Page 51 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

There was a short silence. Fenella could almost hear John thinking this over. “Probably not,” the boy said finally. “They wouldn’t want to risk annoying him. Papa can be quite cutting when he’s angry.”

“I remember that about him,” said the old man dryly. “Wondered a bit when Greta… Well, never mind. At least Greta’s not a sour spinster like Fenella.”

“What do you mean? Aunt Fenella’s a great gun. She’s been very kind to me. And fair as fair. She doesn’t even mind snakes.”

Not precisely true, Fenella thought. But she was touched.

“Snakes?” said her father. “Well, it’s true she’s not afraid of much. Not afraid ofme. She’s stubborn though. Willful as a wildcat.”

“I think she’s splendid.”

“Do you? Ha.” There was another pause before her father said, “You might be right.”

Blinking back tears, Fenella continued on her way.

Ten

Sitting on what had become their habitual bench in the garden, Arthur and his hostess watched the master of Chatton Castle pace up one path and down another. He walked quickly, head bent, hands clasped behind his back. Though he’d greeted them when he first appeared, he seemed to have forgotten them almost at once. “I’ve rarely known Roger to be so preoccupied,” said Lady Chatton.

“When I bid him good day at breakfast, he said, ‘That remains to be seen,’” replied Arthur. “Then he refused my company on a ride and rushed out.”

“Oh dear. How rude.”

They eyed the subject of their speculations.

“His solitary expedition doesn’t seem to have pleased him,” Arthur observed.

“No, I would say he’s…brooding. Yes, that’s it.” She nodded.

“A problem, do you think?”

“He seems to think he has one,” Lady Chatton answered.

“I have a notion it’s to do with Miss Fairclough.”

“Perhaps we should ask him about it.”

“I don’t think he’d like that very much.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Arthur rose and offered his arm. Roger’s mother looked up at him. Then, blue eyes twinkling, she stood and joined him.

Roger kicked at a pebble that lay in the middle of the garden path. It flew off the toe of his boot, struck the trunk of an elm, and bounced back. Fenella hadn’t appeared for her ride today. Granted, she hadn’t promised to come. And she’d told him from the beginning that the demands of her father’s illness might keep her in sometimes. Understandable. But he longed to see her. Alone, as they’d been at the raspberry thicket, not surrounded by servants and lads with snakes and her gloating father at Clough House. Mr. Fairclough would gloat. There was no doubt about that.

He turned, and started in surprise. His mother and his noble houseguest were standing in his path, looking brightly inquisitive. Like foxhounds testing a scent, he thought. And then nearly saidnonsenseout loud.

“Did you have a pleasant ride?” asked Macklin.

“No,” said Roger.

“That’s too bad,” replied his mother. “Why not?”

He should have said yes, Roger realized. Now he had to think of a reason to fob them off. He flailed about mentally, until it occurred to him that excuses weren’t really necessary. His intentions were clear. He had no nefarious plan. And he could trust the discretion of these two absolutely. Perhaps he should simply ask their advice. He met his mother’s interested gaze, then Macklin’s. A man couldn’t ask for more sympathetic listeners, or wiser ones. “You like Fenella Fairclough, Mama.”

“I do indeed,” she replied.

“You wanted me to marry her five years ago, when Papa was urging it.”

“I did at first, but it would have been a mistake.” She shook her head. “The people you were then wouldn’t have gotten on well together.”

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