Page 72 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Fenella turned and gestured at the meager results of her search, lined up by her knee. “Some salt in a twist of paper,” she said, pointing to the first object. “Left in the back of a cupboard. A broken paring knife. A few beans, well chewed over by what I believe is a rat living under the kitchen floorboards.”

“I suppose I could try to catch it for our dinner.”

“I am notthathungry,” declared Fenella. “And I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Suggesting this diversion in our route. It’s far more rustic than I remembered. I do think more people used to come this way.”

“One day without dinner is no great hardship,” he replied, sitting down next to her. “And we are out of the weather.” Rain had begun to beat against the window. Certainly the sagging roof would leak, Roger thought. But they should be all right if they stayed down here. Fenella looked melancholy. He searched for a diversion. “Tell me more about your grandmother. So that I’ll know how to ingratiate myself with her.”

As he’d hoped, this made her laugh. “I can’t wait to see that.”

“Is she such a fierce Scot?”

“Actually, she’s the daughter of an English duke and his French émigrée wife.”

“What?”

Fenella nodded. “She met the laird of Roslyn during a hunting party. It was in Northumberland, actually. She was visiting the North, and he’d ventured a bit south. Voilà, they fell madly in love.”

Her voice had an odd inflection at the end. Roger couldn’t interpret it.

“It was a fine match, except that she was a Sassenach and his family deep-dyed Scots. Her French blood helped persuade them.”

“Why was that?”

“Mary, Queen of Scots?” she answered. “The Stuart Pretenders living in Paris? There’s been a link for centuries.” She held up a hand. “By the way, don’t call the Stuarts ‘Pretenders’ while we’re up here. Should the topic arise.”

“I can’t imagine why it would,” Roger said. “That was ages ago.”

“I have a great-uncle who remembers the Battle of Culloden as if it was yesterday. Or claims to.” She considered. “Though he can’t have been more than five in 1746. Ha, to hear him you would think he’d cut a bloody swath through the enemy ranks.”

“Was that the one where the Hanovers defeated the Stuarts once and for all?”

Fenella shook her head. “Never say it that way up here. It isn’t so very long since then.”

“A good long lifetime,” said Roger.

“There aren’t many left who were there,” she agreed. “But live up here for a few years, and you’ll hear about it.” She gazed into the fire. The rain pattered outside.

They still weren’t completely comfortable being alone together, Roger thought in the silence. This wasn’t what he would have planned for a honeymoon journey. “What is your grandmother’s house like?”

“Elegant,” Fenella replied. She frowned. “Will your valet have packed evening dress?”

“For a country house visit. Of course.”

“Yes. Good. Grandmamma is a stickler on some things, and then liberal about others.” She smiled. “She despises the sidesaddle, for example. She’ll be sorry to see mine. While I lived with her, I had a riding habit with split skirts and rode astride. As does she. I didn’t bring the habit home with me because I knew Papa would object.” A shadow passed across her face. “Would have.”

“I hope you’ll bring it along when we return.”

She looked at him. “You’re not afraid of scandalizing the neighborhood?”

“Not in the least.”

Her blue gaze was steady. And perhaps speculative? “I will then.”

“Splendid.” Roger yearned to fold her in his arms, capture her lips, and sink into the pleasures that had illuminated their nights together. But the floor was dusty, and there was a smell of mold from the back premises. Hardly a spot for romance. He endured another pause, then said, “What sort of place is Roslyn?”

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