By Love Undone Read online

  For the space of several seconds she stared at him. “Thank you, my lord,” she said slowly.

  Quin sent another quick glance at his uncle, but Malcolm merely appeared amused at his mistress’s antics. “Shall we?”

  She reluctantly allowed him to seat her. Brushing her elbow with his hand, he took his own chair opposite her. By that time she’d rallied for another attack.

  “Please forgive my being so forward as to have dinner served before your arrival, but there is so little room for footmen in here, and we did wait several minutes for you, my lord.”

  “Maddie,” Malcolm grunted.

  Quin took a sip of wine to cover his amusement. Sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, and sharp-mannered. It was a wonder he hadn’t been killed already. “I’m afraid I must be the one to apologize for my tardiness. Unforgivably rude of me.”

  Miss Willits glared at him over her roast game hen. “Not at all, my lord,” she said sweetly.

  “Quinlan, you had some gossip for us, I believe?” his uncle broke in, making a bald attempt to turn the conversation.

  “I do, though now that I’ve experienced the daily routine of Langley, I’m not certain anything I have to say could be as exciting.”

  “I’m just glad you didn’t break your neck. You were damned lucky, my boy.”

  Miss Willits nodded at Malcolm. “Indeed. Thank heavens it’s been raining, or Lord Warefield might have been seriously injured.”

  “And so might have Miss Marguerite,” Quin added.

  Maddie lifted an eyebrow, again the picture of beautiful disdain. “And the Hartleburys would have lost their best source of income over a muddied marquis.” Even her chuckle sounded scornful. “What a jest.”

  “Or a joust,” Quin muttered under his breath.

  “Beg pardon, my lord?”

  He looked up. “Hm? Oh, I was only saying that this morning’s incident reminded me of my last encounter with the Earl of Westerly.”

  For the next hour, Quin regaled his audience with tales of his last sojourn to London. Uncle Malcolm seemed both relieved and amused at the change of subject, but then, he was acquainted with most of the participants. Miss Willits might as well have been regarding stones, for all the interest and enthusiasm she showed.

  She pointedly retrieved a book from the chest of drawers, though Quin noted that either she was an exceptionally slow reader or she was paying more attention to his tales than to Walter Scott’s. He had to consider that a small victory.

  “Well, what do you think of the fields?” Malcolm asked finally.

  Quin sipped the port Garrett had brought in earlier. “I noticed that the seed has already been prepared,” he commented, glancing sideways at Miss Willits.

  “No sense wasting valuable time,” his uncle returned, “as you pointed out yesterday.”

  Quin was fairly sure Maddie had organized the crop. Everything was divided too fairly for the decision to have come from one of the tenant farmers. “I thought we might begin tilling tomorrow, on the three southernmost fields, anyway. They seem to be drier than the rest.” Again he looked over at Maddie. “And I think Mr. Whitmore might appreciate a little preferential treatment after his cabbages were decimated this morning.”

  Malcolm nodded. “I agree.”

  “I assume you utilize all your tenants for joint planting and harvesting duties?”

  “That is the fastest way to get the crop put in, my lord,” Maddie said under her breath.

  Quin had the distinct feeling he’d just been insulted again. “I’d hoped you would say that,” he said, enjoying her disgruntled expression. “And perhaps you might assist me in assigning duties to the farmers, as you know their habits and character better than I?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I must see to Mr. Bancroft, my lord. And we have a luncheon which you engaged us to attend tomorrow.”

  “Maddie, Quin’s quite correct. You might save us more than a day by doing the organizing.” Malcolm held her indignant gaze. “And you will still have time for your luncheon with the Fowlers.”

  “Oh, very well.” She stood, dropping her unread book on her chair. She leaned over to kiss Malcolm on the cheek, then coldly nodded at the marquis. “Good night, Mr. Bancroft, my lord.”

  “Good night, Maddie.”

  “Miss Willits.”

  Quin was surprised to see her leave, though he supposed he shouldn’t be. In his unwell condition, Uncle Malcolm would probably have little use for her companionship. Even so, sharp-tempered and strong-willed as she was, he hadn’t expected her to bother with making a show of going elsewhere to sleep. She certainly didn’t seem interested in impressing him, at any rate—unless it was to kill him with kindness.

  “Well, Quinlan, other than the stream and Miss Marguerite, how did you find Langley?”

  “Quite exceptional, Uncle. Truth be told, it’s hardly what I expected.” Nothing here was—Miss Maddie Willits least of all.

  “Hardly what Lewis expected, you mean. No burnt-out tenant houses, no floods or famine in Somerset without a Bancroft to oversee the land. I imagine he’ll be quite disappointed.”

  “I shan’t speculate.” To avoid another family argument, Quin made a show of stretching. “Well, I’m off to bed myself. Shall I send your valet in for you?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Maddie will have seen to it. Good luck in the morning.”

  Quin grinned. “Thank you. I suspect I’ll need it.”

  The Marquis of Warefield was up to something.

  Maddie had watched him all morning: watched him chatting and being friendly with the awestruck farmers, and watched him actually pick a stone or two out of the soil and toss it out of the path of the plow.

  She frowned at his lean, tanned profile and the curl of golden blond hair caressing his collar, and had to admit that he wasn’t quite as dim as she had anticipated. Nobles didn’t act nearly so amiable, she knew very well. Therefore, his affable demeanor toward the commoners was for some purpose. And she would find out what that was, before he could do any lasting damage to the good people of Somerset.

  She’d instructed Bill Tomkins and the other footmen to erect a canopy at one edge of the Whitmores’ field so that the marquis could take refuge from the sun when it should become too warm for him. Warefield had taken one look at the thing and the cushioned chair beneath, thanked her for her thoughtful attention to his health, and retreated to the far end of the field. There he’d stayed for the rest of the morning. She couldn’t even hear him prattling on about whatever nonsense it was that had the farmers so interested.

  “Coward,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at him.

  The workers’ worshipful attention to him and his every command left her feeling practically useless, so she had to surmise that he’d insisted on her accompanying him merely to ensure himself an audience for his bloated, self-important conduct. Maddie plunked herself down on one of the shaded chairs and folded her arms. She was certainly not impressed by his efficiency. She could have done just as well—better, as a matter of fact—without him coming around at all.

  “Miss Willits,” he said, finally making his way around the plow horses toward her, “I believe we should return to Langley if we’re not to be late to the Fowlers’.”

  Maddie stood and curtsied. “Of course, my lord. But who in the world will supervise while you’re away?”

  They walked toward Blossom and Aristotle, waiting in the shade of a stand of oaks. “I placed Sam Cardinal in charge. He seems to know a great deal about grain.”

  She concentrated on keeping the bland expression on her face. “I am aware of that, my lord.”

  “I know, Miss Willits. It was another attempt at humor. Pray forgive my ineptness.”

  He was making set-downs exceedingly difficult. It had to be deliberate. “Yes, my lord.”

  Unabashed at her lack of sympathy, he smiled and stepped toward her. “If you’ll allow me,” he murmured.

  He slid his hands around her waist. She’d exp
ected it, but even so, her breath caught at the warm strength of him. He hesitated, looking down into her eyes, and then lifted her easily up into the sidesaddle.

  It was beastly awful, being a warm-blooded female helplessly attracted to a finely put together man, however pompous and useless she knew he must be. Maddie took a moment to fiddle with Blossom’s reins before she looked at the marquis again and smiled stiffly. “My thanks, my lord.”

  “Again, a pleasure.”

  The marquis swung up onto Aristotle, and with a half wave at the farmers, who had already stopped their work to chatter about the noble in their midst, he led her back to Langley. Maddie glared at his back. There was no denying it any longer: he’d caught onto her game and was trying to make her feel guilty about making fun of him. That’s why he was being nice to everyone. It wouldn’t work, of course, because she knew all too well what his kind was really like. She’d have to modify her strategy a little.

  Back at Langley she changed into her yellow and white sprig muslin gown. It had barely been fashionable two years ago and by now was hopelessly passé, but the Fowlers would hardly notice. And she certainly had no one else to impress.

  Warefield had suggested they take his uncle’s curricle. Not wanting to give him the opportunity to go lifting her yet again, Maddie hurried out to the stable, where Walter had the carriage waiting. He handed her up onto the narrow seat.

  “I must say, Miss Maddie,” the groom said, “it’s terribly nice to have another blue blood in Somerset for a change. And a true gentleman, he is—promised right off not to let old Georgie know I was hereabouts.”

  Maddie nodded. “A true gentleman. No doubt he’ll be the first to stand beside you if you decide to take your rightful place at court.”

  “My thanks for your vote of confidence, Miss Willits,” the marquis’s dry voice came from behind her. “I certainly shall.”

  Drat him for always sneaking up on her, and for the way his voice speeded her pulse. “I have great faith in….” Maddie trailed off as he climbed up beside her. She’d expected more overly formal black attire, and even had a comment ready for it. She had not expected a simple gray day jacket and buckskin breeches tucked into his mud-dimmed Hessian boots, nor the amused smile that warmed his face as he took the seat next to her.

  “‘Faith in….’” he prompted.

  “The nobility,” she finished.

  He lifted an eyebrow as he accepted the reins from Walter. “That surprises me.”

  “And why is that?”

  He snapped the reins, and the matching bays took off at a smart trot. “I have sensed a slight criticism in your tone from time to time.”

  “You are quite mistaken, my lord,” she returned quickly, putting a shocked expression on her face. “I would never dream of such a thing, my lord, I assure you! Who am I to criticize the Marquis of Warefield?”

  “Yes, Miss Willits, who are you?”

  At first she thought he was agreeing with her faux humility, and opened her mouth to make an equally cutting remark. When she glared at him, though, his expression showed nothing but curiosity. “I am your uncle’s companion,” she said, amending the extremely insulting comment she’d been about to make.

  “Yes, for four years, because you applied for the position. But what did you do before that?”

  Maddie could only stare at him, disconcerted. “You remembered….”

  “You do make something of an impression, you know,” he returned dryly.

  She swallowed, all of the insinuations and insults she’d planned for the ride vanishing in an instant. Blast him and his compliments. She neither needed nor wanted them. Maddie shook herself. She did know what to do with them: counterattack—immediately, before he realized he’d scored a hit. “Why do you bother with flattering me?”

  “Is it flattery to ask a question?”

  “It is flattery to feign interest for the sake of politeness, my lord.”

  “Ah,” he nodded. “Then I am merely being polite?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I see.”

  He made no other comment, and she dared to hope that she’d completely confused him with her dazzling logic. Pointedly ignoring him, she made a show of admiring the various wildflowers coming into bloom along the side of the road, and the robins and swallows building nests in the budding trees.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Maddie shut her eyes for a moment. “Which question, my lord?”

  “What did you do before you applied for the position with my uncle?”

  “I…worked as a governess in several households,” she answered slowly, wondering why she was so reluctant to lie to him. She owed him nothing. Yet she supposed she had no wish to be seen in the same light in which she saw him and his kind.

  “Where?”

  “Do you intend to check my references, my lord?”

  He looked over at her again. “No. Of course not.”

  Maddie pointed down a rutted dirt track to the west. “Over there, my lord. About half a mile down.”

  Warefield turned the carriage in that direction. “You know,” he said quietly, “I admire the job you’ve done here at Langley. I’m here only because my father wished it. I don’t intend to turn you away.”

  She’d heard promises of integrity before. “Thank you for your assurances, my lord,” Maddie said stiffly, “but they are completely unnecessary.”

  “And why is that?”

  She turned to look directly at him. “You did not hire me, my lord.”

  He met her eyes, then pursed his lips and faced the road again. “True enough. Thank you for putting me in my place, Miss Willits.”

  Maddie pressed her advantage.” You are quite wel—”

  “Oh, good God,” he muttered.

  “What is it?”

  As they came around the bordering hedge, she saw what had prompted his curse. The entire Fowler household, nearly as substantial as Langley’s, stood lined up at full attention along the curving drive leading all the way up the steps to the front door. A chuckle tickled up Maddie’s chest and burst out of her throat before she could stop it.

  “Are you laughing, Miss Willits?”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth and coughed. “No, my lord,” she managed. “’Twould not be seemly.”

  He scowled. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  Much more enthusiastic than she had been a moment earlier, Maddie smiled at the Fowlers’ butler as he came forward to help her to the ground. “My thanks, Mason.”

  “Miss Maddie.”

  Warefield came around to her side of the curricle, and she led him forward to where the Fowler family stood waiting at the end of the line. “My lord, may I present Mr. Fowler and Mrs. Fowler? Mr. and Mrs. Fowler, the Marquis of Warefield.”

  Tall James Fowler bent himself almost double in a bow, his normally dour expression stretched into a rather alarming-looking smile. Beside him, Jane Fowler sank so far to the ground in her curtsey that Sally had to help her upright again. “My lord,” they breathed, echoing one another.

  “It is an honor to have you at Renden Hall,” Mrs. Fowler continued reverently. “You have met our dear daughters Lydia and Sally, I believe.”

  “Yes, I have.” The marquis stepped forward to shake Mr. Fowler’s hand. “You’ve a lovely family, sir.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Mr. Fowler gestured toward the house. “Allow me to show you inside.”

  Quite delighted to be ignored, Maddie followed behind the Fowlers and Lord Warefield as they passed the retinue of servants. They had nearly reached the front door when the marquis made a show of turning around and coming back to collect her.

  “Can’t have you getting lost, Miss Willits, can we, now?” He tucked her hand around his arm and held it against him.

  “I know my way around, my lord,” she muttered, trying unsuccessfully to free her hand, and surprised at his iron strength.

  “That is precisely what I am afraid of,” he murmured, n
odding at the wide-eyed procession of footmen and maids who swarmed up the steps and into the house behind them.

  “This way to the dining room, my lord,” Mrs. Fowler announced regally, scattering servants out of her way and thrusting her daughters ahead of her. “Mrs. Plummer has outdone herself today, if I do say so myself. You have inspired her.”

  “Glad to be of some use,” he said, glancing about but keeping Maddie pinioned securely at his side.

  They entered the dining room to find it stuffed practically to the rafters with fresh-baked bread, puddings, ham, and chicken. Maddie simply stared for a moment. She hadn’t seen this much food even at the Fowlers’ annual Christmas pageant, famous throughout southern Somerset. For a country luncheon, unless they intended to feed all the farmers out plowing the fields, it was absurdly overwrought.

  “Do let me go,” she whispered, tugging again at the marquis’s hand warmly covering hers as they toured the repast on the table and the sideboards.

  He looked down at her, and at the unexpected humor in his gaze, she stopped struggling. Damnation, he was ruining everything. He wasn’t supposed to be amused at the Fowlers’s toadying; he was supposed to accept it as his due.

  “I’ve no intention of letting you out of my sight,” he whispered back. “This was your idea.”

  “They wouldn’t have invited me,” she pointed out, more disconcerted by his attention to her than she cared to admit. “You are the Marquis of Warefield, my lord. This is all for you.”

  “And I’m supposed to be honored?”

  She glared at him. Maddie wasn’t particularly fond of the Fowlers, either, but there was no reason to be cruel. She yanked her hand free. “I’m certain you’re used to much better, my lord,” she retorted in a hushed voice, “but this is their ideal of highest elegance.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, his expression serious and unreadable. “I see.”

  Maddie intentionally seated herself between Lydia and Sally, keeping as far from the marquis as she could manage. He’d goaded her into being directly rude again, when she’d decided to stay with the more subtle approach of victory through flattery. From the occasional looks he sent in her direction he hadn’t welcomed her last comment, but it served him right.