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

Despite himself, Roger’s attention was caught. He’d never heard anyone call grieving a story.

“And afterward, should you wish to do the same, I’ll gladly hear it,” added the earl. He smiled. The expression cut through Roger’s annoyance. He received the sudden impression of a wise, reliable man—one who took the time to listen rather than dictate, utterly unlike the choleric blusterers he’d grown up around. What if his mother had married Macklin rather than his father? he suddenly thought. Roger would have had a different life, in a softer region than the Scottish borders. Which was a ridiculous notion, because he wouldn’t have been himself, but somebody else entirely. And that was sillier still.

The earl said his piece. And then the others spoke, briefly, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and candor. Compton came very near tears, while Furness was tight-lipped and laconic. The talk was surprisingly engrossing. And when they were done, Roger found that the simmering anger the day had brought was eased. Which was a boon he certainly hadn’t expected to receive from a dinner at White’s, he thought as he headed back to his hotel.

One

Roger urged his horse to greater speed on the firm sand at the verge of the waves. A good gallop could always relieve his feelings. And late July was surely the best time for it here at the edge of the North Sea. The Northumberland wind still had a bite, but the sun was warm on his back, and there was no sign of rain. The stone pile of Chatton Castle, with all its attendant responsibilities, receded behind him. The shore stretched ahead. For an hour or so he could be solitary and carefree.

And so, of course, a figure on horseback appeared ahead, riding toward him. The mount’s glossy gray coat and the rider’s neat silhouette told him who it was. Roger muttered a curse. His luck was out today. “You’re on my land,” he said when their paths intersected.

“Not according to my father,” replied a haughty young lady in a fashionable riding habit. “He would say that you’re on his.”

“The deuce. Is this that stretch?” Roger looked around and realized that he’d come farther than he’d noticed. He was on a piece of land at the edge of his estate that was the subject of a border dispute, started by his father and hers some years ago. The ham-handed way the two men had tried to settle the matter had roused a world of troubles.

“You know it is,” she said.

Roger looked at her. In one sense, he’d known Fenella Fairclough all his life. They’d grown up on neighboring estates and met at various children’s parties in their youth. In another sense, however, he hardly knew her at all. A female had no right to change so much between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, Roger thought. She’d been a gangling, tongue-tied girl when she left for the north five years ago, after the fiasco of their rejected betrothal. She’d been fearful and retiring, the sort of female one was surprised to hear had been present at a soiree or assembly. And she’d come back the opposite of all those things—forthright, impatient, alarmingly astute. Not to mention far more curvaceous. The first time he’d seen her again, on her return to the neighborhood, he hadn’t recognized Fenella.

She had the same pale-red hair and blue eyes, the same pretty oval face, but the expression was far different, and the words that issued from that full-lipped mouth could sting. How well he knew that! “You’re out alone, without even a groom?” he asked. She’d scarcely ridden in their youth, finding horses large and intimidating as he remembered it. The gray she was on now would have terrified her then.

“As are you,” she said.

“A completely different case,” Roger said.

Her eyes flashed. “I suppose I can ride as I like onour ownland.”

“Hah!” It was a distinct hit. Almost amusing, if circumstances had been different. “You’re all too ready to ride anywhere, even through a tempest.”

Exasperation tightened her jaw. “Please tell me that you’re not going to start with this again. I thought you’d given up that stupid story at last.”

He had. And he rather wished he hadn’t referred to it now. But the visit to the Crenshaws had kicked up all sorts of inner turmoil. The ranting of Arabella’s parents, particularly her mother, in London had brought everything back. Coupled with his tendency to utter the wrong word at the wrong time, it had tripped him up.

“I am very tired of telling you that expedition was Arabella’s idea, not mine, Chatton. And that I did my best to stop her.”

“Splendid. I’m tired of hearing it.”

“You don’t hear. That’s the problem.” Miss Fairclough sighed. “Can we not leave this behind us? You haven’t mentioned it in months.”

Easy for her to talk of moving forward, Roger thought. She didn’t have to face Mrs. Crenshaw. An irritated sound escaped him.

“You are the most intractable man,” said Miss Fairclough.

“Intractable, is it? Did you learn such words north of the border?”

“I learned to express my opinion.”

“No matter how misguided. Typical from someone whose mother was a Scot.”

Her lips twitched. “Have we descended to childish insults? Very well.Yourmother is a soft southerner.”

“You like my mother! And she’s always disgustingly kind to you.”

Miss Fairclough’s face softened. “She is kind. Though hardly disgusting.”

“Oh, you can do no wrong in her eyes.”

“On the contrary.”

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