Grinning, Felicia nodded her head. “Yes, Mama, that was his name. Papa said,” she lowered her voice in imitation of her father, “‘You have the documents?’”
She checked to make sure Lord Bretheridge listened. Satisfied he did, she carried on. “The other man said,” Felicia changed her voice to a high nasally twang, “‘Yes, my lord, everything is in order.’”
Angelina bit her cheek to keep from chuckling. This wasn’t a humorous situation, but gracious, Felicia was quite the consummate actress.
“Then Papa said,” Felicia dropped her tone again, rubbing her belly in imitation of her father, “‘Good, good. My niece shall be the Marchioness of Bretheridge before the summer ends.’”
Proud of her cleverness, Felicia smiled brightly. “So you see, I do have the right of it. Lina is to marry his lordship before summer ends.”
She sighed and clasped her hands together. “I do adore weddings.”
Good Lord. Does she have the right of it?
What in heaven’s name was Uncle Ambrose about?
Angelina sent a desperate glance to Lord Bretheridge to find him watching her, his eyes hooded and unreadable. Surely he realized she wasn’t part of this . . . this preposterous scheme.
Her stomach tightened uncomfortably. She needed to stand and move about. Her nerves and muscles were as taut as a bow string. Struggling to control her indignation, Angelina swung her focus to her uncle.
“Uncle, what is the meaning of this?”
He tugged his ear and stared at Felicia. A slight frown marred his face, his irritation obvious, yet controlled. “You ought not to have been eavesdropping. That was most improper.”
“I’m sorry, Papa. I know I should have revealed myself.” Felicia averted her eyes and fidgeted with the wide blue ribbon around her middle. “I was afraid you’d be angry with me and—”
Uncle Ambrose stood abruptly.
Felicia took a reflexive step backward.
Aunt Camille rose as well, wariness in her stance.
Uncle reached to pat Felicia atop the head.
Startled, she gasped.
He tossed a quashing glare at his wife. Pointing his forefinger, he admonished Felicia sternly. “Young lady, I’ll visit your room later to discuss your punishment for spying on me.”
She paled and sidled closer to her mother.
Aunt Camille wrapped a protective arm about Felicia’s shoulders and tucked her near her side.
This was the first Angelina had seen of this familial interaction. The tension set her nerves on edge all the more.
Uncle Ambrose straightened his rumpled waistcoat before crossly considering his wife. “Your Grace, please return Felicia to the care of Miss Simpleton. You and I will address this matter later.”
His tone brooked no argument. Gone was the slurred speech of minutes earlier. Evidently, anger sobered him.
Aunt Camille angled her head, studying her husband. For a moment, their gazes wrestled. It appeared she might defy him.
He returned her regard, his bearing unyielding.
Something sparked in her eyes. The glint faded as rapidly as it had appeared. She sighed before shifting her attention away, her shoulders slouching the merest bit.
She marshaled her composure and smiled at Felicia. “Come, lamb. I wish to hear your progress on the harpsichord before dinner.”
Aunt Camille skirted the chair she’d been sitting in and sailed to the entrance, Felicia in tow. Her aunt opened the door, murmuring to her daughter. “You go on, dear, and find Miss Simpleton. I’ll be but a moment.”
“Yes, Mama.” Felicia turned to Lord Bretheridge. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, your lordship.”
Eyes lowered, she dipped a pretty curtsy.
“Lina . . .” Felicia sneaked an unsure glance at her father. “Will you read with me tonight, as we usually do?”
Angelina gave her a reassuring smile. “I’d like to very much. I’ll do my best to pop in to say goodnight. Perhaps we can squeeze in a chapter or two.”
Aunt Camille stared intently at his lordship. “Lord Bretheridge?”
“Yes, Your Grace?” The marquis’s lips slid into a kind smile.
She tucked her quivering chin to her chest. “Please let me assure you, I knew nothing of this arrangement. I’m mortified that given the recent tragic events in your life, you have been subjected to more consternation by this family.”
By Uncle Ambrose, you mean.
From the corner of her eye, Angelina considered the marquis. What else had Uncle done to Lord Bretheridge?
“That’s enough.” Uncle Ambrose warned Aunt Camille, his voice harsh.
He reminded Angelina of the bad-tempered bull she encountered earlier today. The same dangerous gleam shimmered in his ruthless eyes.
“Angelina, your uncle is not your legal guardian.” Her aunt speared him a defiant glare before rushing on. “He cannot force you into anything, no matter his reasoning.”
A furious expression on his face, Uncle Ambrose strode to the door. He seized Aunt Camille’s arm none too gently. “Come with me.”
“Uncle Ambrose—”
“Waterford—”
His lordship appeared at Angelina’s side in an instant, his mouth set in severe lines once more.
Surprised, yet thankful, she advanced with him toward her aunt and uncle.
Aunt Camille stayed them with a flip of her hand. “Really, Waterford, you cannot leave Angelina unchaperoned with Lord Bretheridge.”
“Yes, Uncle. It would be most improper.” Angelina sent Lord Bretheridge a conspirator’s smile. “I’m newly acquainted with his lordship. What would the servants say?”
Not that it would make a difference in my case.
“Indeed,” Lord Bretheridge drawled. “Consider the gossip such negligence would cause. You wouldn’t want that on dit attached to your name or title, now would you?”
Angelina regarded him closely. Did mockery color his voice?
“Don’t feed me that drivel.” Uncle Ambrose urged his wife from the room. “If the door is open and a footman stands outside, it’s perfectly acceptable.”
Aunt Camille halted at the threshold. She turned her head, searching both ways in the corridor, then tapped her husband on the arm. “Yes, but there is no footman present, is there?”
With an irritated huff, Uncle Ambrose conceded. “Very well, I’ll let the issue go for the present. This is not finished. I’ll speak with you about the matter later, rest assured.”
“Excellent. I’ve been meaning to have a conversation with you regarding a pressing concern. A concern I’ve let go far too long.” She met her husband’s perturbed glower head on.
“What pressing concern?” Uncle tossed Lord Bretheridge a cautious glance, noticeably uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.
Aunt Camille lowered her voice. “You have a loose tongue when you’re well into your cups, Waterford.”
With those words, she swept past him and out of sight.
Angelina stifled a groan. Even in America, one didn’t speak of personal difficulties before servants or guests. And one assuredly didn’t express differences of opinions in their presence either. What were her aunt and uncle thinking? Mama never hinted at discord between them, yet something was definitely amiss.
Facing Lord Bretheridge, Angelina forced herself to smile and meet his eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord. Please excuse—”
“Don’t make excuses for your aunt and me, Angelina.”
Uncle Ambrose stomped to the bell-pull. Impatience written on his face, he gave it a vicious yank.
She cast Lord Bretheridge another apologetic smile which he returned, understanding in his eyes. What must he think? Drat her uncle an
d his untenable behavior.
A properly buttoned Saunders appeared at once, almost as if he’d been lurking outside the door. Had he been waiting for a summons? Why hadn’t Aunt Camille seen him? Unless he’d been skulking around the corner or in the library opposite the study.
Angelina wouldn’t put such behavior past him.
“Sir, you rang?” Spine ramrod stiff, Saunders avoided facing Lord Bretheridge.
“Yes,” Uncle Ambrose acknowledged with one sharp nod. “Show Bretheridge to the guest room prepared for him so he may rest and freshen himself before we dine.”
“That won’t be necessary.” His lordship straightened a sleeve. “I shan’t be staying for dinner.”
Angelina didn’t blame him in the least. If she were the marquis, she’d also make her excuses and beat a hasty retreat.
Egads.
Invited to tea, only to have a child declare he was to marry a perfect stranger, and then, subjected to the quibbling of his host and hostess. Not to mention the insufferable impertinence of Saunders.
And the British accused Americans of being uncultured.
Hands on his hips, his mouth bent into an ugly sneer, Uncle’s bleary gaze rested on his lordship. “I believe I made it perfectly clear that my invitation extended to dinner as well, Bretheridge.”
His voice was deceptively soft.
Another prickle of unease washed over Angelina.
Saunders turned his attention to the marquis but trained his focus at some point beyond Lord Bretheridge’s shoulder. A distinct smirk skewed the butler’s mouth.
Why hadn’t she noticed Saunders’ insolence before today?
“Yes, you did.” Lord Bretheridge clasped his hands behind him and rocked back on his heels, not a whisper of unease in his form. He tilted his head. “However, I’ve been away from Lambridge too long as it is.”
He did have a striking jawline. Nothing like Uncle’s weak, sagging chin, which nearly vanished into the folds of his neckcloth and caused his head to resemble a turtle poking halfway out of its shell.
The marquis’s handsome mouth curved into a smile. “As I informed you earlier, Mother recently suffered apoplexy. I don’t wish to be away from her for lengthy periods. Since Father’s death, she becomes worried.”
“How awful, your lordship. Of course you must go at once.” Angelina couldn’t believe her daring. She linked her arm with his and began leading him to the door, ignoring the peculiar fluttering where her heart should be.
He grinned, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Are you so eager to be rid of me, Mrs. Thorne?”
“No, no of course not.” Angelina stumbled to a stop, feeling the heat of a blush race to her hairline.
She dared a peek at her scowling uncle. “I’m extremely close to my mother. I’d be worried silly if she was ill and I wasn’t nearby to care for her.”
“I was but teasing.” Lord Bretheridge patted her hand atop his arm, moving them forward.
They reached the room’s entrance, and he bowed. Lifting her hand, he brushed his lips across her skin. “It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”
Gracious, the wee babe must be spinning somersaults. A conglomeration of peculiar sensations ricocheted around in her innards making it difficult to concentrate.
“Yes, it was.”
He grinned.
“I mean, I enjoyed yours as well, my lord.”
His grin widened.
“That is, it was a pleasure to meet you, too.”
Bother. The stream she waded in earlier babbled less than she did.
Angelina ducked her head as unfamiliar reticence gripped her. If only she’d made his acquaintance before her life had taken its ill-fated turn. Now, she was set upon a path that destined the marquis and she must go their separate ways.
She couldn’t say why, but he fascinated her. Not in the overwhelming, irresistible way Charles had with his glib tongue and smooth manners.
There were two more rules for the taboo list.
Disregard flattering lips and a charming comportment. Both are meaningless.
No, she suspected the marquis possessed a depth of character Charles lacked. She recognized intrinsic goodness in Lord Bretheridge’s eyes. Perhaps that’s what snared her interest. Who was the man behind the title?
It mattered naught. She wasn’t in a position to become better acquainted with any man, nor would her bruised heart or distrustful soul permit her to do so. She’d been duped once and placed part of the blame at Charles’s feet. To be fooled twice, well, that would be solely her fault.
Time to bid Lord Bretheridge farewell and have a serious, doubtless unpleasant, discussion with her uncle.
Angelina gave Saunders her brightest smile. Her mama had always advised that one attracted more ants with molasses than mud. “I’d be happy to see Lord Bretheridge to the door.”
“Very good, Mrs. Thorne.” The butler gave her a rigid bow. He spun on his polished heel and marched from the drawing room, his back stiffer than a corpse.
Evidently, Saunders wasn’t the forgiving sort.
Lord Bretheridge regarded Uncle Ambrose standing silent and fuming beside the door. Ire reddened her uncle’s already mottled nose and cheeks.
The marquis dipped his head. “Your Grace, this afternoon has been most, shall we say, entertaining.”
“I’ll say.” Angelina chuckled, pushing a wisp of hair off her forehead. “I don’t know what got into my cousin. Thank you for being so understanding about her storytelling.”
“She wasn’t telling a story.” Uncle Ambrose skewered them with his shrewd gaze.
Angelina’s eyes meshed with Lord Bretheridge’s for a brief moment. Did hers reflect the same shock as his?
“Felicia heard correctly.” Uncle stomped to stand before them. He pointed at Angelina, then the marquis.
“Neither of you is in a position to object. As I see it, you’re at point non plus.”
He folded his arms and swung his smug gaze between them, a self-satisfied smile on his mouth. “You have no choice except to wed.”
Chapter 9
God curse the bugger!
Flynn bit his tongue, swallowing the vulgar oath he ached to launch at Waterford’s retreating form. Only Mrs. Thorne’s presence prevented him from doing so. He eyed a bronze bust he felt certain would lay the cur out. He’d like to heave the figurine at the duke too.
No, he itched to flatten the duke with his fists.
God forgive him. He hated Waterford. The cocky weasel’s boots clacked the length of the entry after exiting and leaving his niece without a proper chaperone.
Flynn turned his attention to Mrs. Thorne.
Eyes closed, her dark reddish-brown lashes fanned her cheeks. Pale as the snowdrops lining the drive to Lambridge each February, she drew in a trembling breath. Her hands cradling her middle, she swayed.
He feared she might swoon.
“Are you well? Here, have a seat.” He grasped her elbow and tried steering her toward the settee.
At his touch, her eyelids flew open, the twin pools of emerald wounded and glistening with tears.
“No, no, thank you.” She raised her chin a notch. “I’m not some ninny who swoons at the drop of a teacup.”
He scratched his nose. “Or when a mean-tempered bull chases you into a tree.”
“Indeed.” She offered an unsteady half-smile.
She stared at the empty doorway, angst on her lovely face. With the inborn diplomacy of a true lady, Mrs. Thorne collected herself and sought to reassure Flynn. “Please forgive my uncle. I’m mortified he dared threaten you.”
In a vexed whisper, she added, “And rest assured, I entertain no ideas of marriage. To anyone.”
Her cheeks glowed rosy, and she pre
ssed a trembling hand to her forehead as if unwell.
To be so opposed to the notion of marriage, she must still grieve her husband deeply. How long had she been widowed? Quite recently, given her tender age. She couldn’t be more than one and twenty. How tragic someone so young had already endured a loss of such magnitude.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 10