Page 19 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“I suppose Miss Fairclough might have refused to accompany her, to discourage her from going.”

“Wouldn’t have done any good,” said Roger. Opposing Arabella’s wishes was tantamount to a declaration of war, in her mind, and she fought the ensuing campaign without mercy. He’d learnedthatthe day after his wedding.

“You think not?”

Roger pulled his thoughts back to the present. It didn’t do to remember those battles. If he thought of them, he might feel that brush of gratitude, that absolutely unacceptable tinge of relief at the fact of Arabella’s death. Suppressing all such inclinations, he spurred his horse to catch up with Fenella.

But she’d already gone in when they reached the castle. Her horse was being tended in the stables. Roger found himself hurrying. He discovered Fenella sitting with his mother in her parlor, laughing with her over some shared jest. The sight of them, leaning together in a shaft of sunlight, stopped him on the threshold.

They didn’t look alike. His mother’s willowy frame contrasted with Fenella’s compact curves. Her hair was silvered gold to the younger woman’s reddish tones. Their faces had different lines. And yet they exuded a kinship. The worddelightfulfloated through Roger’s consciousness. Arabella had never sat with his mother, he remembered. She’d made certain that the dowager marchioness moved to the dower house, and their visits had been limited to formal occasions. An unpalatable mixture of emotion washed over him, along with a stab of pain in his midsection.

Macklin came in behind him, and Roger moved forward.

“There you are,” said his mother, rising. “How lovely. Come and sit.”

She proceeded to execute a maneuver rather like a dance, and before Roger finished wondering why she’d stood up at all, he found himself seated next to Fenella, while the two older members of the party were settled a little distance away. Perhaps his mother was taking advantage of the opportunity to flirt with Macklin, he thought. He was still a bit worried about her views on the earl’s visit. But when he looked, he found both of them gazing in his direction in an oddly unsettling way. Come to think of it, they didn’t flirt. They talked like old friends, and they were watching him now like kennel masters evaluating a promising puppy. Roger blinked. Where had that ridiculous idea come from?

Fenella held out a small packet wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “I brought you this,” she said.

Roger stared at the gift. He had a sudden sense of the world gone topsy-turvy.

“It’s a tonic for dyspepsia,” she continued. “You put a few drops in a glass of water and drink it if you’re feeling ill.”

Under her clear blue gaze, he felt uncomfortably exposed. “Why would you give it to me?”

“You kept clutching your midsection at the rehearsal. And looking pained.”

“It could have been distaste for the antics they were putting us through.”

She smiled a little. “You’ve done it at church as well.”

Roger was embarrassed. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know of his weakness. It was then that he noticed she was holding the packet so that it was shielded from the others. “Where did you get this?”

“My grandmother is renowned for her skill in the stillroom. People come from all around for her remedies.”

“You sent to Scotland?”

“No, I made it.”

“Yourself?”

“Grandmother taught me.”

That and so much else, Roger thought.

“I was with her for years,” Fenella added. “I needed something to do.”

“Besides changing out of all recognition.”

Her smile deepened. There were the dimples he hadn’t seen in a while, Roger noted. They added an impish quality to her beauty. “Besides that,” she said.

Once again, Roger was ambushed by a memory. They’d gathered the leading families of the neighborhood at Chatton Castle to introduce Arabella to local society. His wife had reveled in the occasion, holding court like the queen. Her enjoyment had been a relief. Roger had hoped the admiration she was receiving might ease her growing dislike of her new home. More vocally expressed with each passing day.

Moving through the crowd, greeting friends and acquaintances, he’d come face-to-face with a lovely young lady, dressed in sea-green muslin, sporting those very dimples. Before they spoke, he’d felt a pulse run through him, like a thread drawing him closer, rousing more than interest. And then he’d realized that this was Fenella Fairclough, the girl he’d refused to marry. He’d turned away, rudely. And from that moment he’d set Fenella at a distance. He was newly married. Such attractions had no place in his life. Not for anyone, and certainly not for this woman, with their history. After a while, he’d managed to convince himself that the moment hadn’t happened. But he didn’t talk with her or dance with her or hang about any room she inhabited.

He’d tried to discourage Arabella from making friends with Fenella. Which had caused his discontented wife to do just the opposite, of course. Somehow, amazingly, no one had told Arabella their story. Probably because most everyone hereabouts liked Fenella, and hadn’t much cared for his late wife. He’d been foul to Fenella these past months, Roger thought. Yet she’d taken the trouble to prepare this medicine. “Thank you,” he said, taking the packet.

“You’re welcome. It’s no great thing.”

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