By Love Undone Page 2

  Maddie frowned. She hadn’t considered that. It made sense that a meddling, busybody nobleman would think a woman incapable of her duties, however proficient she’d been with them over the past four years. “Yes, how noble, indeed.”

  For the forty-seventh time, Quinlan Ulysses Bancroft lost his place in Ivanhoe. He dropped the book onto the black leather seat beside him and, holding onto his hat with one hand, leaned his head out the window. “Really, Claymore, must we take a census of every wheel rut, rock, and puddle in Somerset?”

  The groom’s face appeared over the high corner of the coach. “Sorry, my lord,” he said, and vanished again. “If you don’t mind my saying,” his voice drifted back, “it’s my thinking that King George ain’t traveled upon these roads lately.”

  Quin sat back and resumed reading, until another hard bump jolted him against the cushions. “Lucky George,” he muttered.

  Reluctantly he set the book aside again and stretched his long legs out to rest them on the opposite seat. With a sigh he settled back to watch southern Somerset County pass by outside. At least the weather had turned agreeable, and the green, tree-covered countryside smelled more of meadow grass than it did of cattle.

  The marquis pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and glanced down at it. By his estimation, another twenty minutes or so should finally put him at Langley Hall. Three damned days in a coach, with a perfectly good mount tethered behind. He might have left his luggage to follow and ridden on to Langley in half the time—except that the duke, his father, had written to indicate that he would arrive on the fifteenth.

  Uncle Malcolm would undoubtedly take a hasty arrival as a threat against his management of Langley. And if there was one thing Quin did not wish to do, it was to further the antagonism between Lewis and Malcolm Bancroft. So he would not, under any circumstance, arrive before the fifteenth.

  Little as he relished the idea of being his father’s sacrificial lamb, the seven years of silence between the Bancroft brothers had long been a topic of jest and gossip in London’s highest circles. Uncle Malcolm had always been his favorite relation, and even if it meant spending time with the rustics, he intended to do his damnedest to see that the wags were finally silenced. It looked very shabby and set a poor precedent before the rest of the nobility.

  With any luck, he should be able to organize Langley’s books and get the crop in the ground with little bother—which hopefully would make Uncle Malcolm look more favorably on making amends with his brother, which hopefully would leave His Grace feeling more amenable toward everyone in general.

  And if events transpired as smoothly as he hoped, he would even have time to return to Warefield for a few weeks before the Season began. Lord knew, the coming summer would leave him little time for himself. Once he arrived in London his first task would be to make wedding arrangements, and the remainder of his social engagements would stem from that.

  Quin stretched, yawning. Eloise had been dropping more hints than usual in her letters lately, and their understanding needed to be formalized. At least marriage looked to be fairly painless—so the sooner, the better. The duke’s grumbles about grandchildren had grown into bellows—as if he needed another excuse to bellow.

  “My lord,” Claymore called from his perch, “Langley, I believe.”

  Quin shifted to look out the opposite window. Sprawling at the top of a slight rise and overlooking a quaint wildflower garden and a small forest glade, Langley Hall rose red and white into the cloud-patched noon sky. Barely more than a cottage by London standards, the estate did offer some of the best fishing in Somerset—small recompense though that was for the journey.

  “I’ll have stew of you, ye blasted beast!”

  A gargantuan cream-colored pig squealed and ran full tilt across the road. A farmer followed by another man and a red-faced woman, all brandishing pitchforks and rakes, headed at full speed after it. The high-spirited coach horses skittered sideways, nearly dumping the lot of them into the spiny hedge bordering the road.

  “Whoa, lads!” Claymore bellowed, while Quin slammed into the side of the coach and lost his hat to the floor. “Apologies, my lord!” the groom called. “Damned country folk. No manners at all!”

  The marquis leaned down and retrieved his chapeau. “Splendid,” he sighed, dusting off his hat and resettling it on his head. “Country folk. Bloody marvelous.”

  Chapter 2

  “He’s here! He’s here!”

  Madeleine jumped at the kitchen maid’s excited pronouncement of the bad news. The Marquis of Warefield had arrived, and exactly on time. No doubt he considered it gauche to arrive late—though she’d been hoping he’d be delayed.

  She wanted to run to the nearest window and look for herself, if only to confirm that the nightmare had begun. But she’d seen hundreds of carriages before, and more than her share of English lords. And the good Lord knew they weren’t worth gawking at; in fact, they weren’t worth much of anything at all.

  She doggedly finished stitching the brim of last year’s yellow spring bonnet. With a little luck it should last her through the summer, anyway. Out of necessity her sewing skills had greatly improved over the last few years, but she was still surprised when she turned the hat to view it and found that the repairs actually looked quite satisfactory.

  “He’s here, Miss Maddie! Come quickly!” Mrs. Hodges exclaimed.

  “I know, I know,” she said, though she doubted Bill Tomkins or the housekeeper heard her as they hurried past the open morning room door. Blowing out her breath, she set the bonnet aside and went to join the others.

  “Oh, look at that, Mrs. Hodges! What a fine carriage!” Tomkins said. He craned his tall frame and peered out the foyer window over the other servants’ heads. “I’d wager the King himself has none finer.”

  Even the normally impassive Garrett was fidgeting. His gaze traveled from the window to the grandfather clock in the hallway and back again, as though he were trying to judge the precise moment he should open the front door to achieve the greatest effect.

  “Don’t worry, Garrett,” Maddie said encouragingly. “I imagine the marquis will caterwaul from time to time, but I’m certain he won’t bite.”

  Garrett glanced at her. “You may be confident of that, but you’ve never encountered the rest of the Bancrofts. I’ve no intention of making a false step in Lord Warefield’s presence.”

  “Oh, please. The only difference between a noble and a pauper is that one can afford to be rude, and the other can’t.”

  From the annoyed looks and disapproving comments sent in her direction, none of the other servants was particularly interested in hearing further ruminations on the topic from her. Maddie rolled her eyes and purposely stayed back from the excited crowd at the window. They’d see soon enough how little their overstuffed hero resembled their worshipful imaginings.

  The rumble of hoofbeats neared, to the accompaniment of the creaking clatter of a large carriage. Garrett tugged once more at his coat, nodded at the assembled servants, and flung open the double front doors. The procession of Langley employees, pulling at neckcloths and straightening apron ribbons, streamed out the door and down the shallow steps to line either side of the front walk.

  Following them, Maddie stepped onto the short, wide marble portico where she could watch without being obvious about it.

  The coach that rolled up the crushed stone drive was huge and black, with the Warefield crest emblazoned in bright yellow and red on the door panel. A superb quartet of matched black geldings came to an impatient stop before the gawking servants, while a striking bay hunter pranced to a halt at the rear of the vehicle. Maddie sniffed. The pompous boor had even brought his own mount, as if the contents of Langley’s stables wouldn’t be good enough for him.

  Before Bill Tomkins could take more than a step forward to open the coach’s door, a liveried servant clambered down from beside the driver’s perch to perform the service. With practiced efficiency he flipped down the steps tucked b
eneath the door, and then with a bow stepped backward.

  An elegant leg, sheathed in a polished Hessian boot of finest black leather, emerged from the dark coach. The second limb followed, revealing muscular thighs molded into a pair of fawn-colored buckskin trousers. Maddie’s skeptical gaze touched on an elegant gray and blue waistcoat, a coat of dark blue superfine over a broad chest, and a snowy white cravat snuggled between impeccably stiff shirt-points. White kid-gloved fingers handed the footman a polished mahogany cane tipped in ivory-inlaid ebony wood.

  The marquis looked down as he stepped from the coach, and a blue beaver hat, set at a rakish angle on wavy hair the rich color of bees’ honey, obscured her view of his face. “Buffoon,” she muttered, unimpressed. Fencing clubs and boxing halls might keep him lean and athletic, but they couldn’t improve a bulbous nose or crooked teeth. Or mask the lines of idle dissipation.

  He finally looked up. Twin pools of jade, green as the forest after rain, took in the drive, the excited servants, and the red stone walls of Langley Hall. Maddie’s eyes took in a finely chiseled nose completely lacking in any sort of deformity, and a strong, lean jaw. Lips that could disquiet a maiden’s heart murmured something to the footman, who immediately handed the cane back and motioned at the anxious Langley footmen to begin unloading the gargantuan mound of luggage atop the coach.

  Then Lord Warefield strolled forward to meet Langley’s servants.

  Mrs. Hodges favored him with a deep curtsey. “Welcome to Langley, my lord,” she said, her plump cheeks red with excitement and nervousness. “I am Mrs. Hodges, the housekeeper.”

  “Good afternoon.” With a slight nod he dismissed her, moving on down the line. The jade eyes barely gave each servant so much as a glance. “Good afternoon. Greetings. Pleased.” Each followed the other in succession as he made his way to the shallow steps.

  The marquis stepped onto the portico, and his aloof gaze passed over young Ruth, Mrs. Iddings, and then Maddie. For a second, he met her eyes and paused, his forward progress arrested. Swiftly she caught herself and curtseyed, lowering her eyes. When she dared look up again, she found him already past her, handing his cane and hat to the butler. She had anticipated being ignored, so she was surprised by the strength of her sudden annoyance at his compelling look and swift dismissal.

  “And how are you after all this time, Garrett?” the marquis asked, dropping his gloves one by one into the hat, his attention on the decor of the hall. No doubt he found his uncle’s taste completely vulgar and rustic.

  “Quite well, my lord, thank you. Shall I show you to your chambers, or would you rath—”

  “I’d prefer to see my uncle,” Lord Warefield interrupted. “Kindly direct my luggage to my chambers. My valet follows a short distance behind with the rest of my things.”

  Maddie looked at him in disbelief. They’d already unloaded enough baggage to see him through the summer. If anything more arrived, she’d have to believe he meant to set up permanent residence.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Garrett glanced at Maddie, and with a start she stepped forward. “I will take you to see Mr. Bancroft, if you please,” she said, reminding herself again that she’d promised to behave.

  Warefield turned to look at her. A curved eyebrow arched slightly, and then he inclined his head. With a graceful gesture of his long fingers, the marquis motioned her to precede him. “I do please.”

  She moved past him into the entryway and down the wide hall, the quiet tapping of his boots against the hardwood floor following her to the curving staircase at the far end. Trying not to rush or trip and draw any more attention to herself than necessary, Maddie gripped the smooth mahogany railing and kept her eyes on the stairs before her. The less of a stir she made, the less notice the marquis was likely to pay to her.

  Yet she hadn’t expected him to be so aggressively handsome that she couldn’t help wanting to look at him and touch him. It somehow made the entire visit even more irritating. Over the past few years, she had envisioned all English noblemen as fat, pig-eyed, pompous dandies.

  The Marquis of Warefield was not remotely fat, nor pig-eyed, and though his attire was surely the very latest style, she certainly couldn’t call him a dandy. Dandies were quite a bit less…capable looking. But judging by his haughty greeting, her memories of Londoners’ inflated self-importance were still quite accurate. She held onto that thought as she continued to the second floor.

  “Are you my uncle’s nurse?”

  “I am his companion,” she corrected him, keeping her eyes to the front as they reached the top of the stairs. Silence followed her remark, and belatedly she realized what he must be waiting for. “My lord.” She scowled at her stupid omission.

  “And how did you come to be in this…position?”

  Curiosity touched his cultured voice, and she clenched her jaw. “I applied for it, my lord.”

  “I see.”

  Maddie wanted to argue, for obviously he did not see. From his tone, he thought her Mr. Bancroft’s mistress or some such scandalous thing, but she didn’t wish to prolong the conversation by correcting his idiotic misapprehension. He had no right to be prying into her affairs, anyway.

  The door of Mr. Bancroft’s bedchamber stood before her. Gritting her teeth, she kept a tight rein on her fraying temper. She was nearly rid of the marquis for now.

  “What am I to call you, then?” His deep voice sounded smug and amused.

  Maddie hesitated, but since Warefield traveled in such elevated circles, he’d have no reason to recognize her name. “I am Miss Willits, my lord.”

  “You know, Miss Willits, it’s not considered improper to face someone while conversing with them,” he pointed out.

  Maddie blinked. How dared he? Embarrassment, mortification, and fury shot through her all in a rush. She would drown him in politeness if that was what he required!

  Stifling a furious growl beneath a smile, she whirled about in the doorway. “My apologies, my lord.” She thrust her hand into the room. “Mr. Bancroft, my lord.” As she glanced at him, his startled gaze caught hers. He opened his mouth to reply, but her legs swept her into swift, angry motion past him and back down the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

  Quin looked after his uncle’s so-called companion as her slender form vanished down the stairs in a hurried blur of pink and white muslin. “Of course,” he replied absently. Odd chit.

  “Quinlan Ulysses Bancroft. Welcome to Langley Hall.”

  Quin shook himself and turned to face his uncle’s bedchamber. “Uncle Malcolm, thank you.”

  With a smile he entered the room, taking in the colorful array of medicine bottles on the stand beside the bed, and the stack of books and cards and game pieces on the chest of drawers. Fresh flowers, set below the open window, waved gently in the soft spring breeze. Malcolm sat propped up by an enormous mound of pillows, his face pale and thin. Even so, his dark eyes twinkled as he smiled.

  “Don’t you look splendid, my boy.”

  Quin sketched a bow. “As do you. From Father’s description I expected you to be already laid out in a coffin. You look quite well, I must say.”

  “No doubt my pending death was merely wishful thinking on Lewis’s part.” His uncle gestured at the chair beside the bed. “How was your journey?”

  Refusing to take the bait and argue over his father’s private ruminations, Quin instead took a seat. “Quite uneventful, thank you.”

  Malcolm shook his head and waved a finger energetically at his younger relation. “None of that, lad. You’ll find I’ve become a regular gossip these days. You’re to tell me who you passed on the road, what sort of weather you encountered, and how dismayed you were at being pulled away from Warefield before the Season.”

  For a moment Quin eyed his uncle. Malcolm had previously been known for his stubborn independence rather than for eccentricity, but as the duke had mentioned several times, there was no telling what an apoplexy might have done to his cognitive abilities. �
��Very well. I was not at all dismayed to come visit you, Uncle. It’s been far too long, in fact. The sun shone periodically, though it rained once, and I passed two milk wagons, a mail stage, five farmers’ wagons, and just a few minutes ago, a lone escaped pig with several angry persons in pursuit.”

  Malcolm slapped the quilted bed covering, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he chuckled. The action winded him, and it was a moment before he could speak. “That would be the infamous Miss Marguerite,” he finally explained. “I’ll have to tell Maddie.”

  “Maddie?”

  “Miss Willits. Have you met her yet?”

  Quin nodded slowly, still wondering at his initial, uncharacteristically heated reaction when he’d set eyes on her. “I have. She is—”

  “Lovely, isn’t she? A true lifesaver, she’s been. I thought she was going to show you up here.”

  “She did.” Apparently his assumption about Miss Willits’s place in his uncle’s household had been correct. “And yes, she’s quite attractive. A bit…unique in her manners, perhaps, but I imagine none of you are exactly pleased to have me here.”

  Again his uncle grinned. “Some of us more than others.”

  Quin lifted an eyebrow, surprised at finding Malcolm in such good humor. “Well, thank you very much, Uncle.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bancroft, my lord.”

  Quinlan looked up. Miss Willits stood in the doorway. The high color in her unfashionably tanned cheeks and the tilt of her chin made it quite obvious that she had overheard his comment, and he stifled a scowl.

  “Yes, Maddie?”

  She stayed in the doorway, her light gray eyes averted from Quin. Irish blood, he decided admiringly, taking in her tall, slender figure and curling auburn hair, more slowly this time. By his guess, her unbound hair would hang to her waist, a far cry from the London fashion of daringly short curls. Nothing was so arousing in a woman as long, curling hair. His uncle had splendid taste in mistresses. Exquisite taste—as the rush of his pulse would indicate.