Page 29 of The Marquess of Temptation
Chapter Thirteen
"Well, was I not right?"
"Right about what?"
"That leaving Cornwall would secure you a husband."
Hestia resisted rolling her eyes as Lady Bedford gave her a smug smile and glanced obviously at the Marquess, who was wrestling with a wriggling herd of Cavaliers in the corner of the room.
"I think you said, that if I stayed in Cornwall, I would never find a husband," Hestia responded, suppressing a grin. "Which is quite a different thing."
"Balderdash, I know what I said," Lady Bedford snorted, "And look at you now --a Marchioness!"
Although she was now officially titled the Marchioness of Falconbridge, she still felt like plain, old Hestia Stockbow. Even more so, now that she was seated before Lady Bedford, the woman who had so kindly seen her, and her mother, through years of genteel poverty.
"It still feels so strange," she confessed to the older woman, "I am so grateful to Lord Delaney for all the help that he has provided me."
"I'm sure he was more than grateful for the opportunity to help you," Lady Bedford raised her eyebrows, "Judging by the way he looks at you. He's smitten, and I don't blame him."
Hestia flushed at her kind words, wishing that she could tell Lady Bedford that Alex had only married her out of a misplaced sense of duty. She wasn't even a proper wife yet; she had not given him anything of herself. The memory of his muscular chest, as he had changed for bed the previous night, flashed across her mind's eye. He was so masculine, it was almost overwhelming. A part of her longed for him, but another part, the part that had witnessed the disaster her parent's passion for each other had caused, still resisted. Though one day,she knew, she would have to allow him his liberties.
She, Alex and Lady Bedford were taking breakfast together in the dining room. They had arrived at Bedford Hall the previous evening and had been shown to a bedroom far more luxurious than any Hestia had previously been permitted to stay in. Henry had abandoned his mistress, in favour of his siblings, and so Hestia had slept alone in the huge, four-poster bed, extremely conscious of the Marquess, who had slumbered, again, in a chair by the fireplace.
"Trout, Lord Delaney?" Lady Bedford called, as the servants arrived with plates of food.
The maids and footmen threw Hestia subtle glances as they laid the breakfast on the table, no doubt amazed that the girl who used to come begging, now held a higher title than their mistress.
"I was just thinking of trout," Alex called innocently, as he abandoned the dogs and took a seat at the table. Hestia suppressed a laugh, knowing he was making fun of Lady Bedford, who could be a tad overbearing.
The trio discussed the activities for the day, with Lord Delaney calmly supplying Lady Bedford with a false itinerary. Once breakfast had ended, she and Alex rescued Henry from a fight that had broken out between all the dogs and left for the short walk to Rose Cottage.
"Your father bequeathed the house to you, in his will," Alex said, as they made their way down the quiet lane way, towards Hestia's former home.
"Did he leave many possessions?" she asked calmly, hoping that Alex could not tell that the calmness was a front. She knew that her face was drawn and her shoulders stiff, despite her best efforts. The prospect of returning to the place that her father had been murdered, was taking more of a toll than she had imagined.
"Not many," he replied cautiously, picking up a stick and tossing it for Henry. The Cavalier threw him a rather superior look, as if to say "Fetch that yourself" and continued trotting slowly beside his mistress.
"He did leave a sword to a man called Captain Black," Falconbridge added casually, then waited for her response, as though he expected her to recognise the name.
"Captain Who?" she questioned, her pace slowing, "Is he another privateer?"
"No, actually, he was a Navy Captain --and a well regarded one at that," Alex added, which made Hestia frown. Why had her father bequeathed a Navy man his sword? It made no sense.
"This is it," Hestia stated, as they reached a small, tumbledown cottage. It had a thatched roof, which sagged in the middle, and was enclosed by a low stone wall, parts of which had fallen into disrepair.
"The winter winds can be very cruel here," Hestia said absently, trailing a hand along the wall. She felt slightly defensive of her home, even though she knew it must appear terribly run-down to a lofty Marquess.
"How charming," her new husband said, his eyes raking over the garden where dozens of early spring flowers grew. "It is most quaint. I can imagine you were very happy here as a child."
"I was," she replied, pushing the gate, which was stiff from disuse, open and strolling up the garden path to the front door. It was locked, though the key which was hidden in a plant-pot, still worked. Hestia pushed the door open, braced herself and stepped inside.
"Oh," she said aloud, as she saw the dust-covered kitchen was the same as it had been the last time she was there. She had expected, perhaps, to find signs of a struggle, or even bloodstains, but mercifully all she found was a room filled with memories.
"Is everything alright?" Alex asked, his face a picture of concern.
"I had just expected..." Hestia trailed off, unsure of what she wanted to say, or how to respond to his question. Everything was not alright; her parents were gone and she was all alone in the world.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, and to her surprise she found herself cradled against the Marquess's strong chest.
