Rhonda Woodward (18 page)

“Miss Buckleigh,” he said, his voice hesitant. “Your sudden coldness toward me is inexplicable. Please tell me how I have offended you and how I may make amends. You must realize that in the brief time I have known you, your good opinion has become the most important thing in the world to me.”

Clasping her fingers together in front of her, Marina took a couple of slow deep breaths. Miss Brandon’s tear-wracked, doubled-over figure came to her thoughts and her anger simmered.

“Mr. Sefton, may I ask you a question?”

“Anything, Miss Buckleigh. Always.”

She looked over at him, wanting to see his expression. “When did Miss Brandon’s opinion of you cease to matter?”

The ardent expression left his face, replaced by blank surprise. “I . . . I am not quite sure what you mean.”

“I’m certain that you do.” She was quite proud of the cool, nearly indifferent tone in her voice.

Those beautiful eyes searched her face. “Miss Buckleigh, please speak plainly. If you have heard some kind of scurrilous gossip about Miss Brandon and me, I assure you, I have only been polite—”

“Oh? It was only politeness when you planned to take her from Ridgeton Abbey and elope to Gretna Green?” She had stopped walking and now stared up at him with narrowed eyes and clenched fists.

A hint of panic and calculation entered his gaze. “It is not true, Miss Buckleigh. I do not know what means Lord Cortland has used to turn you against me, but I assure you, I—”

“Lord Cortland?” she cut in. “How dare you! Miss Brandon herself poured out her heart to me. She believed you loved her and you betrayed her cruelly. Once you learned Lord Cortland had discovered your plan to elope, you turned to me. Did you really think I would be so gullible?”

His jaw worked convulsively for a moment before he gathered himself enough to speak in measured tones. “I appeal to your sense of fairness and ask that you consider that there are two sides to every story.”

Tilting her head to the side, she considered his words. “That is true. But I do not care what your side is.”

“That is unfair! You must allow me to explain. You must know what I feel for you, Miss Buckleigh. Anything,
anything
that occurred before I met you could not possibly matter to us.”

She gazed upon his perfectly handsome face and again marveled that it no longer had the power to make her heart flutter. For once, Deirdre had been right; if he hadn’t been blessed with that attractive cleft in his chin, he’d be much too pretty.

“Enough, Mr. Sefton. Do not importune me any longer.”

Turning, she set off down the lane again, fiercely glad that she had expressed her true thoughts and feelings.

A hand on her upper arm spun her around and jerked her to a halt.

“I insist that you allow me to explain. I never cared for her. If you will just listen to me, I know we could be happy.”

Speechless with rage, Marina stared down at his hand gripping her left arm. Never in her life had she been handled in such a violent manner. Never would she have imagined that a man, calling himself a gentleman, could behave in such a despicable way.

“Let go of me at once.”

“Not until you see reason. I have seen in your eyes what you feel for me. I will not let you deny it.” His tone held a fierceness that conveyed his increasing desperation, and his grip tightened on her arm. “If your father had not fallen from that damn horse, we’d be married by now.”

“And your financial troubles would be over,” she snapped sarcastically. “Let go of me now.”

She saw the warmth had left his eyes, replaced by a cold anger that might have frightened her if her own rage hadn’t risen up to blot out every other emotion.

“Let go,” she repeated softly.

“Admit it, you care for me. If Eugenia hadn’t told you a pack of lies, you’d be mine.”

“You flatter yourself, sir.” Unthinking, she drew her arm back and swung her clenched fist as hard as she could.

He staggered back, and she didn’t know which of them was more surprised. His hat flew off and a hand flew up to cover his left eye. “Why you—”

Before he could complete the epithet, she stepped forward and shoved his chest with both hands. He landed on his backside with a satisfying thud and if she hadn’t been trembling with anger, she would have laughed at his slack-jawed expression.

“If you come near me again, I shall scream. We are close enough to Buck Hill for someone to hear me.”

With a swirl of her skirts and a last contempt-filled look, she turned toward home.

Struggling to rise, he went to retrieve his horse. “Miss Buckleigh,” he called, “you have insulted my integrity in a way no gentleman could appreciate, but I forgive you because you do not know the whole story.”

Glancing at him over her shoulder, she marveled at his quick recovery and quicker retreat into denials and feigned innocence. “Good-bye, Mr. Sefton, there is no point for us to ever speak again.”

“You are wrong, Miss Buckleigh. Because of those moments on the terrace, when you were in my arms, I cannot give up.”

“Good lord,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at his overly dramatic delivery. She walked swiftly, but another quick glance back showed her that he had mounted his horse and was now riding off toward Ridgeton Abbey.

Still feeling stunned by what had just transpired, she looked down at the back of her right hand, aware that her knuckles throbbed.

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning, Cortland sat at the desk in the well-appointed sitting room connected to his bedchamber. After sanding another page, he put down his quill and leaned back in the chair. Despite his well-known reputation for being a pleasure-loving rake, he was quite used to working as hard as he played, and the relaxed atmosphere of Ridgeton Abbey was beginning to wear thin.

He was growing more restless by the hour it seemed, but there was nothing else for it. Due to exceedingly unexpected circumstances, he had to stay until matters were resolved—and resolved to his satisfaction.

In the meantime, he must continue to correspond with his secretary and steward, to ensure his estate and other holdings were as well looked after as if he were there himself. It was a tedious job, dealing with the continual influx of letters.
Needs must be addressed
, he thought with a philosophical shrug.

At least it prevented him from running to Buck Hill twice a day like a besotted puppy. He smiled a little at the description he’d just assigned himself. Inactivity and patience were not his strong suit. He’d never had cause to experience either in large doses and it put him in a foul mood. Rising, he paced the length of the room.

There had been some positive news. It was a very good sign that Dr. Gray was no longer staying at Buck Hill. That simple fact, more than the sketchy and unreliable reports from neighbors, told him how improved Lord Buckleigh must be.

He paused at the window, recalling the moment he and Marina were in her garden when Deirdre found them and shared the miraculous news that the Baron had regained consciousness. He hadn’t been at all surprised that Marina had fainted from the shock of the news, for when he had first come upon her, her pallor had been pronounced.

Even tear-filled eyes and a pallid complexion could not take anything away from her regal beauty.

She was so much more than a beautiful face and bewitching figure. He’d known it, sensed it, from the first time they spoke after seeing her waltzing amongst the white roses and starlight with Sefton. And every moment after that confirmed her unique character—elegant and proper, outspoken and passionate by turns. And he never knew which captivating facet she would show.

Effortlessly, she had captured his attention and kept it. He had watched, with reluctant yet growing admiration, the way she gracefully, fiercely defended her friend Mrs. Birtwistle, prompting him to behave with a gallantry he’d never suspected he was capable of when he asked the widow to dance.

He’d watched with growing fascination and desire the way she’d met his teasing with a sharp wit of her own. He’d stood by while she’d handled her pack of swains with aplomb and good humor.

She was utterly original.

But what had sealed it for him was the way she had cried in his arms when she thought hope of her father’s recovery was lost. Poised and dignified, Marina Buckleigh had let him hold her while she cried her heart out with complete, unself-conscious trust.

Marina knew how to love.

His thoughts turned, as they often did, to their kiss and the feel of her long curvaceous body melding to his. Good lord, she knew how to love, but had no idea how much passion she possessed. He turned away from the window and stalked the room again.

He didn’t like the feeling of being in limbo.

Even more, he disliked being unsure of his footing. It was a new experience and he didn’t like it. And he knew that the more her father improved, and her life regained a sense of normalcy, the more she would remember how angry she was with him over the business with Sefton.

And now there was this exceedingly odd report about Willingham and Halbury fighting over her. He clenched and unclenched his fists. It had been a good deal too long since he’d been in the ring with Gentleman Jackson in London, and he was desirous of a good rumble, and one importunate whelp would do as well as another.

But until a number of circumstances beyond his control, worked themselves out—mainly, the Buckleighs accepting callers again—he’d have to continue to be patient, as much as it chafed.

A firm rap at the door drew his attention. “Come in.”

Pen, looking uncharacteristically grim, entered. “I say, Cort, if you’re not too busy, hoping to have a word.”

“Of course. What has you looking so blue-deviled?”

In accord, they moved to the two large brown leather chairs in front of the fireplace.

Once seated, Pen gave him a glum look. “Not sure how one goes about these things. I mean, everyone eventually does, obviously, but nevertheless, it’s the going-about-it part that has me flummoxed.”

Keeping his expression neutral, Cortland nodded, hoping a question or two would help him to gain a better understanding. “What exactly do you want to do?”

Pen looked down at his boots, then scrubbed his face with his hands before answering, “Well, Mrs. Birtwistle, of course.”

Cortland’s brows rose. He’d been aware of Pen’s admiration of the widow, but during the two times he had gone with Pen to call on Fielding Manor, he had not shown by words or actions that his regard for the widow was particular. And as for Mrs. Birtwistle, she had been exceedingly polite, but she had not, as far as Cortland could see, shown Pen any marked attention, and allowed her brother to take the lead in the conversations.

“The thing is,” Pen continued, “my sister seems to have taken Mrs. Birtwistle in dislike. I cannot account for it because Mrs. Birtwistle is most congenial and I find her easy to converse with. But if Vanessa doesn’t like her, I’m not sure how it would work.”

“How what would work?”

“Having them both here, of course.”

The situation was becoming clearer. “One thing I can say with great confidence is that it would not work. But you do understand Vanessa’s objection, don’t you?” Knowing the way his friend tended to ignore details, Cortland thought it prudent to make sure he was clear on this particular point.

Pen nodded glumly. “Thinks she’s beneath us. I know it’s not the thing to marry a dressmaker, but I don’t see how it signifies, because she won’t need be one if she marries me.”

Cortland couldn’t deny the logic and allowed a rare smile. “Have you received any indication that Mrs. Birtwistle would look favorably on your addresses?”

Pen cast his eyes to his boots again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “None at all. That’s what I meant before—I have no idea how one goes about such things. I feel as if I ought to speak to her brother, but would prefer to have an idea of what she thought of the idea first. Even then, I’m not sure how one brings up the subject. Could be dashed lowering if she turns me off. I think I’d have to move. Would be too bad, because I quite like it here.”

Despite his amusement, Cortland was feeling a good deal of empathy with his old friend. “Perhaps, before you jump in with both feet, so to speak, you could give Mrs. Birtwistle an idea of the direction of your thoughts.”

Pen, looking hopeful, listened intently. “How so?”

“Maybe send her some flowers with a note saying how much you enjoyed your last conversation. Then when you call again, you can see how she responds—see what kind of encouragement you receive.”

“I say, Cort, that’s brilliant. I can see why you’ve always been so successful with the petticoat line.”

Cortland knew if he pointed out that most schoolboys knew to send flowers and a note to a lady, Pen would lose what little confidence he now struggled with. “It would be a start.”

“Yes, capital, a start indeed. Now, after that—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them, and they heard Vanessa call out, “Pen, Cort, do come! Sefton is leaving.”

Her muffled tone sounded dismayed, but her brother jumped up with a “Thank goodness, finally!” and went to the door and opened it.

Vanessa stood in the hallway wearing a soft blue morning gown and a frown. “Come, come, he’s leaving as we speak.” She turned and headed for the stairs.

After exchanging a look with Pen, Cortland followed. He wouldn’t miss Sefton’s departure for anything.

“He came in at breakfast saying he’d received a letter from his father and needed to leave today,” Vanessa continued. “It’s most vexing, for now when we have guests there will not be enough gentlemen at the table.”

“I daresay we will manage, Van,” Pen said, following her down the staircase.

“Well, I think this letter business is all a hum.” She paused on the landing and looked at them with a conspiratorial smile. “Yesterday, he went to call upon Marina Buckleigh again. She must have finally received him, for he came back in a foul mood and disappeared to his rooms until this morning. And he’s had some kind of accident he’s being cagey about, for his eye looks quite odd.” Then she turned to her brother and said, “I offered him the closed coach, of course.”

“Of course.” Pen replied quickly as they reached the foyer.

Cortland could see, through the open entry doors, Sefton out on the front drive, helping the footman with his trunks. Evidently he was in a hurry, Cortland mused, strolling outside behind Pen and Vanessa.

“Ah, dear Lady Darley,” Sefton said in his ever-friendly voice, “I cannot thank you and good old Pen enough for your hospitality and I look forward to seeing you in London this spring.”

Sefton then bowed over her proffered hand, as smooth and congenial as ever. He turned to shake hands with Pen and Cortland got a good look at the eye Vanessa mentioned. It looked a little swollen and there was definitely a purple shadow right underneath the eye.

Sefton turned to him then, and without looking at him directly, he extended his hand. “I daresay our paths will cross in London, my lord.”

Cortland took his hand in a firm grip, still looking at the eye, which seemed to make Sefton distinctly uncomfortable. “Possibly, Sefton, possibly.”

With that, Sefton turned to the coach and, before climbing in, he told the coachman he hoped they’d reach Ross-on-Wye before nightfall. With a last salute to Vanessa, he entered the coach and it took off with a lurch.

“I wonder what happened to finally send him off in such a hurry,” Pen asked as the three of them stood on the steps watching the coach head down the drive.

“I believe he had developed a tendre for Miss Buckleigh,” Vanessa offered eagerly. “He must have realized yesterday that she was playing him for a fool and has run off to nurse his wounds. Poor thing.”

“I can hardly believe that,” Pen guffawed.

“You wouldn’t,” Vanessa said airily. “I am to go into the village with Lady Meredith and Eugenia. Oh, they will be most sad that they missed saying good-bye to Sefton.”

“No doubt,” Cortland drawled blandly, “but they’ll get over it.”