she remembered that men could be … insensitive. Without realizing it, of course. Long experience with her three brothers had taught her that.

  Lord Chadwick, on the other hand, had been very solicitous of her lately. But, she reminded herself, he was behaving so because he’d treated her shabbily years before. She couldn’t give him credit for his assiduous attention. She really couldn’t, although if she were as kind and sweet as Mama, she probably would.

  When the carriage with the Brady crest came merrily around the corner, Janice sent Marcia a discreet look of concern coupled with what could only be both guilt and gratitude. And no wonder. She was leaving on the arm of Finnian Lattimore. He was more gorgeous than ever as he looked at Marcia one time and pensively bit his lower lip—his way, she supposed, of consoling her over her injury.

  “Good-bye,” she eked out from behind her poultice, and waved at the group without getting up from the stairs.

  Mama laid a hand on Finnian’s arm. “The marquess and I would be most pleased if you and your brother would join us in our box at the opera tomorrow night. Will you do that?”

  “Tomorrow night?” Finn stole a glance at Marcia’s poultice, avoiding actually meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry, but I already have plans to have dinner with several old friends. But thank you for the kind invitation, Lady Brady. And Duncan never goes anywhere. Please don’t bother sending him an invitation.”

  “Oh, I insist,” said Lady Brady.

  He blanched. “Really, it will be a waste of your time—”

  Why was he acting so nervous? Marcia wondered.

  Lady Brady laughed. “I plan to tell him all about your heroic behavior today, Mr. Lattimore. Taking three of our children to Astley’s! You really are a saint.”

  He studied the floor then looked back up at her. “Oh, in that case. I suppose it will be all right. Thank you, Lady Brady.”

  He took a last, awkward look at Marcia.

  She sent him a pleasant half-smile to reassure him she’d recover.

  When Burbank shut the door behind the party, Marcia’s panic about Miss McCloud of Greenwood winning over the Duke of Beauchamp in her Parisian bonnet and stylish clothes assailed her full force.

  Lord Chadwick simply must help her avert such a tragedy.

  And Marcia’s nose, swelling or not, mustn’t get in the way of her seeing him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A long and tedious hour later, Marcia lowered her poultice. “Mama, can I go out for some air? My nose doesn’t appear to be swelling or bruising.”

  “Thank God for that.” Mama looked closer. “Even the redness is gone. You were lucky, my dear.” She patted Marcia’s shoulder. “Perhaps some fresh air would help.”

  Fresh air and seeing Lord Chadwick about the Duke of Beauchamp.

  Once outside, Marcia pushed aside her guilt, telling herself she was only protecting her mother’s finer sensibilities. She was also doing her duty as the roving ambassador, which Mama had given her permission to do anyway.

  She walked with Kerry the four blocks to the earl’s house, hoping her bonnet shielded her identity from view of prying eyes. When she knocked at Lord Chadwick’s residence, she crossed the fingers of her left hand behind her back for luck. Kerry stood behind her, humming along with the tune coming from the pianoforte inside.

  A butler came to the door. “Yes?”

  Marcia smiled. “I—I’m Lady Marcia Sherwood, here to see the Earl of Chadwick.”

  The butler’s forehead creased as he took in both her and Kerry. “I’ll see if he’s in, my lady.”

  Marcia knew it was unheard of for a young lady to visit a gentleman at his residence without a chaperone, but at least the presence of a maid lent her a modicum of respectability. The sound of the pianoforte playing ceased, and she wondered who had been playing it—Lord Chadwick?

  If so, she begrudgingly liked that about him.

  The music started playing again, and then someone began to sing a lively rendition of “The Women All Tell Me,” a sly song about the joys of choosing wine over a faithless woman.

  It was a man’s voice, clearly Lord Chadwick’s.

  He was a lovely tenor. That was another thing she would have liked about him if he weren’t singing such a terribly rude song.

  Drowning your sorrows in wine over a fickle woman, indeed!

  She didn’t feel guilty at all about not meeting him in the park.

  In a few seconds, the butler came back, cleared his throat, and looked at a spot over Marcia’s head. “He has an unexpected matter to attend to,” he intoned. “I’m afraid the earl is unavailable.”

  “An unexpected matter?” Marcia felt her face heat. “Oh. Could I leave him a message?”

  The butler finally looked at her, his expression glacial. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Exactly right.” And he slammed the door in her face.

  She slunk back down the steps, Kerry on her heels.

  “Oh, dear,” said Kerry. “That was rather awkward.”

  “I know,” said Marcia, cringing inside. “I wonder if the earl could possibly have known that I—”

  “That you what, my lady?”

  “That I canceled an outing with him this afternoon to go to Astley’s with his brother.”

  Kerry put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, my lady. You did?”

  “Yes, Kerry. And now I regret it. Not because I care about what he thinks. Or his butler. I don’t. But I need his help with the duke.”

  “And then it turned out you couldn’t go to Astley’s, after all,” Kerry said, looking at her with a bit of fascination. “Perhaps the Fates were telling you—”

  “It wasn’t poetic justice,” Marcia interrupted her. “I have nothing to be sorry for. It was merely an accident that happened.”

  Then why did she feel a stirring of guilt?

  They were halfway back home when a gentleman in a multilayered cape and black top hat on the opposite side of the street crossed over to their side, stopped at the next street corner, and faced them on the pavement.

  As Marcia approached him, she realized it wa
s Lord Chadwick, looking swarthy and very handsome. Beneath his cape, she caught a glimpse of white cravat and tight buff breeches.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

  He held out his arm, and she took it without thinking.

  “Waiting for you,” he said.

  “Oh.” Gooseflesh appeared on her arms.

  He spoke as if they were lovers meeting clandestinely. But of course, he wasn’t her lover. And never would be.

  “I heard you at my door,” he said, “but I had to put on my coat and hat so I could meet you in more proper circumstances, on the street.” He looked over his shoulder and nodded pleasantly at Kerry, who’d fallen back a good ten feet. “I didn’t want to sneak up from behind you. I had a feeling guilt would make you a bit edgy, and you’d scream.”

  “Guilt?” Marcia’s face heated. “Why should I feel guilty? And I don’t scream, my lord. Not about anything.”

  “Is that so?”

  Why was he looking at her in that wicked way?

  “I do feel remorseful about something.” They passed three little girls walking with their nurse, and Marcia’s heart turned over. “But I don’t know if I want to tell you after your butler’s send-down. I was sure”—she was too embarrassed to say it out loud—“oh, you know what I was sure of.”

  He actually laughed aloud. “You were sure I was annoyed you canceled an outing with me to go to Astley’s with my brother?”

  Part of her felt sheepish. “So he told you?”

  “Of course not. I guessed. I should have known he’d ignore my strictures to stay away from you. He usually likes to do the opposite of what I say. So I’m happy you apparently didn’t go with him. Finnian, charming as he is, is not the man for you.”

  “Once again,” she said, feeling huffy, “I must remind you that I don’t need your interference in my personal life. It’s up to me to determine the right man for me. As I don’t plan to marry, it’s a moot point.”

  “Oh? I figured you must be desperately in love with Finn to agree to go to Astley’s. You’re not fond of horses. At least their mouths.”