by Collum, Lynn
“Not I, sir. I'll wait till we get to Whiteoaks.” Jock repositioned the scarf to protect his face and tugged his cap to the marquess.
Marsden entered the carriage quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping daughter. Settling with his back to the horses as the coach lurched forward, he inquired, “How is Lady Rosalind?”
The young nurse, a pink-cheeked country girl of barely twenty, hesitated a moment before she answered her new employer. “Been sleepin' most of the way, milord. But she seems right `appy to be away from Marsden `ouse. Says she ain't seen much of your lordship since her mama up and died.”
Guilt washed over the marquess. He knew he'd indulged his anger after the death of his wife last year. “No, she hasn't, but that will all change, Binx.”
He'd wrapped himself in a cloak of indifference to cover the humiliation of having his wife run off with a wealthy prince of foreign birth. Rachel had always done the least expected thing. But the ill-fated flight had cost the pair their lives when their ship had gone down during a storm.
His youthful marriage had been a mistake from the beginning. Rosalind was the only good thing to come from the union, but he'd forgotten that for a time.
With Bonaparte safely exiled for a second time, Marsden had wandered aimlessly about on the continent for nearly a year, hoping to avoid the whispers of Society. On his arrival in London at the end of the summer, his grandmother had convinced him to let Lady Rosalind remain with her where the child had resided during his absence. He now realized the woman was only interested in giving him the freedom to reenter the social whirl, to do his duty and remarry.
In October, he'd returned from the country and made the attempt to get back to his old life. But he'd been besieged by every match-making momma in the ton. No less than three young ladies had made the attempt to get him alone and declare themselves compromised. One had actually come to his townhouse and tried to gain entry. Now by December, he'd taken to avoiding the company of any unmarried female below the age of thirty.
Even worse, his own grandmother engaged in deceit of the worse kind. Harriet, Dowager Marchioness of Marsden, was determined to see him married again. His man, Elsworth, had fortunately stumbled upon the plot to force him to propose to the daughter of their neighbor during Harriet's Christmas house party. The dowager knew he would not miss being with Rosalind for the holidays and would be in residence.
But Marsden was not a man to be manipulated. He'd warned his grandmother to stay out of his affairs when she pushed several young ladies in his path over the past months but she'd only reminded him he had no heir. Why did all Society think he must be married? After all, he was only thirty.
Looking at the pale face of the sleeping child, he realized just how much his daughter needed him. He would never again surrender her care to another relative. He knew his grandmother must have been furious to return from her morning visits to discover that he'd fired the governess she'd employed and whisked his daughter away from her rigidly run household. Angry at her machinations, he'd left no word about their destination, only his apologies that he wouldn't be staying for her Christmas house party. With the help of Elsworth, the marquess had arranged to slip away to the one place no one would think to look, Whiteoaks, his late wife's abandoned home, leaving the valet behind to misinform all who inquired about his direction.
Lord Marsden had no intention of rushing back into marriage. He'd barely been twenty-one when he'd wed the first time. He'd been completely bewitched by a pretty face and spent the next nine years paying the price for his foolishness. He didn't need a wife at this period in his life. There was time enough to worry about an heir later.
His unexpected isolation from his family would give him time to concentrate on getting Rachel's old home in order. It was his daughter's legacy from her mother. He was certain Rachel, who'd retained possession of the estate in the marriage settlements, hadn't spent a farthing on the place in years. He needed to use this time to get reacquainted with his child as well.
“Hello, Papa. I did not know you had joined us.” The child's voice startled him from his contemplate of his life. A pair of sky blue eyes looked at him from a thin, pale face framed by dark brown curls. The dowager had cut the child's hair fashionably short, but the style only emphasized her thinness.
What bothered him the most was that Rosalind spoke to him almost as if he were a stranger, but then hadn't he been for the past year? Well, no more. “Good afternoon, Rosebud.”
A grin brightened Lady Rosalind's countenance and she lurched forward in the rocking carriage to throw her arms around her father's neck. “Oh, Papa, I have missed you and missed being called Rosebud.”
Pulling the child onto his lap, he kissed her. Her unexpected display of affection warmed his heart. “And I missed you. Can you forgive me for being away so long?”
“I forgive you. But promise you won't go and leave me with Grandmama again, Papa.”
“I promise and will seal the bargain with a kiss.” Holding his young daughter felt so right.
Lady Rosalind gazed lovingly up at him, absently asking, “Where are we going to spend Christmas, Papa?”
“I am taking you to Whiteoaks. Your mother left it to you and I want you to help me fix it up.”
“Can it be like it was when I was young and you would come to see me and take me for rides?”
The marquess told her he had much to do in Warwickshire, but he promised to take her with him when weather permitted.
Father and daughter talked as the carriage rumbled through the countryside. Derrick kept the tone light, enlivening his daughter with amusing tales about his journey, for she seemed to have lost much of her old spirited enthusiasm for life. He wanted to see the sparkle back in her blue eyes.
At last the vehicle slowed to make the turn up the drive to Whiteoaks, passing between two stone lions blackened with age and barely visible beneath the encroaching ivy. The marquess felt a sinking in his stomach at the state of the small gate lodge. Clearly they would be in Warwickshire until the spring, if the house was in such disrepair.
The carriage rolled up the weed-infested drive to the house. Beyond the glass he could see the gardens were an over-grown jumble of brambles and weeds choking the surviving plants. As the carriage turned on the circular drive, Derrick got his first look at Whiteoaks.
What a fool he'd been to drag his daughter out to this desolate ruin and expect her to enjoy her Christmas. His only hope was that Mrs. . . er . . . Shelby, that was it, had gotten his hastily sent message and was prepared for them in some small way.
The carriage drew to a halt. The marquess exited, and then helped his daughter and her nurse down. The trio stood gazing up at the sinister-looking manor, reluctant to enter.
“Papa, the house looks angry,” Lady Rosalind innocently remarked.
The marquess laughed. “Angry? I think I would call this unbounded fury in that case.”
Placing her hand in her father's, the eight-year-old wisely observed, “Then we will make it very happy by living here.”
Smiling down at the child, the marquess realized that the house wasn't important only them being together. “Shall we go in?”
Thankfully the door was unlocked. They stepped into a Great Hall that was excessively dark, but the clean smell of beeswax and turpentine pleasantly filled the air. At least the inside had been maintained, he thought with relief. While Nurse and Lady Rosalind stood observing their new surroundings, Lord Marsden strode to the open door to the left end of the Hall.
He immediately checked at the portal. Sitting in front of the fireplace was an unknown young woman pretending to read one of the books. Certain this lovely was not the aged housekeeper, he mentally cursed. How the devil did a designing female find out he was coming? Could he not escape the pursuit of marriage-minded ladies even here in the wilds of the country?
“Madam, who are you, and why are you in my house?”
Karis started guiltily from the chair. She hadn't heard anyone enter,
she'd been so engrossed with the story. Now she found herself being glared at by a tall aristocratic gentleman with mahogany brown hair, an angular face and dove grey eyes full of hostility. “I beg your pardon, sir. I am Miss Lockhart from Westwood House come to find Mrs. Shelby. I-I did not think the owner was in residence.”
“And did you think Mrs. Shelby was hiding between the pages of that book?”
“Sir, I know this must seem strange, but I was looking for the housekeeper and got . . . distracted by your extraordinary library.”
Marsden's gaze swept the room and even he had to admit it was an impressive collection. His wife had spoken of her father's intellectual pursuits, but he'd never met the gentleman since he'd been long dead before she'd come to Town. Still, the marquess was suspicious of this young woman proclaiming an interest in books. His experience had proven that the prettier the face the emptier the head.
His gaze came to rest on the intruder whose cheeks now flamed red. There was nothing of the fashionable chit about her. Her green woolen gown was rather plain and unstylish. Rich blond hair was parted in the middle and pulled into a neat chignon and a few wisps of curls had escaped to frame her heart-shaped face. By the ton's standards she couldn't be called beautiful, for her mouth was too generous. But her deep green eyes were definitely an enticing feature.
“And what was your business here at Whiteoaks, Miss Lockhart?”
Karis's shoulders sagged. Suddenly, she realized that if the owner, whoever he was, had arrived then Mrs. Shelby would not be able to keep the litter of kittens. “Well, sir, I . . . er . . . that is I brought--”
Childish squeals of delight interrupted Karis's rather disjointed explanation. In the hall, she could now see a girl no older than Anthea pointing and laughing at a spot beyond her view. Karis dashed past the glowering gentleman and turned to discover that all seven kittens had awakened and escaped from the wicker basket.
Two climbed up the tapestry behind the table. One was settled lazily in an empty cut glass bowl intrigued with his own tail. Another was climbing down an embroidered table runner to join the three who scampered loose on the marble floor, making their way determinedly towards the young child. Clearly by the grin of delight on her thin face, the girl was enjoying their antics.
“Oh, dear, I am sorry.” Karis ran forward and tugged the two kittens from the tapestry, placing them back in the basket. Then she went in pursuit of the three scurrying across the floor. She grabbed up two of the three by the nape of their necks and took them back to join their siblings. But this time, the first two in the basket had again climbed out and were running down the table away from her. She stuffed the captive pair from the floor into the basket, then went after the two escapees. Grabbing them before they started down the runner, she took them back to the basket only to discover it was again empty. Slowly, she started collecting the kittens, keeping them in her arms this time.
Lady Rosalind laughed delightedly as she watched the young lady chase down the lively kittens only to return each time and find the basket again empty. Finally the woman gathered them all in her arms, until she held all seven.
“Do they belong at Whiteoaks, Papa? Can we keep them?”
Arms overflowing with squirming kittens, Karis turned to the gentleman whose eyes had softened as he smiled at his daughter. A ray of hope for Mrs. Damon's progeny and something else undefinable shot through her. “Sir, it would be a great favor to my sister if the kittens could remain at Whiteoaks, for my aunt has ordered them gone from Westwood.”
“Papa, please may I keep all the lady's kittens?” Lady Rosalind ran to her father, tugging excitedly on his hand.
Marsden couldn't resist Rosalind's request, for he liked the spark of happiness he saw in his daughter's eyes. “Very well, Rosebud, you may have them all.”
The child ran to Karis. “Do they have names?”
“Yes, but I fear you will have to ask my sister what they are. I cannot keep them straight. Would you mind, Mr. . . “ Karis paused, hoping to learn the name of their cat's benefactor.
“I apologize, Miss Lockhart for not making proper introductions sooner. Allow me to present my daughter Lady Rosalind, and I am the Marquess of Marsden.” A hint of a smile lightened the gentleman's features making him appear quite handsome.
Karis gave an answering smile. “Would you mind if my sister came and paid the kittens a visit, my lord?”
Marsden's hand tightened into a fist. No doubt the sister was some ravishing beauty that Miss Lockhart was hoping to promote. Coldly he replied, “As you can see, we are not ready to entertain company at Whiteoaks.”
Despite his unfriendly tone, Karis couldn't resist the urge to laugh. “I don't think one nine-year-old constitutes company, Lord Marsden. I thought perchance Lady Rosalind might enjoy some companionship her own age, for I know Anthea would.”
The marquess suddenly felt the fool. He was allowing his imagination to run amok. He attempted to recant his statement without appearing too ridiculous. “I suppose my daughter would welcome a visit from Miss Anthea. Would you not, my dear?”
Lady Rosalind looked up from the small, grey kitten she was stroking. “Oh, Papa, this will be the best Christmas ever. I shall have you, my new kittens, and a friend of my own as well.”
Feeling very content with his decision to come to Whiteoaks, the marquess gave Miss Lockhart a formal bow. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, miss, for as you can see, you have made this a very special Christmas for my daughter.”
Karis's heart fluttered in the most unusual way, but she attributed it to relief that the kittens had a new home. It was not likely that she would be attracted to this rather aloof lord, was it?
Suddenly remembering her sister was probably still playing for Dorinda, she thanked his lordship for his kindness before bidding father and daughter goodbye. She had little doubt that Mrs. Shelby would know just how to care for the animals.
As she made her way back to Westwood, she wondered in what way Lord Marsden would affect the neighborhood. Despite his reserved manner and with only a simple compliment he'd stirred something deep within her.
Chapter Two
The following morning Lady Westerly, her daughter and Karis sat before the fireplace in the back parlor at Westwood. It was a small room filled with battered and worn furniture since the baroness thought it foolish to waste money refurbishing a chamber where only the family gathered. Anthea had wisely decided to remain in the nursery, being very much out of temper about the loss of the kittens and not likely to guard her tongue.
Mrs. Hartfield, a neighbor and Clarendon's biggest gossip, had paid an early morning call while they had still been at breakfast. She'd included the Westerly's on her rounds with the fascinating news that Lord Marsden and his daughter were newly arrived to spend Christmas at Whiteoaks.
Karis had deliberately neglected to mention her meeting with the gentleman to her aunt and cousin because the visit involved the kittens, a subject she thought it best not to discuss. Thankfully, her cousin waited until Mrs. Hartfield had departed and they were settled in the parlor to express her views about the marquess' unexpected visit.
Dorinda stamped her satin clad foot in anger. “How could Papa be so disagreeable as to be in Jamaica just when I need him?”
Karis glanced up from the sketch she was drawing of her cousin styled as the Greek goddess, Artemis, with bow and quiver. She suspected that her uncle so often absented himself from Westwood Park just to avoid these kinds of scenes.
Aunt Flora, never looking up from her embroidery, clucked softly. “Now, Dory, you know your father had no way of knowing he would be needed at just such a time. He has promised to be home in time to take you to London for the Season.”
“But the Marquess of Marsden is here now, and there is no one to pay a call. How shall I get a chance to meet him? You can be certain he won't be entertaining in that rundown old ruin of a house. I wonder why he allowed the Shelbys to . . .” Dorinda suddenly stopped her complaining. Turning o
n her cousin, she demanded, “But you were with Mrs. Shelby at the manor yesterday, did you meet Lord Marsden?”
“I met the marquess and his daughter.” Seeing the calculating look which came into her cousin's blue eyes and realizing where the girl's thoughts were leading, Karis added, “But don't think we can trade on that briefest of meetings to promote an acquaintance. There is much to do to repair Whiteoaks. I doubt he intends to entertain anyone during his stay.”
Dorinda's face puckered in distress. “`Tis not fair. Karis, who has no expectations at all, gets to meet the gentleman and I am left a virtual stranger. I want to meet him. I shall think of a way--”
Alarmed at what her willful daughter might do, Lady Westerly lowered her tambour and offered a suggestion. “Then we must give a dinner party to welcome the gentleman to Warwickshire. Now that Karis has met Lord Marsden, there is nothing improper with our sending an invitation.”
Mother and daughter were at once in agreement, and Dorinda's tantrum was over as she ran to shower kisses on her relieved mama. The ladies quickly huddled together to begin a guest list which, with the exception of Karis, included no single female but Dorinda. Karis knew they would be forced to include her, for she was their only connection to the marquess.
There was one final moment of discord when Lady Westerly insisted they invite Squire Tanner, his wife and eligible son. The baroness soon dropped the notion when her daughter threatened another tantrum. Besides, her ladyship realized, her daughter could not make up to two gentleman at the same time. Should the marquess prove elusive during his stay, she wouldn't want Dorinda to spoil her chances with Roland Tanner. Despite being a mere squire's son, an income of fifty thousand a year was not to be dismissed out of hand.
When the selection of proper guests was complete, Lady Westerly announced she would write up the cards herself.