“Perhaps, but Quinlan is a novelty. I’m merely an antique hereabouts.”
“You’re quite a bit more than that.” She glanced at the marquis again to see him showing off his warm smile and jade eyes to anyone bold enough to speak to him. He played the role of gentleman marquis with absolute perfection. But no one was that nice—especially not a titled nobleman. “My, he does make a magnificent centerpiece, though, doesn’t he?”
Mr. Bancroft accepted a glass of punch. “Are you certain, my dear, that this little game you’ve concocted is going as you think?”
She looked at him. “What game?”
“Come, Madeleine, we’ve known one another for four years. Do you think I can’t tell that you’re attempting to kill him with kindness?”
Maddie put a hand over her heart, aware that she’d already spent an inordinate amount of time this evening proclaiming her innocence. “I assure you, I have no idea—”
“Does he look like he’s ready to be driven away, Maddie?” he said quietly.
She looked once more at the marquis. He was gazing over Mr. Fitzroy’s head, directly at her. And then he grinned.
“Oh, damnation!” she hissed, turning away and feeling warmth creep up her cheeks again. And all he’d done this time was show her his teeth, for heaven’s sake.
“Quinlan’s used to getting his way, but he’s no fool. What’s he supposed to think, with you attacking him at every turn for no good reason?”
“I have a very good reason,” she snapped. “And I’m certainly not trying to attract his interest.”
“Perhaps you’d best tell him that.”
She folded her arms indignantly, unable to slow the fast beating of her heart. “I’ll be happy to.”
The orchestra struck up a country dance, and Maddie jumped. The marquis was escorting Miss Fowler onto the narrow, polished dance floor, while her younger sister scowled and Jane Fowler simply glowed. Realizing how tensely she’d been holding herself, Maddie let her shoulders relax a little. Of course he wouldn’t dance with her. There might be no other nobility about, but there were daughters of propertied gentlemen. She was only a companion.
“Maddie, may I have the honor?”
She looked up at Squire John Ramsey as he stopped before her. “Of course, John.” Before she took his hand, though, she turned to Mr. Bancroft. “Do you wish me to stay?”
“Heavens, no. Go dance, girl.”
Luckily the only open spot on the floor was halfway across the room from the marquis, so she wouldn’t have to dance with him for more than a few seconds as they passed one another. She smiled at John, grateful that at least one person hadn’t ignored her this evening.
“Lord Warefield seems to be enjoying himself,” he said, as they stepped around one another.
“Even better, Langley will be adopting your watering system,” she said. “Mr. Bancroft is quite pleased.”
“I’m gratified,” John admitted. “When Warefield asked me to meet him the other morning, I half thought he meant to tell me to mind my own business and let the Bancrofts take care of their own.”
“You don’t like the marquis, then?”
John grinned. “I don’t know him well enough to say, either way.”
“But you knew one another as children, didn’t you?”
He shrugged and took her hand to step forward. “He visited Malcolm a few times during the summer, years ago. We played together, I suppose, though it mostly seemed to consist of him and his brother ambushing and sinking the toy boats I used to make.”
She sniffed. “How typical.”
“I haven’t seen him since I was eight, Maddie. I doubt he stones frigates out on the Thames.” He stopped speaking as they circled past Sally Fowler and James Preston, then took her hand again. “I take it you don’t share the community’s delight over our guest?”
“He’s a bit stuffy for me.”
“Well, he did come to help Malcolm.”
Some help. “Yes, I suppose he did,” she said reluctantly.
John moved past her, and Maddie wound around James Preston, Mr. Fowler, Mr. Dardinale, and then Lord Warefield. He kept hold of her fingers a moment longer than he should have. “You know John Ramsey quite well, don’t you?” he murmured.
She looked straight at him and pulled her fingers free. “Yes.”
It was completely ridiculous, but now that even Mr. Bancroft had noticed Quinlan’s apparent interest, the marquis did sound almost jealous. Perhaps, though, he was only chastising her for dancing with one of her betters. That made more sense than anything else.
When he took Sally out for a quadrille, and James Preston danced with her, she decided she must have been right. She had only offended his overdeveloped sense of propriety, and he had been unable to resist pointing out her faux pas to her.
The butler announced that dinner was ready, and unmindful of any propriety at all, the entire female contingent present, minus one, herded around the marquis, undoubtedly hoping to be the one he chose to escort into the dining room. The chattering, giggling din was deafening. Lord Warefield didn’t forget his own manners, though, and deftly he picked Mrs. Fowler out of the crowd, wrapped her arm around his, and led the way out of the ballroom.
With great ceremony Mr. Fowler pushed Mr. Bancroft’s chair to the foot of the table. The marquis, of course, sat at the head. Maddie rolled her eyes and took the seat next to her employer. “I’ve lost my appetite, I think,” she muttered.
He smiled, but didn’t say anything. His face had become rather pale, only a few shades darker than his starched cravat. Immediately forgetting her annoyance, Maddie leaned close to him.
“Are you well?” she whispered.
“I’m fine,” he returned. “Just a bit tired.”
“You shouldn’t have exerted yourself so soon. We’ll go.” She started to her feet, but he shook his head and put his hand over hers.
“No worries, my dear. I may fall asleep in my chair, but I shall survive the evening.” He smiled. “I promise.”
A warm hand slid down Maddie’s shoulder to rest on her arm. “Uncle?”
Startled, Maddie looked up at Quinlan. He leaned over her shoulder, gazing at his uncle with the same concern in his eyes that she felt herself.
“You two are making me feel old,” Malcolm grumbled. “Go back and sit down, boy, before you begin a riot.”
Quinlan glanced down at her. “Keep an eye on him,” he murmured.
She lifted her chin. “I always do.”
He paused, his eyes holding hers. “I know.”
He returned to his seat, and after innumerable toasts and speeches in his honor, the footmen finally brought out the food. Maddie did keep a close watch on Mr. Bancroft, but his appetite hadn’t diminished, and she decided that he’d been telling the truth when he said he was only tired. All the same, she’d been so consumed with disdaining Warefield that she’d nearly forgotten her duties.
“Ladies and gentlemen?”
Quinlan stood at the head of the table, a glass of wine in his hand, and Maddie groaned. She’d already drunk a thousand toasts this evening, and now Warefield had to think of something clever to make everyone else look shabby.
“If I may,” the marquis continued, as every eye looked at him, “I know there’ve been quite a few toasts already this evening, but I would feel remiss if I didn’t add one more.”
“Please do, my lord,” Mrs. Fowler begged.
“This is a double toast, actually.” He raised his glass. “To my uncle, Malcolm Bancroft, for his courage and strength and for his unflagging concern for the well-being of the people of Somerset.”
“To Malcolm Bancroft,” everyone echoed. For once Maddie was pleased to join in, and she smiled down at her employer.
“And to Madeleine Willits, for the great care she has taken with my uncle, and for her tolerance in putting up with a very annoying interloper at Langley.” He grinned at her.
“To Maddie,” came the second echo. Quinlan tip
ped his glass, his eyes still holding hers as he drank.
“Oh, dear,” Maddie whispered, heat sliding along her veins.
Apparently Mr. Bancroft had been correct, after all. She’d never thought that the son of the Duke of Highbarrow Castle would take her antagonism to mean interest. If she’d encouraged him, it hadn’t been done intentionally. She didn’t think so, anyway—but from the way her body continued to react to his every look and expression, anything was possible.
Maddie looked at Quin, wondering when precisely she’d ceased hating him. And what precisely she was going to do about it now.
Chapter 7
Quin couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
Somerset featured a pleasant enough selection of eligible young ladies, he supposed; daughters of squires and knights and second sons of second sons of barons. Some of them wore the latest fashions of London and Paris and actually looked quite pretty in them. Bobbed and curled haircuts in the style encouraged by Beau Brummell’s followers seemed to be the order of the day, even here.
And then there was Maddie Willits: long auburn hair with wispy tendrils escaping from silver ribbon and a dark burgundy dress easily two years out of fashion—yet which brought out the gray of her eyes. The elegant, practiced ease with which she danced made him yearn to take her in his arms. She fit in with these rustics as well as a plow horse would fit into Highbarrow Castle’s stables. As well as he fit in at Langley. Or at least as well as she wanted him to think he fit in at Langley.
By the time dinner ended, he was becoming quite tired of everyone pointing out the graceful tilt of his hand as he brought a fork to his mouth, and the cultured turn of his wrist when he took a sip of wine. Being dissected in a physician school’s anatomy class would have been less trying. At least he would have been dead, and wouldn’t have had to listen to the ridiculous commentary.
After dinner he stood for a quadrille with Patricia Dardinale, mainly because Mrs. Fowler had been attempting to keep the two of them apart all evening. “You dance quite well,” he said approvingly. The Fowler daughters had already assured him of bruised ankles by morning, and he’d had his toes stepped on twice.
Blue eyes beneath dark, curling lashes looked up at him, and she smiled. “Thank you, my lord. My governess came directly from London.”
“You do her good credit.”
He looked about for his reluctant house mate, and finally spied her in one of the other groups of dancers. Maddie hadn’t lacked for a partner all evening and had always managed to be either in a different set, or at the far end of the line from him. The quadrille was her second dance with John Ramsey.
“How long do you plan to stay in Somerset, my lord?” Miss Dardinale asked, as he approached her again.
“I had planned to leave at the end of the week, but I may stay a bit longer, to see the new irrigation system finished.”
“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “Papa, Squire John, and Maddie have been trying to find a way to bring water to our east pasture for a year now. I think they’ve finally figured it out.”
He glanced over at the blasted annoying female again. “Miss Willits seems quite adept at mathematics.” Apparently she was the Leonardo da Vinci of Somerset.
“Mama tried to hire her away from Mr. Bancroft to be my governess,” Patricia admitted. “She wouldn’t go, but she has been coming over twice a week to teach me Latin.” The alabaster brow wrinkled for a moment, then smoothed itself out again. “It’s very difficult.” She smiled. “I prefer French. It seems much more romantic, don’t you think?”
Quin looked at her absently. “Yes, quite.”
So his uncle’s companion spoke French and wrote in Latin, knew Shakespeare well enough to quote the bard from memory, and could both keep estate account ledgers and engineer irrigation plans. “Do they ever play waltzes in Somerset?” he asked his partner.
“Oh, yes.” She glanced about, then leaned a little closer as they linked elbows. “I doubt Mrs. Fowler will request one for tonight. Lydia’s terrible at the waltz.” She giggled.
He didn’t plan to waltz with Lydia.
As soon as the quadrille ended, he strolled over to his hostess. “Mrs. Fowler, might I make a request of the orchestra?”
“Of course, my lord. They know all of the latest tunes and dances. We long to hear something that’s popular right now in London.”
“Splendid.” He turned to face the dozen musicians. “Might we have a waltz?”
The violinist nodded. “Our pleasure, my lord. Any waltz in particular?”
“No. Anything at all.” Quin turned around again as a score of females began heading in his direction. “Miss Willits?” he called, hoping she hadn’t heard the request and bolted.
After a moment she came out from behind Uncle Malcolm’s chair. “Yes, my lord?”
“You promised to show me a waltz, as I recall,” he lied, not feeling the least bit guilty about it. “Will you do so now?”
She glared at him with thinly veiled annoyance, clearly realizing that if she argued, the crowd would turn against her faster than the villagers had against Frankenstein’s monster. “Of course, my lord. It would be my greatest honor.”
“Thank you.”
He strolled up and took her hand. Behind her annoyance he sensed confusion and uncertainty, which was better than outright hostility. Beneath his thumb, the pulse at her wrist beat fast and hard, the one measure of her feelings she was unable to control. The music began, and he led her out to the middle of the floor.
“Shall we?” he murmured.
“I hate you,” she whispered back, fitting her hand into his and allowing him to slide his arm about her waist.
He smiled. “And why is that?”
They glided into the waltz. As he had suspected, she danced superbly—which, added to her other accomplishments and abilities, made her the most talented, as well as most lovely, governess, companion, and mistress he could ever remember encountering. She glanced about the room, and following her gaze, he belatedly realized that they were the only couple on the dance floor. Undoubtedly the other guests had taken his request for a waltz to be a royal command. Well, that was perfectly fine with him.
“You shouldn’t be dancing with me, my lord,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
Quin wondered how far he could push her before she renewed her attempt to do him bodily harm. “I can dance with whomever I wish,” he returned. “I’m the Marquis of Warefield.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Not by any accomplishment of your own. Do you expect me to be impressed simply because you can afford to wear splendid clothes and drive fine carriages?”
He wished she would stop mentioning his damned suit. If she ever found out he’d actually sent to Warefield for it, he’d never hear the end of it. “No.”
“And don’t think I haven’t heard that you sent all the way to Warefield for your magnificent attire. A four-day journey for a coat and a pair of boots.”
Damnation. “If you weren’t so hard to please, I wouldn’t have had to do it,” he countered.
“I am not hard to please. And you did it to please your own vanity.”
“I did it out of a sense of self-preservation.” Distracted and on the attack, Maddie seemed to forget just how many people were watching them. Shamelessly taking advantage, he pulled her lithe body closer. “So, Maddie, why do you hate me?”
She looked down at his cravat. “You needn’t concern yourself with my feelings, my lord.”
“So you keep repeating. But tell me, anyway.”
“Because you are the Marquis of Warefield, I suppose,” she said finally, in a voice so quiet and reluctant he could barely make it out, even with only inches between them.
“But you’ve already said I can’t claim responsibility for the fact of my birth,” he said softly. “If that’s true, how can you blame me for it?”
He thought he’d cornered her, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely. “Because I choose to.”
“Now, t
hat’s hardly fair. I’ve been trying to play by your rules, but you keep changing them. Makes it rather difficult, you know.”
Maddie hesitated. “Makes what rather difficult?”
Quin let his eyes drift to where they’d been wanting to go all evening. He focused on her soft, full lips. “Winning you over,” he murmured. She jerked her hand, but he held her fingers and kept her close to him. “We couldn’t possibly have met before, since you have only been employed as a governess, and I generally don’t visit houses with young children. So is it my family?” He shook his head before she could answer. “No, because you work for my uncle.”
“Don’t let it disturb you, my lord. No doubt your mind is used to contemplating far loftier issues.”
“Sweet Lucifer,” he swore softly, wondering where he had gained such a great tolerance for insolence. He’d never had it before. “What do I have to do to earn a civil response from you?”
“I have been quite civil, I think.”
Quin looked down at her, dancing calmly and gracefully in his arms while she flayed him alive with her tongue. And he wanted to kiss her only a little more than he wanted to wring her neck. “Miss Willits, I surrender. You are the victor. I am helpless before you. Have pity.”
Her lips twitched. “No.”
“How about a bargain?” he pursued. Behind him, at the edges of the dance floor, he could hear murmurs of conversation, but he dismissed them. Tonight, he was dancing with Maddie. And enjoying himself more than he could remember in a long time. “I will pretend I am not the Marquis of Warefield, and you will pretend you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t…” She stopped. “Why do you insist on my liking you?” Maddie revised, her eyes meeting his.
“Because I like you, Maddie. My uncle regards you very highly. Your opinion is listened to and respected. And yet this beautiful, forthright woman,” he continued, trying very hard not to kiss her right in the middle of the waltz, “apparently hates me. I just want to know what it is that I’ve done to you. Whatever it was, believe me, it was not intentional.”
For a long moment she held his gaze. Finally she sighed, a little unsteadily. “All right. A truce. Until you leave. Not one second longer.”
By Love Undone Page 10