Page 56 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Fenella supposed she appreciated the information. This was better than whispers behind her back.

“And decide what to do,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.

“It’s difficult to counter anonymous accusations,” said Fenella. Indeed it was nearly impossible. There was no one to confront, no forum to declare the truth. Some would assume that the writer knew secrets. “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Byrne.

“If there were a way to track down the source,” said Mrs. Patterson.

All four ladies looked at Fenella. “I have no idea who would send such sneaking letters,” she said. Hand delivery suggested they came from nearby. “The idea that a neighbor would do this is simply horrible.” It made her want to cry.

There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

“We’ve inquired about how they arrived,” said Mrs. Byrne. “But no one seems to have seen anything.”

A silence fell. What did they expect her to do? Fenella wondered.

“It’s just, the timing is rather awkward, as you and Chatton are…renewing your childhood friendship,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.

The sentence descended on Fenella like a smothering blanket of fog. Of course people had noticed her outings with Roger. They had undoubtedly passed numerous unseen observers on their rides.Clandestinewas not really a possibility in a small country neighborhood. Color flooded her cheeks as she wondered if anyone had seen them at the berry patch.

“We thought we might offer to help, as you have no mother of your own,” said Mrs. Byrne.

“You’ll tell everyone that the accusations are untrue,” Fenella said.

Her callers nodded, but they didn’t look satisfied.

“We could give Chatton a push,” said Lady Prouse. “We’re all well acquainted with Lady Chatton, of course. We could enlist her in the cause. An announced engagement would show this letter writer that his, or her, slanders were futile.”

“I don’t want—” began Fenella.

“And a fine match it would be,” said Mrs. McIlwaine, speaking at the same time.

Fenella looked at her visitors, leaning forward, a cadre eager for action. What made them so ready to arrange younger people’s lives? This was just what had happened to Roger before, when he’d been manipulated into marriage. That couldn’t happen. She’d rather return to Scotland. “I would prefer to manage matters myself,” she said. She needed to speak to Roger.

Her guests looked doubtful.

Fenella set herself to convincing them that she was quite able to deal with her own affairs. And after a good deal more conversation, accompanied by tea and Madeira cake, she thought she’d done so. The ladies departed with expressions of goodwill and promises of support. And at last Fenella was free to contemplate her situation in private.

A clandestine courtship had been a ridiculous idea, she thought as she went upstairs to her room. They weren’t children any more, to be meeting by an oak tree and roaming the countryside. She’d let herself be carried away by Roger’s enthusiasm. And more than that, she admitted.

In her bedchamber, Fenella looked in the mirror and saw the person her grandmother had called forth gazing back at her. Features firmed by intelligence and resolution. Eyes that saw reality. Which brought an ironic smile to her reflection’s lips.

The last week had felt like removing a corset pulled far too tight. After so much denying and suppressing, suddenly there was no need to pretend she was indifferent to Roger. All sorts of memories and feelings had come bubbling up.

She’d been drawn to him all her life, she admitted now. She’d followed his antics as a child, admired his courage and sheer effrontery. She’d longed to be one of his cronies, careening over the countryside, wild and free. And when their fathers had first suggested marriage, right at the beginning, she hadn’t been opposed. Here in the privacy of her room she admitted it to herself. She’d been seventeen! She’d concocted a brief, romantic fantasy of being Roger’s wife and a marchioness, living in Chatton Castle, the neighborhood at her feet.

Thathad gone up in smoke at his reaction. “Sodding sheep,” she said to the mirror. Of course she’d rejected him after that. She’d had some spirit, even then. She’d gone away, and then he had, and come home married to someone else. The past had to be buried. She’d had to do what was right. Fenella had applied a thick veneer of correctness, and avoided him.

And then to top it all off, Roger had blamed her for Arabella’s death, loudly and publicly. Fenella frowned at the mirror. She’d understood some of what he’d felt, but that was no excuse. He’d created a wretched tangle, and no doubt inspired this sneaking letter writer who had popped up at just the wrong moment.

She turned away from her reflection. What to do now? She didn’t think anyone had believed that she’d encouraged Arabella to ride out into a storm. But if she was sneaking out to meet Roger, some might wonder what they had to hide. Which was nothing! She’d done nothing wrong. She’d tried to be Arabella’s friend, difficult as that had been. And in return she’d received a load of unpleasantness.

She wasn’t suddenly free, Fenella thought as she left her room. That had been an illusion, born of an exhilarating gallop and some delirious kisses, and now destroyed by a few lines of malicious ink.

Eleven

As Fenella rode out the next morning, the August day promised to be hot. The house had felt stifling, though part of that might be due to the news she’d received rather than the weather, she thought. She went to the old oak in hopes of seeing Roger alone. She wasn’t prepared to call at the castle just now, but she needed to speak to him.

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