Page 15 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“What?”

“Nothing.” He’d felt this strong pull of attraction before, Roger recalled. When she first returned from Scotland to care for her father, there’d been an evening at Chatton. He’d laughed with Fenella over some jest, and the heat had risen between them, intense, surprising. And then he’d glimpsed the avid speculation in his father’s eyes, which made him angry, and he’d gone haring off to London the next day to avoid any revival of the old matchmaking scheme. Yes, and he’d fallen into Mrs. Crenshaw’s toils almost at once. So his disastrous marriage had been Fenella’s fault. Everything was Fenella’s fault—from the very inception to Arabella’s last, ill-advised ride.

Except. With her standing before him, pleasant and assured, he had to acknowledge that this was a load of pure rubbish.

Fenella hadn’t sent him to town. And of course she hadn’t been able to keep Arabella from doing whatever she wished. Arabella had been one of the stubbornest people he’d ever encountered. She’d never listened once she made up her mind. He remembered an evening when his wife had stalked out of a dinner party, declaring that she couldn’t bear it a moment longer. In the silence that followed, he’d suspected his neighbors pitied him, which had been humiliating. Roger had told everyone that Arabella was referring to a terrible headache, but he was fairly certain they’d known she meant the dullness of the company. In her opinion. The incident had occurred just a few weeks before her fateful ride in the rain. But it was best not to think of that.

Roger felt the mixture of anger and guilt that had been with him since his wife died. Pain lanced through his stomach. He pressed a hand against it.

“Are you all right?” asked Fenella.

He gave her a curt nod. “We’ll have to come back to this later,” he said. “I have an appointment.” He walked away before anyone could question this lie.

* * *

“Those two have hit it off,” said Arthur as he and his hostess watched Tom and young John Symmes trot through the stone arch that led from Chatton Castle’s courtyard into the countryside. The boys disappeared into the tunnel under the wide wall. Arthur offered his arm, and the two of them moved in the opposite direction, into the walled garden at the back of the castle. A riot of flowers filled this sizable space. The walls met sheer cliffs that fell to the sea.

“I like Tom,” said the earl’s companion, the former Miss Helena Ravelstoke, Dowager Marchioness of Chatton, and an unexpected element of his northern visit.

“Nearly everyone does,” said Arthur.

“Is he an eccentricity?”

“What?”

“I’ve heard that it’s fashionable to have one,” she added. “A quirk. To make one stand out in society.”

“Tom is not that,” replied Arthur. “He is, oddly enough, a friend.”

“That is rather odd for the distinguished Lord Macklin.”

She smiled up at him, and Arthur was once again reminded of a London season more than thirty years ago, when they’d both been young and she’d been dazzling. Helena, as she’d insisted he call her now, had cocked her head in just that way back then. Arthur and his friends had vied with each other to evoke her silvery laugh. He was happy to see that she’d kept her blithe spirit through three decades.

“Tom is a miraculous triumph over his background,” he answered. “Circumstances that might have, should have ground him down or embittered him didn’t. I was struck by his intelligence and good humor when I met him. I found him good company. And I would like to give him the chance he deserves.”

“Chance to do what?”

“That is the question.”

His hostess looked inquiring. She’d raised a rose-colored parasol against the sun, and the tinted shade was kind to her face. Not that it needed a great deal of help, even now. “Send him to school?” she suggested. “Set him to a trade?”

“He would hate those things. He’d be off wandering in a day.” Arthur admired a swath of scarlet poppies as they walked past. “I’ve learned recently that helping is not a simple matter. The impulse is easy. Discovering how to go about it is not.” As he’d found with the young men he’d gathered for dinner in town last spring, Arthur thought. How long ago that seemed, though it was just a few months.

“I don’t quite understand,” she said.

Arthur nodded. He wasn’t certain he did either. “I’ve worked out that help isn’t forcing your ideas or plans onto people. That’s a kind of oppression. Yet simply asking those you’d like to aid what they want may not be enough. Often they don’t really know. Or aren’t able to choose between alternatives.”

“Goodness, how philosophical you’ve become.”

He laughed. “And a dead bore. I beg your pardon.”

“Not at all. I’m quite interested. I can’t even count all the times I’ve been asked to help with some scheme or other that’s meant to ‘better the lot’ of those involved. But I’ve noticed that charitable projects are often just what you said—forcing a plan on people who resent the interference. Even when they appreciate the material assistance. How do you help?”

“By not rushing in with my own notions,” Arthur replied. “By observing and listening. By applying a longer experience of life than…some others.” His efforts had gone well so far, he thought, despite some mistakes.

“I like that.” Her lips curved in a small smile. “I believe I shall adopt your approach.”

“That’s too grand a word for it.”

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