To Tempt a Scandalous Lord by Liana De la Rosa

Chapter Fourteen

Alicia was in the small parlor of Little Windmill House, a collection of art projects spread before her. Mr. Newell, the art and music teacher, had tapped her to judge an informal competition he conducted with his older students. They were to take inspiration from popular culture and create a presentation with their vision of the future.

Alicia had expected the demonstrations to be depressing. Even macabre.

Instead, she had been inspired.

She had critiqued a collection of watercolor paintings depicting shuttered collieries and seedlings growing on craggy slopes, as well as models of towns where the homes shared aqueduct-like pipes that snaked through the community like threads from a spider’s web.

Each presentation amazed her, and she feared Mr. Newell would reject her overwhelmingly high scores when she delivered them.

So engrossed was she in her study, Alicia missed the sound of footsteps behind her.

“My lady, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Alicia jerked about, clutching at her chest. Her husband stood just inside the doorframe of the parlor, looking as handsome as ever. He also appeared as forbidding as ever, with a disapproving scowl on his face, but she would not be intimidated.

Niall had not spoken with her since she had inserted herself into his conversation with Lord Matthews two days prior. She didn’t know if he intended to follow his mentor’s advice and that was why she had not seen him…or he had simply not wished to see her.

It was a lowering thought.

The enormity of her new marriage overwhelmed her at times. Their union had been on uneven ground from the moment they took their vows…yet she’d glimpsed enough gentle moments to guess that Niall’s stern exterior hid a tender underbelly he tried hard to conceal. And because she reveled in a challenge, Alicia couldn’t help but to coax those amiable qualities to the surface. Not just for her own edification, but for his, as well.

Still, his formal regard was exhausting.

She exhaled loudly, even while she clasped her hands demurely at her waist. “Where did you expect me to be? After the newest tract released yesterday, Mrs. Simpson said Little Windmill has been inundated with requests for tours and donations. I’m delighted to help.”

What she left unsaid was how the tract praised Niall’s dedication to the youngest members of society with his work at the Home, proving his commitment was not simply a political talking point. The tract had also stressed that with such a leader in Parliament, perhaps child labor reform would finally be addressed, an issue that had started garnering support in ballrooms and drawing rooms across Mayfair.

Alicia was quite proud of the critique and hoped, fervently, it made inroads with those hard-hearted fools stubbornly standing in the way of progress.

“Yes, well”—Niall coughed into his fist—“I had not expected such praise from the writer.”

“Why not?” Alicia pinned him with her gimlet stare. “The essays I’ve read have been fair, even if such fairness has been uncomfortable for you at times.”

He slowly arched a brow.

Smothering a sigh, she thought it best to change the subject. “I didn’t expect you’d be here today. I was told you’d be at Westminster.”

“After reading the new tract, I thought I’d visit and see how things were faring.”

“As you can see, everything is swell.” Alicia swept her arm over the art project spread before her.

Niall took a step closer, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“Mr. Newell has me judging an art competition.” She held up a sketch of aeronautical balloons. “And Mrs. Simpson has already asked for my assistance with the mathematics lesson.”

Niall stared at her for a long moment. “Mathematics?”

“Do you find it hard to believe I could contribute anything to the study of mathematics?” she asked, curling her lip.

“Actually not at all. Considering your strategic mind, I assume you weigh the odds for most things.”

“I try to,” she conceded.

“Well, Matthews has not spoken to me since we were last all here, so perhaps your odds were off for that encounter.”

Mortification swept up her spine in a hot wave, leaving her cheeks burning. “I apologize for overstepping.”

“So you’ve said.” Niall wiped a hand down his face. “Yet the damage has been done.”

Her brows knit together. “The viscount is probably in a pique because someone dared to have a different opinion than his own.”

Her husband merely looked at her.

“Come now, Niall. I was not unkind nor disrespectful to Lord Matthews, and yet you seem determined to cast me as a dime novel villain, intent on ruining your political career.”

“It does not become you to be so dramatic, my lady.”

“And it does nothing for your charm to be so spiteful.”

If a thunderstorm could rage indoors, the animosity and frustration that roared between them could have sparked lightning bolts. They glared at each other, each panting with irritation. All her patience went up in a puff of smoke at just the hint of his sneer.

Niall finally backed away. “While I understand you had the best of intentions, I think it would be best if you refrain from visiting here until after the party vote is over.”

“But why?” Alicia shook her head. “I enjoy my visits and can be of assistance. Is my presence here really so unpleasant?”

“Not unpleasant, just bloody distracting!”

Alicia startled, her jaw falling open. He found her distracting? It should have been a compliment to find one’s wife a tempting diversion…but then why were Niall’s hands balled into fists?

She was trying so very hard to atone for her past criticisms of his political moves, and yet her efforts had just given him more to worry about. “I hate this. I hate that all attempts I’ve made to help you have been for naught. Is this some grudge you’re nursing against me?” Alicia sank onto a chair and rubbed her forehead. “We’re married. It was not your fault and it was certainly not mine. We did what we needed to do to retain our good names. But this rancor that has colored all our interactions as of late is exhausting.”

Niall scrubbed his hand down his face and avoided her eyes. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean anything has changed. My priority is the leadership race, and there my focus must stay.”

Alicia swallowed convulsively. “I understand. As I’ve said, all I’m trying to do is—”

“Help, yes. But it is not your place to help me in this,” Niall said, effectively ending the discussion.

Silence strangled the air.

Alicia struggled to contain her tears of frustration. She understood that he was stressed, and certainly did not want to add to it, but surely there was a way they could work together instead of him pushing her away.

Niall sighed and looked out the window, his gaze trained on the children queued on the walk for their riding lesson. “Little Windmill has long been my escape from politics and politicians. Where I can spend a simple afternoon with the children, baking biscuits or performing monologues in this parlor.” He turned his head to look at her. “But now thanks to that bloody new tract, my refuge is to be invaded by the ton. Mrs. Simpson said she’s received several inquiries about becoming a benefactor, and one gentleman specifically mentioned my leadership bid.”

“But that is good news,” she whispered.

“Yes, all very promising for the home, for all that I’m annoyed. But then I see you here,” his gray eyes roved over her face, “and I can’t help but fear you’ll let your passion, your ever-clever tongue, alienate these potentially beneficial contacts.”

His words shot ice through her veins, and Alicia clamped her teeth together to hide how her chin trembled.

“I just need some space, Alicia.” He pivoted to stare out the window again, leaving her staring with watery eyes at his back. “I am trying to save my bid for Prime Minister, whilst dealing with a contentious committee. I do not have the time nor inclination to tend to my marital problem as well.”

She was a marital problem. It pierced her pride. Her heart. It was like a twig striking a beleaguered dam, and Alicia jumped up before all her tears burst through her barriers and cascaded down her face.

“Well, allow me to bother you no further. I will keep to Campbell House and leave the home to you.” Donning her dignity like a cloak, she curtsied. “My lord.”

When she entered the foyer, Alicia found she did not have to summon her carriage for it awaited her on the curb.

Charlotte appeared out of a side door, her expression gentle. “I took the liberty of calling for your conveyance. I hope it was the right thing to do.” She grasped Alicia’s hand. “The walls are thin, my dear. It was impossible not to overhear.”

Pressing a hand to her mouth, unable to speak as shame choked her, Alicia eventually nodded.

Stepping forward, Charlotte wrapped her in a hug. “Marriage is hard, even for those of us who’ve done it before. Don’t let this conversation define the entirety of your union.”

Alicia hiccupped by way of response.

Releasing her, Charlotte offered a gentle smile. “I’ll visit on the morrow. Until then, be kind to yourself.”

Alicia jerked her head in thanks, and walked outside at a sedate pace. Once she was seated on the squab and the carriage was rolling down the street toward Campbell House, Alicia finally allowed herself the luxury to cry.

…

Niall stared at the closed door his wife had disappeared through, his emotions in tumult and his thoughts a scattering of dust tossed about on the breeze. He’d done it again. And she’d run off again. Only this time with tears in her beautiful eyes.

This was supposed to be a marriage of convenience. Scandal had brought them together and their marriage was to protect their good names whilst they continued to lead their separate lives. As a future duke, family was a matter of duty, not of love.

But Niall had utterly failed to acknowledge that he’d never viewed Alicia as anything resembling a convenience.

In truth, he’d desired her, coveted her from the first, and suppressing his incessant draw to her taxed his patience. His resolve. This bewitching woman haunted his thoughts to the point that he could focus on little else. Niall had barely comprehended a word shared in his committee meeting that morning, and accidentally forgotten a lunch he had scheduled with an elector because his mind had been absorbed with the haughty lift of her brow and the curve of her lips.

Worse still, he’d overheard a group of gentlemen at his coffee shop joking about how he’d been a bit absentminded since his wedding. Then one had shared how Matthews had mentioned the new Lady Inverray fancied herself to be politically shrewd, so perhaps they could expect her to be writing his proposals from now on.

Just thinking about the exchange made him want to put his fist through something.

Niall tugged on his cravat, desperate to relieve the pressure building in his chest and up his throat. Why did his raw emotions come roaring to the surface wherever Alicia was concerned?

Had he really raised his voice to her? Had he truly called her a marital problem? It was no mystery why the color had bled from her face, and her exquisite brown eyes had grown shiny. The sight had cut Niall to the quick. That he had replaced the sparkle in her gaze with sadness made him a veritable villain.

Before he could wallow in his contrary emotions, a knock at the door reminded Niall where he was. Taking a quick moment to straighten his person, he called, “Come in.”

Lady Firthwell’s dark head appeared around the door. “If you’re not busy, my lord, I had hoped you could spare a moment to visit little Edith MacLean. She’s taken ill recently, and her sister mentioned it would bring her cheer to receive a visit from you.”

Edith was sick? Why had he not been told?

Probably because you were arguing with your wife, his traitorous mind told him.

Illnesses were not uncommon in a house full of children, but it always made him uneasy when a youngster fell sick, especially when it was a wee lass like Edith.

Smothering the tumult of emotions erupting in his chest, Niall nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m sure she would appreciate it.” Lady Firthwell gestured to a door down the hall. “Mrs. Simpson can escort you. Since I’m expecting, I promised Finlay I would avoid any ill children.”

“Very wise of you.” Niall offered her a polite bow. “I best see to our little patient. Hopefully it’s just a bit of the ague.”

Yet when he entered the girl’s room, it was clear that what afflicted her was much more than a cold.

Edith lay curled in a fetal position, a tiny figure in the large bed. Her skin was waxen, and her eyes were sunken into her little face. A bucket sat beside her bed, and Niall did not have to look at it to know it had been utilized frequently. Her sister, Eunice, sat on the cot next to her, holding a wet cloth to the girl’s mouth and encouraging her to drink from it.

Fear coursed like a drug through Niall’s blood. “Lady Firthwell didn’t mention she was faring so poorly,” he whispered to Mrs. Simpson, who sat in a chair in the corner of the room.

“That’s because I didn’t tell her.” The older woman wrung her hands together. “Edith deteriorated so quickly, I was caught unaware.”

Niall studied the young girl. What ailment had struck her so swiftly?

“Thank you for your help, Annie,” Mrs. Simpson said to a maid who had gathered a set of soiled sheets in a basket. “How many times have you had to change them this hour?”

“This is the second time this hour, ma’am.” Annie bobbed respectfully, then hoisted her load onto her hip. “She keeps getting worse. Poor child.”

“Do you have an idea of what she may have?” Niall asked.

Mrs. Simpson pressed her lips together and slowly shook her head. “I don’t. She complained about feeling poorly this morning at breakfast, and vomited not long after.”

“Are any of the other children showing similar symptoms?”

“Hannah complained of an upset stomach, and two of the younger boys have had several accidents today.” The older woman clenched her eyes shut. “I had not thought them related, but now I’m not so sure.”

Niall did not like the sound of things. “We should isolate the sick children into one room until we learn what they’re suffering from.” It wouldn’t do if everyone fell ill.

Working his jaw, Niall approached Eunice, dropping to the balls of his feet in front of her. “How are you feeling, child?”

The girl shook her head back and forth, her mouth set into a mulish line. “I’m well enough to care for my sister.”

“That didn’t answer my question, though,” he said as gently as possible.

Eunice met his gaze, fear palpable in her blue eyes. “I feel f—”

Her words cut off when she abruptly leaned past Niall to vomit in the bucket. Drops of spittle sprayed onto his hands, and he fished out a handkerchief to wipe them off, before offering it to Eunice.

“I think it’s time to get you to a bed,” he declared, nodding at Mrs. Simpson over his shoulder.

“But I don’t want to leave Edith,” she cried weakly, leaning over to press her face to her sister’s arm.

Niall brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You don’t have to leave her. We’ll set your bed up right here next to her.”

This seemed to satisfy the girl, who nodded wordlessly.

Rising to his feet, Niall met Mrs. Simpson just outside the room. “We need to quarantine the other children now.”

“I’ve already sent word to the teachers.”

Niall glanced back through the door to where the MacLean sisters lay huddled. He had intended for his visit to the home to be a short one, yet he couldn’t leave knowing the girls were so ill. Mentally creating a list of what meetings he needed to cancel and potential benefactor visits to postpone, he paused when his thoughts drifted to Alicia. She would want to know what was happening, and she would no doubt insist on helping the staff care for the children.

Yet the situation was stressful enough without worrying about his vexing, alluring wife being nearby. And if she were to become ill…well, he wouldn’t allow himself to consider it.

Niall exhaled, refocusing on the sisters. His eyes snagged on a new stain on the sheets and his stomach dropped. “It appears we need to change Edith’s sheets again.”

“The poor sprite.” Mrs. Simpson rubbed her forehead. “I’ll speak with the maids about alternating the washing schedule so we ensure an inventory of clean linens.”

“And I’ll send around a note to the physician,” Niall said, turning immediately to see to the task.

“Do you believe he’ll come?” the older woman called after him.

A fierce determination settled in his bones. “Oh, I’ll make sure of it.”