To Tempt a Scandalous Lord by Liana De la Rosa
Chapter Sixteen
The clock dinged in the formal parlor. Every chime resonated in Niall’s bones where he sat situated on a plush leather armchair Alicia had insisted he utilize if he wanted to leave his bed and work in his study. And since she had proven herself to be a petite general in stylish day gowns, he hadn’t argued.
It had been three days since the doctor deemed him well enough to leave his sick bed at Little Windmill House for home, yet some sluggishness remained and he tired too easily from the easiest of tasks. Niall hated feeling this frail. And although he tried to mask his aches, he suspected Alicia was aware of his every wince and grunt.
His wife—bless her—didn’t say anything directly about his condition, but she ensured the maids brought him regular tea trays, each laden with foods he liked. Several times she had entered the study, a cloak in hand, requesting he take a turn with her about the garden.
No matter how tired, Niall had not denied any of her requests.
Alicia was a pleasant conversationalist; she was witty and knowledgeable, but she didn’t feel the need to talk simply to fill a silence. She seemed just as comfortable in the stillness of the verdant gardens as she did exchanging droll repartee in a crowded Belgravia drawing room. Her presence by his side had quickly become necessary, and Niall had no notion of how he thought he’d be able to live in the same house with her and not want to claim her as his wife in truth.
A knock sounded on the door, and he sat up straight, smoothing a hand over his cravat. “Come in,” he called.
The Dukes of Ashwood and Darington, as well as Firthwell, entered in a single file, like an unholy trinity of fallen angels. Niall barely managed to stifle his sigh.
“It is good to see you on your feet, Inverray, although you still seem a bit annoyed,” Ashwood quipped, easing onto an armchair a healthy distance away and propping a foot on his knee.
“I suspect it’s because he expected his esteemed wife rather than our ragtag contingent.” Firthwell grinned, even as he inspected the liquor bottles on the sideboard on the other side of the room.
“In fact, I was not expecting you, but that does not signify I’m not pleased you’re here,” Niall allowed.
Darington leaned forward in the seat he’d selected next to Ashwood’s, his gaze sharp on Niall’s face. “But you would have been much more than pleased if your lady wife was here instead.”
Niall looked away, not at all willing to discuss his feelings regarding Alicia. Not when he was still sorting them out himself.
“The man doth protest too much, methinks,” Ashwood murmured.
When Niall sent him a withering look, the men burst into laughter.
“The nature of our visit was not to harass you about the state of your marriage, although you’ve provided us with happy news to report to our own lady wives on that topic.” Firthwell wiggled his brows.
Niall wanted to throttle him.
“We’re here to inquire if you’ve heard the news,” Darington said.
“What news?” Niall blinked. Surely Alicia or Murray would have informed him of any vital bit of information making the rounds.
“There has been talk Medlinger may withdraw his bid.”
“What?” Niall jerked his head back. “Whyever would he do that?”
Firthwell set two glasses of brandy on the table in front of the dukes, but when he delivered a glass to Niall, it contained only water. He met the viscount’s gaze with an annoyed glare, and the man shrugged unapologetically.
“There have been different stories circulating about, and honestly, we can’t vouch for their validity,” Firthwell said, sliding onto his own seat, “but the most prevalent rumor is that he and Grey have had a difference of opinion.”
That made sense. As the sitting Prime Minister, Grey possessed much sway with party leadership, and if he was unhappy with a candidate, it would certainly be enough to ruin the man’s bid. Still, Niall wanted to know what the difference of opinion stemmed from. What did this estrangement mean for his own bid?
Wetting his lips, he forced himself to ask, “And what are people saying about me? Should I be concerned?”
The three men exchanged glances, and finally shook their heads in unison.
Ashwood scoffed. “You’re being hailed a hero.”
“Charlotte has said no less than a half dozen ladies have inquired into becoming a patroness of the Little Windmill,” Firthwell shared.
Niall cleared his throat, and allowed himself a moment to take a sip of water. A second to recover from his embarrassment. “I’m certainly no hero. If anyone deserves praise for keeping the disease from spreading and nursing the afflicted children back to health, it’s my wife. I had not even informed her of what was happening, and she strolled through the door like an archangel, ready to do battle with death.”
The corner of Ashwood’s mouth curved up ever so slightly, softening the edges of his normally reserved mien. “It’s not like you, Niall, to wax poetically.”
No, he supposed not. But then he had a reason for his lyrical thoughts.
Not that he told his friends such.
“Although Lady Inverray encouraged Mrs. Simpson to tell the patronesses that you were responsible for stopping the spread of the disease, our wives knew the truth,” Darington shared.
“So it was Alicia who spread the rumor about—”
“Perhaps,” Ashwood said, “but if your lady wife wishes the credit to be attributed to you, we’ll heed her wishes.”
Niall was at a loss for what to say. What to think. What to feel. His opponent had suffered a setback to his campaign, and now Niall’s bid had been given new life thanks to Alicia’s quick thinking and a surprisingly positive new treatise. Even more, her clever rumor also ensured he had the time needed to fully recuperate.
And perhaps it also granted him the opportunity to start anew with his marchioness. He’d allowed injured pride and resentment to interfere with what could be a happy marriage, but an apology…or two, could change the course of this ship.
The door opened at that moment, revealing the woman at the center of his thoughts. Alicia smiled warmly at his guests, offering each gentleman a greeting, before her gaze landed on him. Niall was perturbed to find her expression as unreadable as it used to be before they married.
But then he hadn’t given her reasons to be open with him.
“Gentlemen, Niall and I were going to sit down for luncheon. Would you care to join us?”
“Only if there are hazelnut tarts. The cook here at Campbell House makes Juliana’s favorite dessert, and I will delight in telling her I enjoyed one or two when I see her this evening,” Ashwood said.
“You would tease my sister so?” Niall asked, shaking his head slowly.
“Of course not. I would save her at least one.” Ashwood laughed when Niall glared at him. “But unfortunately for my sweet tooth, I have another meeting I must attend.”
Darington and Firthwell also made their excuses.
A few minutes later, Niall was walking with his wife on his arm to the dining room. But when they neared the entry to the room, Alicia pulled him in the opposite direction.
“I asked to take our meal on the terrace.” She patted his arm. “I thought the fresh air and sunshine would do you some good.”
Niall agreed, although he did not voice as much. In truth, he was certain that if she wished to dine in the mews, he would consent readily.
Stepping through the double doors that led onto the terrace overlooking the gardens, Niall paused. The servants had laid a table with linens and a spread of cold meats, cheeses, and cobs. A pitcher with lemonade promised refreshment, and his mouth went dry as he watched drops of condensation slide down the glass.
They ate in silence for a time, and Niall allowed the food and peaceful atmosphere to reinvigorate his bones.
At this time of the afternoon, the garden was bathed in golden sunlight, a symphony of birds and bees lending their melodies to the music of the bubbling fountain, and lulling Niall into a relaxation he had not felt in…longer than he could remember.
A gentle breeze ruffled the curls that had slipped from Alicia’s coiffure, brushing against her cheeks as she raised her chin to inhale deeply of floral scents wafting about them. He studied her, still flabbergasted that a woman he treated with such indifference had given him so much.
“They told you, didn’t they?” she murmured, her gaze averted.
“Told me what?” he hedged, curious to learn what she would share.
“That Medlinger and Grey have had a falling-out.”
Stifling a sigh was painful for his lungs. “They did. What do you make of it?”
Alicia slid her eyes to him. “Grey’s endorsement holds a great deal of weight, and many assumed he would tap Viscount Medlinger as his successor. That the men are now in discord with each other, well…the news makes me decidedly elated.”
He chuckled. “There you go being ruthless again.”
“I’m opportunistic.” She lifted her chin. “The reason for Grey and Medlinger’s falling-out is irrelevant to me. But this rumor could be very useful.”
It could. Already his mind was churning with ways his campaign could capitalize on the tension between the two men. He pushed those thoughts aside, though, for at this moment, he had no interest in thinking about politics. Niall simply wanted to enjoy his wife’s company.
“Perhaps when I am ready to get back to work, you would be willing to share how you think I could utilize the rumor,” he said, studying her face covertly.
Although her gaze remained diverted, a touch of pink shaded her cheeks. “I would be pleased to.”
They were silent again, but the moment was comfortable. When was the last time he had felt at ease in Alicia’s presence? Had he ever?
“You’ve received a good deal of mail over the last week,” Alicia said softly, her eyes amused. “Everyone wanted to send best wishes to the Children’s Hero.”
“The Children’s Hero? Are they really calling me that?”
She pressed her lips together, but couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “I’ve seen it used a time or two.”
“Ridiculous,” he said, knowing his outrage only served to amuse her more.
“Be that as it may, I have set aside some cards and letters I thought you might like to see.” Extracting a small stack of mail from the chair next to hers, she handed it to him solemnly.
Frowning, Niall stared at the stack, his eyes drifting over the handwriting on several envelopes, finding none of them familiar. Uncovering a larger parcel, the lilting script caught his attention for it was Mrs. Simpson’s.
With eager hands, he ripped through the heavy paper until a multitude of smaller notes spilled out onto his lap. With a puckered brow, he allowed his fingertips to drift over them until an envelope decorated with carefully cut yellow daisies caught his eye. Niall opened it gingerly, his gaze tracing over the writing as a lump formed in his throat.
Dear Lord Inverray,
We are sorry we made you ill. You are our favorite person, aside from Cook, and your visits are our favorite part of the day. We hope you recover soon so you can visit us again.
Your faithful friends,
Edith and Eunice MacLean
Niall blinked rapidly, his focus on the card blurring. He was horrified to discover twin fires burning behind his eyes, and he fought the urge to rub them with the heels of his palms. Whatever was the matter with him? Surely it was some residual symptom from his cholera bout. Surely.
“I was told the MacLean sisters went through a dozen different flower cutouts until they were satisfied.” Alicia cleared her throat. “Mrs. Simpson said they were distraught when they learned you had fallen ill. They are very fond of you.”
“And I am fond of them.” For all that Alicia had seen him at his worst and never judged him, he still cringed at his hoarse voice.
Alicia’s hand reached across the table, pressing her palm against his and squeezing his fingers. She might not have said it aloud, but that small gesture seemed to convey that, perhaps, his wife was fond of him. If only a little.