“My niece Mary told me that her friend Jezebel was hired to work for this Lady Cordelia.” He leaned closer. “The woman is haughty. Said she didn’t even need Jezebel’s help with her hair. Said Jezebel didn’t know how to arrange locks correctly.” Nicholas heaved a long sigh. “They’re just locks. How hard is it to pin them up?”
“Very difficult,” Cordelia said.
Nicholas’s eyes softened. “I imagine they might be for you,” he said kindly. “Begging your pardon miss, but it looks like you don’t know about hairbrushes. A hundred strokes before bedtime, that’s what me wife always did, and of the two of us, she’s the one with the hair now.”
“Lady Cordelia is an ice queen,” Potter added.
Most unhelpfully.
“That must be an exaggeration,” Lord Rockport said.
“You’ve met her?” Nicholas asked.
“Me?” Lord Rockport stretched out languidly, and he seemed to adopt a thicker brogue. “I’m not that fancy.”
“He’s really not,” Cordelia concurred.
Nicholas scanned her. “I mean you definitely couldn’t be one of those dreadful aristocrats.”
“No?” Lord Rockport’s voice rumbled. The low tone shouldn’t have sounded as pleasing as it did, and Cordelia turned away. The man was probably grinning like a maniac. Thank goodness for the darkness. “Why is that?”
The men were silent for a moment, and Cordelia hoped that even these men, in this remote region, possessed some sense of propriety.
“Completely spoiled that Lady Cordelia is. Reckon she’s the type that needs everything to be perfect. Not like your wife if I may so.”
“You may,” Lord Rockport said. “I assure you that nothing can bring me more pleasure than hearing my wife does not succumb to any misguided perfectionism.”
“Lady Cordelia,” Nicholas mused, “Wouldn’t be walking around with just a plaid blanket. No offense my dear. I’m all for practicality.”
“She’s a good gal is my wife ‘ere.” Lord Rockport elbowed her.
“And yer wife’s hair, even my wife, bless her dear, wouldn’t leave the house without her hair in better shape.”
Lord Rockport chuckled. “My wife isn’t bothered by appearance at all. Ain’t a vain bone in her body!”
“Been a while since I’ve seen such a lovely couple,” Mr. Nicholas mused. “Right devoted you two are.”
Lady Cordelia’s cheeks warmed.
Lord Rockport was not devoted to her. If they thought them a good couple, it was only because they must have seen something in her—some sign of attraction that betrayed her.
If her eyes had flickered to the man’s sturdy jaw, or the breadth of the man’s shoulders, it was not a sign of any suitability between them: only a sign that she wasn’t blind.
“To tell you the truth,” Nicholas said. “When I first saw the duke and his missus, I wasn’t so sure about them.”
“Truly?” Lord Rockport asked.
“Oh, yes. The duchess—well, she weren’t a duchess then of course—got us to chase him in our sleigh. He didn’t seem that happy to see ‘er.”
“Well they weren’t actually married then,” Potter said.
“Aye, aye.” Nicholas nodded solemnly. “We found out later.”
“But you can tell we’re better suited,” Lord Rockport said.
“Aye, aye,” Nicholas said. “Got yerself a pretty missus. She don’t argue.”
“Aye,” Lord Rockport said. “My wife does understand the merits of not arguing.”
“Brilliant!”
Lord Rockport leaned forward, and his eyes glimmered. “But tell me more about the rumors about Lady Cordelia.”
“I’m sure she cannot be so dreadful,” Cordelia found herself saying.
“Now that’s a mite strange thing to say,” Nicholas said. “Most women agree with me.”
She was going to give herself away. She strove to rival Lord Rockport’s nonchalance.
“Her bed was empty. If you ain’t in the bed, and it’s late, yer up to no good, that’s what I always say.” Nicholas nodded sagely.
“Where do you think she is?” Lord Rockport asked carefully, and Cordelia knew he was worried about their travels. Nobody must catch them. If only they had more time. They would have been less likely to be dragged away if they’d only stayed in the marquess’s brother’s estate.
Nicholas shrugged. “How should I know? The duke’s got the whole village riled up about it.”
“Indeed?” Cordelia fumbled with her fingers, but there were no rings, no bracelets, nor even gloves, to distract herself with.
“Oh, sure,” Nicholas declared. “Fact is, we were supposed to be looking for her ourselves.”
“Indeed?” Lord Rockport’s voice exuded calmness.
How in Heaven did he manage to remain so carefree?
“Yep, the duke got one of his men to come to the pub and arrange a search party.”
“But you’re not searching now?” Lord Rockport asked.
“Figure if we’re helping you, we don’t need to help the duke,” Nicholas said. “Besides we’re not staying in this region anymore.”
“Got us some more archaeological work to do.” Potter patted his upper arm. “These arms find treasure.”
“You’ll be able to get home?” Lord Rockport asked.
“I’m sure these men are more than capable,” Cordelia said.
“That’s right!” Potter said. “Besides, loads of people are about now. What with the big search and all. Wanna join?”
Lord Rockport shook his head. “In fact—I would—er—prefer that you say nothing about meeting us.”
“He wouldn’t want it to get back to his family that he’d spent such an exorbitant sum on this van,” Cordelia added.
Lord Rockport smiled at her fib, and for a moment their eyes met.
“Er—yes. Farewell then,” Nicholas and Potter said, stepping from the van.
The men weren’t going to take her to her father’s. It was going to be fine.
Completely, utterly fine.
*
Traveling with a pretty lass should have been an improvement on traveling with a not pretty lass. In fact, a few days ago, Gerard would have said that traveling with any lass was an improvement on his normal solo traversing of the isle.
He’d been naïve before.
This was much, much worse than anything he could contemplate. He’d noted her beauty early on, but he hadn’t expected his realization of it to grow.
She was much, much more than he ever expected, and the fact was becoming bloody frustrating. She’d risked everything to warn him, displaying a moral compass that other people may have favored in theory, though few would have been imbued with sufficient temerity.
The sunrise caught her hair. Her locks were thick and long and light. They were locks. Mere hair. But Gerard still found it hard to pull himself away from them. The task should not have contained any difficulty
English lassies weren’t supposed to fascinate him. He might have two English half-brothers, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel a patriotic fervor to marry a true bonnie Scottish lass, the kind Robert Burns lauded.
He’d memorized Lady Cordelia’s expressions early on. He knew the look when her brow would crinkle and she would firm her voice, striving for seriousness. He knew when she’d harden her features, as if she were putting on a mask, and he didn’t want to think too much about his urge to comfort her, to make her smile, make her laugh.
Because Lord—when she laughed . . . He sighed lengthily, even though the action was more appropriate for one of those lovelorn men.
Which he absolutely was not.
At all.
But he still smiled, because even thinking about her laugh, and the way her rosebud lips turned up, and the throaty sound she emitted . . .
But, in truth, these were things he should not be thinking about. The unfairness of their marriage racketed through him again. He was repeating his father’s mi
stake, and he steeled himself from more needless pain. He needed to be careful. Energy soared through every vein, every inch of his being—yet in this, there was nothing he might do.
He sighed. Lady Cordelia was curled beside him, fast asleep. He’d found himself looking forward to whenever the trees would thin, and the clouds would part, and the moon would shimmer over her.
He could only strive to care for her. He coughed. Take care of her. Not care for her. That involved a man who was actually intrigued with her. And not just marrying her for convenience because he possessed some modicum of practicality.
He knew what happened when men confused saying the bans with true passion. He’d pondered the pleasures that could be found in a happy marital union, the kind of union not born of practicality.
He was a marquess. Lady Cordelia was correct: he wasn’t supposed to worry about finding the perfect match, no matter how much it hurt him when she reminded him once again of her utter practicality and that the only reason they were together was because of his title and her father’s desire to have him murdered. It didn’t matter if her opinions on love resembled that of his mother.
After all love was something that only peasants could devote themselves to, and even they were aware of the usefulness of picking a woman who could manage a household, rise before dawn with no complaint, and work all day. A farmer would select a woman with broad hips that might bear him five strong sons, and he would pick a woman who had an affinity for being a marchioness.
Gerard had a better life than most and wishing for more lacked propriety.
He knew that love like his brother Marcus experienced, love that the Duke of Alfriston for that matter experienced, was rare.
It wasn’t that Gerard despised women—they were fun. And if he only required they bring him as much joy as an aged brandy or an evening canter, he would be fine.
Expectations brought disappointment and disappointment brought sadness, and Gerard did not want to feel sad.
It was perfectly simple.
Lady Cordelia might appear enticing now, but he knew what women were like.
Perhaps his father had thought his young bride loved him. Or perhaps he’d known about the rumors that Gerard’s mother cavorted with the ton’s most attractive aristocrats in London. Perhaps he’d known about her rumored affair with Lord Somerville, the dashing man who would father his half-brothers.
Gerard gazed at the Pennines as if focusing on the soft slopes might halt his mind from seeing his father’s lifeless body. His father would have known better than to go swimming in the river if he hadn’t been beside himself with grief.
He didn’t desire to remember that his father’s last meeting with his mother had been about his will. His father had been dying, but his mother had only concerned herself with money, entering the man’s sickroom with piles of paper and her solicitor.
Gerard knew. He’d been there.
And his father—Lord, his father hadn’t needed that.
Gerard didn’t need to ponder about life and the future, not when there was a stream of balls and house parties to attend
Yet he was getting married.
Most people had assumed he would get married, ridiculing him for his steadfast statements that he would not do so. One didn’t become a marquess without getting married, and certainly Lady Cordelia was more than qualified to become a marchioness.
And yet . . .
He felt a pang.
He’d never expected marriage to be more than this. That’s why he’d never desired to experience it. And in truth, he’d found a brilliant match now.
Somebody who would marry him, despise him as much as he despised her, so she would not intrude the least on his life.
He could keep on being a scoundrel. No need to halt his dalliances with widows and the more adventurous married women. No need to limit the powers of seduction he’d honed from years of practice.
He urged the horses to move faster. The less time he spent with Lady Cordelia alone, the happier they both would be.
*
The van lurched over the windy road, and Cordelia straightened. Heat stung her cheeks. She’d intended to stay awake.
“Go back to sleep, lassie.”
Cordelia refused to give into the impulse to yawn. “More sleep will not be necessary.”
Lord Rockport chuckled. The sound was warm and velvety, contrasted by the cold breeze that rippled relentlessly against her and the clomp of the horses’ hooves against the muddy road.
They passed more sheep and cows than Cordelia thought possible. They passed thatched cottages, wooden farms, and stone mills. They passed people toiling in the fields and women hauling water. They passed bare-footed children, even though Cordelia shivered in her slippered feet.
Lord Rockport yawned, and something tinged in her chest. He’d let her sleep with no complaints.
She frowned at the reins. “Perhaps I can drive for a while.”
He blinked. “Truly?”
“You should be sleeping.”
He chuckled. “Clearly you won’t miss my conversation.”
She smiled, and he handed her the reins. The leather felt strange against her palms, and she cleared her throat awkwardly. “I should perhaps tell you that I don’t know how to drive.”
He smiled at her, and she turned away. It was cold outside. She wasn’t supposed to feel warmth rush through her. She was sure.
“It’s easier than riding a horse, lassie. Don’t you drive carts in Hampshire?”
“I am always able to make use of my family’s phaeton.” She frowned. “Which our coachman drives.”
“How very conventional.” Lord Rockport yawned, and something in her stomach tumbled down.
She didn’t want him to think her conventional.
She tightened her fingers about the reins, careful to heed his warning not to let the horses veer from their predictable, clodding pace.
“If the horses gallop away, you’re finding us new transport,” Cordelia said.
He snorted. “It’s a deal.”
Towering mountains loomed over her, their surfaces dark, as if not even grass or wildflowers could cling to their steep slopes.
She glanced at the marquess. His eyes were shut, a definite improvement from the glare he usually directed toward her. The steely expression of his face had softened, and she was glad at Lord Rockport’s ability to sleep despite the horses’ noisy trots a few feet away and the now constant swerve as they wound round the Dales. The road worsened, making the road from London to Yorkshire look like a jaunt.
She shivered and attempted to focus on the other scenery. Yet every chapel that they passed, every steeple, every cross, reminded her of the marriage that would soon occur between her and the marquess. They’d already spent more time together than most engaged couples did before their more lavish ceremonies.
Horses’ hooves thundered behind her, joined by the unmistakable sound of wheels crushing against the narrow lane, and Cordelia glanced over her shoulder, interrupted from her musings.
Rows of horses galloped over the road, pulling a stagecoach behind them. Men and women perched on the roof, attired in sensible brown and gray linen, as a cloud of dirt billowed around them.
Goodness, they hadn’t seen anyone, and now there was an entire speeding, jostling coach behind them. Drystone walls, some gentry person’s attempt at keeping his livestock on his property, loomed on each side of the road. She’d considered the long walls, formed without mortar, and only by the logical placement of complementary stones, local to the area, pretty.
The stones remained pretty, but she rather worried that her last moment in life might be experiencing an undesired intimacy with the wall, when the stagecoach barreled into her slow-moving van.
The roar intensified, and Cordelia tightened her grip on the reins and urged the horses to continue. Eventually there had to be a place for her to pull over.
“You gotta hurry, miss,” a shepherd yelled at her from the other side
of the wall. “Those stagecoaches don’t like to wait. Not when there’s a nice pub waiting for the driver.”
“Right.” She firmed her lips and raised the reins. “Giddy-up.”
The words did not compel the horses to hasten.
“It’s important, miss.” The shepherd moved through the field of fluffy, pleating animals, and his torso poked over the wall. “There’s a spot just around the corner where you can pull over.”
The horses neighed and their stride seemed to lessen even further, obviously taking the opportunity to marvel at the muddied man before them and savor the unexpected sound of the stagecoach horn.
Lord Rockport still slept.
Cordelia cleared her throat, but the effort did not rouse him, no matter how self-conscious she felt.
“Lord Rockport.”
The man continued to sleep.
“Your lordship,” she said, raising her a voice.
“Get out of the way, woman,” the stagecoach driver hollered. The horn blared again, and Rockport stirred.
She elbowed him. Hard. “We are about to be run over!”
He darted his gaze behind him and chuckled. “I doubt it.”
He pulled the reins, murmured to the horses, and stopped the van.
She uttered an un-ton-like shriek, but his lips only jutted up.
The stagecoach horn blared again, but Lord Rockport jumped from the van, easily moving from sleep state to fully awake mode, and strode toward the stagecoach. The barreling horses halted, and Lord Rockport approached the driver, clearly not intimidated by the man’s darkening face.
Cordelia pursed her lips. What on earth was the man doing?
In a few moments, Rockport returned, grinning. “Get up, Lady Cordelia. We’ve got a ride.”
“But we have transport! We can’t just abandon it!”
He chuckled. “You’ve grown attached.” He glanced at the shepherd. “Hullo there! Can I give you these horses and van?”
The shepherd’s blue eyes rounded. “If you don’t be needing them.”
“We don’t.” Rockport tipped his hat, took Cordelia’s hand, and sauntered to the stagecoach. “We’ll be there in no time.”
“G-good,” she said, though she suspected that no time actually involved a great long period of time.
A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 11