Page 2 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess
“You will do no such thing, Harry. I will be fine in just a moment. Better late than never, after all.”
Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling large, gold-green eyes up towards the ceiling. The green eyes were a family trait. One might stroll along the long, narrow Great Hall and survey the endless portraits of severe-faced Tidemores, and one would always see those startling green-gold eyes. Harry’s surname wasnotTidemore, but Westbrook, but it seemed that there wasenough of the old blood in his veins to make his eyes large, green, and incisive. They were notexactlycousins – third or fourth removed, if he was not mistaken – but they had grown up together, and Harry was a dear friend and an efficient steward. Few of the old and infamous Tidemores boasted the same shock of vivid red hair as Harry, but the eyes were certainly there.
Their family name was old, and their title large and cumbersome. The estate of the Marquess of Morendale was a large one, requiring a great deal of managing.
Especially when the Marquess himself was on the cusp of madness and death.
Familiar panic gripped Neil’s chest and he suddenly became afraid that if he did not get up quickly, he would die right there on the floor of his study as his father had, foaming at the mouth, with his large gold-green eyes bloodshot and dark.
He forced himself upright before Harry could object, staggering, arms flailing. He did manage to stay on his feet and allowed himself a brief moment of triumph.
“There you are, you see,” Neil said, dusting off his waistcoat. “I’m quite alright. Now, did you say they were already in the dining room?”
Harry blinked tiredly. “I daresay they shall be by now.”
“Why don’t you come and take breakfast with us?”
“That isn’t a good idea.”
There was a tense pause.
“This is my house,” Neil said carefully. “Mine. If I want to have my friend sitting at my dining table with me, then my mother and sister will simply have to make their peace with it.”
Harry ran a hand through his tousled locks, which were neatly trimmed at the sides and allowed to cascade in wild spirals upon the crown of his head. “I’d rather not cause trouble, if it’s all the same. Your healthis so delicate at the moment I believe that any arguments will only make you worse.”
Neil bit the inside of his cheek. It was humiliating, being such an invalid that people did not dare evenarguewith you in case you might fall down dead from apoplexy, or something along those lines. Harry was generally very careful about that, never letting Neil feel too weak and foolish, but to an extent, it was unavoidable.
He was glad that Harry had saidhealthrather thanmental state, even though they both knew what he meant. And it was true that Harry’s presence would surely spark an argument. Not everybody agreed with a steward eating with his “betters”, regardless of whether he were related to them or not. Cynthia did not mind, however, since the demise of her husband, Neil's mother had grown increasingly rigid in her adherence to propriety and decorum. He supposed he should be more understanding, but it was difficult.
“Besides,” Harry added, “I can take breakfast down in the kitchen, and have a little peace to read this.”
He held aloft a slender, well-thumbed volume, encased in dark blue cloth, the title picked out in gold lettering so faded that Neil could scarcely read it.
“Coriolanus,” he read aloud. “More Shakespeare, eh? You really are a glutton for punishment. Haven’t you read that one before?”
Harry grinned. “Indeed, and I’m reading it again. Andyoucannot make snide comments about the Bard, not when you love Mrs. Radcliff’s novels so very much! I’ve caught you engrossed inMysteries of Udolphomore times than I can count.”
Neil chuckled, shaking his head. It was perhaps not consideredgentlemanlyto enjoy popular novels so much, especially the ones with fainting heroines, improbably villainous plots, and almost-haunted abbeys. Even so, he loved them.
“Come on, then,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “If you insist on going down for breakfast, I insist on escorting you there.”
Neil’s pride would have compelled him to descend the stairs unaided; however, his quaking knees had other ideas. With a reluctant air, he acquiesced to Harry's offered arm.
***
There was never a finer time to note the Tidemore family’s resemblance than at the dinner table.
Lady Emma Tidemore, the dowager Marchioness of Morendale, had taken to sitting at the head of the table during her husband’s illness and attacks of… well, it was best to call itdisorientation. Now that the old Marquess was gone and Neil was in his place, Lady Emma had not seen fit to give up her place of honour at the head of the table.
It was a silly thing to feel irritated over, and yet Neil could not suppress a flash of annoyance as he moved over to his usual seat at his mother’s right-hand side and slumped down. He thought he was moving with a steady enough gait, even without Harry’s assistance, but his sister eyed him for a long moment and then spoke.
“You’re limping, Neil.”
He tried for a smile. “Pray, Cynthia, I have scarcely partaken of my morning repast, and already you are prattling on at me? I am not limping.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes, a most unladylike gesture. Neil considered remarking upon it, but decided that, in the end, it was not worth the trouble.
Of course, Cynthia had the traditional green-gold Tidemore eyes. Their mother had plain grey eyes, slate-grey and rather blank at the best of times, but both of her children had inherited her delicate, pointed features, as well as her long, thick hair. However, it was Tidemore hair, which meant that it was as black as jet, wild and wavy and almost untameable.
