Page 25 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“I’d sign over all my right and interest in that land to her, once she was a marchioness. She’ll have a third of my estate as well, you know.”

As though this would tempt him. If he needed temptation, Fenella supplied all that in herself, Roger thought. And then marveled at his errant brain.

Fenella entered the room on the heels of his confusion. “I just heard you were here,” she said.

Roger gazed at her. How could he ever have thought this glorious creature bland or forgettable?

Fenella stopped just inside the door, conscious that both her father and his visitor were staring at her, their expressions quite odd.

“We were talking of your marriage,” said her father.

Chatton winced visibly.

“I wasn’t aware that I had a wedding planned,” Fenella said. She managed to keep her voice cool despite the annoyance and embarrassment welling up within.

“You and Chatton. It’s still the best way to resolve this land dispute.”

The first time her father had spoken such words, years ago, he’d been trying to act the patriarch. Now, he sounded like a petulant old man. Fenella would have felt sorry for him, if his revival of the plan hadn’t been so irritating. “Thebestway would be to forget all about it,” she said. “All this fuss over a strip of land that’s good for nothing but scrubby pasture for sheep. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” her father began.

“No, Papa, it’s pure stubbornness.”

“Don’t speak that way to me, girl. You’ll do as you’re told.”

Whatever made him think so? Fenella hadn’t, even when she was younger and cowed by his disapproval. Didn’t he understand that he had no power over her? Of course Papa didn’t know that her grandmother had given her certain guarantees. She had somewhere to go, should she wish to leave. Her father could rant and rail all he liked; it came down to “sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Looking at his ravaged face, his remaining wisps of white hair, the gnarled hands that would no longer do his bidding, Fenella was silenced by compassion.

“She won’t be forced into marriage with me,” said Chatton. “I won’t have that.”

Did Roger think she needed defending? He was standing very straight, his chin up, gaze resolute, playing the hero. He looked quite handsome doing it. Laughter bubbled up in Fenella’s throat. What a pair ofmenthey were. She choked back the laugh.

“Turning on the waterworks won’t do you any good,” growled her father. “You know I’m not deterred by tears.”

Which was a bare-faced lie, as his expression showed. Chatton looked apprehensive, too. She had to go, before she offended them both with a fit of giggles. Fenella turned away.

As she passed through the door, she heard her father say, “Go and turn her up sweet, Chatton. You must have acquired some address by this time.” Her back to them, Fenella grinned.

Roger caught up with Fenella as she was sending Simpson back into her father’s room. “He’s worn himself out again,” she said. “Try to settle him down.”

The valet departed with a nod, leaving them in the empty hallway.

Roger examined Fenella’s face. He saw no evidence of the tears he’d feared to find. She looked calmly lovely. Indeed, her blue eyes were sparkling with…humor? Had she found that scene amusing? That would be encouraging.

“I could have told you he wouldn’t let go of the border dispute,” she said. “Papa clings even harder to his prejudices now that he can’t leave his bed. He has so little left.”

“I didn’t know he was so ill. He seems to think it’s the end.”

“The doctor agrees,” said Fenella. It was a somber truth that roused an uncomfortable mixture of feelings.

“I’m sorry. I’ll come to visit him again. Unless you think that seeing me would make him worse?”

“No, he enjoys visitors. You could talk about things he did with your father. Before their dispute.” She hesitated, then added, “Some days he may think youareyour father.”

Roger nodded, accepting the warning. “I’d gladly take his place to cheer an old friend. They used to fish together, I remember. And sample different varieties of snuff.”

“Whiskey, too.”

“Ah, yes. Rather too much of that, on occasion. My father rode halfway to the border one night on his way home from here. He said his horse finally lost patience and turned back toward Chatton.”

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