A Wedding in Springtime (7 page)

“Thank you, Penelope. I am so glad I have met you today. You have given me hope!”

A sudden silence caught the ladies’ attention. The duke had ceased his rapid narration and stood before them the picture of maligned dignity, one eyebrow aristocratically raised. “I do hope I am not disturbing your conversation.”

“Not at all,” blurted Pen. “Your home is truly impressive.” The ballroom in which they stood was well lit with windows along the far wall. Several crystal chandeliers hung from the ornately painted ceilings. Pen could only imagine the splendor it would be when lit at night. The ballroom appeared to open into a courtyard garden in the back. Pen was curious to have a peek, but Marchford was already walking back to the door.

“I do like the gold and blue wallpaper,” commented Genie.

Marchford turned and glanced around at the walls as if noticing them for the first time. “Yes, I believe my grandmother had everything redecorated in my absence.”

“Then Her Grace has done quite a bit,” commented Pen.

“Yes. She has quite taken command of the house,” replied Marchford, a slight bite to his tone.

“It shall be very hard for her to leave it,” said Pen with more feeling than she ought to have.

“Indeed, I imagine it will be.” This was spoken with cool disregard, and Pen could not help but be annoyed. She opened her mouth in defense of her new mistress, but Marchford stalked out of the ballroom. “The gallery is upstairs.”

Pen bristled under the weight of his disregard. The Duchess of Marchford deserved more compassion than what he deigned to show, and certainly no family member should be cut off from her accustomed funds and banished to the country. Pen followed him into the entrance hall and up the white marble staircase. Marchford walked quickly with long strides and she had to hustle to keep up, with Genie trailing along behind.

At the top of a white marble staircase, the gallery was a long hall, running the length of the spacious house. Large windows illuminated the long row of portraits along the far wall and the elegant marble statues situated artistically throughout the gallery. The sun shone brightly, giving the marble a rosy hue. Marchford strode down the length of the hall, circumventing the marble statues as if an inconvenience, impatiently swatting his riding crop against his thigh.

Pen was forced to pick up her skirts and run a few steps to catch up with him. A glance behind ensured that Genie was sufficiently out of hearing distance, giving Pen the opportunity to speak her mind.

“Forgive me, for it is not my place to say,” began Pen, “but I am shocked at your disregard for what your grandmother will suffer. Forcing her to leave her home, which she so carefully maintained in your absence, is a hardship no person, even such an esteemed person as yourself, should impose on his own grandmother. And leaving a note declaring your intentions to cut off her funds should she disobey you is as cowardly as it is cruel.”

The duke looked down at her with cool civility. “You are right. It is not your place to say.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off down the hall. She had been given the cut direct, which, considering her rather inappropriate outburst, was well deserved. She sighed and walked after him. She was always speaking her mind in a manner most unbecoming in a female. Her outburst was impolitic too, since she had rather hoped to remain in the house more than a few days. She hustled to catch up with him again, knowing what she must do.

“Please forgive my outburst, which reveals so clearly why I am the only Rose sister to remain unmarried. I shall leave your house at once if you wish it,” said Penelope.

Marchford stopped, his back to her. Silence filled the hall and Pen waited on the duke’s timing for when he should next speak.

“You are also right about another thing. It was cowardly.” He turned back to her. “Stay her companion. She will need the company, and it is refreshing to have one not afraid to speak her mind. Perhaps she has not told you, but my grandmother has had many companions in the past. They often do not stay long. You, I am convinced, will not be so easily frightened.”

“I like your grandmother very well,” Pen said with a smile. “Though she can be most insistent when she wants her way.”

“Yes. Quite.” Marchford turned absently to the portraits before him.

“Is this family along the wall?” Pen asked, changing to a safer subject.

“Yes. A long line of Marchfords.”

“And does your portrait hang among them?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Do not, I beg you, put the idea into my grandmother’s head, or I shall find my time consumed with standing for the portrait maker.”

“Being a duke, I presume this fate will befall you sooner or later. I am surprised you have not been forced to sit for a portrait yet.”

“I have been away since my ascension to the title.”

“Is this a portrait of your father?” Pen guessed, motioning toward a man elegantly dressed in a powder blue coat with elaborate gold embroidery and a large, curled white wig.

“Yes, the seventh Duke of Marchford. And next to him his first wife, Sophia of Lincolnshire.” Marchford gestured toward a portrait of a delicate creature with a hint of a smile on her rosebud mouth.

“Charming,” pronounced Pen. “Was the portrait like her?”

“I am told so. I never met her.”

“Oh, did she die in childbirth?”

“Yes, but not giving birth to me.” Marchford pointed at the portrait next to hers of a young man. He resembled Marchford in his eyes, but he had a smaller, more delicate frame like his mother. “This is my elder brother, Frederick, the eighth Duke of Marchford.”

“I did not realize you had an elder brother,” said Pen.

“Yes, poor Frederick was never strong. He had scarlet fever as a boy and never entirely recovered. He died about three years ago.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Marchford stared at the portrait of his brother. “He had been close to death so many times, I never thought he would actually die.”

Despite her resolve to dislike this man, a lump developed in her throat. She remembered all too well the pain of losing her parents. “I felt the same when my parents passed away. They both contracted the fever and were gravely ill. Even after the doctor said there was no hope, I still thought they would recover.”

Silence again filled the hall. Pen expected Marchford to resume his rapid tour of the house, but he remained gazing at the portrait of his brother, his expression unreadable.

“Does your mother’s portrait hang here?” asked Pen, trying to move beyond the somber mood.

“No.” Instead of lightening the mood, Marchford’s face grew more solemn. “Grandmother would never allow it.”

Pen stared at him, surprised. “Your grandmother has chosen a more suitable place?”

Marchford glanced at her, a wry smile on his lips. “According to my grandmother, the most suitable place would have been the burn pile.”

Pen opened her mouth and closed it again. What could she possibly say to that pronouncement?

“If you are to best serve my grandmother, you should understand my father had two wives. One favored”—Marchford motioned toward the pretty picture of Sophia—“one not.” He motioned to himself.

“After his first wife died bringing Frederick into the world,” Marchford continued, “my father married again. Unlike his first marriage, it was not arranged by my grandmother, it was indeed a
love
match
.” He whispered the words, as if revealing a shameful family secret. “My father died in a fire at his hunting box when I was five. My mother and grandmother…” Marchford’s voice trailed off and he exhaled slowly. “My mother’s portrait will never be hung as long as my grandmother lives under this roof.”

“I am sorry,” said Pen weakly. She had been convinced Marchford was heartless for his treatment of his grandmother, but she could see there was considerable family history driving his decisions.

“The billiard room is this way in case you have the desire to play.” Marchford abruptly changed the subject and led her down a side stairwell. The notion of Pen playing billiards was absurd, but she followed along, trying to arrange her thoughts enough to form words.

“The billiard room,” said Marchford, entering an unlit room with rich mahogany woodwork and burgundy velvet curtains. Compared to the airy, white gallery it was a warm, intimate space.

“I believe in love matches,” blurted Pen.

Marchford raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

“Yes. I ensured my sisters all made good matches with men who would not only be able to give them a comfortable life, but also where there was mutual affection.”

Marchford took a step toward her, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. His features were handsome but strong with a decided nose and chiseled jawline. “The Duke of Marchford is engaged to Lady Louisa. It was intended to be my brother, but with the peerage, I also inherited a bride.”

“Perhaps love can grow. Affection can develop between two people who are often in each other’s company.”

Marchford’s eyes never left hers. “Perhaps you are right.”

Pen looked away, wondering why the room had suddenly grown so hot. What could she be thinking, speaking of love matches with the duke? “Thank you for the tour, Your Grace. It was most informative.”

“It seems, Miss Rose, we have a problem,” he drawled in a low tone.

“A-a problem?” she stammered.

“We have lost Miss Talbot.”

Seven

William Grant bounded up the stairs to the front door of the Duke of Marchford’s grand house. “Where’s Marchford?” he asked the dignified butler who answered the bell.

“I believe His Grace is conducting a tour of the house. If you would wait in the drawing room, Mr. Grant, I shall inform His Grace that you have arrived.”

“No need, no need, I shall find him myself. Must dash. Already kept my horse waiting too long. Fine stepper. Not the thing to let him get chilled.”

“But, Mr. Grant,” called the butler, but Grant had already bounded up the marble stairs to the gallery. It is where people generally lingered on tours of the house. He recognized some of the statuary was quite fine, but not as fine as the handsome bit of horseflesh he had recently purchased at Tatt’s, waiting for him outside.

Grant paused for a moment but heard and saw no one. He walked through the gallery at a quick pace, looking for Marchford and wondering if he had gone down to the billiard room. Grant strode past the statues until arrested by a compelling sight. Miss Talbot stood looking up at a marble of Athena drawing her bow.

In the sunlight, her blond curls shimmered. Gowned in all white, had it not been for her golden hair, he might have mistaken her for another marble statue of the female form in perfection. He smiled at her, unable to stop himself.

“Hallo, we meet again.” Grant walked up to Genie, all thoughts of horses forgot.

Genie noted his presence but returned his smile with a frown. “Oh no, not you again.”

“You wound me!” Grant clutched his heart. “Whatever have I done to win such censure?”

“What have you done?” cried Genie. “Why, I have had to endure hours of lecture about you from my aunt. She was quite disapproving of me ‘whispering in the corner of the drawing room’ with you.”

“Your aunt has lectured you about me? You intrigue me. Whatever did she say?”

“For a woman who holds you in such low esteem, she certainly knows a great deal about you.” Genie sat down on a marble bench, her arms crossed before her. She pursed her lips in a manner that showed she was quite put out, but all Grant could see was how kissable those naturally pink lips must be.

“Do tell. I am aquiver with anticipation.”

“Did you know you are the enemy of every decent young woman?”

“No!” Grant sat beside her, his face a picture of mock horror.

“Yes, quite. You are a mother’s worst nightmare, a handsome, well-breeched, pleasant-mannered young gentleman who has sworn off ever entering the married state. Apparently, you have caused the decline of many a foolish miss who has set her cap at you, and you are the bane of your mother’s existence. Do you deny it?”

“I am well chastised indeed.”

“You accept the judgment against you?”

“Well now, I’m not sure I could ever boast of putting a young miss in decline, and as for my mother…” Grant paused and pulled out an elegant snuffbox, rolling it in his fingers a few times before returning it to his pocket. “Come to think of it, I rather think I am the bane of her existence. Or must be, to hear her talk. Mothers do take it as a personal affront if their sons don’t choose to marry.”

“
Only
son,” corrected Genie.

“Guilty as charged, only I had no choice about the
only
part. Would that my parents had produced a half dozen strapping lads.”

“So no one would be bothered by your determination not to wed?”

Grant merely smiled. Truth was, if he had been blessed with brothers, he would not have felt such pressure to wed. He might have even been married now had circumstances been different. He liked ladies as a general rule. He particularly liked the one sitting beside him. “I suppose they warned you against me.”

“I am not to be within a stone’s throw, and then only if etiquette does not allow me to run screaming from the room when you enter.”

Grant smiled, a slow, lazy smile that generally had the effect of making women melt. “Then why are you sitting beside me?” He leaned a little closer, waiting for the swooning to commence.

Genie raised one eyebrow. “You, sir, are an incorrigible flirt.”

Not exactly a swoon—he must be having an off day. “True, true. And yet you are still here beside me.”

Genie waved a hand like she was swatting away a fly. “It can make very little difference at this point. I shall be leaving soon to go back home. I was raised in the country and there I shall return.”

“Do not let this minor incident ruin your entire London season. Come now, you must have more spirit than that.”

“It is not just that. You can have no idea, but my aunt is actually thinking of paying a matchmaker to find me a husband. A shocking amount too, I cannot fathom it.”