Page 18 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
“Only because we have followed your lead. Are you certain you wish to grant your proxy to Foxton?”
“Are you suggesting I should grant it to you instead?”
Hurlington waved his hand in the air. “Absolutely not. I’m not a fool.”
“Fool?”
“Only a fool would want to be hounded by every man needing a vote in their favor.”
“So you are calling me a fool?”
“Of course not. Everyone knows you can’t be persuaded by a case of liquor or a few educated words… it’s because youcan’tbe fooled that we put our lot in with yours.”
Foxton and Whistlestop entered the drawing room. With the four of them, the room seemed to shrink in size. When it was only Marjorie and himself, it was the perfect size, warm and cozy.
“Foxton, come convince Dartman to return with us in the morn.”
Foxton shook his head. “I’m not in the mood to waste my breath.”
His friend had already shared his displeasure at Alister’s decision to remain behind. Foxton had even insisted he too stay in Brighton, except it was Foxton’s youngest sister’s debut this Season and Alister had implored him to see to it that she, unlike Foxton’s other sisters, married a man they could tolerate for more than an afternoon visit.
Whistlestop fell into the chair beside Alister, while Foxton strode over to the window and asked, “Where is Marrie?”
“She returned to her rooms as soon as I mentioned you lot were on your way.”
Whistlestop leaned forward and poured a cup of tea for himself. “Did you break your fast with her again this morn?”
“I did.” Like he had every day for the past two weeks.
While Foxton and the others slept, Alister woke early, walked to the bakery, and brought with him delicious fresh-baked rolls that Marjorie claimed were the best in the country. Some said a way to a man’s heart was via his belly, and Alister suspected it might also be the best approach to win the love of the woman who had magically stolen his heart. A heart he had not believed he possessed for his pulse had never raced, he’d never experienced a flutter deep within his chest, and there had been a distinct lack of warmth within him… until he met Marjorie. For all his life, he believed he had been born defective, without a heart, without the capacity for love. He’d remained untouched by the emotions the poets described as powerful enough to move mountains and part oceans. Oh, he cared for others, but never before had he felt like his life depended on whether or not he’d see another. His heart ached every time Marjorie left his side. It ached until he was able to lay his eyes upon her sweet face. It took every ounce of self-control to remain here in the room with his three closest friends and not go running through the cottage in search of her. He wasn’t the only one who had developed an affection for the woman. Foxton had also, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Foxton, a man who shared even less than Alister, frowned with concern whenever Marjorie wasn’t close by.
Alister glanced over at his friend. The tension in Foxton’s shoulders, the stiffness of his movements were signs the man wasn’t as relaxed as he wished others to believe. But unlike Alister, Foxton’s gaze never lingered upon Marjorie when she wasn’t looking. He never made excuses to move closer until he invaded her space like Alister found himself doing more and more often.
“What in the blazes do you think she’s doing in her rooms?” Foxton walked over to the settee and laid out on the one piece of furniture that wasn’t dwarfed by his large frame.
Alister reached for the freshly pressed newspaper laying on the table next to him. “I’ve no idea; however, she explicitly said she didn’t wish to be interrupted and she would join us all when she was ready.” He snapped the paper open and began to feign reading. His lack of focus bothered him but not as much as not knowing what Marjorie was up to.
“The two of you behave like mother hens,” Whistlestop said and turned to Hurlington, who continued to loom over Alister. “Hurlington, don’t tell me you too have fallen prey to Marrie’s charms.”
Alister’s fingers tightened about the paper, causing it to crinkle. It irked him to no end that Marjorie had also given Whistlestop and Hurlington leave to call her Marrie. Her name was beautiful. There was no reason to abuse it by shortening it.
Hurlington unfolded his arms and clasped his hands behind his back as he rocked from his heels to his toes. “It’s hard not to. She’s the most adorable soul.”
Foxton grumbled something under his breath and then added, “You didn’t seem to have an issue ignoring her all those times you waltzed by spinster seating without a second glance, or before that when she was no doubt a wallflower waiting to be asked to dance. Weren’t you the one who boasted of how easy a feat it was to avoid the attention of the ladies lined up against the ballroom walls?” Foxton slung an arm over his eyes and groaned.
He and Foxton were as guilty as Hurlington and Whistlestop for their poor behavior.
Alister straightened in his seat as the door flung open and Marjorie skipped into the room, arms behind her back.
Foxton jumped up and stood to attention. “Marrie.” He stepped to the side and motioned for her to take a seat on the settee. “You look lovely this morn. Come join me.”
Before he knew it, Alister was on his feet and placed a hand out to stop Marjorie. “What took you so long?” He hadn’t meant to bark at her. What in the blazes was wrong with him? He couldn’t explain his irrational behavior.
She glanced down at his fingers wrapped around her upper arm, and he immediately let go of her. Embarrassed by his behavior, he whirled around and marched over to the window, placing as much space between them as possible. He couldn’t turn his back on her and so he watched as her cheeks flushed pink as she got closer to Foxton.
She held out a set of handkerchiefs to Foxton. “Lord Foxton, my thanks for accompanying me to Brighton.”
Foxton took the stack of delicate white folded material and ran his thumb over his initials, DDT embroidered in the corner. Marjorie twirled about and faced Hurlington. “My thanks to you too, Lord Hurlington. You have made these past weeks both entertaining and memorable.” She handed him his set of handkerchiefs. But Hurlington’s didn’t have the man’s initials; instead it was some peculiar symbol, an intricate image. An angel with a harped wing.
