Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (5 page)

Then the king inclined his head. “My lord marquess, we are pleased to see you here, and in good health. Very pleased.”

As a stir ruffled the air, Rothgar bowed. “Your Majesty is gracious as always. May I present Sir George Ufton, of Ufton Green, Berkshire, and his son George.”

From there, all went smoothly. Sir George spoke briefly and sensibly of conditions near his home. The king then inquired of young George as to whether he was enjoying his visit to London and received a nervous, “Yes, sire,” in reply.

Then he moved on.

Sir George
wooshed
out a big breath. Rothgar restrained himself from any similar sign of relief. He allowed no sign of victory to show as he returned the bows of the passing Ministers of the Crown, even though some of them persisted in viewing him as a rival.

Though it was perfectly permissible to leave when the king had passed by, Rothgar gave the Uftons a moment to recover from their experience before guiding them out into the fresh air. Carruthers awaited to pass them on to a liveried footman who would take them on to yet more delights,
but he stepped aside to tell Rothgar that the king commanded him to a private audience.

“Ah, so I have not escaped entirely,” Rothgar murmured, summoning a wry look even from his discreet secretary.

He made his way to the King’s Bedchamber, now used only for audiences, knowing that in fact he would not be scolded, but fussed over, then put to work advising the king on the many complex matters on hand.

At times he tired of the role. At times he even wished to be like Sir George, responsible only for a small estate and his family. He was born to his duties, however, and God had given him talents of use to his country. He could not, in honor, hold back.

Upon his return to Malloren House, Rothgar stripped out of his stiff court dress with relief, and put in hand a number of matters arising out of his time with the king.

Though the peace treaty with France had been signed, there were still those in Paris who longed to return to war, to wipe out defeat. It was necessary to know what they planned, and to watch for their spies in England. He could often discover things that more official investigators could not, especially as he maintained a spy network of his own.

Next, he attended to a pile of documents requiring his seal and signature, then he turned to idle matters—to letters and catalogs from people hoping for his custom or his patronage. He flipped through them, in no mood for such matters, but he paused at a package sent by a publisher.

It contained a variety of poems, and he glanced through them, putting a few aside as of interest. Then he came upon some sheets entitled,
Diana, a cantata
. It was attributed to Monsieur Rousseau, but translated into English. A light piece, but intriguing because another Diana came immediately to mind.

Lady Arradale. Straight of spine, clear of eye, and a body made for love. She was, however, almost certainly a chaste virgin, and somewhat irked by the fact.

A copy of this could make an amusing gift.

He understood her choice not to marry, but that decision carried costs, especially for a woman. There would be no easy way for her to satisfy her sexual nature, and to many people, an unmarried woman was an affront against heaven, destined in fact to lead apes in hell.

Today, for some reason, the king had asked about her, and he was clearly one of the ones affronted. George was even more affronted by the notion of a young single woman in the peculiar position of being a peer of the realm.

Rothgar had given bland responses hoping that the conventional monarch forgot her existence entirely. The kings of England were constrained by many rules, but they still had teeth.

He read quickly through the cantata. It described an attack by the goddess Diana on Cupid, and thus on love. The countess, he thought, would appreciate that. Would it also serve as a warning? In the end, one dart is missed, and Diana succumbs to love.

Perhaps, he thought, as he put the sheets with those of interest, he should keep a copy close to hand himself.

He was aware—he was always aware of such things—that Lady Arradale could be a lurking arrow. She was pretty and lively, but those were the least of her charms. From her unusual rank, she had become an exceptional woman, clever, bold, and brave.

She was also willful, impulsive, and perhaps even spoiled. Normally such qualities would wipe away any interest he had, but in her case, they stirred his instinct to protect. As cousin to Brand’s bride, she was almost within his sacred limits, his family.

A wise man avoided danger. Sliding his signet ring up and down his finger, he considered not going to Brand’s Yorkshire wedding after all. That would keep him well out of arrow range.

The rest of the family planned to attend, however, and he
wanted to be there, to see the happy end to Brand’s adventure.

He checked that there were no papers left untended, and rose from the desk. It should be safe enough. The complications following the end of the war with France were reason to return quickly to London. He’d also arrange for Carruthers to send papers to him by swift courier to make the situation clear.

A defensive maneuver, but wise. Survival was best achieved by avoidance of peril. He’d arrive the day before the wedding, and stay one day after it. Three days. He could easily avoid entanglement with the countess for three busy days.

As he left to prepare for his evening engagements, however, he was aware of many historical dramas, even tragedies, proving that to be nonsense.

Three days was time enough for complete disaster.

Three days, Diana told herself as she waited for the her gatekeeper’s horn to announce the arrival of the Malloren carriages. He would be here for only three days. She could navigate those three days without crashing into any kind of disaster.

Despite reason, however, when the distant horn blasted, every nerve jumped. In days gone by, that horn had belonged to the castle lookout and had warned of enemies. Perhaps some memory of that ran in her blood, causing her heart to race, her mouth to dry.

She struggled for common sense. This was not an invasion. It was a house party and a wedding. She would be the perfect lady, the marquess would be the perfect gentleman, and in three days they would part again.

With luck, this time forever.

“Diana?”

She swung to face her mother. The dowager countess was complicating everything by hearing not one set of wedding bells, but two. She’d decided Diana’s nervousness was due to a fondness for the marquess.

“That, I assume, is the Mallorens,” her mother said blandly. “Are you not going down to greet them?”

“Yes, of course, Mother.”

Her mother’s lips curled up in an almost mischievous smile. “You’ve turned Arradale inside out to get it ready, dear, and you’ve been pacing this room for the past hour, yet now you dither. What is the matter with you?”

Not maidenly flutters, Mother.

“Nothing,” said Diana, forcing a smile and hurrying away from that knowing look.

Diana’s mother had never been able to understand her motives for remaining unmarried. She saw the responsibilities of the earldom as a terrible burden, not an exciting challenge. She was stubbornly convinced that her daughter was just seeking the right man, and hopeful that in the marquess, she had found him.

The
last
man in the world to be suitable.

Swishing down the wide stairs into the paneled front hall, Diana hoped the next few days wouldn’t push her mother to embarrassing lengths. She clung to one comfort. The marquess was as determined to avoid marriage as she was.

The carriages would still be making their way up the drive, so Diana paused to assess herself in the great, gilded mirror. She had chosen her appearance with great care.

When she and the marquess had last met he’d been trying to kidnap her cousin Rosa. With her own pistol and a small army of men from the estate, she had stopped him. She didn’t regret it. It was possibly the most glorious moment of her life. However, today she had dressed to remind him that she was above all a lady.

Her gown was pale yellow sprigged with cream blossoms, and she wore simple pearls in her ears, and on a cream ribbon around her throat. Her hair curled from under a cap of muslin and ribbons frivolous enough to be silly, and she even wore one of the fashionable, purely ornamental aprons of silk gauze and lace. Her glowing complexion was slightly deadened by powder.

She raised her hands, palms toward her face, so her eight rings flashed in the mirror. No matter how soft and sweet
she wanted to appear, she could not bear to be without them, even though they’d betrayed her once to the marquess. In fact, she was wearing exactly the same betraying baubles that she’d worn last time she’d welcomed him to Arradale.

He had a reputation for uncanny observation and omniscience, so he should remember every one. He would recognize the challenge. She was a lady, but she was also the Countess of Arradale.

And he was on her land.

Judging the moment, she walked toward the great doors. Her footmen swung them open, letting sunshine flood in, and she saw four grand traveling carriages coming to a halt in front of the double sweep of steps. Three others, doubtless containing baggage and servants, had turned off to go around to the back of the house.

Seven! And outriders, she saw. She traveled in state herself, but this was excessive, even for a whole family. They were also bringing children, which had required an overhaul of the long-unused nurseries. Only the Mallorens would do something so extravagantly absurd.

Just three days, she told herself as she walked unhurriedly through the open doors, concealing a rapid heartbeat. Gracious smile in place, she raised her wide skirts a little and walked down the steps to greet the people climbing out of the carriages. Silently, she rehearsed cool, courteous words of welcome, but then she saw a lady being handed down from the second coach and forgot decorum.

“Rosa!” she cried, and ran forward to meet her cousin and dearest friend in a crushing hug. They’d not met for nine months.

It was some moments before she realized she’d abandoned her hostess duties entirely. Blushing, she dragged her attention away from her happy and healthy friend to apologize. As she wiped some tears from her eyes, she found herself face to face with an amused Lord Brand Malloren.

With russet hair tied simply back, and his tanned face shaped by smiles, he was perfect for Rosa. He had even forgiven Diana for trying to shoot him.

While speaking to Lord Brand, however, Diana found herself hardly
able to think or speak coherently.
He
was nearby. She couldn’t see him, yet she knew. Ridiculous, but she felt him behind her as a sudden hot prickle down her spine.

Somehow she made a sensible end of one conversation and turned, hoping she was mistaken, that he was elsewhere and it had been only imagination, or the sun.

T
he marquess stood there, however, only feet away and patiently awaiting. Had he always had that kind of effect on her, or was this some new torment?

“Lord Rothgar!” she declared, praying that her racing heart wasn’t obvious, and desperately following her script. “How fortunate we are to have you here in Arradale once more.”

He kissed her hand. It was the very lightest, proper brush in the air above her knuckles, and yet his fingers on hers were another shocking sensation.

Perdition. This was what came of thinking so much of a man for a year!

“The good fortune is all ours, Lady Arradale. Especially as you are willing to house a massing of Mallorens.”

No sign that
he
was affected. She slipped her hand free. “For Rosa’s wedding?” she said lightly. “For that, I would welcome a massing of
monsters
, my lord.”

“Then you should manage to survive us. Permit me to introduce you.”

With a light touch on her elbow he directed her to a family emerging from a coach beyond, but even that formal touch seemed to cause sparks. Seeking help, she cast a look toward Rosa, but her cousin was smiling up at Lord Brand, blind to the world.

“Indeed,” the marquess murmured as if she’d spoken. “They behave like that all the time. How fortunate are we who have renounced such weakening folly.”

If he’d planned to help steady her mind, he could not have
found better words. She gathered every scrap of calm dignity as she approached the family.

It consisted of husband, wife, and four children ranging in age from toddler to about eight.

“Lord and Lady Steen,” he said, “the lady being my sister Hilda. The infantry are endlessly confusing, so I will let them do the honors.”

Despite this, the smallest child, topped with rod-straight brown hair, trotted over with a big smile and open arms, announcing something that sounded like, “Unkabay! Unkabay!”

The marquess astonished Diana by picking him up, though with an audible sigh. “This is Arthur Groves, Lady Arradale, a lad of no discrimination, as you can see. He’d make friendly overtures to a tiger.” Certainly the boy, arm confidently around his uncle’s neck, didn’t seem to be wary of teeth.

Diana almost felt bitten herself. She had prepared to meet the Dark Marquess, but what was she to do with this man? The Dark Marquess did
not
carry infants around!

“My brother is at his wit’s end.”

Diana turned dazedly to Lady Steen. She was what Diana was beginning to think of as a “red Malloren” though her hair was a soft brown just highlighted with warmer tones. Her easy smile was very like Lord Brand’s, however.

“It’s hard to be the
éminence noire
of England,” the lady continued, “with a grubby infant following you everywhere you go.”

A glance showed Diana that far from being at his wit’s end, the
éminence noire
appeared completely at his ease, and was engaged in a conversation of some sort with the child about the horses. On little Arthur’s side it involved a great deal of babbling and pointing, but anyone would think it was wisdom by the marquess’s attention and rational responses.