The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Eight

A

t the top of the stairs, Ginny and Brock were intercepted by a young girl. Her mob cap did a poor job of keeping her unruly hair from her eyes. “I’m Ina, my lady. The Lilac room is this way.”

Brock’s expression marbleized.

Ginny’s patience fled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Quit playing the high-handed lord of the manor. You have no rights over me,” she whispered hotly. She threw back her shoulders and stalked after Ina down a softly lit hall. The farther they went, the more confused and uneasy she became. “Isn’t this the family wing?”

“’Tis close, milady.” Ina threw open an oak-paneled door and disappeared across the threshold.

“But… but—why?” She was flabbergasted.

“’Tis our finest guest chamber, my lady.” The vast room was decorated in shades of soft violet, ivory, and leafy greens.

Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my. It’s lovely.” She stepped over the threshold, awed, and ran her fingertip over an elaborate vanity. Everything was perfect. Afternoon sunlight streamed through sheer linings, and a small fire blazed in the hearth. The room was lovely.

She set her reticule on the settee. Perhaps there was an advantage. Brock would never dare flouting society by sneaking into the “almost” family wing. “This shall do quite nicely.”

Ina nodded then slipped out.

The door shut with a soft click, and Ginny unpinned her hat and went to the mirror. She studied her reflection. Her maid, Nancy, had done a stellar job on her hair. It was only a tad loose from Brock’s clumsy assault in the carriage. She fluffed the small curls lining her forehead that covered the two-inch scar at her hairline. Having survived her late husband’s attack was a miracle in and of itself, and while the style was not the latest, all-in-all it flattered her heart-shaped face.

A small creak startled Ginny. She spun around, heart pounding. Her hand splayed across her chest, her breath escaping in an audible whoosh. “Good heavens, Nancy, you startled the life out of me.”

“Sorry, my lady. I was sent to the wrong room.” She glanced about before settling her gaze back on Ginny. “This one’s nicer. Farther from the guests though,” she said, brows beetled. “They’re coming in droves.”

“Hmm” was Ginny’s noncommittal response. “Ring for water, would you?”

“Of course, ma’am. Your bags are on their way—” A soft knock sounded, and blast if Ginny’s heart didn’t skip another few beats. What in heavens was she waiting for? Brock to break in and ravish her silly?

“That’s likely them now.” Nancy opened the door.

It was.

Brock watched the maid lead Ginny away, noting their direction with impending doom. Lord and Lady Kimpton had disappeared within their own room, Thorne shooting him a sardonic grin as he’d shut the door with a decided click.

“Your room is this way, my lord.”

Startled back to his surroundings, Brock tamped back the inclination to shove the housekeeper out of the way and sprint after Ginny. He did not have a good feeling about her “new” accommodations. Lady Griston did not want her about, and Griston…well, Brock didn’t want to even think what Griston’s intentions were.

For a country party, dinner was too elaborate an affair for Brock’s taste. He watched with growing resentment how Ginny had been so conveniently located next to Griston. His head bent close to hers, his beady eyes roved over the décolleté of her modest bosom. The man should be after some debutante, not a widow with two young girls to raise. The man’s sudden attention in Ginny did not ring true. What the devil was he up to?

Ginny’s laughter pealed a little too loudly over the others seated about her. The Peachornsbys and Martindales flinched. Not Brock. That laughter reassured him. It meant Griston made her nervous. And a nervous Ginny was much better than a complicit Ginny. For the first time since he’d seen her at the musicale, Brock relaxed. And to think he’d almost not attended the silly event.

He dipped his spoon in a tasteless turtle soup and sipped. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find the Lilac room. His fantasies of storming her chamber later kept him silently entertained. Contrary to what she’d told him earlier, they would be having that talk.

“It appears your conversational skills have declined since last we met.” The soft voice next to him managed to break his concentration on the sight at the other end of the table.

He turned slowly, a wry grin touching him. “My abject apologies, Lady Alymer. I seem to be wearing my heart on my sleeve.”

She smiled, a lovely, genuine smile. “You are at that, my lord.” She picked up her wine, using her glass to shield her low-spoken words. “You are wise to watch her, sir. Griston is not a man to be trifled with.”

For the first time since Brock had arrived at Griston Park, his full attention shifted from Ginny to Lady Alymer. She was not what one would consider a first-rate beauty. Her hair was a tad too red, and freckles covered her nose despite the powder she wore, but her eyes—her eyes were her loveliest feature. They were a bright and lively blue that would rival the Mediterranean Sea. He lowered his voice to match hers, viscerally aware of the slow rage inside him building. “Did he treat you to any indignities? Will I need to thrash him to within an inch of his life?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “But…well, it’s no secret he was on excellent terms with the late Maudsley. That alone makes me wary of the man.” She angled her glass in the direction of the new earl. “’Tis a shame he shares a name with the late Maudsley. That alone is enough to send me racing in the opposite direction.”

Brock liked her. “What brought you to his house party, if I may be so bold?”

She smirked, tipping her head in another direction across and up the table. “You have met my mother Lady Ingleby?”

He glanced to the woman in question. “Er, ah, yes.” The matriarch was as broad as her daughter was thin and was well-known for her ambitions. Her sharp, calculating glint seared him, and Brock fought an inclination to tug at his collar. “I take your meaning.”

Lady Alymer leaned back, raising her glass, her soft laugh escaping. “Don’t worry, my lord. I am a widow. She can’t force me on anyone I don’t choose, and I suspect your affections are otherwise engaged.”

Once more his gaze found and lingered on Ginny. He watched as she listened intently to something Griston was saying, renewing his irritation to see the new earl of Maudsley hovering just as closely at her other elbow. The hairs on his body prickled with silent warning.

“You mustn’t scowl so,” Lady Alymer chastised. She tapped her glass to his then sipped. “I shall assist you in diverting Griston or any others from her.”

Her kindness touched him. “Thank you, Lady Alymer. I humbly admit, any help will be appreciated.”

Her expression turned fierce. “Not at all. It is I who owe you, my lord.”

Startled, his eyes moved back to her. She’d lowered her glass and was staring down at the contents. “Pardon?”

“Last year.” She raised her gaze to his. “Don’t you remember, sir? You shielded me from Lord Maudsley at a most opportune moment.”

Heat crawled up his neck. Maudsley indeed had cornered Lady Alymer just as supper had been called. He had forgotten that incident at Griston’s London ball last year in one of the few appearances he’d made at the time. Ginny’s history with and public anger toward Brock had been too well known for both of them to disappear for any length of time.

Hiding Ginny from her horrid, abusive husband had been an act of crime for which Brock could have been prosecuted. Yet he would gladly do it again and again. The task in attending enough events to stave off the worst of the gossipmongers had fallen on him as Ginny was fighting for her very life.

A bored ton lived for the slightest titillating snippets that could ravish a person’s soul as thoroughly as a fast-moving fire across a wheat field in a drought.

“You were quite the hero, my lord.” She patted his hand, breaking the solemnness of the moment. “Don’t worry. I shan’t tell anyone.”

He shot her a mischievous grin. “I vow, my lady, you will make someone”—he punctuated his words with a wink—“a very happy man one day.” He glanced down the table where, lo and behold, Ginny’s murderous gaze pierced him, her lips turned down.

The band across his chest broke, and his grin widened. He angled his glass toward Lady Alymer’s. “A very happy man.”

Lady Alymer grinned back. “My mother is watching, my lord. Beware.”

Brock laughed. It felt good, despite the others’ speculative looks narrowing on them. “Your mother doesn’t frighten me,” he said, smiling. He sobered. “On a more serious note, don’t put yourself in harm’s way. There are knaves afoot. For my part, I vow I shall have Lady Maudsley eating out of my hand before the weekend is out. Mark my words.” One could hope.

“Warning received, Lord Brockway.” She lifted her wine in a small toast. “May Lady Maudsley come to her senses quickly if only to save your sanity,” she teased.

He clinked his glass to hers. “Sanity indeed.” A truer understatement had never been uttered.