The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Twenty-Seven
T
here wasn’t much time to notify the servants of our arrival,” Lorelei said when they pulled up to a dark house. But the front door opened as they descended the carriage. “Oh, Quinn. Please let Mrs. Metzger know we shall need several chambers made up. Including the nursery.”
Ginny hurried to the second carriage, anxious to see how the girls had managed with Nathan. Miss Lambert and the maids appeared, then Celia, who said, “Nathan is sleeping, Mama. I doubt he will wake the rest of the night. We kept him entertained with songs. He only cried twice.” She ran for the front door.
“Irene?”
“I’m coming, Mama. Can you take him? He is quite worn out.”
“Of course.” Ginny took the sleeping one-year-old. He never stirred. “He’s eaten?”
“Yes. Our basket is depleted.” Irene stepped down and shook out her wrinkled pinafore. “Did you eat?”
“Not much,” Ginny admitted. “We were busy talking. I wouldn’t mind a fortifying cup of tea.” She took Irene’s hand, and they meandered to the portico.
Irene’s gaze took in the two carriages. “Where are the men?”
“They stopped at the chapel in the village. They must make the arrangements for Lady Harlowe.”
“Oh, of course.” The trees billowed in the light wind, and a faint whistle, almost human sounding, claimed the silence. Irene shivered and rubbed her arms. “It’s quite unnerving, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I feel like I hear words I can’t comprehend,” Ginny answered.
Nervous laughter sounded from her daughter. “’Tis exactly how it sounds.”
The next day, rain hit with the force of Mother Nature’s full countenance. Brock refrained from accompanying Kimpton back to the village chapel. He just couldn’t shake the uneasiness that had swept through him the day before and into the night. The odd chanting that sang through the trees hadn’t seemed to breach the walls inside the house, but that failed in comforting him.
Lady Alymer, Lady Kimpton, and Ginny were having tea in the library surrounded by tall shelves filled with books and a blazing fire in the hearth. Irene and Celia were intensely ensconced in their lessons with their governess. The last he’d checked, they were studying French. That had been fifteen minutes ago. The baby was sleeping soundly in his crib with Peg keeping vigil. So why was he so on edge?
He paced the hallways, half expecting specters to float out from the study, the dining hall, the empty bedrooms, up the stairs to the nursery, and back down the stairs to the library. Everywhere dancing shadows were made deeper with flickering candlelight.
On his third trek past the nursery, the door flew back, startling him. Celia bounded out, catching sight of him. “Lord Brockway.” She set her stance and drew up her fists. “Show us how to punch a blighter in the nose.”
He glanced over her shoulder at Miss Lambert, whose lips tightened and eyes narrowed. Just as quickly, her expression cleared, and she faced him solemnly, blankly, with her hands clasped before her.
Perhaps that was the answer, then. Vigorous exercise. Safeguarding lessons. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be the only restless one on the premises. Obviously, Miss Lambert did not fall within that category.
He glanced at Irene. “What of you, my lady? Are you up for another lesson?”
“Yes, my lord. I think that may be just what’s needed.”
“Excellent. Change your clothes and meet me in the ballroom. Will ten minutes suffice?”
“Yes.” Celia dashed to her bedchamber.
Irene following serenely in her wake, called over her shoulder, “After I check on Nathan, my lord.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, the tension eased from his shoulders. Today, he would show them how to break free if someone was truly forward and grabbed them by the waist.
“What on earth is that racket? Your daughters must have completed their lessons.” Maeve’s fingers moved quickly, efficiently, and impressively across the sampler she was stitching.
Ginny angled her head, smiling at the distinct patter of steps thumping down the staircase. To her surprise, they didn’t burst through the library door. Instead, muted voices moved past, Celia’s exuberance being the most distinguished, followed by the deeper tones of Brock. Irene was too soft spoken for Ginny to hear, but she knew her older daughter was close on their heels. Composedly, of course.
The image had her grinning. “I suspect they are moving into the physical aspect of their lessons,” she said.
She exchanged a look with Lorelei, and they broke out in a laugh.
“Again, I find myself at a loss,” Maeve said, her fingers never breaking stride.
Lorelei kept silent, and Ginny appreciated her respect in deciding whether or not to bring Maeve into their confidence. She studied the too-bright red of her hair that was clipped back from her face and hung down her back, the myriad freckles covering her nose. “Lord Brockway is instructing Irene and Celia in safeguarding themselves.”
Her flying fingers halted. “He’s what?”
“Teaching them to defend themselves against nefarious scoundrels and their deeds.”
“How on earth is he…?” Her words sputtered off in a trail of disbelief.
Ginny was struck with a mischievous inspiration. She leaned forward and set her tea on the table, then shot them a conspiratorial look. “Would you like to see?”
Lorelei jumped to her feet. “My curiosity outranks decorum.”
Maeve set her embroidery aside and rose too. “I can hardly pass up such an opportunity. Truly, this is… scandalous.”
“A word of warning. I suspect the girls have donned knickers. Keep your gasps to openmouthed, silent gapes.” Ginny led them out of the library. “My guess is the ballroom,” she whispered.
They nodded and followed, all tiptoeing as if they walked on eggshells.
Ginny twisted the knob and cracked the door, listening, then proceeded in, her slippers moving stealthily over the carpet.
The Kimptons’ country house ballroom was not as large as their London home ballroom. The solid wood floor was covered with a brilliant Aubusson, and only two chandeliers hung from the barrel-shaped ceiling. Each corner sported elaborate lattice woodwork that wound up from a decorative cornice border that wrapped the room. Floor-to-ceiling arched windows covered the far wall. That was where Ginny spotted Brock and the girls working. No fire burned in the large grate, so the room was cool, but that didn’t seem to affect the ensuing lesson in progress.
She put a finger to her lips then waved Lorelei and Maeve in. Ginny slammed her hand over her mouth as the spectacle registered from across the room. This was what things had come to. Teaching her beautiful daughters to fend for themselves.
“Heavy,” he said. Irene was indeed wearing her knickers and was bending over Brock’s arm. “Make yourself as heavy as you can. Dead weight if you will.”
“I’m trying.” Irene’s head hung near the floor, her loose hair muffling her voice. Ginny could never remember seeing Irene so… childlike. The sight stole her heart.
“Now, walk your feet about, so my foot is between yours.”
She did as he instructed. Ginny couldn’t imagine what Lorelei and Maeve must be thinking.
“Take both of your hands and grab my heel. At the same time, sit on my knee. Yes. Now pull! Straight up.”
Brock’s patience with them stole deep within her soul.
She watched in morbid fascination as Brock fell hard to the floor on his backside.
“Then run,” he shouted, leaning back on his elbows. He rose gracefully to his feet. “Once more, then we shall allow Lady Cecilia a turn.”
They went through the process again, only faster this time. When Brock fell again, Irene’s delighted laughter reached across the room, shattering the hard shell around Ginny’s heart into a million fragments she could never piece together again. She backed quickly from the ballroom, blinking rapidly, her breaths coming sharp and fast. There was nothing Brock could have said or shown her to convince her more of the sincerity of his regard.
Maeve and Lorelei quickly followed.
“Ginny, what is it, dear?” Lorelei took her arm and led her back to the library. “I admit, the sight was shocking, but oh my, Brockway was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
Ginny dropped in her chair, unable to stem her tears, her stomach coiled into knots at the realization that she was terrifyingly, devastatingly still in love with John Brown, the Marquis of Brockway. “Yes. He was, wasn’t he?”
“You know, you could do worse than Lord Brockway,” Maeve told her.
I already have.
“Again,” Brock told a surprisingly cheerful Irene. “We shall do this until you land me on my backside for real.”
The ballroom doors clanked shut, sending an echo through the empty hall. He’d seen Ginny and her companions steal in to observe. He’d almost laughed aloud at their gaping expressions. Then suddenly, Ginny had backed away and was gone, the others hurrying after her. Why had Ginny run? What had he done?
“I want my turn.” Cecilia was the most adorable child. He forced a small chuckle at her impatience. He hated the idea of Irene and Celia having to resort to these safeguarding lessons. It was a somber thought. He planted his fists on his hips, eyeing the spot near the vacated fireplace thoughtfully.
The new earl would eventually want to take up residence in Maudsley House. And Brock did not favor Ginny remaining as any part of that household when the time came. She belonged with him. T’was the bottom line.
Determination crystalized his resolve. Upon his return to London, he would set his stratagems in motion. There was no reason to delay; in fact, there was every reason to hasten. How else was he to protect what he valued most in this world?
He forced himself to concentrate on the now. It was important. To Irene and Cecilia. And to Ginny. This was for them. “Excellent, Lady Irene. Let us see if Lady Celia can affect the same result. She is much smaller,” he teased.
The children were abed, the house was warm, dinner superb. Despite his distraction with the girls, Brock still hadn’t been able to shake his uneasiness.
Lorelei had chosen to have dinner served in the morning room. “This room is much more intimate than the formal dining hall and easier to heat,” she’d said.
Now Brock met Kimpton’s eyes then looked around the table at the others, settling on Ginny. His entire body clenched with need.
Kimpton made the announcement. “Tomorrow we shall head back to London after the service for Corinne.”
Ladies Kimpton, Alymer, and Maudsley all frowned.
“Surely you don’t mean for all of us to attend the service?” Lorelei said.
Brock took up the explanation. “Yes. It feels too vulnerable in the country, too isolated.”
A slight smile touched Lorelei. “The rector will not like that. He is a stodgy old man, set in too much tradition when it comes to women and children attending a service for the dead.” She turned to Ginny, laying her hand over hers. “How do you feel about this, my dear?”
Ginny blinked back the shiny glistening of tears. “I hate it. I hate that Irene and Celia are forced to learn to protect themselves. I hate that danger hovers over us like a black cloud.”
Brock’s fist clenched in his lap.
“But I cannot thank all of you enough for your friendship and understanding and discretion for the eccentricities I seemed to have acquired in the recent past. I am very blessed that Irene and Celia are strong enough to handle the truths that appear to come their way with the frequency of the minutes passing.” Her eyes met his. “The rector does not have our worries at this time. We will be honored to say our farewells to Lady Harlowe tomorrow and return directly to London.”
Brock let out a relieved breath.
After dinner broke up, he slipped out of the house and walked the perimeter. The rain had ceased, but it was only temporary. The trees still rattled with an unexplained eeriness. He stepped back inside just as the onslaught let loose.
“Brock? I’ve been waiting for you to return.”
He froze. “Ginny?” She stood in a dark nook, her expression shadowed, making it impossible to read.
She stepped into the low sconced lighting of the foyer, her eyes full of an emotion that filled him with hope. She held out her hand, and he was lost.
He pulled her into his chest, cupped the nape of her neck, and kissed her as if there were no more tomorrows.
Brock’s lips sealing hers felt like coming home. And terrified her. The whirling vortex of emotion swallowed her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. She took his tongue in her mouth and stroked. The friction was hot enough to keep the house fires burning for another century.
He broke away, and her lips tingled against the now cool air touching them.
“This is mad,” he whispered. “Where is everyone?”
“In the drawing room,” she said on a breathless rush. “I-I wished to talk to you. There are things… things that need to be said—” Two fingers stayed her words.
He glanced about. “The morning room should still be warm, if that will work.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
He took her hand, and she followed. He could lead her into the gates of hell and she would still follow.
Once inside, she pulled her hand away and went to a cozy sitting area before the low fire in the grate. She sat down and stared into the embers, trying to think of how best to form her words. To her dismay, he remained standing. Nothing for her ever came easy.
A long moment went by. She inhaled deeply, letting the air out slowly. She looked up at him. “Thank you.”
His brows met in a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand.”
She smiled. “No. I don’t suppose you do. This afternoon, seeing you with the girls. Your patience, your drive, and your commitment to seeing through a task you’ve undertaken”—she coughed out a choked laugh—“that you didn’t want to do, yet applied your honesty, your integrity. I’m ashamed—”
He was beside her in an instant. “Ginny, don’t—”
“No. Please.” She gripped his hand, meeting his gaze head-on. “I’m ashamed. You saved my life. Maudsley would have returned and killed me, you know.”
He flipped his hand, squeezing hers. “It was my greatest fear.”
“But you took my girls, made certain they were safe. Nursed me back to life.”
“To be fair, that was my valet, Punkle.”
She ignored him, desperate to get the words out. “You kept Maudsley away. All at your own peril. You make light, but you… you are a true hero.”
“And you are my heroine, darling. Don’t you see?”
If only that were the case. She shook her head, unable to speak. The tears escaped and trekked down her cheeks.
He brushed them away. “Marry me, Ginny. Please.”
But she couldn’t. He didn’t know everything. She leaned forward, cupped his jaw, still unable to form the words, and kissed the side of his lips. “You are… everything. Everything any woman could dream,” she whispered, then stood hurried from the room.
