Page 53 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Roger isn’t eloquent. His tongue can get in the way of what he wishes to say.”

“Sincerity counts for a good deal in these matters,” said Macklin.

“When did you become an expert on matrimony?” She laughed at his wry expression. “I shall love having Fenella for my daughter-in-law. How odd that it should come out this way. Raymond would—”

“Laugh?” Macklin suggested.

“No. He’d be odiously smug. As will Mr. Fairclough. I hope he can restrain his gloating until the match is secure.”

“Surely he couldn’t spoil it?”

“You might be surprised.”

* * *

Simpson came hurrying down the upper corridor of Clough House toward Fenella. “Your father’s asking for you again, miss.”

He’d had a bad night. He’d tried to get up and go outside three times. And when he couldn’t manage to move from the bed, he’d filled the air with shouted profanity, convinced that an enemy had imprisoned him with invisible bonds. Fenella had helped the valet and William grapple with him, and been excoriated for her trouble. It was lowering to be so roundly cursed by one’s own father.

The struggle had left her tired and made her feel that tears were hovering at the back of her throat. It was so difficult to watch Papa’s vitality and understanding draining away with each passing day. She often felt alone with the melancholy and helplessness, despite the staff in the house. They counted on her to be in command, to react with calm good sense. There was no one to confide in, no place to take her worries and doubts.

Roger would listen, she thought suddenly. If she told him, he’d concentrate all his attention on her concerns. He would tell her she was doing splendidly, that the estate was in prime shape under her management, that her father was fortunate to have her at his side. And then he would urge her to rely on him. She could almost hear him becoming tangled in words, trying to convey these two different sentiments at once. The idea made her smile. He was a man of action rather than speech.

Which took her back to the raspberry thicket and the brief time she’d spent in his arms. Too brief. She’d mused on it, dreamed of it. When she saw him again, they would find some time to repeat those dizzying kisses.

He would call today, surely? He’d been so eager to speak. A cold chill went through Fenella at the possibility that he’d changed his mind. But of course she didn’t want him if he’d changed his mind. Except she did want him, desperately.

“There you are,” her father said when she entered his room. “Where do you get to? I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

She’d been with him not half an hour ago. But he didn’t remember such things these days.

“You must do something about Nora’s temper, Mary.”

He thought she was her mother. Fenella didn’t even resemble her. Greta looked much more like their departed parent.

“She was screaming with rage in the stables,” he continued. “Over some triviality about her pony. You must take steps to curb her. She was truly excessive.”

Like you, Fenella thought silently. Many had noticed this similarity between her father and sister. She didn’t remember this particular instance, but Nora’s capacity for anger was famous. Or infamous.

“This is your area, Mary,” he said. “You produced all these daughters. You must do something. Get them in hand!”

“I’m Fenella, Papa,” she said. “Mama has been dead for eight years.”

He blinked at her, eyes bleary. For a moment he looked frightened and confused; then his mouth tightened and turned down. “Of course I know that. Third daughter. Not the charm.”

And so they were back to the somber present.

“A good shot though,” he continued, to Fenella’s surprise. “Greta wouldn’t hold a gun, and Nora was too hotheaded to take proper aim. But you were a different matter. Used to tell them at my club how you shot the pip out of the ace of spades. Twice, so it wasn’t a fluke.”

Had he actually been proud of her skill? Fenella didn’t remember him saying so toher. But it warmed her to know that he’d praised her to others.

“Had those two decks put away somewhere. What’s become of them?”

Fenella had no notion. Had he actually kept them as proof of her marksmanship? She blinked back the hovering tears.

“It was almost like having a son,” her father finished.

And thus he spoiled the moment, she thought. Why must he always do so?

---