by Lily Maxton
Her mind was still caught on the term eligible ladies. Did it mean what she thought it meant? “Eligible ladies, my lord?”
“Marriageable ladies,” he said soberly. “It’s long past time I select a bride. I’m not young anymore.”
Her heart gave an unpleasant little jerk. “Well, you’re certainly not old, either,” she pointed out after a moment.
“No,” he admitted. “But the fire… I’m more aware of my mortality now than I’ve ever been. And this is what a duke does. I can’t put it off any longer.”
“Of course not.” He was right. And what had she expected, anyway? That he would never marry? That he would be the master of the house and she would act in place of a mistress forever? If she had, it was a silly dream. “The lessons,” she said suddenly.
“Have, I believe, served their purpose,” he said calmly. “I no longer have use of them, and you, I think, have what you need, as well.”
“I can’t speak German fluently,” she said, her voice suddenly strained. She’d expected to continue learning for a little while longer.
She’d expected to continue meeting him, alone. It shouldn’t be this much of a shock, like being dunked into icy water. It shouldn’t make her feel so bereft.
“But you have the foundation. You’re intelligent enough to learn on your own.” He moved to the end table where a stack of three books rested. He paused, glancing down at them for a moment before he handed them to her. “These will help if you decide to continue.”
She took them with numb hands.
Her mind was racing too much to focus on the rare compliment he’d just bestowed on her. Their lessons were over, and these books…these books were a parting gift. A sudden weight filled her chest—she’d hoped they would get back, perhaps, to the strange almost-friendship they’d developed over the first several lessons. Now it would never happen.
It wasn’t just the lessons that were over. It was the possibility of friendship.
And she felt its loss.
But she would have lost it, eventually. He would have married, eventually. The lessons would have stopped, eventually.
And why should she want a friendship with him, anyway? He considered himself better than the servants. She didn’t know if that included her or not. But even if it did, it didn’t matter. He was still thoroughly provoking when he wanted to be. He was still disdainful. Still the arrogant marquess.
Except… Yes, he was all those things…but he was more. He wasn’t the same as he’d been before the fire—not quite. She had witnessed hints of vulnerability sometimes. Thoughtfulness, even. That dry humor he’d never revealed much of before.
She nodded, slowly. “Thank you, Lord Riverton.” She clutched the books to her chest, a hard press to ease the ache.
But those parts of him weren’t for her. They would be wasted on her.
For they could never truly be friends.
Chapter Sixteen
Less than a fortnight later, the carriages arrived for the party, one and another and another, polished and gleaming and well-sprung.
Cassandra watched from an upstairs window as the black carriages rolled up beneath a cloudy sky.
“This is so exciting!” Kitty said, coming to stand beside her with a feather duster in hand.
Cassandra looked around. The last guest chamber was spotless. The sheets had been removed from the furniture. The rosewood practically gleamed from care. If an exacting lady ran her gloved hand across the mantel, not one speck of dust would show.
The entire house, except the blocked off south wing, was in the same pristine condition. She’d overseen the cleaning, planned the meals, bought the extra food and supplies. A house party was a busy time for every servant.
But she enjoyed being busy. She had ever since her husband died. If she stopped too long, she would begin to think about everything she’d lost. Those early days she’d lived with her parents to avoid an empty, lonely house—and every surface, every floor, every window, had sparkled from her ministrations.
She didn’t need to stay busy for fear of falling apart anymore, but some echo of that necessity had stayed with her. Besides, she’d never been an idle person. One couldn’t be, with seven younger siblings and the modest income they’d lived on.
“Oh,” Kitty breathed as a woman stepped down from a carriage wearing a vibrant red redingote that clung to every curve. “She’s lovely! Who is she?”
Either Lord Riverton’s sister…or his future wife.
Cassandra’s breath hitched a little at the last possibility. But surely, trepidation wasn’t unnatural. The woman he chose would oversee Cassandra’s housekeeping duties. Or might even choose another housekeeper if she didn’t like her.
So, Cassandra had a vested interest in Lord Riverton’s choice that had absolutely nothing to do with a strange twitch in her chest when she thought of him marrying.
“We should go back down the servant stairs. Mary will show everyone to their rooms.” Cassandra turned. “Kitty?” The girl had gone still, staring out the window with wide eyes.
Cassandra moved to look, but no one was there. “Kitty?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just woolgathering,” she said. She shook her head and turned. “Wouldn’t it be nice to wear such lovely things? That redingote—”
“Probably cost more than every dress we own put together,” Cassandra said dryly, though it caused an ache in her throat. It would have been better if Riverton had already been married when she was hired. Then she wouldn’t have to see these society misses, in all their finery, descending on the house like locusts during a plague.
Who would he choose? Would he ever call her intelligent? Would he teach her German? Would he tell her his favorite word? Or was it too harsh for a fine lady’s ears?
“Well, it’s nice to dream,” Kitty said.
It was fine to dream…as long as one realized a dream was only that—as insubstantial as fog on a summer morning, vanished with the first ray of light.
Chapter Seventeen
Henry stood quietly in the small dressing room that adjoined his current bedchamber as his valet helped him change. Perkins had taken in Henry’s scars impassively, as was required by his position. It occurred to Henry that his valet was the only person who’d seen all of them, not just the ones on his face. Was the man disgusted and just careful not to show it?
Perkins picked up a dark blue waistcoat with a subtle ivy motif and soft cloth buttons from where it was carefully folded on a chair.
Henry watched him, thinking about the man going about his duties meticulously—airing and cleaning and brushing the garments, keeping the dressing room in order, selecting his clothes. The valet had been here longer than Mrs. Davis, and yet, did Henry know anything about him?
They always talked about the matter at hand—which was usually Henry’s wardrobe.
“Do you have family?” Henry asked, a bit abruptly. Lord, what a stupid question. But what else was he supposed to talk about with his valet? It wasn’t though they had a bucketful of things in common.
“My lord?” Perkins looked confused.
“Do you have family?” Henry repeated. He hated repeating himself.
“Parents, and three younger brothers,” Perkins said.
“Where are they?”
“All in North Yorkshire.”
“Ah,” Henry said as he stretched out his arms so Perkins could slip the waistcoat on him. “I’ve always quite liked the moors.”
Perkins still looked a little puzzled. And well he might. They’d known each other for nearly ten years and now his employer suddenly decided to strike up a conversation? The servants probably assumed he’d suffered some sort of brain injury in the fire.
Sometimes he felt like he must have. Why else was he going through all this bother?
“Always thought they were a bit dreary, myself,” Perkins said. “That’s why I moved south.”
Well, that effectively shut down that train of conversation.
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br /> “What about women?” Henry asked brightly.
Perkins dropped the cravat he’d been holding. “Pardon, my lord?”
“Are you courting anyone?” Damn. Was that too personal? If the man had been fonder of the moors, they could have spoken about that, instead. It was really his own fault.
The valet shook his head.
“What is your preference? Dark hair? Light hair? Tall? Short? Buxom?”
“My lord!” Perkins exclaimed, looking a little frightened.
Henry couldn’t blame him—he was starting to feel like an idiot. Why was he interrogating his valet about his preference in women? What could it possibly matter?
What in the world did normal men talk about? He didn’t really know. He didn’t have friends he spoke with about personal matters. With other peers, he spoke about what all noblemen spoke about to people they socialized with but didn’t know well—hunting, Parliament, the best vintage of port, things that held his interest but didn’t really matter to him all that much.
“Do you like to read?” he asked hopefully.
Perkins stared at him. “Are you ill, my lord?”
“No, I’m not ill,” he answered, struggling not to be offended. He was trying to be nice. Maybe he simply wasn’t good at being nice. He sighed. “Mrs. Davis thinks I should care about my servants more.”
Perkins blinked.
“And if you tell anyone that I told you that, I’ll sack you,” he added for good measure as he tied his cravat. There, that made him feel more like his old self. More balanced.
“Perhaps you could care without trying to force an interest?” the valet suggest mildly.
Henry’s shoulders eased. That sounded like a good idea to him.
Perkins held out Henry’s black coat and he slipped into it. The valet cleared his throat. “You care about what Mrs. Davis thinks?” he asked, a little haltingly.
Henry felt a foolish twinge at the mention of his housekeeper. Damn it. He should have never tried to be friendly. He’d forgotten the questions worked both ways.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Soon I’ll have a wife and her opinion will be foremost in my mind, not Mrs. Davis’s.”
At least, that’s what he hoped.
Perkins had moved away to attend to Henry’s discarded clothing. “You’re certain this house party will end in a proposal?” he said over his shoulder.
“Quite,” Henry said, checking himself in the looking glass.
It had to end in a proposal. The flames of hell were licking at his heels, whispering soon, soon. He had a legacy to uphold. His entire life, he’d always known exactly who he was, exactly what his duty was. No man lived forever, and he would do what needed to be done.
Whether he liked it or not.
Chapter Eighteen
When Henry heard the clopping of horse hooves along the drive, he went to the drawing room to greet his first guest. Tall windows let in ample light, illuminating the striped yellow silk of the walls. Bucolic landscape paintings hung in ornate gilded frames. No dust motes danced in the air and the pleasant scent of lavender drifted from the pastille burners on the marble mantelpiece.
Before, he’d always taken for granted how well put together his house was. But now he was aware it was only this comfortable and elegant because of the efforts of Mrs. Davis and the maids.
He flicked a speck of lint off his blue waistcoat as he heard footsteps on the stair. There was a little bit of trepidation in his chest, because of his disfigurement. But after having faced Cassandra, this should be easy. Not something he was looking forward to, but tolerable.
He recalled how he’d felt when he’d sent for Cassandra, knowing how his face now looked. He’d gone to stare out the window simply for something to do as he waited, and all the while, his heart thudded against his ribcage like a wild animal struggling to get free.
He’d had the mad notion that maybe he would simply never turn around. Whenever he sent for her, he could face some other direction. He’d give his orders to the wall. Other lords must have done more eccentric things. As his palms had grown more and more damp, it had begun to sound like a wonderful idea. Not mad, at all.
And then she’d spoken, and he’d turned instinctually toward the sound of her voice.
He had felt like he was falling. His stomach had dropped out. Did she see a man or a monster?
But he hadn’t read disgust in her expression. A slight bit of shock at first, but she hadn’t shuddered, or looked away, or stared fixedly at the scars. It had gone better than expected.
And relief had burst inside him, so strong, his knees had gone weak.
He hated it.
Hated that another person could cause such turmoil within him. It was uncomfortable and unpleasant, and he was very certain he never wanted to feel that way again. The farce with the labels had been bad enough. This was even worse.
While he might not relish the idea of marrying, a marriage of convenience where he knew his place and his wife knew hers and they lived a calm and polite existence was starting to sound appealing.
Footsteps drew his attention from his cheering thoughts.
His sister had arrived, charging into the drawing room as though she owned it.
“River!” Margaret gaped at his face, her lips parting.
For an instant, her hand lifted to touch him, but then it fell. The vulnerable reaction, the dismay, lasted for only an instant before she shook herself out if it. They were not the sort of family to get sentimental or weepy with one another, for which Henry was grateful.
His sister glared at him fiercely as she jabbed a finger toward his face. “What is this?”
“I was injured in the fire,” he said mildly.
“I heard there was a fire. I didn’t think it was as bad as all that because, surely, my brother would have sent for me if he was in ill health.” She crossed her arms. She would start tapping her foot at any second. His sister had a bit of a dramatic streak. “And how do you expect to court ladies with your face half-ruined?”
“Why thank you, yes, I am feeling much better now. Hardly any pain at all.” He lifted his eyes heavenward. “With my title and immense wealth. What did you think?”
“Yes, of course.” She leaned forward contritely, and kissed his unmarred cheek, with lips that were slightly cold from the outdoors. “I am glad you are all right,” she said, “but please don’t be so careless in the future.”
He snorted. “Yes, I carelessly set myself on fire while I was asleep.”
“River,” she chided. “Did you fall asleep with a candle?”
“No,” he said, “I’m not quite that stupid. I honestly don’t know how the fire started.”
The south wing was so damaged it was impossible to tell exactly where the blaze had started, much less how. He’d questioned the servants, but no one claimed to know a thing.
More footsteps sounded outside the door, and a woman with brown hair piled ornately atop her head was shown in by the footman. “Miss Haversham,” his sister said, taking the woman’s hands and drawing her forward for formal introductions.
The woman gaped at him for a few moments before her gaze flicked away and she sank into a graceful curtsy. She glanced back at him as she looked up, going first to the scars. He bowed in return, irritated. Of course he’d been expecting this. Of course they would all have a reaction. He couldn’t very well control their reactions to his scars, no matter how much he hated not being in control.
“Miss Haversham is the Viscount Ford’s daughter,” Margaret explained.
Miss Haversham smiled, a coy curve of her lips. If his scars disturbed her, she hid it well.
For some reason, that didn’t make him feel any better.
Henry waited for the other guests while Mary showed his sister and Miss Haversham to their rooms.
The next to arrive were the Earl of Washburn and his sister, Lady Emily. Lady Emily didn’t react to Henry’s scars at all, other than a brief, slight widening of her eyes
. Then came Lady Jane, with Mrs. Davenport, her aunt, trailing meekly behind her. Lord Appleby and his cousin, Mr. Thornton, arrived just after Lady Jane.
Lord Appleby clapped Henry on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”
Well was a relative term. Henry noticed the man’s gaze kept sliding carefully past his scars.
“I apologize our hunting party had to end so abruptly,” Henry returned smoothly. He was fairly certain Appleby and Thornton hadn’t been unduly concerned about him before they’d ridden off to better hunting prospects farther north.
Henry was acquainted with all of these people, except for Miss Haversham, but he didn’t consider any of them friends. He didn’t think his death would have affected them very much, nor would theirs affect him.
Was it strange to wish suddenly that his death would affect someone?
Mr. Thornton nodded. “Maybe we’ll bag a few pheasants this time, though, eh? As long as the ladies don’t object to missing us for a few hours.”
“If the ground stays clear,” Lord Appleby said. “The temperature has dropped since this morning and the sky is looking rather dark. I fear we might be in for an early snowfall.”
That was the last thing Henry needed. Everyone stuck indoors at a house party tended to turn into a never-ending parade of parlor games. He absolutely despised parlor games. He hoped his future wife wasn’t fond of such frivolities.
Perhaps he needed to write down a list of traits he wanted in his betrothed. But that seemed a cold a way to choose a wife…even for a man who’d simply decided one day to have his sister bring him a few marriageable women to inspect.
A few minutes later, he was about to take a seat in a wing chair by the wall as his guests chatted with one another, when he noticed motion out of the corner of his eye. He strode to the closest sash window and peered out. Just beyond the glass, snow drifted down in thick flurries, blindingly white.