A Marquess for Christmas (Scandalous Seasons Book 5) (4 page)

Mary gave the driver their directions and scrambled inside. The driver closed the door behind them, and a moment later, the carriage rocked forward.

Not even Albert could be wholly to blame. Not when Patrina had known the scandalous nature of her actions and had instead allowed the desperate need for love and affection to fuel her flight to Gretna Green.

Charlotte shifted on the bench, until her red cloak brushed alongside Patrina’s. “You look sad again,” she observed.

That would be because she was more often sad than not. “I’m sorry,” Patrina said, instead.

The girl lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “You needn’t be sorry for feeling sad,” she said with that far too-mature tone Patrina was coming to expect from the small girl. “Is it because those ladies were whispering about you?”

Patrina proceeded to choke. The Marquess of Beaufort’s daughter seemed far more astute than most ladies of Patrina’s acquaintance. A knot formed in her belly. Well, the former ladies of her acquaintance. All general friendships she’d known had died a swift death after news of her elopement had become information for public consumption. “No, that is not why,” she lied. Though, there was merit to Charlotte’s claims.

“Did your husband die like my mama?”

Her heart cracked at the unflinching directness of such words from a little girl. Goodness, the girl had a tenacity to rival all the Tidemore sisters combined. “No,” she said gently. “I’m not married.” Nor would she ever wed.

Charlotte’s brow wrinkled again. “Why? You seem old.”

From across the carriage, Mary buried a laugh in her hands.

Patrina gave Mary a pointed frown and then turned back to Charlotte. “I’m not old.”

The little girl angled her head up. “No, not old like Mrs. Watson.”

“Mrs. Watson?”

“Our housekeeper,” Charlotte said as though there were never a sillier question uttered.

“Oh, er…yes, Mrs. Watson.”

“But you should have a husband,” Charlotte said with a nod.

“Should I?” Yes, of course she should. It would seem even a young child should know that very obvious fact. Patrina should have a respectable gentleman who’d if not love her, hold her in his affection and protect her. Alas, Patrina had given up the right to all those simple things she’d taken for granted until they’d been forever snatched from her grip by her recklessness those many months past.

“Oh, yes,” Charlotte went on. “You should be married, and have babies, and go to grand balls, just as Mama did.”

Patrina bit back the urge to ask the girl questions about her now departed mother, a woman who’d been wed to the cold, curt marquess. Had he been a different man before that loss?

The little girl studied her a moment, as if silently weighing her. “You’re pretty enough. Not pretty as Mama, of course, but pretty enough to find a husband.”

Patrina’s lips twitched. “Er, why thank you. I think.”

Mary, through all the child’s exchange, remained with her gaze fixed out at the passing scenery. Her shoulders shook, no doubt from amusement.

“Is something wrong with her?” Charlotte asked, jerking her chin at Mary.

“I don’t know,” Patrina said. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“You there, is there something wrong with you?” The question rang with authority, no doubt learned at the heel of her commanding father.

Mary waved hear hand. “No. Fine,” she cleared her throat, and regained her composure. “Forgive me, I’m fine.”

“That isn’t how we speak to people, Charlotte,” Patrina gently chided.

The girl’s mouth settled in a mutinous line. “I merely asked her a question.”

“Ah, yes, but it is how you asked the question. You must still be polite.”

“Even to servants?” Skepticism laced the three-worded question.

Patrina registered Mary’s intense interest in the current exchange. “Especially servants, Charlotte. Can you imagine how very difficult life would be without them?”

The widest smile turned Mary’s lips, which she covered discreetly with her hand.

Charlotte folded her arms over her chest. “Mama didn’t agree. She said servants are there to see to the pleasures of their betters.”

Patrina winced. She supposed she should be more lenient with the departed woman’s memory, but the late Marchioness of Beaufort sounded like a perfectly unpleasant creature. “That isn’t true. Servants are there to work and help and even be confidantes to those in dire need.” She caught Mary’s eye, and the young maid gave an imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement to the close bond they’d forged after Patrina’s fall from grace.

“Truly?” Charlotte asked questioningly.

“Truly.”

The little girl seemed to dismiss the matter instantly and returned her attention to the least favorite of all Patrina’s topics—her marital status. “Do you not want a husband?”

“My, you are full of questions.”

The girl stared on expectantly.

Patrina sighed. “No.” That was the far easier reply than, the truth—she would never have a husband. Nay, she could never have a husband.

Charlotte settled back in the squabs. “All women want a husband.”

Nay, women didn’t necessarily
want
husbands as much as they
needed
husbands. It was the sad way of their world. It allowed little place for error in a young lady’s life. For when a mistake was made, as Patrina had committed, then the resulting consequence was the uncertain life of spinsterhood, dependent on the continued generosity of her family members.

“Not all women do,” she said at last.

“Hmph,” Charlotte said. She looked out the window and then swallowed audibly as the carriage drew to a slow stop in front of a white stucco townhouse.

The driver jumped down from the box and hastened to open the door. He reached inside the carriage to hand Charlotte down.

The girl hesitated a moment, and continued to worry the flesh of her lower lip. She turned to address Patrina. “Will you come with me?” she blurted suddenly, unexpectedly. “To see Papa. Will you tell him that I became lost and…”

Patrina leaned over and place her hands over Charlotte’s fingers, and gave them a light squeeze.

“Lady Patrina,” Mary gasped, with a pointed glance in her direction.

Patrina hesitated a moment, and then gave her head a slight shake. She could not abandon the girl without at least seeing her properly settled in her home. Nothing remained of Patrina’s own reputation; though there were still her sisters’ good names to consider, the Tidemore sisters would well-understand the need to see Charlotte safely returned to her father. She accepted the servant’s offer of assistance. “Thank you, Farnsworth,” she said quietly. She waved him off and helped Charlotte down.

As they made the march toward the expensive Mayfair District townhouse, Charlotte had a white-knuckled grip upon the green ribbon in her free hand. How many times had Patrina and her sisters worn the same guilty looks on their faces, and had that same panicked glimmer in their eyes?

She and Charlotte hadn’t even climbed the fourth step when the door opened, and the butler, a wizened gentleman with serious-looking eyes, said, “By the good saints in heaven, Lady Charlotte.”

“Hullo, Russell,” Charlotte returned with a wide, and what Patrina suspected was her most winning smile. She loosened her hand free and sprinted inside. The butler hesitated, his gaze alternated between Charlotte and Patrina. Charlotte motioned her to enter. “This is Lady…?”

“Patrina Tidemore,” she supplied. The handful of lords and ladies passing by the fashionable area shot her rabidly curious glances and she stepped inside the Marquess of Beaufort’s house, grateful when the butler closed the door behind her.

“My lady, please allow me, on behalf of the marquess to—” The servant’s words of gratitude ended abruptly as a shout bounced off the white Italian marble and filled the foyer.

She glanced up to where the marquess stood at the top of the sweeping staircase. He bounded down the stairs, and she took a nervous step backward, never having borne witness to such volatile emotion in a person’s eyes.

“Charlotte,” he thundered.

Patrina opened her mouth prepared to launch a defense of the small girl but then the towering marquess swept his daughter into his arms. He crushed her to his chest; his large hands stroked small circles over her narrow back.

“Hullo, Papa,” she said as sweetly as if she were requesting the last cherry tart at the bakeshop.

“Miss Airedale returned without you. Where have you been, Charlotte? What have you done?” Even as the questions tumbled unchecked from his lips, he glanced over his shoulder. His gaze caught and held Patrina’s. “You.” The one word utterance came harsh and gruff.

She should be chilled by the coldness underscoring his tone and yet some indefinable emotion radiated from the green irises of his eyes, warming her. “Me.” Then all hint of gentleness faded so that she wondered if she’d merely imagined the crack in his icy veneer. She folded her arms to shield herself from the heated intensity of his fathomless gaze.

Little Charlotte prattled on, seeming oblivious to the undercurrents of tension. “Lady Patrina found me, Papa.” She angled herself away from him and held up the green ribbon in her fingers. “And she bought me this.”

“Did she?” All the while his gaze remained fixed on Patrina.

She attempted to read something, anything in that ‘did she’, but his aloof tone matched the hard glimmer in his emerald eyes. Patrina shifted back and forth on her feet. She had nothing to feel guilty of. She’d done nothing wrong. Mayhap everything right where his daughter was concerned. How dare he make her feel…like…like…the exact way the rest of the
ton
would treat her? Patrina dipped a stiff curtsy. “My lord, I’m pleased Charlotte has come to no harm. I trust,” she looked at Charlotte and held the girl’s gaze. “She will not do something as reckless as wandering off again”

A slight frown marred the corner of his hard, perfect lips. She braced for a lofty tirade directed her way, but instead, he shifted his focus to his daughter. “Did you wander away from Nurse?”

“I did. But only with the very best of reasons. You see Nurse…” Her gaze met Patrina’s, and then she dropped it to her father’s immaculately folded white cravat.

“Nurse what?” he prodded in a tone belonging to a man accustomed to having all his wishes met.

“Nothing,” Charlotte finished on a whisper. “I wandered away. I wanted to see the miniature theatres and I thought to steal away a moment, and…I’m sorry, Papa.” She turned wide, tear-filled eyes up to her father.

All hardness melted from his unyielding eyes like the snow under a too-warm sun. “It’s fine, sweet.”

Patrina snorted.

His frown swung back in her direction. “Is there something the matter, my lady?”

If he didn’t gain a better control of his unruly children, then there would be a whole lot of somethings the matter for the marquess in the future. Patrina could name four specific examples for him. Or four specific
someones
to be exact, whose names began with the letter P. Instead, she said, “It is not my place.”

“Not your place,” he repeated back, a bite in his words.

Perhaps she should have said nothing. Now, as she considered her previous response, she could certainly see how the whole ‘it is not my place’ sounded a bit condescending and judgmental. Having been judged quite extensively these past months, she’d rather not be guilty of the same charges. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…” She dropped another curtsy. “Good day, Charlotte. My lord.”

Patrina sent a silent thanks skyward for the astute butler who cleverly interpreted her need to escape, and opened the door. She sailed out, and gave another thanks for her faithful driver, who stood with the carriage door open in wait. She made it no further than the edge of the street.

“My lady?” A deep baritone drifted out to her.

She stiffened and remained with her gaze fixed on the carriage door, knowing passersby studied both her and the Marquess of Beaufort with great interest, knowing her name would surely be bandied about by those who still remained in London for the holiday season, and hating that she’d become something of a spectacle for the
haute ton
.

“Lady Patrina,” the marquess said quietly in deep, serious tones, for her ears alone.

She’d braved Albert’s deception, her subsequent ruination, and the pain of her family’s disapproval. She could certainly face this frowning bear of a man. Patrina forced herself back around to face the marquess. “My lord?”

He tugged at his lapels, the first hint of the marquess’ discomfort. “I wanted to thank you, for helping Charlotte today. I do not find myself often in one’s gratitude—”

“I don’t want your gratitude,” she interrupted. She winced as soon as the waspish words left her lips. Is this what Albert had allowed her to become? A bitter, shrewish woman?

The marquess’ eyes darkened to the shade of the green-nearly black of a jade stone she’d once seen at the Egyptian Museum. They were sinful and dark and yet, at the same time conjured memories of the lush rolling hills of her family’s country estate when she’d run with wild abandon through the land.