By Love Undone Page 3

  “Mr. Bancroft, Lord Warefield’s luggage appears to be too substantial for the east room,” she said stiffly. “If it’s not too forward of me, perhaps his lordship might desire some of his things to be moved to the upstairs sitting room, so that he might utilize it as an office during his stay, especially if he should have need of reading or writing materials and space.”

  Her sensuous, full lips remained set in a stern, straight line, and his curiosity and interest rose another notch. Apparently she had a temper, this one. He’d corrected her behavior, and now she was angry at him for it.

  “I’ve no wish to intrude,” he offered easily, watching as her lovely eyes snapped in his direction and then away again. “I can read or write in the library.”

  “Nonsense. That’s a splendid idea, my dear.”

  “I’ll see to it at once.” With a deep, formal curtsey, she left the doorway.

  Quin returned his attention to Malcolm. “I want to assure you, Uncle, I am here only to be certain Langley runs smoothly until you are recovered. Father has no intention of turning you, or your staff,” and he gestured in the direction Miss Willits had disappeared, “out into the wilds of Somerset.”

  Malcolm shifted the book lying across his lap. “Heavens, no. I never thought so—wouldn’t look at all proper, you know. And believe me, I’m well aware that the titled Bancrofts’ prime objective is to appear proper at all times.”

  Quin frowned. “That’s hardly fair, Un—”

  “Once I’ve hopped the twig, though, no doubt you or Rafe will be calling Langley your own.”

  “Rafe will be lucky to get a stick of furniture. And believe me, everything is still His Grace’s.” With a slight grin, Quin sat back in the chair. “He makes quite certain everyone knows it, and it’s far too late to expect him to change. If I had my way, Langley would’ve been deeded over to you a long time ago.”

  His uncle glanced at him. “It’s not much by your standards, I imagine, but it has its attractions.”

  “No doubt.” Miss Maddie Willits seemed to be chief among them. He stood to leave. “I’d best get myself situated. Unless you have a different idea, I’d thought to begin on the books this afternoon, and take a tour of the fields in the morning. If the weather looks likely to hold, I don’t see any reason not to get the wheat and barley put in immediately.”

  “No sense wasting time,” his uncle agreed. “Maddie knows where everything is.”

  Quin nodded and turned for the door. “Very good.”

  “And Quinlan?”

  He looked back again. “Yes?”

  “Take…care with Maddie. She’s more than an old buffoon like me deserves.”

  So he was being warned off already. It was easy to see why. In his incapacitated state, no doubt Malcolm hadn’t been keeping her very occupied. If his brother had been the one sent to Langley, Rafael would likely have been more than willing to step into the void, as it were. Even for Quin, the thought was intriguing. “I shall take extreme care, Uncle.”

  Quin headed down the long portrait-lined hallway toward the east wing. Before the absurd quarrel between Lewis and Malcolm, he had spent several summers at Langley, and he had always regarded its generous wood beams and tall, wide windows with affection. The Hall seemed smaller than he remembered, but then he’d gained more than a foot in height and two decades in experience since his last visit.

  He paused to gaze out one of the windows which overlooked the pond and the forest glade beyond. From his first brief view of Langley everything appeared to be fairly well organized, but he didn’t look forward to delving into what must have become a chaos of bills and accounting over the past few weeks. Quin sighed.

  “My lord?”

  Starting, he turned around. Miss Willits and another servant stood in the hallway behind him, having apparently materialized out of thin air. “Yes?”

  “Are you lost, my lord?”

  “No, I’m not.” He smiled. “But thank you for your concern.”

  Maddie nodded, then gestured at her companion. The older woman, though, flushed and backed away several steps. With an exasperated look, Miss Willits faced him again. “My most sincere apologies for disturbing you, my lord, but Mrs. Iddings, the cook, wishes to inquire whether you have any particular culinary preferences or dislikes. There was no time for us to inquire of your own cook at Warefield, my lord, and I believe the delicate constitutions of the nobility to be well documented.”

  “Oh.” Quin nodded in what he hoped was an agreeable manner. “Of course. Thank you again.” Now he was completely convinced; for some reason, Miss Willits strongly disliked him.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Quin cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve no real love for blood pudding,” he began, noting that Mrs. Iddings continued to keep her portly frame behind Miss Willits, while Maddie made no move at all. Not afraid of him either, then. He smiled in an attempt to placate the natives. “And I enjoy a nicely roasted pheasant, I suppose. All in all, I’m not very particular, despite any rumors to the contrary.”

  Maddie nodded coolly, no trace of a return smile in her gray eyes. “I am pleased to hear that, my lord.” She turned to her companion. “Does that help you, Mrs. Iddings?’ she asked, in a much warmer tone.

  The cook curtsied. “Indeed it does. Thank you, Miss Maddie.” She flushed again and bowed in the marquis’s direction. “Thank—pleased—thank…God bless you, my lord.” Mrs. Iddings hesitated, then hurried away down the hall.

  “Thank you,” he said to her back, though he doubted she heard him as she clumped down the back stairs. The servants at Langley seemed to be a rather odd bunch altogether. He looked back at Miss Willits, to find her glaring at him.

  She swiftly wiped the look from her face and curtsied politely. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Before she could flee again, he stepped forward.” My uncle said you would show me where the account ledgers are, Miss Willits,” he suggested. “Do you have a moment to do so?”

  “I thought, my lord, that you said you weren’t lost.”

  “I know exactly where I am. I simply don’t know where my uncle keeps his ledgers these days.”

  “Very well, my lord,” she answered smoothly, turning with a swirl of her pink muslin skirt. She stopped at the head of the stairs, and pointedly faced him again. “If you please, this way, my lord.”

  Quin shook his head and followed her down the stairs. “How long have you been my uncle’s companion, Miss Willits?”

  She stopped so suddenly he nearly ran into her. Quin flung out a hand to catch his balance as she whirled on the steep stairs to face him. His fingers lightly grazed her cheek, and she flinched toward the railing. She took a quick breath and smoothed her skirt. “Four years, my lord.”

  Before he could apologize, or even open his mouth, she’d reversed direction and begun descending the stairs again. Torn between alarm and amusement, Quin continued after her. “Four years?” he repeated. “How old are you, Miss Willits?”

  As she halted and spun to face him again, he grabbed onto the railing and stepped back. “I am twenty-three, my lord.” Her polite tone didn’t nearly hide the furious glint in her eyes.

  Before she could begin spinning about again, Quin put a hand on her arm. “If you please, Miss—”

  She blanched and jerked away. “Don’t—”

  Genuine dismay touched her eyes. Swiftly he lowered his hand, curiosity and surprise blazing through him as the color left her delicate, high-boned cheeks. Maddie Willits was primmer than any mistress he’d ever seen. “Of course. My apologies. I wished only to know whether you perform this unusual stairwell dance for all of Langley’s guests.”

  She pinched her lips together before she lifted her chin in defiance again. “Only with those who order me to face them when I speak, my lord.”

  “I did not order you…well, perhaps I did, but I certainly didn’t mean you should risk breaking your neck every time I ask you a question.”

  She eyed him expectantly
for a moment. “Forgive me, my lord,” she finally ventured, “but I am now at a loss as to how to proceed.”

  Quin stopped his frown before it could more than half form, plagued by the muddy feeling that he’d just lost some sort of odd contest. “Please proceed down the stairs, Miss Willits.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Quin followed his escort into a small, tidy office tucked into the far east corner of the manor. Miss Willits went to the desk beneath the double windows and pulled open a drawer, exposing a stack of ledgers.

  “Thank you, Miss Willits. That will do,” he said quickly, stopping her before she could disturb the order of the ledgers and paperwork and render his task even more difficult. “I can manage from here.”

  She froze, her hands tightening around the books. Abruptly she released them, dumping them back into the drawer with a loud thud. This time he was expecting it when she spun to face him, her face a polite mask and her eyes glinting. “Of course, my lord. How presumptuous of me. Pray forgive my ill behavior.”

  “No apology is necessary.” As she walked away, he sat at the desk and pulled out the first of the books.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Have some tea sent in, if you please,” he said, distracted, as he flipped to the first page. His uncle’s hand scrawled haphazardly across the paper, a series of loops and slashes and serrated lines. Quin groaned inwardly. Deciphering the figures would be difficult enough without translating each line of writing, as well.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  He looked up. “Miss Willits?”

  She was nearly out the door. “My lord?”

  “Do you have a stutter?”

  She furrowed her brow, the sight both enchanting and diverting despite the blatant hostility in the eyes beneath. “I don’t believe so, my lord.” She hesitated. “Why do you ask, my lord?”

  “Generally one or two ‘my lords’ per conversation are enough to satisfy my pride,” he said amiably, curious to see what her reaction would be. In most cases women didn’t come to dislike him until after he’d explained that lovely as they were, he already had an understanding with Eloise Stokesley. “More than that begins to sound somewhat obsequious.”

  For the first time, her sensuous lips curved in a small smile as she curtsied and left the room. “Yes, my lord.”

  Chapter 3

  Maddie liked the word “obsequious.” It sounded unpleasant and haughty at the same time, the very sort of arrow she meant to aim at the Marquis of Warefield, however handsome and charming he seemed to think himself.

  With luck he would concentrate on merely being attractive and pleasant. Otherwise, he might actually take enough time with the ledgers to ruin the year’s bookkeeping completely. As for the crops, if not for the last damned rain, she would already have had that business well begun. She could only pray Warefield would have as much aversion to dirtying his hands as the rest of the nobility, so she could organize the farm tenants before he deigned to set his lovely boots in a single field.

  Once she had everything taken care of, Warefield would have absolutely no reason to hang about little Langley Hall in obscure Somerset County. He certainly wouldn’t wish to prolong his stay just to visit, not with the rest of his kind beginning to prepare themselves for the ostentatious London Season.

  “Twopence for your thoughts, Maddie.”

  Maddie shook herself and looked up at Mr. Bancroft. His amused expression deepened, and she wondered how long she’d been staring at her nicely roasted pheasant. Mrs. Iddings had certainly outdone herself, for she couldn’t remember eating anything so delectable, damn it all. Not an undercooked or a burnt spot could be found. “Beg pardon?”

  Malcolm chased a stray chunk of potato around his plate. “You had such a glare on your face. I merely wondered what you might be plotting—and against whom it might be aimed.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not plotting anything. I am merely wondering why your nephew decided to take his meal by himself in the formal dining room, rather than keeping company with his ailing uncle.”

  “Ah.” He glanced up at her as she stabbed at her pheasant, imagining it to be a slice of Lord Warefield, well done. “Perhaps he’s not comfortable with invalids. Many people aren’t, you know.”

  She scowled. “I know that. But it’s not as if you have the clap or something, for heaven’s sake. A week ago you couldn’t even move your hand, and now you’re eating with it. You’ll be out riding in a month, and the least he could do is—”

  “Maddie,” Mr. Bancroft interrupted.

  At the same moment someone cleared his throat from the doorway. Flushing, Maddie added poor timing to Warefield’s growing list of faults.

  “Good evening, Quinlan,” Malcolm said. “Have you dined?”

  The marquis stepped into the room. He gave Maddie a quick, unreadable glance, then nodded at his uncle. “Indeed. Your cook is splendid, Uncle. That was quite possibly the most succulent pheasant I have ever tasted.”

  “I’ll pass along the compliment. I’m certain Mrs. Iddings will be excessively pleased. Don’t you think so, Maddie?”

  Maddie kept her attention on her plate. “I’m certain she will be, Mr. Bancroft. She’s quite delighted by his lordship’s presence, as are the rest of us.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Willits.”

  He hadn’t even blinked at her considerable sarcasm. Perhaps she was too adept at it and he had thought her sincere. All the better, then; she could continue making a fool of him. “Not at all, my lord.”

  “I was wondering whom you might recommend as a guide when I tour the fields tomorrow,” Lord Warefield continued, fiddling with the medicine bottles on the bed stand.

  All of the dazzling bright colors were likely too tantalizing for him to resist, Maddie thought. Abruptly feeling cheery once more, she set aside her fork. “If I may be so bold, my lord,” she said, “Sam Cardinal is quite knowledgeable. He’s been a tenant here for more than fifty years, I believe.”

  The marquis nodded and smiled. “My thanks—”

  “Nonsense, Maddie,” Malcolm interrupted, with unusual obtuseness. “Sam Cardinal will talk poor Quinlan’s ear off. Barley this, and barley that. I declare, the man’s skull is stuffed with grain.”

  Lord Warefield chuckled, and glanced sideways at her again. “Do suggest someone else, then.”

  Maddie stifled her frown, wishing Mr. Bancroft would quit interfering. Then another, even more promising suggestion occurred to her, and she gleefully turned to the marquis. “Walter, the groom, grew up h—”

  “Maddie,” Mr. Bancroft scowled. “What in the blazes—”

  “Actually, Miss Willits,” Warefield interrupted, “I thought perhaps you might show me about, yourself.”

  “Me?’’ She felt his cool green gaze on her face, and looked pleadingly at Mr. Bancroft. “Surely your uncle needs my—”

  “I think Maddie would be the logical choice, yes,” Malcolm agreed, nodding. “She’s familiar with all the local farms and tenants, and with what’s grown well, and where, over the last few seasons.”

  Maddie’s jaw clenched. Traitor. It seemed she was completely on her own in this. Well, so be it: one marquis could hardly be that much of a challenge. “Surely Lord Warefield doesn’t wish to follow a female about Langley.”

  “I have no objection,” the marquis countered. “And I could hardly hope to find a more attractive guide anywhere in Somerset.”

  She met his gaze. He found her attractive, did he? My, my, how very flattering. And he had no objection to her presence. He must be even more obtuse than she’d imagined. Maddie kept the strained smile fixed on her face and tried not to grind her teeth. “I’m quite the early riser.” She wished she could take just one minute and tell him exactly what she thought of him and his sod-headed, gossip-mongering peers.

  “Splendid. I’d hoped to make an early start of it. Shall we say first thing in the morning, then?”

  Apparently nothing short of pum
meling the marquis would convince him to change his mind. “Whatever pleases your lordship.”

  He looked at her, an odd expression on his face. Perhaps her sarcasm had finally penetrated—though it might merely have been gas. With a slight smile, the marquis turned back to his uncle. “I’m a bit tired tonight—too much sitting about in the coach, no doubt—but I thought we might have time to chat together tomorrow evening at dinner. I imagine I can fill your ears with enough London gossip to amuse you for a while.”

  Mr. Bancroft looked sideways at Maddie, and she cursed herself for having pricked the marquis’s pride, thereby ruining tomorrow evening for all of them. Surprisingly, though, her employer smiled. “That would be grand, Quinlan. Maddie and I were just about to begin a game of piquet, if you’ve a mind.”

  This time Maddie couldn’t help her strangled exclamation. “Mr. Bancroft!”

  Both men looked at her. “Is something wrong, Maddie?”

  She madly tried to think up an excuse for her outburst. “His lordship said he was tired,” she ventured hastily. “Of course he doesn’t wish to play cards.”

  “Perhaps another time.” Lord Warefield nodded, then sketched a shallow, elegant bow in Maddie’s direction. “Good evening, then.”

  “Good evening, Quinlan.”

  “My lord.”

  His quiet footsteps retreated down the hallway. As soon as he had passed out of earshot, Maddie snorted and set the remains of her dinner aside. “Me, show him about Langley, indeed.”

  “You said you would,” her employer pointed out.

  “You said I would. I have things to do tomorrow. I’ve been calling on Mrs. Collins every day with fresh flowers and the post since she came down with the gout, and John Ramsey wanted me to look at his new sluice gate and see if you might be interested in using the same design for the northern field. I’m certain your nephew can find someone else to follow about.”

  For a moment Malcolm gazed at her, his serious look a little unsettling. “You know, Maddie, I’ve been thinking: it might do you good to associate with those of your own station from time to time. You’ve been rusticating in Somerset for four years now.”