A Marquess for Christmas (Scandalous Seasons Book 5) (2 page)

The marquess drew to an elegant, deliberate halt, then turned to face her. He leaned down and murmured something to the boy. Bothersome Boy’s mouth tipped downward in a frown, and he glared at Patrina a moment, then with obvious reluctance grabbed the little girl’s hand and stood in wait for their father. “What?” he snapped when Patrina reached his side.

“I’m not a miss,” she blurted, and immediately heat flooded her cheeks. His eyebrows lowered. “You called me a miss,” she went on, when it became apparent the laconic marquess had little to say on the matter. “And I’m not a miss. I’m a lady.” Polite Society would disagree. She jerked her chin up a notch. “I am Lady Patrina Tidemore.”

He said nothing for a long while, and she scuffed the tip of her boot along the ground, wishing she’d perhaps spent just tad bit more time considering what she would say to the insufferable lout who’d doubled back to confront her. She waited for the flash of awareness, the dawning realization of the scandalous miss before him.

“Is that supposed to mean something, my lady?”

Patrina angled her head.

“You say your name as though I might have an idea of just who you are.”

And she realized—he didn’t have a dashed clue who she was. “You don’t know who I am?” she blurted. An involuntary smile tugged the corners of her lips.

He scoffed. “What is so remarkable about you, my lady, that you think I should know you, prior sight unseen?”

She expected she should be offended. Nay, outraged. The kind of outrage that had young ladies slapping rude gents across smug faces. Except… Patrina’s smile widened. This great, insufferable, overbearing, condescending gentleman had no idea who she, Lady Patrina Tidemore was. A giddy sensation trilled through her body, as the marquess suddenly became vastly preferable.

“Has something I said amused you, my lady?”

“Er…no…I…”

“And was there a reason you’ve called me back here? To perhaps condescend my children further and throw your snowballs?”

She pressed her lips into a tight line to keep from delivering a nasty set-down. His children were the ones who could certainly stand a lesson in proper behavior. “I called you back to apologize. I’m sorry for my callous statement regarding your children’s mother. It wasn’t my intention to be cruel. I’m sorry for your loss.”

And she was. He might be a pompous gent, but she’d not wish this sadness on anyone. Well…mayhap the dastard who’d ruined her good name. But she’d draw the proverbial line there.

The marquess eyed her overlong, and she resisted the urge to keep from shifting on her feet like a small child caught slipping ink into her governess’s tea. “Don’t be,” he said gruffly.

She wrinkled her brow. “Don’t be what?”

“Sorry, my lady. I certainly am not.” With a curt bow, he spun back on his heel and took his leave.

It took a moment for the marquess’ words to register, and by that point, he’d made his way back to his waiting children. Her breath caught at the absolute viciousness of such a statement, and as the winter flakes snowed down upon her, she wondered what had caused such a gentleman to become so heartlessly cold.

Weston Aldridge, the 4
th
Marquess of Beaufort, resisted the urge to steal a glance back at the spirited, if tart-mouthed young lady he’d left behind at the edge of the Serpentine. With her sinfully black curls hanging past her shoulders and the creamy white of her skin, she put him in mind of all manner of things improper.

Which made very little sense. With Lady Patrina Tidemore’s diminutive frame and nondescript plainness, she was nothing like the lush beauty he’d always preferred in his late golden-haired, tall, graceful wife. His gut tightened. Then, after Cordelia’s great many betrayals, mayhap he’d found himself attracted to a wholly different beauty.

Charlotte tugged at his hand, and he slowed his steps. “Pick me up, Papa.”

“Pick me up, please,” he corrected automatically.

Charlotte giggled. “I can’t pick you up, Papa. You’re too big.”

Daniel scuffed snow at her skirts. “He means you’re supposed to say, please, you ninny.”

“Don’t call me a ninny,” she cried and kicked snow back at him.

They proceeded to speak over one another in a flurry of unkind words that made Weston wince. “Enough,” he barked.

They immediately fell silent, and glowered at one another.

Weston bent down and scooped his golden-haired girl into his arms. As they three trudged through the snow-covered grounds of Hyde Park, he reflected upon his encounter with the Lady Patrina Tidemore.

He’d been gruff and blustery where the young lady was concerned. After all, he didn’t tolerate unkindness toward his children. If he were being completely honest with himself, he could acknowledge some merits to Lady Patrina’s charges about his children. They were ill-behaved and angry—with good cause. A treacherous mother tended to have that effect on children. And since he was being honest—even with just himself—he acknowledged it also made for an oft-times too lenient father.

What was the diminutive dark-haired lady doing out on a blustery, winter day un-chaperoned? On the heel of that question was a niggling of guilt at having left the young woman unattended. Weston cursed.

Charlotte’s eyes went wide. “Papa cursed,” she whispered.

“Ballocks isn’t a curse,” Daniel said with all the indignation of an eight-year-old boy who thought himself more adult than child.

Weston spun back around and scanned the area for sight of Lady Patrina Tidemore. Where had she gone off to? He supposed the gentlemanly thing to have done was to ensure the young lady had not been in need of assistance. After the ten years he’d been married to his now deceased, deceitful wife, Lady Cordelia, he’d lost most remnants of the gentleman he’d once been.

His daughter pulled at his earlobe. “Is ballocks a curse?”

“Hmm?” he murmured absently, and started heading back to the edge of the Serpentine.

“Where are we going now?” Daniel groused, and all but dragging his heels, fell into step alongside Weston.

Young ladies had no right being out on such a day, un-chaperoned, no less.

“Ballocks,” Charlotte muttered.

Weston frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.” He scrubbed his hand over his face.
Reprehensible and ill-behaved.
“Why did you—?”

Charlotte took his face between her little gloved hands and forced him to look her in the eyes. “You said it’s not a curse.”

“I said no such thing, Char.”
Reprehensible. Ill-behaved.
“It’s a curse,” he said curtly when she opened her mouth to speak further on it.

She promptly closed her lips. “Hmph.”

Christ, he detested when other people were right, particularly tart-mouthed misses who called him back to inform him of the proper form of address. He paused and surveyed the distance through the increasing snowfall. It appeared she had already…

He cursed. She hovered at the edge of that blasted shorefront, her back presented to him, and something in the set of her shoulders, he recognized. Forlornness. An unspoken sadness that required no words. Sentiments he saw and recognized because he himself had felt those very same things. Back when he’d felt something. “Wait here,” he ordered Daniel. He set Charlotte down and she immediately grabbed her brother’s hand.

“But I want to leave,” his son whined. “I…” He fell silent at the hard stare Weston fixed on him.

Weston trudged through the fresh-fallen snow, back to the young lady. “You there,” he barked, knowing he should at least attempt to feign gentlemanly politeness.

The woman spun so quickly, the heel of her boot slid in the patch of snow and she landed in a fluttering, red, muslin heap in the snow around her. She slapped a hand to her chest, and glared at him. “You terrified me. What are you about, my lord?”

“What are you doing here?”

Seated upon the fresh blanket of snow, Lady Patrina tilted her head back and looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Without a chaperone.” He supposed he should really help her up.

Her mouth set at a mutinous line, but she made no attempt to stand. “That is none of your affair, my lord.”

Well, for the love of God, he couldn’t simply leave her on her backside in the midst of Hyde Park. He took another step closer, and held out a hand. “Surely you have sense to realize the perils of a young lady being out alone without escort?”

She eyed his hand the way she might a slithering serpent, and for a moment he thought the prideful young lady intended to reject his offer of help. But then, she placed her fingers in his.

He tugged her to her feet.

“I come here every day, my lord, but thank you. I’m touched by your concern,” she said drolly.

Weston narrowed his eyes at those insolently delivered words. On the heel of his immediate annoyance was an unexpected curiosity as to what had a young lady visiting Hyde Park in the cold of winter, alone, unchaperoned. “May I offer the assistance of my escort home?”

“No.” Her response was instantaneous.

Odd, through the years, before he’d wed Cordelia, and even after their marriage, young ladies had clamored for his attention. He didn’t think he’d ever been the recipient of such a curt, immediate ‘no’ in the course of his thirty-two years.

“Are we going, Papa? I’m ever so hungry,” Charlotte called from beyond his shoulder.

He ignored her. “I came back to apologize.” He normally didn’t make apologies, largely because he was usually in the right.

Lady Patrina’s mouth fell slightly ajar, as if she sought to process his unexpected statement.

“About my children. They shouldn’t have been throwing snowballs at you.”

She closed her mouth, but still said nothing.

He bristled. The lady really should say
something
. An acknowledgement. A ‘thank you’, an ‘it’s-entirely-fine-don’t-worry-any-further’. None of this absolute silence.

“Papa, we want to go.”

As did he, but not before the silent miss said
something
. He spun back to face Charlotte and Daniel. “In a moment,” he snapped. His children fell immediately silent. He faced Lady Patrina and a dull heat climbed up his neck. With their every word, his recalcitrant children proved her earlier statements correct—yet again. Weston bowed. “If you’ll excuse me?” He took his leave. What had possessed him to come trotting back in search of…what? Understanding? From this woman. She couldn’t be more than twenty-years if she was a day. No, she couldn’t know the ugliness in life that turned smiling gentlemen into bitter, angry heartless men, or made innocent children become—reprehensible misbehavers.

“It is fine.” Her words echoed through the still of the park, drawing him to a stop.

“Not again,” Daniel grumbled at his side.

Weston ignored him and looked yet again toward Lady Patrina.

“And I thank you for your offer to escort me, but my maid and carriage are waiting for me.”

The oddest disappointment filled him, which made so very little sense. He should be grateful to be relieved of the gentlemanly sense of obligation to see that she made it home without a need of his assistance. He nodded.

Lady Patrina seemed to dismiss him from her thoughts, before the final words had left her mouth. She looked to the iced river and presented him her back.

Weston lingered a moment more, unable to resist the urge to know why a lady so young should carry such a remarkable sadness.

“Papa,” Charlotte urged, tugging his hand. She snapped him from his reverie. “I’m cold.”

He bent and scooped Charlotte up one more time. “Off we go then.”

Regardless, Lady Patrina was a stranger and would remain one to him. After all, he had little intention of reentering polite Society. Not after Cordelia’s deceit, and he
certainly
had sense enough to not be intrigued by a tart-mouthed miss who’d hurl snowballs at his children.

The memory of her standing there pulled at him. He shot a final look over his shoulder taking in the side of her, and then jerked his gaze forward.

Yes, he’d little interest in the spirited Lady Patrina Tidemore.

Except…why did it feel as though he lied to himself?

“Where were you?”

Patrina handed her snow-dampened cloak over to the butler, Smith, and glanced up to where her youngest sister stood at the top of the stairs. “I was out, Poppy.”

Her sister pointed her gaze to the ceiling and skipped her way down the stairs. “Obviously. Mother doesn’t like you to go out alone.”

Patrina wrinkled her nose. No, Mother did not entirely trust her after the whole scandal with Albert Marshville. “I’m a grown woman,” she said instead.

Poppy skidded to a halt in front of her. She passed her gaze over Patrina’s face and frowned.

“What is it?” Patrina asked before she could call the words back. She should have learned long ago to not feed her sister’s curiosity.

“You look different,” Poppy said.

Patrina managed a smile. “Oh, and how is that?”

Poppy tilted her head at a funny angle and proceeded to walk a small circle around Patrina. She stopped when they were face to face. “You don’t have the look of one whose pup got tossed under a carriage wheels.”

A startled laugh burst from her lips. She shook her head. “That’s a completely awful thing to say.”

Her sister snorted. “What would you have me say? That you look like one who’s happy her pup got tossed under a carriage’s wheels?”

A desperate laugh bubbled up her throat. “Oh, Poppy.” God love their mother for having survived raising four hopelessly incorrigible daughters. Well, thus far. Patrina had certainly tested the poor woman more than any of the siblings combined with that dreadful mistake last spring.

“Well, you do.” Poppy folded her arms across her chest. “You usually walk around with that hopelessly sad look on your face.” She frowned, her lower lip quivered, and she slapped her hands over her cheeks in what Patrina gathered was her best attempt at ‘wounded-sister-with-a-broken-heart-expression’.

“I do
not
look like that,” she said tersely. She started down the hall.

“You do look like that. And you still refuse to tell me where you’re off to. Every. Day.” Poppy, as tenacious as the day was long, trotted fast on her heels.

Patrina turned quickly down the corridor, and Poppy hastened her step to keep up. “It’s not your business.”

Her sister carried on as though she’d not even spoken. “At first I believed you merely went shopping. Except, you never returned with any packages.” She shook her head. “So, you most assuredly weren’t shopping.”

“Most assuredly,” she murmured.

“You’re not like Prudence.”

“Who is not like me?”

The sisters shrieked as Prudence stepped out of the Ivory Parlor, into the hall.

Poppy frowned at her. “Must you sneak up on a body like that?”

Patrina continued on, welcoming Prudence’s unexpected, and much timely, intervention. Alas, Prudence appeared as bored as Poppy for she hurried to keep pace with Patrina. Patrina stepped inside the music room and made to close the door behind her.

Prudence stuck the tip of her slipper in the doorway. “That’s not well-done of you,” she said on a huff and then shoved her way through. Poppy followed suit.

A sigh escaped Patrina, and she made her way over to her pianoforte. She settled onto her bench and proceeded to play in a desperate attempt to divert her sister’s attention.

“Ugh, must you insist on playing, Trina,” Prudence said on a wince. “You know you’re quite deplorable. Surely you know that.”

Patrina continued to play. A particularly discordant note echoed throughout the room. She frowned. “I like to play,” she said, a touch defensively. Her sister was quite right. There was not a single thing remarkable about her playing, other than how absolutely horrendous she was. Her pace too slow, her fingers too clumsy, she’d been mocked for playing at more than one musical recital.

Of course, salacious gossips would never mention anything so mundane as Patrina Tidemore’s poor pianoforte playing now, not when she’d gone and eloped with a shameless cad who’d had no intention of ever making her his wife.

She sighed and shoved thoughts of Albert from her mind. She forgot her sisters’ prattling on about some such nonsense, and lost herself in her playing. For everyone’s derision over her pianoforte skills, Patrina enjoyed it rather immensely. The instrument provided the singular pleasure she found in life, and the one pleasure not dictated by others, one that she was solely in control of. Her fingers stumbled over the keys.

“Oh dear, you have
the look
again. She has the look again,” Poppy said, this time to Prudence.

I will not engage them. I will not engage them.

Prudence sighed. “She does.”

“Nor will she tell me where she goes off to everyday.”

“Because it is not your business.” Three pairs of eyes swiveled to the door as Penelope, their second youngest sister sailed into the room.

Patrina played all the louder.

Poppy slapped her hands over her ears.

“Must you do that?” Penelope called out.

Patrina played louder still. “Yes.” As much as her sisters wore on her patience, in those dark days following Albert’s betrayal, they’d been steadfast, and loyal, and somber…and for that she could never repay them. If she were being truthful, she could admit she far preferred them to the loquacious bits of baggage before her now.

“We’re trying to determine where she’s been off to,” Poppy said over Patrina’s playing.

“But she’ll not tell us,” Prudence groused.

Patrina picked her gaze up from the keys long enough to detect the flash of hurt shot her direction by Prudence. She fought back a wave of guilt. In sacrificing her sisters’ own future marital prospects with her own foolish decision, her sisters had been far more forgiving than she deserved. In this, Prudence was indeed correct. She owed them truths and yet…could not bring herself to share her meeting with the marquess.

Penelope frowned. “Mother’s concerned this has something to do with
that…him
.”

That…him
…had become the term used when referring to Albert Marshville.

Albert Marshville, cad, scoundrel, fiend, and every horrid word between happened to be the brother of their dearest sister-in-law, Juliet. As a result, the Tidemore sisters seemed hesitant to fully ascribe an appropriate charge for the man who’d ruined Patrina’s good reputation.

Penelope began hesitantly, “Never tell me you’re still harboring affection for—”

Her fingers slipped on the keys. “No.”

Their youngest sister, Poppy chewed her lower lip. “You’re certain. Because—”

“I’m certain,” Patrina said, snapping the cover closed on her instrument. With a sigh she accepted the end of her dreams of peace this day.

The girls shared a look. “We hate seeing you this way,” Penelope murmured. “You’re ever so sad—”

“Except today,” Poppy interjected. “Today she returned from…from…wherever she goes, with a smile.”

Prudence and Penelope spoke in unison, with wide eyes. “She did?”

Patrina pointed her gaze to the ceiling and prayed for deliverance from these her vexing sisters. Their outrageous behaviors gave her a renewed appreciation for the great chore given Mother in rearing four troublesome daughters—her present self not excluded, of course.

Poppy nodded emphatically. “She did. And now she won’t tell me, er, tell us, anything.”

Three accusing stares swung back in her direction.

And because Patrina recognized she had little hope of peace and solitude if she didn’t give her tenacious sisters something, she slipped them a niggling of the truth. “Two little troublemakers set upon me at Hyde Park today and hurled snowballs at me.”

Poppy gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. “That is hor…er, horrendous,” she corrected.

The girls’ former governess, turned sister-in-law, Juliet, after she’d gone and wed their brother, Jonathan, the 5
th
Earl of Sinclair, had striven to strike the oft-used word horrid from the girls’ vernacular.

Prudence continued to frown. “That is not funny.”

“It really isn’t, Patrina.” Penelope nodded in agreement.

She smiled and remembered the two little hellions so very much like the three girls before her now. Albeit vastly younger versions of the three, but similar nonetheless. “I returned the favor.”

Poppy laughed. “Well done, Patrina. I didn’t believe you knew how to do anything fun anymore.”

She frowned. Whatever did her sister mean by such a statement?

As if following her unspoken thoughts, Poppy said, “Not because of
that…him
, but because you’ve never been the laughing sort.”

“I
am
the laughing sort,” she replied instantly. Her sisters exchanged a look, and she shook her head at their silent, blatant disagreement. “I am,” she said and snapped her skirts. “The laughing sort,” she expanded.” She tossed her head and stepped a deliberate path around the troublesome misses. “And I know how to do…fun things,” she muttered to herself as she sailed from the room.

“No, you don’t.” Poppy’s sharp laughter followed her down the corridor.

Patrina’s frown deepened. Not fun, indeed. How very insulting of her sisters to say such a thing. Just because she’d never descended into quite the same level of mischief as the three younger girls didn’t mean she hadn’t been fun or the laughing sort. As she made her way abovestairs, she thought of her exchange in Hyde Park with the Marquess of Beaufort. Somber, scowling, and unsmiling, he’d been.

Is that how her sisters saw her? Is that how the world saw her?

She turned down the corridor that led to her chambers. The steady tick-tock of the longcase clock punctuated her quiet steps. It hadn’t been her fault that when she’d come out, there had been a remarkable dearth of suitors. Hence her pathetic grasping for the pretty compliments Albert Marshville had poured into her ear.

Or so she’d thought.

Patrina stopped in front of her room and pressed the door handle. She slipped inside then kicked the door closed with the sole of her boot. Only now, as she stood and stared at her rather cool, lonely chambers, she confronted the ugly possibility perhaps there was some defect in her character that had deterred suitors. Perhaps they’d seen her as Poppy had claimed—an un-laughing, un-fun sort.

Just as the severe Marquess of Beaufort.

Patrina crossed over to the floor-length window. She tugged back the ivory brocade curtains and peered down into the empty streets below. Snow fell, thick and heavy outside and blanketed the paved roads in a pure, white covering.

As she’d confronted the marquess, she’d done so with no small trace of condescension. How dare he and his unruly children shatter the small time she stole for herself, away from the pitying gazes of her family members? She’d judged him as a cold, unfeeling sort. After Poppy’s recent charge, however, she was forced to wonder about his story, this man who’d spoken so coldly of the loss of his wife. Still, for all his blusteriness, he’d marched back over to inquire after her. He had offered her his assistance when she’d already judged him and found him wanting as a singularly pompous ass.

Patrina let the curtain go and it fluttered back into place. In actuality, mayhap she and the Marquess of Beaufort were more similar than she even cared to admit to herself. Much like Patrina, this man, who’d initially earned her scorn and disdain had a story. Some great pain was surely to blame for the marquess’ seething coldness. And she, who’d not moved outside her own self-misery these past months was suddenly besieged by a desire to know more about the darkly aloof marquess.

Oh, dear.