Page 20 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“It’s an unlooked-for kindness. When I’ve been unkind, at times.”

“You’ve had difficulties.”

Was that sympathy in her gaze? After all his rudeness? He could almost imagine that she understood the mixture of emotions plaguing him. The attraction that Roger had suppressed for so long came leaping out of its cage. Ever since he’d held her over his shoulder, he’d longed to touch her again, he realized. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For?”

“The things I said to you, about you, after…Arabella’s death.” They’d never spoken of her.

“And about others,” she answered evenly. “The doctor, Arabella’s maid. You were rather free with your accusations.”

Roger leaned back. Had he expected immediate forgiveness? Apparently he had. Was he so complacent? His stomach gave a sharp twinge.

“They were quite affected by it, you know. The doctor felt like a failure. And Grace, the maid, was already overcome by grief for her mistress.”

Roger searched for words. Frustratingly, none came.

Fenella stood. “I must go. My father will be wondering where I am.”

Roger rose. He had to say something, but his mind was a jumble. She’d be shocked if she knew of his attraction, particularly after the way he’d treated her. This woman had run away to Scotland rather than marry him, he reminded himself. His urges were his problem. He turned away to ring for a footman.

Fenella said her goodbyes, fending off an escort to the front door, conscious of Lady Chatton’s interested gaze. Roger’s attempt at an apology had shaken her, she acknowledged as she strode through the hall, the long skirts of her riding habit looped over her arm. As had the way he’d looked at her. He’d been forbidden fruit since she returned home. Fenella stopped abruptly. “What?” she said aloud. Forbidden fruit? What sort of nonsense was that?

She walked on. The trouble was, since the pageant rehearsal, it was as if she could still feel Roger’s hands on her from time to time. His forearm around her knees, his palm against her back. The strength of his shoulder under her. That had been bad enough when he was carping at her. She could scorn his ridiculous attitude. If he meant to be pleasant now, she didn’t know what she would do. But this was no more than politeness, Fenella told herself. She wouldn’t refine too much on the change. She would remember that the present Marquess of Chatton had been revolted at the thought of marrying her. The word was not too strong. His expression on that long-ago day! Such disgust. She pushed the image out of her mind.

Outside, as she waited for her horse to be brought around, Fenella was surprised to see her nephew John appear from the direction of the stables, mounted on a horse from her father’s stables. Automatically, she noted it was a gentle one. She could trust their head groom to match guests and horses. And to send along the stable boy who trailed behind. “Hello, John,” she said as he approached. “Have you been visiting here?”

“I came to see Tom.”

Her sister’s son looked sulky, as usual. He really was a difficult boy. “The young man employed by Lord Macklin?”

“He isn’t employed. He’s his friend.” John’s expression dared her to argue with this assertion.

“Is he?” The connection seemed unusual. But it was none of her affair. “Are you headed home? We can ride together if you wait a moment.” A groom brought her horse and held it while she used the mounting block. Fenella arranged her skirts and took the reins.

“You don’t care about Tom?” said her nephew as they rode out the gates side by side. His tone was a little less gruff.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t mind that I’ve been spending time with him?”

“Why should I?”

“He’s not gentry.”

John said this as if it was a phrase he’d often heard. Thinking of his father, a stiff, prickly man, Fenella understood. Fleetingly, she wondered if she had an obligation to consider Mr. Symmes’s prejudices. But Greta had sent her son north. She’d have to accept Fenella’s choices. “If Lord Macklin has befriended him, he must have a good character. And I’m sure you enjoy some company younger than me and your grandfather.” John had not taken to her father so far. The boy seemed afraid of him.

John looked surprised, but he said nothing. They rode on. Fenella’s thoughts drifted back to her conversation with Roger. He’d looked sincere when he said he was sorry. She’d felt some honest contrition. It was the first real connection she’d had with him in…well, years. She tried to recall another such moment.

“You’ve been kind to me,” blurted out her nephew.

She hadn’t meant to ignore the boy. “As I should be. I am your aunt.” He looked as if he might cry, which would be humiliating at his age. “Is something wrong, John?”

“You don’t know why I’m here.” He bit his lower lip to stop its trembling. “I thought Mama would have told you what I’ve done.”

What in the world? Fenella remembered how childish transgressions could be magnified in one’s mind. Or, in her case, blown all out of proportion by her father’s attitude. He’d spent so much time shouting at her. She would never behave like that!

“If you did know, you wouldn’t want to be kind,” John added.

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