The marquess was meant for someone else.
3
Edward Lansing, the Marquess of Ainsley, had never considered himself a particularly religious man. He had little regard for holidays, in general, and was most definitely not a believer in miracles—of the Christmas variety or otherwise.
Until today.
Until her.
“So you have met her then? Miss Farthington?” Damian’s eyes were bright with excitement as he joined Edward before the fire.
Edward had changed out of his wet clothes and was now warming himself with some much needed brandy in his study as they waited for the others to come down and join them in the drawing room.
“Well?” Damian prompted. “What did you think of her?”
Edward shot his nephew a sidelong glare. Some people had marriage-minded mothers to goad them into matrimony and heirs.
Edward had his nephew.
He knew better than to encourage Damian. Usually.
But today... Well, today he was eternally grateful to his nephew for not having given up on his ceaseless matchmaking quest. His heart was still racing at the immensity of it all, that sensation he’d been so sure he’d never experience in his lifetime.
But then he’d caught sight of her railing against the sky, her lovely features twisted in anger and pain and—his heart had gone out to her. Not in the sense that he sympathized with her emotions—or rather, not merely that. He’d honestly felt his heart leaping toward her. As though it were hers and he’d merely been holding it for a while.
He hid his grin behind his snifter.
“Miss Farthington is pretty, is she not?” Damian prodded.
“Indeed.” Pretty? Yes. That was an understatement. Her beauty was undeniable. But it was not her beauty alone that had left him dumbstruck and shattered.
That was what it had felt like. As though some wall around his heart had come crumbling down with one swift blow. Miss Farthington. And to think, he’d asked Damian not to try and play matchmaker again this year, not to invite any prospective future marchionesses. His nephew had gone against his wishes, of course, when he and Pru had invited a marriageable young lady and her mother.
He frowned now at the brandy swirling in his glass. It was a testament to how thoroughly she’d addled his senses that he only now realized who had been missing. “Where was her mother?”
“Pardon me?”
He glanced over at Damian, who was enjoying a drink of his own, without the excuse of having been caught in the rain.
It had all happened so quickly. He’d bundled her into his cloak and helped her atop his stallion, taking them both to the warmth of his home. The servants had whisked her away from him and Prudence had been summoned and he...
Well, he’d forgotten all about the fact that she was supposed to be traveling with her mother in his haste to get her warm and dry.
He couldn’t quite hide a grin at the image she’d made, dripping wet and dazzlingly beautiful. The feel of her in his arms...
He drew in a deep breath and let it out with a happy sigh. He could only hope that he would be able to feel the weight of her in his arms again one day.
And one day very, very soon.
“Her mother? Lady Bradford?” Damian repeated. “She should be here as well. But tell me, how did you meet Miss Farthington?”
But Edward was too busy staring into the fire, an unfamiliar sensation making his lips feel as though there were invisible strings tugging at them. So this was what it felt like to be in love.
Interesting.
He chuckled and shook his head at his own wayward thoughts. Love? Truly? It was an infatuation at best. And yet, this was the most he’d ever felt for a woman in...oh, forever. He’d certainly never felt this way about his first wife, and after her death he’d not thought to ever feel much of anything at all.
He’d certainly never expected this—this light sensation as though a vice had been removed from his chest. This bright sensation as though his eyes had been opened for the first time in years, only to find that the world was more vibrant, more colorful, more beautiful than he’d ever imagined.
He let out a long exhale with a smile he could no longer deny. It was all such silliness, obviously. Just an attraction, an infatuation, and yet...
Was there anything wrong with that? Especially when the lady in question was the young lady who’d been brought here with the understanding, certainly, that this could be a good match.
He set down the near-empty snifter and he and Damian exchanged a look at the sound of movement in the hallway. The others were beginning to assemble. His nephew’s expression altered slightly at the sound of Prudence’s voice passing by—the wayward rake of his youth replaced by a smitten fool.
Edward watched his nephew with more than a little amusement. Now that was a lad who’d lost his head over a woman. Up until this afternoon he’d rather pitied the boy. Admired him for following his heart and happy for him that it had worked out, but he couldn’t deny that he’d also pitied Damian for falling into the trap that ladies called love.
But now...
He headed toward the door, unable to wait another moment to see the charming and vivacious Miss Farthington.
Well, now he supposed he was starting to understand why his nephew had changed so thoroughly, why his priorities had shifted so significantly and a fire of intent had glowed in his eyes.
He felt that same burn now as he headed toward the door. Nothing and no one could come between him and an evening spent wooing the woman he hoped to make his bride.
Possibly. Potentially.
He drew in a deep breath as his lips curved up again of their own volition.
No, definitely.
If he had his way he would make her his wife this very evening. Of course, they ought to get to know each other better first, and every ounce of reason in his brain told him it was impossible to fall in love so quickly, and yet...
And yet, he wanted nothing more than to propose right here and now, just to ensure that he did not miss the opportunity of having her in his life.
It was ridiculous. It was utter romantic nonsense. He grinned outright as they strode down the hall.
But despite all that, it was undeniable.
Damian fell into step beside him. “I told you that Mr. Charleston was called away, did I not?”
Edward nodded, uncertain why the presence of the vicar had been so very anticipated in the first place. There was nothing wrong with Mr. Charleston, it was just that he was...well, boring. There was no other word for it. The man’s sermons had been Edward’s secret means of finding the peace he needed to sleep for years now—though he’d never admit as much to anyone.
Damian seemed to be waiting for a response and Edward tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said, “’Tis a pity but I’m certain we can make do without him.”
Damian chuckled. “Oh, I am certain you and I will not be so sorry for the lack of Mr. Charleston’s company. But Pru is distraught.”
Edward arched his brows. “I did not realize your wife was so very fond of our vicar.”
Damian grinned, that same boyish silly grin he wore whenever anyone so much as mentioned his new bride. “She is not, that I am aware of, but she had hopes of him being a good match for her friend, Miss Grayson.”
Miss Grayson. The name tickled some part of his memory. He’d heard the name before, several times, but it took him a moment to place it. Ah yes. Miss Grayson, the poor spinster who ran the finishing school Pru had attended these past two years.
“One last hope for the poor lady, hmm?” he asked, not without a good deal of sympathy. From all that Pru had said about this Miss Grayson, he knew quite well that he and his family owed her a good deal. Pru had suffered mightily living with her great aunt on the neighboring estate and he understood that it was Miss Grayson and the friends she’d made at school who’d become her true family.
He and Damian owed Miss Grayson everything for that alone.
Damian seemed to be thinking the same. “Miss Grayson is quite the charming lady, I think you’ll find, Uncle. I am sorry for her sake that our vicar is unavailable, but I’ve promised Prudence that you and I would make up for the fact that our party now has uneven numbers, and poor Miss Grayson will not be left out.”
“Of course not,” Edward agreed. “We owe her a good deal.”
“Precisely.” Damian shot him a cunning, sidelong look. “But do not worry, Uncle. I will see that you have time with your fair new friend.”
Edward returned his smirk with a haughty glare that made his nephew laugh. To both of their surprise, he started laughing as well.
Damian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It has been far too long since I’ve seen you looking so happy, Uncle.” They reached the doors to the drawing room and Damian opened the door as he turned back to say, “It is about time.”
Edward huffed in exasperation, but even Damian’s patronizing tone couldn’t dim this new happiness. Who would have thought he’d be getting life lessons from his nephew? But perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was time to live a little. To shake off this gloom that had been plaguing him for years, a melancholy he’d never quite been able to explain.
The doors swung open and then...there she was. Looking even more beautiful, if far more refined. Her head tipped down, her lips pressed together and her hands clasped before her, she looked like an angel as she stood beside the fireplace on the far side of the room.
His eyes could only see her, and it was only years of restraint and good manners that kept him from rushing to her side, pausing instead as Damian gestured toward two other newcomers, a petite brunette with striking features and an older woman who looked to be...her mother.
His stomach seemed to be the first part of him to understand. It sank like a stone. His lungs went next, all the air rushing out of him in a long exhale that felt decidedly like a punch. His mind eventually caught up, but it did not fully register until Damian was saying the words. “And of course, you’ve already become acquainted with Miss Farthington.”
Damian’s eyes twinkled with smug mischief as poor Miss Farthington blinked up at Edward in confusion.
He opened his mouth but only a hesitant sound came out as he tried to figure out how to resolve this situation.
Miss Farthington recovered first. “I am afraid I have not had the pleasure.” She and her mother gave a low curtsy and therefore missed Damian’s look of confusion.
“You haven’t?” Damian said.
Edward quickly started talking before Damian could open his mouth and ask more questions, such as ‘then who did you meet, Uncle?’
Who had he saved from the storm?
His gaze was pulled toward the far side of the room, quite of its own accord.
Who indeed?
But of course, the answer was obvious and came to him as Miss Farthington politely answered his questions about their travel with an equally polite response.
If he could only tear his gaze away from the blonde in the corner, the whole interlude would have been most polite indeed. But as it was, he couldn’t force himself to look away, not for long, not even after the error of his ways had become abominably clear.
Miss Grayson. She had to be Miss Grayson—the poor spinster with only the most distant connections to the peerage.
The one meant for the vicar.
His hands clenched at his sides. The boring, tedious, sanctimonious spinster.
Edward’s rage was unwarranted. Illogical.
But try telling that to his heart which was pounding in his chest as though it had just come alive and demanded attention. He was so caught up in these new emotions, this roiling jolt of anger and longing and...mine.
Yes, possessiveness. That was what this sensation was. Though it made no sense and bore no logic, he could not deny that whenever his glance fell on Miss Grayson, that one word was all his mind could muster to explain the very physical reaction he had toward her.
Miss Grayson was his. It was that simple.
He tore his gaze away to find Damian engrossed in tedious small talk with Lady Bradford as Miss Farthington watched him closely.
It was that simple...and also that complicated, he mentally amended.
Miss Farthington shifted closer, shutting out the other two as she addressed him directly. “As it was not I who had the pleasure of making your acquaintance earlier today, I must assume it was some other fortunate young lady.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You’re quite right. My mistake.”
To his surprise, her dark eyes seemed to light with laughter transforming her small pretty features into something more interesting. He was reminded of tales of sprites and fairies from folklore when she leaned in farther. “Or perhaps it was not a mistake at all.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
She drew back quickly, the mischievous glint replaced by a more serene amusement. “Nothing at all. It is just that at this time of year, one must believe in miracles, mustn’t one?”
He blinked again and just barely resisted the urge to repeat himself. I beg your pardon?
Really. What on earth was she speaking about?
She raised her voice a little louder so her mother and Damian were once more included. “My lord, have you had the pleasure of meeting Miss Grayson?”
She’d spoken so loudly that Miss Grayson’s head lifted, her eyes widened, and she glanced over with a start. When her gaze met his—
Lightning.
Thunder.
The storm had well since passed, but he might as well have been in the midst of another, right here in this room. Her clear blue eyes were wide and startled before she looked back to Prudence and the moment was over.
But she’d felt it, too. She had to have felt it.
“She is a most charming lady,” Miss Farthington was saying as she stepped closer to his side. He held out an arm to escort her to the other side of the room where Miss Grayson waited. “Don’t you agree, Lord Damian?”
“Oh yes,” Damian said quickly. “Miss Grayson is a dear friend of ours and had been as good as a second mother to my darling wife.”
Edward huffed in irritation. It was not the first time Damian or Prudence had referred to Miss Grayson thus—as though she were some round, plump, ancient maternal figure, so far on the shelf as to be forgotten.
His jaw clenched in irritation on her behalf, though he knew very well that neither his nephew nor his bride meant any harm. No, what bothered him most of all was that he suspected they were merely voicing what she believed.
How did he know? His gaze locked on her and he swore he could feel her resisting the tug of his gaze.
He couldn’t say how he knew, but he sensed it. He saw it in the way she held herself which was all that was graceful and calm—so much so that it seemed resigned. And her lips were curved up just enough so that she looked sweet and soft and lovely...but it did not reach her eyes.
And then there was the shouting and the stomping from earlier. He hadn’t been well able to make out what she was saying, only catching bits and pieces as she muttered to herself and shouted as if she were a warrior.
But he’d heard enough, had felt it so surely on her behalf that he could have sworn he’d experienced the injustice and disappointments himself. And now he had an inkling why.
“Miss Grayson,” Damian said as they reached her and Prudence. “I would like for you to meet our host, my uncle, the Marquess of Ainsley.”
She curtsied, her head dipped low, but she could not quite hide the pink stain that tinged her neck and cheeks.
She was embarrassed. He supposed he could understand that, but it still rankled that she did not meet his gaze when she straightened, that when she returned his greeting, her voice was muted, her smile gone, and that fire in her eyes nowhere to be seen.
This lady before him, the one with her eyes cast low and her very essence subdued and —this was the spinster headmistress he’d heard so much about.
> But it was the lively, vivacious, angry, passionate lady he’d seen earlier that he wanted to meet.
That was the woman he wished to wed.
4
Madeline had suffered hours of pure torture, and there seemed to be no end in sight.
A servant was going about the room snuffing out candles for the party game that was about to begin.
The room was nearly dark as a maid and footman prepared the punch bowl atop a table in the middle of the room. Even in the dim lighting, Madeline was keenly aware of his attention. She could feel the marquess’s gaze on her as surely as if he were prodding her with an elbow, but she refused to look up. All evening, and all throughout dinner, she had managed to avoid meeting his gaze, but she felt its pull. She knew he was staring—perhaps, glaring—and she suspected that everyone else noticed as well.
Prudence certainly had. “Are you ever going to tell me why Uncle Edward won’t cease looking at you like that?”
“Like what?” she said.
“Like you’re a riddle he cannot solve.”
“Is he?” she asked as she turned away.
Prudence huffed in irritation, and it was easy to understand why. In general, Madeline did not believe in feigning ignorance to avoid a difficult conversation, but surely this situation constituted an exception.
Prudence was not happy to let the topic lie. Madeline could see it in her pursed lips, and her furrowed brow, and the way she kept glancing back and forth between Madeline and the marquess as though she could puzzle out the mystery of why he wouldn’t stop watching her through sheer will.
“With the marquess it’s often difficult to know,” Prudence said, her voice hesitant. “With that thick brow and the stern features, he might look angry, but I assure you he is not.”
Madeline shot her friend a quick look. Prudence sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone.
Madeline really ought to explain why the marquess would be so horrified at the sight of her, so curious and annoyed and...
She risked a peek and glanced away again quickly.
Well, she wasn’t entirely sure what he was thinking whenever he peered over this way. Prudence was right that he was difficult to read. But Madeline had to assume that whatever it was he was thinking about her...it could not be good.
The Mistletoe Mistake of Miss Grayson: School of Charm: Christmas Novella Page 3