Page 5 of The Baron Without Blame
She eyed Lord Preston. He was so magnificently perfect, from the carve of his face to the way his feet shifted uncertainly to await her answer. He was certainly the most handsome man who had ever paid her attention; that he was doing so only because he had the bad luck to happen upon her sneezing couldn’t lessen that fact. Yet handsomeness was perhaps an even worse reason to marry. Or pretend to marry.
Lolly wasn’t at all sure she could pretend.
Just then, the door opened, and Papa stepped into the room. He wore a ridiculous grin. “Well, may I offer my congratulations?”
Lord Preston looked to her. He raised one eyebrow, an expression that would have been cocksure on any other man. On him, it was simply kind.
“Yes,” Lolly said. With one word, she answered her father’s question, accepted Lord Preston, and condemned herself to a hell of falsehoods.
But Lord Preston smiled again, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it. Yet.
Chapter Three
It had been nearly five years since Martin had last seen Northfield Hall. Nearly five years since he had munched on Cook’s famous oatcakes and skipped over the creaky step on the back stairs and ran his hands across the wild grass sprouting beside the pond. He wondered if it would be smaller than he remembered. If the fields would be more fallow than the rich, always-abundant ones in his memory. If, like London, Northfield Hall would look gray and decrepit and carry the faint scent of urine.
They had been traveling a day and a half, delayed at Reading by a rainstorm, and now in a matter of hours, Martin would be home. He hadn’t expected to return so soon. His plan had been to stay in London through the close of Parliament and only then take his father’s place at Northfield.
But it had seemed the sensible option to make it appear that he and Lolly intended to marry without the eyes of thetondragging on their every move. Martin still couldn’t quite believe she had agreed to the scheme – not after she had been so adamant to refuse him. But Lord Turner had taken her “yes” and quite happily moved forward. The engagement was printed in the morning newspaper. Their trip to Northfield Hall was formalized. Martin rented a horse, wrote ahead to his staff, and gave his London servants the week off.
And now they were passing through Thatcham, only five miles from Northfield. Martin knew High Street the way he knew his own heartbeat. The black-beamed Tudor buildings mixed with white cob shops. The gleaming stone church with its bell tower rising towards the clouds. Dirk the blacksmith, glaring at his fire. Mrs. Chusley, always sitting on the steps of her family’s rope shop, knitting away as she waited for customers. And, as they turned off the highway onto Northfield Lane, the green commons dotted with sheep and cows and pigs that ran all the way up to the hall.
Returning to London had plunged Martin into despair, because in the end, it wasn’t better than any of the other cities he had visited around the world.
Returning to Thatcham was a completely different experience. His heart suddenly felt so light that he might have floated out of his body, watching himself canter down the lane with a smile from ear to ear.
The road veered northward, into a field of barley, and the old chalk hills filled the horizon. A white, centuries-old horse was carved into the hillside, stealing the view. It was huge, large enough to be seen for miles, its head lying to the east and its tail tapering in the grass to the west. Martin had taken it for granted all his life; now he marveled at it. How big it was. How ancient. How mysterious, that a civilization no one remembered would take the time to carve a picture into a hill.
He twisted in his saddle to see if the Turners were reacting as much as he. A train of carriages followed him: one large and fine conveyance carrying the Turner family and two smaller ones trailing with their staff and luggage. Even Lord Turner rode inside rather than on a horse because of a bad back. Martin couldn’t see a single face, only the emblazoned family seal.
He settled back, trying not to let disappointment affect his mood. Even if they had been getting married, Martin didn’t need Lolly to stand in awe of his home. As it was, she would never be his wife, and therefore, he had no reason to seek her opinion on anything.
Martin hadn’t proposed the trip to Northfield Hall with any hope of swaying Lolly. She had refused him with such certainty, that when the idea popped into Martin’s head, he had only thought of saving them both from tongue wagging in the gossip sheets. But the image of her framed in the window, arguing about the principle of the thing, remained with him. And it had crossed his mind, once or twice, that perhaps he could change her mind in this one week.
They had spent limited time with each other on the journey so far. He had seen her only at meals, and then he always ended up seated beside Lady Turner. Martin couldn’t explain why his eyes snapped to Lolly or why his ears strained to catch her words. He only knew that they did. And that his thoughts kept drifting to her – at first, to how she could have formed such a character as to refuse marriage on principle. Now, they brought her into almost any thought: what was Lolly’s opinion of horses? What did she make of the characters they encountered at the traveling inns? Did she always look so becoming in blue, or was that a function of firelight? How soft was her skin? Did she sneeze when kissing? Had she ever been kissed?
More and more, Martin had to restrain his thoughts from wandering down inappropriate paths.
He recentered his attention on that chalk hill in the distance and the solid horse beneath him. Only a few more miles and he would be home. Only a few more months, and he wouldn’t have reason to think of Rosalind Turner at all.
And then, before he knew it, Northfield Hall appeared before him. Smoke rose from all seven chimneys, evidence that his staff had received his preparatory letter. The house itself was a hodgepodge of styles: only the east wing survived from the original Tudor architecture, the rest of the building unfurling in red brick and slate roof. A modest circular drive of packed dirt led to the front steps, which were Italian marble imported by Martin’s grandfather. As Martin approached, old Fred Pryor appeared from the stable to catch the horses.
It was almost as if Martin had never left. Except Fred boasted even less hair than ever, and instead of Mrs. Jenkins – who had retired two years ago – a new housekeeper ordered the staff into a reception line. And, of course, except for the glaring absence of his father, brother, and even mother, who had already been gone ten years.
The closest thing to family was Mr. Maulvi, the Ashforth private secretary, emerging from the house in the customary gray waistcoat that set off his brown skin and the barest twinkle of a smile on his lips. It was so startling to see the man in flesh again after corresponding with him for five years – this man, whom Martin had known since birth, who had quietly managed the estate for decades – that Martin very nearly bounded up the steps to clasp him in a hug. He locked his hands together, instead, and turned his attention to the guests.
The Turner ladies were spilling out of the carriage. They wore matching traveling costumes: Lady Turner in a deep maroon and the three sisters in forest green. Although the color richened Lolly’s hair, her skin was pale from motion sickness, and almost as soon as she stepped foot on the solid ground, she sneezed.
Martin bit back a smile. Her sneezes were so ridiculous, so unladylike, that he couldn’t help being charmed by them.
Her family didn’t have the same reaction. Lord and Lady Turner both glared at her, while the blond sister rolled her eyes and the brunette giggled. Blushing, Lolly blew her nose into a wrinkled handkerchief. Her eyes swung up, landing on him.
That invisible touch was too intense. As if she could see straight into his mind. Or under his clothes. Martin looked away, spreading his grin to welcome Lord and Lady Turner to Northfield Hall.
They followed the script of a fashionable family arriving at a country home. The servants curtseyed, then disappeared. Martin led the Turners on a tour of the house, explaining the fire of 1682, the mythical creatures carved into the banisters, and apologizing for the outdated rococo style that followed them from room to room.
“Not to worry, my lord,” Lady Turner tutted, sliding a proud smile towards Lolly. “That is what a wife is for.”
Lolly looked sick again, and Martin’s confidence slithered down a notch.
