A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  “Even me?”

  Damaris snapped, “Yes!” before seeing the trap. “But not until you’re a viscount.” She escaped to Lady Arradale’s side, knowing she’d lost that skirmish.

  Perish the man.

  All the same, she had a hard time not smiling. She’d had no idea that arguing with a man could be so exciting. She sizzled from that exchange and hugged his blatant flattery to herself.

  A smooth surface beneath which seethes fire and mystery. Oh, if only it were true. Her priceless ruby necklace, which she’d not yet worn in public, had at its center an enormous cabochon ruby. When might she have an opportunity to wear it where Fitzroger would see it? It was suitable for only the grandest occasion. Perhaps in London...

  A flurry on the stairs announced the dowager, finally deigning to join them.

  “Don’t worry,” Fitzroger said, re-joining her. “Rothgar would never permit it.”

  “What? Shooting the dowager?”

  He grinned. “Marriage to me.”

  “Oh, that,” she said, deliberately dismissive. “At least we can be on our way.”

  “About time, too. Normally we’d cover the forty miles to Cheynings in daylight, but though the snow is melting here, there’s no knowing what the roads are like elsewhere.”

  “You worry too much,” she teased, but he did seem concerned.

  Damaris went outside with him to find that four coaches were lined up in front of the abbey, each with six strong horses in the shafts. The first and fourth were plain vehicles already loaded with servants and luggage. The second was a huge, gilded vehicle with a crest on the door and a coronet on each corner of the roof. The third was a plainer but still grand traveling carriage painted green and brown.

  Paths had been swept to two of the carriages’ doors, and Ashart and Miss Smith were already waiting beside the green-and-brown one, which Damaris would share with her rival. As she went down the steps to join them she waited for the familiar resentment to bite.

  It didn’t.

  Genova Smith was welcome to the wasteful, rakish marquess, especially as marriage to him meant close association with his bleak home and his bitter grandmother. She only wished she’d realized that earlier.

  The pristine snow made the landscape beautiful, but the air was bitterly cold, so Damaris entered the coach immediately. A servant deposited her carriage bag at her feet, then closed the door. The couple remained outside, talking as if each were the other’s food and they in danger of starving.

  Damaris rolled her eyes, slipped her hands out of her muff, and took off her gloves. She realized the coach was pleasantly warm, so she unfastened her cloak and set it back.

  Genova Smith’s cloak was quite like her own in color, but of cloth, not velvet. And lined with rabbit rather than rare chinchilla. It was horribly petty to be pleased about that, but Damaris wasn’t yet above such thoughts. To help avoid them, she looked away from the couple to inspect the carriage. It was as warm and comfortable as a cozy parlor in the finest home.

  She found the explanation of the warmth beneath the carpet on the floor—a layer of hot bricks.

  The thickly upholstered seats were covered in red damask, and curtains of the same material were tied back at the windows. Candles sat ready in gilded sconces shielded behind glass. No, she certainly didn’t understand the style in which the impoverished Marquess of Ashart lived.

  She found shallow cupboards set into the walls of the coach containing a selection of drinks and amusements—cards; counters; boards and pieces for chess, drafts, and backgammon; a cribbage board; and a copy of Mr. Hoyle’s rules for card games.

  Every eventuality provided for, including ignorance.

  She decided she might as well study whist on the journey and took out the book. She’d read only part of the introduction, however, before the door opened and Genova Smith climbed in. She gave Damaris a quick smile, but then turned back to the marquess, who stood outside, keeping the door open. Damaris was about to complain when he closed it and went to mount his horse.

  Miss Smith remained entranced, watching him settle into the saddle and his groom adjust his heavy riding cloak over the horse’s back end. Good thing he had a servant to do it for him, for his wits were clearly still on Miss Smith. Damaris hoped his horse knew its way home.

  Vinegar and honey, she reminded herself and turned to look out of her own window, which faced the house. Lord Rothgar and Lady Arradale stood there, cloaked, gloved, their breath misting, waiting to see their guests on their way. Fitzroger sat a horse nearby, definitely not gazing in rapture at her.

  As if he would.

  And better that he have more sense.

  This traveling party certainly need not fear highwaymen. In addition to Ashart and Fitzroger, four outriders were mounted and ready, and the men on the driving boxes would be armed, too. Perhaps she needn’t have left her valuable jewelry here, but she wouldn’t need rubies and emeralds at Cheynings, and when Lord Rothgar traveled to London, he would be equally well guarded.

  The coachman cracked his whip, and Damaris waved good-bye to her new guardian. To think that yesterday she’d been fleeing this place, certain that her life was blighted.

  House and owners passed out of sight, but Fitzroger kept pace just ahead of her window, as magnificent on horseback as with a sword. What a dashing hero he would make.

  He glanced sideways, caught her eye, and smiled. She knew she shouldn’t but she smiled back.

  “How delightfully warm it is in here.”

  Damaris turned to see that Genova Smith had also put aside her muff, taken off her gloves, and put back her cloak.

  “Quite luxurious,” Damaris agreed.

  “I traveled to Rothgar Abbey in the other coach, and I assure you it casts this one into the shade.” Miss Smith’s beautiful blue eyes twinkled. “Risqué nymphs painted on the ceiling, gilded carvings everywhere, and padding on the seats as comfortable as pillows.”

  “I’m surprised Lord Ashart can afford it.” Damaris winced, wishing she could take the comment back.

  “His father commissioned it. Ashart never uses it. He prefers to ride. I prefer simple living, too.”

  Damaris managed not to say something sarcastic about Lord Ashart’s version of simple living. “You could hardly prefer to be poor.”

  “Would you think me foolish if I admitted that I’d rather Ashart were a simple man?”

  Damaris hesitated, but then spoke the truth. “Yes, for how could he be? I mean, you love him because of what and who he is. If he were a simple man he would be someone else.”

  “Goodness, I suppose that’s true.” Miss Smith seemed astonished. That Damaris Myddleton might have said something insightful? “In fact, I know it is. My mother warned me to never marry a man in hopes of changing him. Marry a man you like and admire on the day you say your vows, she would say.”

  “Whereas my mother was more cynical. Her advice was never to believe a word a man said when he was trying to get me to the altar. Or into his bed.”

  “She must have been a wise woman,” Miss Smith said.

  “Hardly. She married my father.”

  “He was cruel to her?”

  Damaris didn’t want to talk about this, but she couldn’t think how to avoid answering. “Only by being absent.”

  “Ah. I understand he spent a great deal of time in the East, making his fortune. How sad that your mother couldn’t travel with him.”

  Damaris wasn’t sure that choice had ever been offered, but she said, “She was attached to Worksop.”

  Miss Smith didn’t say anything, but Damaris could hear what a dismal epitaph that made. Attached to Worksop. She had to say more.

  “My father founded his fortune on my mother’s modest dowry. In return, she expected him to return to her once he was rich. Instead, he made only the briefest visits. It broke her heart.”

  “That must have been a difficult situation for you.”

  Understanding caught Damaris on the raw. “Good t
raining for being jilted.”

  “Ashart did not jilt you.”

  “He coldheartedly planned to marry me for my money.”

  “As you coldheartedly planned to marry him for his title.”

  Damaris inhaled a sharp breath.

  But it was true. “Very well,” she said, then let out a sigh. “I was as calculating as he, and we are both best out of it.” She might as well get it all over with. “I owe you an apology, Miss Smith. I behaved badly at times over the past days.”

  Genova Smith blinked, then grasped one of Damaris’s hands. “Oh, no, you were shamefully misled! I’m so sorry for it.”

  Damaris was unused to such warm contact with women, and unsure how to react. “Perhaps we can agree to a truce then.”

  Miss Smith squeezed her hand. “Please, in that spirit, will you call me Genova?”

  “Of course. How kind.” Damaris smiled and responded as she meant. “But only if you’ll call me Damaris.”

  “With pleasure. Such a pretty name.”

  Damaris slid her hand free. “It’s Greek for heifer.” Immediately she regretted the sharp response. To escape, she turned to look out of her window.

  “Ah,” said Genova Smith. “You want Fitzroger.”

  Damaris whipped around. “Certainly not!”

  “Why not? He’s delicious. He only needs some occupation. He’s the sort to do well at whatever he attempts.”

  Mention of occupation reminded Damaris that she must reward him. Perhaps once she did that she could get rid of the effect he had on her. Meanwhile, she realized Genova Smith might know more about him than she did, and this journey offered a wonderful opportunity to question her.

  “He must have family who could help him establish himself,” she probed.

  “He seems to be estranged from them. But it’s a respectable family. From Herefordshire, I think. And a title. Yes. Viscount Leyden.”

  A viscount! Damaris hoped her shock wasn’t obvious. But she’d joked about marrying a viscount.

  “His older brother holds it, ” Genova went on.

  “Oldest, I assume, Octavius meaning he’s the eighth in the family.”

  Genova considered her. “Yes, he’s unlikely to inherit. Is that such a huge obstacle?”

  Damaris shrugged. “Folly to marry low when the world is full of higher prospects.”

  “Then Ashart is a fool. I have nothing.”

  “He clearly values your charm and beauty.” Damaris didn’t intend the comment to be vinegary, but she feared it was.

  Genova cocked her head. “If a lord can marry for charm and beauty, why shouldn’t a lady do the same? Especially when she’s rich.”

  “Perhaps women are more sensible. Beauty and even charm will fade, but title and position last forever.”

  “And how much happiness has that brought the Dowager Lady Ashart?”

  Genova’s observation was sharp enough to make Damaris gasp. When she added this to Rothgar’s comment about Earl Ferrers, all her plans threatened to crumble. She turned away, but that gave her once again an alluring picture of Fitzroger.

  Hers for the buying. It was true. Hadn’t he said as much?

  “More to the point,” she muttered, “why can’t women do as men do and take a spouse for some things and lovers for the rest?”

  “Damaris!”

  She turned back, pleased to have shocked someone so worldly-wise as Genova. Someone who’d sailed the seven seas and, they said, fought pirates.

  “We can’t, though, can we? Just as we can’t be naval heroes, or sail to the Orient to make our fortunes.”

  “You’re dangerous.” Genova was wide-eyed, but admiring, too.

  “That would be nice, but I’m sure it would bring nothing but grief. Do you play cribbage?”

  Genova accepted the change of subject, and they settled to a game. Their skills seemed equal, so it required concentration, and by the time they stopped for the first change of horses, Damaris was even enjoying herself.

  She admitted she was coming to like her companion. Genova was pleasant and had a droll sense of humor. And what benefit was there in clinging to her resentments?

  Most of the time the snow was no problem, but in places it had drifted, making the going difficult. It also masked dips and deep ruts. The principal carriages weren’t inconvenienced too much for the advance one, and the outriders warned of problems, but the going was slow.

  With cleaner roads they could have hoped to make Cheynings by two and eat dinner there, but instead they stopped to dine at the King’s Head in Persham. All stood ready for them. Damaris used a screened chamber pot in a bedchamber, and then went to the private parlor, where their dinner was laid out. Only the dowager and Lady Thalia were there. She could guess why Ashart and Genova delayed, but where was Fitzroger? Oh, no, she would not constantly be aware of his presence or absence.

  The two old ladies had begun their soup, so she joined them.

  “Where are those silly creatures?” Lady Thalia asked. “Living on love, I suppose. Ah, I remember those days!”

  The dowager looked up. “Your love died.”

  Damaris saw poor Lady Thalia’s stricken face and barely suppressed a shocked protest. She plunged to the rescue. “Oxtail soup is so rich, isn’t it? And welcome after so many hours on the road.”

  Lady Thalia was not distracted. “My dearest Richard did not die of starvation, Sophia, but of a sword wound.” She pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

  “Wouldn’t a romantic like you believe that love should have kept him safe?”

  “No, how could I?” Whether real or assumed, Lady Thalia’s incomprehension was an excellent response. “Many loved ones die in war. Or otherwise. Four of your children have died, Sophia, and I’m sure you must have loved them just as much as I loved dear Richard.”

  The dowager went white. “A mother’s love is a different matter, Thalia, which you will never know.”

  “No, alas, but so very many children die. So unfair of God to make mother love a weaker power, don’t you think?”

  Horrified, Damaris leaped in again. “The ways of God are beyond human understanding.”

  The dowager turned on her. “Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, girl! You’ve washed your hands of my family. So be it.”

  Praise the Lord, Genova and Ashart came in then, Fitzroger close behind.

  Ashart entered smiling, but seemed to read the atmosphere. “The soup smells delicious,” he said, seating Genova, who shot Damaris a wide-eyed glance.

  That started Lady Thalia chattering about soup, oxen, and, by some invisible connection, a dress she’d worn to court forty years before. She seemed all froth and silliness now, but that moment of naked blades had not been an illusion. There was more to Lady Thalia Trayce than Damaris had guessed.

  That made her wonder how many people were not what they seemed. Fitzroger, for example. And even the dowager.

  The poor woman had lost many, perhaps all of her children, so perhaps she had reason for her bitter nature. She resolved to try to be gentler with her.

  Fitzroger sat beside her and served himself soup from the tureen. “I hope you aren’t finding the journey too slow.”

  “No. Genova and I are engaged in a battle royal at cribbage.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad it’s only at cards.”

  She wished she could talk to him about the battle between the old ladies, for it distressed her, but the conversation had become general.

  When they were ready to leave, Fitzroger assisted her with her cloak. “Another hour and a half, I think. We’ve sent ahead for an extra change.”

  It was already after three and the days were short in winter. “So we will travel into the dark,” Damaris said.

  “Yes.” Something in his tone gave her words a weight she had never intended.

  Chapter 8

  When Damaris settled into the newly warm vehicle, Genova asked, “Is something amiss?”

  Damaris c
ould hardly pin down her mood. “Fitzroger seems concerned.”

  “I think it must be the effect of the dowager. What a blighting presence she can be.”

  “Yes.”

  Genova sounded concerned herself, and it wasn’t surprising. Her future must include the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, and as Fitzroger had said, the likelihood of her leaving Cheynings was remote. Ashart had a town house, of course, but he would have to spend part of his time on his estate, and children were best raised in country air.

  Even the weather had turned sullen. The sky had clouded earlier in the day, and now that the sun was setting, the clouds were turning the color of a bruise. The cold seemed damper despite the fresh hot bricks, and the pretty white snow was gray.

  The carriage lights had been lit to help the coachman see the way, and while they provided a warm glow, they also made everything around them seem darker. Fitzroger rode near the light on Damaris’s side, still watchful, still alert.

  Genova leaned against Damaris’s shoulder to look in the same direction. Damaris couldn’t remember another woman touching her with such careless intimacy, but she liked it. It was as she imagined a sister would act.

  “I have wondered what he’s up to,” Genova said thoughtfully.

  Damaris turned her head. “You, too, think he has some extra purpose?”

  “He’s not made to be idle. But he’s not long from war. That could be why he seems on edge.”

  “Do you know what battles he was involved in?”

  “No. Ashart might. Men tend to think ladies don’t want to hear about such things.”

  “I don’t suppose I’d want to hear the details.” Damaris turned completely and settled back in her seat. “You must have experienced battle.”

  “Yes, though not often. Whenever possible women and children were put onshore before action. I saw more of the lingering effects.”

  “You nursed the wounded?”

  “Yes.”

  “So did I. The local wounded in Worksop. My grandfather was a physician, so when he died there was a natural connection to the doctor who replaced him. Dr. Telford was one of the few guests my mother welcomed. As I grew older I assisted him sometimes. In the apothecary, but also in nursing the wounded or elderly. Not the sick, for that might expose me to contagion. I would sit with them, too. Reading or playing cards. It gave me something to do.”