Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (6 page)

She mustn’t notice, she decided, many seconds too late. She mustn’t look, listen, or pay any kind of attention to things like that. He was the Dark Marquess, and she would ignore him as much as possible over the next three days.

Lady Steen drew forward two girls who seemed to be trying to hide behind her skirts. “May I present my daughters, Lady Arradale. Sarah and Eleanor.” The two girls shyly dropped neat curtsies. “And this,” she added, stretching a hand to an on-best-behavior boy, standing by his father, “is Charles, Lord Harber.” A correct bow and steady, intelligent eyes.

“I can’t promise perfect order from them all,” Lady Steen remarked, giving one daughter a look when she giggled, “but I hope they won’t upset your household too much. We brought them because we are all continuing on from here into Scotland.”

As they exchanged commonplaces about traveling, Diana found herself relaxing. Astonishing that the Mallorens included this pleasant, easy natured woman and her amiable, devoted husband.

A moment later she realized it was dangerous. It could undermine her caution. She was pleased enough to move on to the next coach’s passengers.

The marquess, still uncomplainingly burdened with the chattering child, presented her to a man as dark and dramatic as himself. As Diana greeted Lord Bryght Malloren, she thought that
this
was what she had expected from them all.

He was possibly the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Dark and lean, with very fine eyes and a slightly cynical manner, he was designed to turn any woman to jelly on the spot. This, she was armored to resist.

His wife was the shock, being short, slight, and almost plain, with red hair and an embarrassment of freckles. To make it worse, as she welcomed them, the two shared a flashing moment of eye contact that might as well have screamed love, passion, and abiding understanding.

“Yes,” murmured the marquess as they moved on. “More of the besotted. I warn you, it appears to be contagious. It’s roared through my family in short order. I am immune, of course, but you must take your chances.”

“I am immune, too, my lord, I assure you.”

“You cannot imagine my relief, since I am the only unattached
male present. We can sit together of an evening in an enclave of disinfection.”

She laughed, but wondered if any of her panic rang through it. He was right. He and she were the odd couple in this company! They couldn’t be thrown together by that. They couldn’t. A few minutes in his company was assuring her that she hadn’t imagined the effect he could have on her.

And then—dear heaven!—there were the sleeping arrangements.

Even in a house as grand as Arradale, this number of guests required all the good bedrooms. She slept in the earl’s suite, but her mother had long since vacated the countess’s rooms for different ones elsewhere. Someone had had to be allocated the “Countess’s Chambers,” and so she had decided the marquess could sleep there—not without a touch of malice. They were decorated in an extremely feminine style.

She had not thought that they were truly adjoining, nor how it might appear to others.

Lud! Was there any way to change things at this late date?

Young Arthur suddenly demanded to be put down, and he ran to join a red-haired lad who was only just steady on his feet, clinging to a maidservant’s hand.

“Our son, Francis,” said Lord Bryght, strolling over to give his own hand to the child, then swinging him into his arms, to a crow of delight. “We don’t expect you to remember which is which or whose is whose, Lady Arradale,” continuing to play a swinging game that had the child fizzing with delight. “There’s always hope that they’ll stay out of sight and hearing.”

His wife snorted with laughter. Diana just tried not to gape. Dark, dramatic, rakish men were not supposed to be adoring fathers!

Lord Rothgar steered her toward the last coach. “I fear Portia is right, though at least your house is much larger than the inns, some of which may wish never to see us again.”

Humor and tolerance, now. Diana was perilously adrift. She no longer knew what might come next, or how she should behave, or how to protect herself.

Or even, exactly what she needed to protect herself from.

“I believe you have met my sister Elf,” the marquess said, snapping her out of bewilderment and indicating another couple. Indeed, in one of her two trips to London, Diana had met and liked Lady Elfled Malloren.

“May I present Lord Walgrave, her husband.”

Lady Elf was another red Malloren—lighter colored and lighter hearted. Her husband was brown and handsome, but not in the dramatic way of Lord Bryght. More solid. In this company, almost ordinary.

Almost a kindred spirit! Perhaps she could spend time with Lord Walgrave talking about Mallorens instead of with Lord Rothgar being noticeably a couple. After all, it wasn’t the thing for married couples to seek each other’s company in public.

She was beginning to recognize, however, that the Mallorens were careless enough of fashionable standards to do exactly as they pleased. How was she to deal with that?

At least there were no children here, and the Walgraves were the last of them. There was another brother, she knew. Lord Cynric. He and his wife were in Canada, thank heavens. Enough was enough.

Three days, she repeated silently in her head like a protective incantation as she turned and led the Walgraves toward the house.

“You can’t imagine how relieved I am to have this journey done,” said Lady Elf. “I’m increasing, and it is proving tedious beyond belief.”

Diana should have known it. Besotted and fertile, the lot of them. Perhaps it was their plan to dominate England by force of numbers!

Except the marquess, who had made it clear that he didn’t intend to marry or sire children. That ensured her safety from the worst kind of folly, but for some reason it did not completely reassure …

She pushed all thought of him from her mind. “Nausea?” she asked.

“At unpredictable times. If I sometimes flee the company, just be grateful I escaped in time.”

“Then it’s good of you to make the effort to be at the wedding.”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly miss a family wedding, could we?” she asked, flashing a smile at her husband

“Of course not,” he said, though Diana had the feeling he didn’t entirely agree. Being a Malloren spouse was doubtless a demanding role.

“We’ve been enjoying such a spurt of them,” Lady Elf said, and Diana remembered that she was a chatterer. “Weddings, I mean. And at least this one has been planned in a leisurely manner and is free of royalty.”

Diana resisted the urge to ask. She’d learn the family gossip from Rosa. She couldn’t help wondering, however, whether Lady Elf had had to rush to the altar because of her increasing state.

“And I’m delighted to visit the north,” Lady Elf added. No. Diana must remember that she was Lady Walgrave now. “It’s so lovely up here. All the wildflowers in the meadows. The hills. The vistas! If I could paint, I’d try to capture it. As it is, I plan to explore some industry while we’re here.”

“Industry?” Diana feared that her mind had wandered and she’d lost the meaning.

“Woolen mills. Cotton manufacturies. That sort of thing.”

Diana blinked at her. A tour of Scotland was not unusual, but a tour of manufacturies?

“It’s an interest of mine,” said Lady Elf, with what seemed to be a mischievous smile. “We’ll be traveling on with Bryght and Portia, for they want to see the Duke of Bridgewater’s aqueduct. And we all have an interest in the port at Liverpool.”

Diana made some vague response, but she was beginning to wonder if this was all a dream. She’d had some nightmares about this meeting.

It was not surprising that visitors from the south wished to see the famous aqueduct—she’d been present at its opening four years earlier herself—but the port at Liverpool? And manufacturies?

She’d planned a house party for bored southerners looking
down their long noses at the less luxurious north. Now she didn’t know what to expect. The marquess wanting to go down a lead mine, perhaps, or proposing a trip to dig in the peat bogs?

She looked around. This was real, however, and she felt ready to run away to hide in the bogs herself for the next three days. Instead, she drew on a lifetime’s training, and concealed her uneasiness as she handed the massing of Mallorens over to her servants. It offered some respite, at least.

She reviewed plans for the rest of the day.

They’d all spend time now in their rooms recovering from the journey. Dinner next, but she’d already arranged the seating with herself and the marquess at opposite ends of the table. Afterward, music and cards, which should keep everyone occupied and allow her to stay out of his way.

Tomorrow was the wedding. It was going to be all right—

A sudden shriek filled the air. It bounced off the high ceiling, then ricocheted off marble walls and pillars to join new screams.

Little Arthur was throwing a tantrum, the sort of uncontrollable, overtired tantrum that could not be silenced.

Baby Francis, in his father’s arms, had decided to scream in red-faced sympathy. As Lord Bryght hastily dumped his son on one maid, and another scooped up the wriggling tantrum and hurried away, Diana resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears.

The maids had disappeared with remarkable speed. Anxious and perhaps embarrassed parents hastened after. Echoes died and peace returned. With wry looks, the Walgraves headed up the stairs.

True to his prediction, only the marquess and she remained.

Diana turned to say something light before escaping, but paused when she saw his expression. “Are you all right, my lord?”

The look of strain vanished, though he still seemed pale. “A slight headache, that is all,” he said, adding with a rueful smile, “The acoustics of this hall, however, are astonishing.”

Diana found herself returning that smile, a smile which conveyed the notion that they were the only sane people in an insane world.

Oh, but this was dangerous. She hastily made her escape, heading for the estate office, where no guest could pursue.

It didn’t seem to help. That smile had seemed to spin a dangerous, silken thread between them, a thread that did not break even when she was safe, the door closed firmly behind her.

T
hey sat fourteen at table that night—the Malloren adults, Rosa, Diana, her mother, and some members of the household—and the marquess was where Diana had planned for him to be—at the opposite end of the table, at her mother’s right hand.

All the same, that silken thread still held.

She reminded herself not to even look at him, and concentrated on the men to either side of her—Lord Steen, and Lord Brand.

The Mallorens were good company, and seemed to be on friendly terms with each other. Their spouses could hold their own. Conversation was often lively, and bounced across the table and even up and down it, rather than politely to neighbors only.

The marquess was perhaps the quietest, though his occasional comments were witty. Diana, despite her intentions, found herself stealing glances at him even as she maintained her share of the light chatter around her.

He was part of this family and yet not completely part. As the night wore on, she had the strange thought that he was more like a father than a brother to them, though he could not be many years older than Lord Bryght.

She knew that the marquess’s mother had died when he was a child—the infamous mad one who’d murdered her newborn baby. And that his father had married again. She hadn’t known until Rosa told her before dinner, that father and stepmother had died within days of each other of sickness when
the marquess was only nineteen. Or that the marquess held himself responsible for bringing the fever back to his home.

Rosa said Brand believed his brother had some memory of the murder of his baby sister, for he’d been there at the time, and carried guilt over that, too. Even without that, nineteen was a difficult age to assume such huge responsibilities. Her own father had died suddenly when she was twenty-two, which had seemed young enough, and she’d had neither guilt nor siblings to worry about.

Loving family and friends had tried to relieve Lord Rothgar of responsibility for the five youngsters. He’d stood firm, however, and kept them all under one roof. That was doubtless when he’d taken on the role of father. How else to manage?

No wonder there was a challenging edge to Lord Bryght’s comments now and then. He must have been about sixteen—just the right age to be difficult in his grief.

No wonder Lord Rothgar had been so protective of Lord Brand last year. She contemplated her sliver of artichoke pie, appetite fading. She and Rosa had drugged Lord Brand and abandoned him in a barn, even though they’d known he’d be violently ill afterward. It had mostly been her fault, too, for Rosa would have stayed to help him if she’d not been unwell herself from sharing the drugged drink.

Lord Brand had forgiven them both, but had Lord Rothgar? She did not want his attentions, but she did not want his enmity, either.

“Are you all right, Lady Arradale?” asked Lord Steen.

Diana produced a smile and cut through the pastry. “Yes, of course, my lord. I was merely tracing an errant memory.” She ventured a question. “You must find being part of the Malloren family interesting.”

His lips twitched. “Interesting enough to enjoy life in a secluded part of Devon.”

She chuckled and moved on to other subjects, but she couldn’t stop both eyes and mind darting back to the marquess, drawn by the enigmatic puzzle he presented.

He was elegant, effortlessly courteous, and, she thought, much loved. Yet something jarred.

Eventually, she realized what it was.

He was apart.

By the time the ladies left the gentlemen to their relaxed drinking, she had the disconcerting feeling that the Marquess of Rothgar might be in many ways as isolated and alone as she. Perhaps that was the thread that ran between them, that both tugged and threatened at the same time.

Over tea, Diana chatted to Elf and Rosa, and after a half hour of spicy, humorous gossip about London, Elf asked to be on first-name terms. Diana was beginning to feel that perhaps she had a new friend, and regretted that this visit would only last three days. She would have been happy if the men had lingered over brandy and snuff, but they joined the ladies quite quickly. She arranged card tables, and Lady Steen played the harp.