Page 7 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“More of a sulk, I thought.” The earl smiled at her in a way that recalled a far younger man.

She gestured. Roger could almost see a fan in her hand, extended to rap the older man’s knuckles.

“I was among those spurned,” Macklin said to Roger. He didn’t seem particularly regretful, however. More amused and nostalgic.

“Hardly that,” Roger’s mother replied. “And it seems to me you were courting Celia Garthington well before I married.”

He acknowledged it with a nod as the Chatton Castle housekeeper bustled in.

“Is Lord Macklin’s room ready, Mrs. Burke?”

“Yes, my lady.” The housekeeper turned to Macklin. “Your valet is already above, my lord. Would you care to go up?”

He accepted with a nod and a punctilious farewell.

When Roger and his mother were left alone, she said, “How extraordinary that he came all this way to visit me.”

“I don’t think… He said he was on the way to Scotland for some fishing.”

“Well, he needed an excuse,” she replied. “But why else stop at Chatton?”

“To see me, he said. I had dinner with him the last time I was in London.”

“You did?”

“I was surprised at the invitation,” Roger admitted.

His mother looked thoughtful. “Would he go so far as to make friends with you so that he could visit here? Now that I’m a widow.”

“Papa has been dead for more a year.”

“Indeed. A proper period of mourning, which shows great sensitivity on Arthur’s part.”

Roger thought she was wrong. He was pretty sure Macklin had been startled to find her here. This could grow awkward. He began to worry that he’d made a mistake in extending the invitation to stay.

* * *

Only a few miles away, Fenella Fairclough was also welcoming a visitor, though this one was officially expected, if not quite invited. Fenella’s eldest sister had decreed that her son would spend the summer school holiday at his grandfather’s home. Her letter had simply assumed the boy was welcome, and Fenella knew there was no arguing with Greta, not without a monumental fuss.

The ten-year difference in their ages meant that she barely knew her sister. Greta had married at seventeen, in her first season, and produced a son and heir for her husband the following year. Two daughters had followed, and now Greta was expecting again. She’d declared that she couldn’t deal with her son under these circumstances, leaving Fenella to wonder what that meant precisely. But her father had approved the plan, and she had no reason to refuse. And so ten-year-old Sherrington Symmes had been packed into a post chaise, from which he was now descending, and sent along like a parcel into the North.

Her nephew was thin, with a narrow face, his dark hair a bit long, falling over his forehead. His long fingers moved nervously, and something in his eyes touched Fenella. Apprehension? It was true they weren’t really acquainted. Their interactions on family visits had been fleeting. She smiled. “Hello, Sherrington. I’m your aunt Fenella.”

“People call me John. It’s my middle name.” His voice was defiant, as if he expected objections and was ready to fight them off.

Fenella saw no reason to make any. He’d been named after his father, who might have known better, Fenella thought. She’d found Sherrington a ponderous name when it was announced. “John,” she repeated. “Welcome to Northumberland.”

He looked around without visible enthusiasm.

The servant supervising the unloading of his trunks seemed old for a boy, Fenella noticed. But perhaps he was more of a tutor.

“How far away is Scotland?” the boy asked.

“We’re about ten miles from the border here,” Fenella replied.

“It’s so cold in Scotland that the snakes don’t lay eggs,” he said. “They’re born alive, like mammals.”

“Really.”

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